by Anne Beggs
Singing was equally therapeutic for the songstress as Eloise concentrated on her breathing, lungs, core and pitch. The words and melodies were trusted friends, a vocal talisman to the soul. Her mind eased, as her body continued to move with the familial rhythm of Garth beneath her. She also sang to Garth, thinking how little grooming and healing balms he had received since leaving Dahlquin. Yet he continued without complaint, as if he understood the importance of their journey for Dahlquin.
Roland sat straighter, rotating his head and neck. Eloise thought she heard his spine crack. Clasping his hands behind his back he pinched his shoulder blades together. She stopped singing when he turned to her.
He watched her in silence for some time as the horses walked on side by side. She thought he had been enjoying her singing, mayhap she had misjudged again.
“Goodness upon you,” he finally said. “I had no idea.” His lips were parted, and he shook his head slowly. You sing like-”
She hoped he would say something complimentary. Her voice wasn’t ill, but compared with her Lady Mother, her father oft said she sounded like a wolf howling.
“An angel,” he finished, his brows lifted, brown eyes wide. “My headache is improved. And I have entertainment. Prosit,” he said lifting an imaginary cup in tribute.
“May you have goodness, Lord Roland,” she gulped, smiling, relieved to hear such a compliment. “Pleasure upon me to help you,” she added, thinking what high praise she had received.
“If it pleases you, it pleases me,” he said, his close-lipped smile broadening. “Pray continue.”
Eloise thought a moment. “Shall we try something different?” she asked, searching her memory. Religious chants, carols, Summer is Coming, Song of my Heart, she thought with joy.
Eloise started singing Summer is Coming. She was thrilled when Roland joined her in the second chorus, Sing little bird, sing little bird, until she started the next verse. “Shall we sing it in round?” she asked, her clenched hands shaking with hope. She hadn’t sung in days. How had that happened? She always sang, to the horses, her dogs. And with Mathair, singing in the gardens, the corridors, up and down the stairs. Often, they sang instead of talked, creatively making the words fit into a melody to converse. A game that must have started in the cradle. Nurse tried, but it wasn’t the same. “By your will, by your magnificent will,” she begged.
“El, El,” Roland said with a chuckle, his palms up indicating she settle.
Did she sound like she was pleading? She was. Music was its own purgative. Roland was healed and she felt…giddy. And she wanted more. “By your gracious will,” she asked softly, looking up from her tipped brows.
“I’ll try,” Roland said, “but it has been a long time. Don’t laugh,” he said, giving her a stern look that was all bluff.
Eloise pulled her lips over her teeth, trying not to giggle and shook her head, she wouldn’t laugh - at him. But she may well laugh out of sheer relief.
“You want to start, and I’ll join in?” she asked. “That is easiest. Just sing your own verse, don’t think about me.”
Roland took a deep breath, looked ahead and started Summer is Coming, and the land it is a quivering. She started her verse as he continued his, but within the second line he was singing with her. Eloise stopped singing, but waved at him indicating he keep on, then she kept his beat with her hand before she started her verse. Once again, he fell into her verse and they sang the chorus together.
“My Lord, you surprise me as well, you have a rich voice,” Eloise said in encouragement.
Roland nodded his thanks, then frowned and scratched the back of his head. He compressed the right side of his mouth.
“Close your eyes and visualize the lyrics,” she said.
He gave her a sideways glance, humphed and started singing.
Eloise clapped her hands after completing the third effort to sing in round successfully.
When they finished, Roland asked, “Do you grace any instruments with your talents?”
All ladies had musical instruction; they were expected to entertain their families and each other.
“I love to sing, Mathair and I both,” Eloise said. “And willingly I studied voice.”
“But?” Roland asked.
“Alas, sir, I do lack the patience for instruments. The music is beautiful and truly I enjoy listening. Sitting indoors, practicing? It’s rather like embroidery or spinning,” she said with drooping shoulders and a dreary voice. “However,” she started singing the words as she talked,
“I can sing almost anywhere. It’s a gift I can readily share. Without transporting a bulky, fragile instrument, here or there.”
She couldn’t contain her glee.
“Mercifully my parents let the vielles and recorders pass. Oh, I can whistle too. Clever lass.”
“Oops!” she said, having referred to herself as a lass rather than a lad.
“Your impertinence has a charming side,” Roland said. “A bow for a distaff, arrows for pipes. Diana with the voice of the heavens. And the heavens must be pleased, behold a spot of sun!” he said, reaching his hand out to catch the rays of sun which glinted off his studded gauntlets.
“I’m still working this one out,” Eloise said, “it’s not nearly finished, nor have I had any opportunity to hear it sung for myself.” She stroked Garth’s neck, as if for reassurance. “It’s amazing how different a piece sounds when sung out loud, rather than just recited in my head.”
“You compose songs?” he asked, intrigued.
“Well,” she said, dragging the word out. “Melodies are quite difficult, requiring a truly creative and open mind, I think. But the word play comes a bit easier. Singing made up much of my instruction. Things are easier to remember set to music.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Roland said.
“By your will, don’t laugh,” she asked, concern etched across her grubby face.
“I will refrain,” he said.
Her smile of relief was so dazzling, he couldn’t remember a trace of road grime on her glowing cheeks.
She stroked Garth’s neck with both hands repeatedly. “This will be new to us both,” she said, biting her lower lip, her trepidation returning. She inhaled, gave him a tight smile, exhaled and started singing.
“Brave and Glorious, Lord Roland of Ashbury At-March to Connacht Came,
With two brother knights and their squires, Sirs Guillaume and Sedric by name,
The splendors of Ashbury were hidden from view, for the Dragon’s breath had settled,
His brothers did squabble and pester and bother, the wildlife tested their glorious mettle”
Roland could hardly believe his ears. He recognised aspects of the melody, but others were new to him. Her song had the cadence of a hoary epic poem, his own Chanson de Roland. Pray this one has a more glorious conclusion, he thought.
“Undaunted, Lord Roland did rally his forces, leading his men to the world’s end,
The end of the world as Saint John did portray it was a treasonous siege upon Ireland,
Dahlquin was facing it darkest dawn, from Tiomoid U’Neill’s traitorous spawn”
Eyes closed, her face was set in concentration and occasionally she would frown, or her brow knotted, as if she was unhappy with a passage or note. Yet she continued, occasionally stumbling on a word, pausing before resuming, her voice rising and falling with the drama of her tale.
“With courage and wit and power unbridled, Lord Roland the Hero descended upon,
The drawbridge of Dahlquin in dastardly peril, the gate house in squalor so grim,
Three knights and their horses, breathed fire and sword fall, and bludgeoned their way in”
“There are a few more lines,” she sang, her voice still trilling. “About the waterfall and wolves. But those are still fairly rough, and I would not wish to share such yet.”
Blue-grey eyes implored him. He watched her hopeful expression cloud as she waited for his response. His approval.
Aye, he loved it, was honored. In his own pride or drunken vanity, he or his comrades had never concocted such an heroic song. What could he say? He opened his mouth to utter his gratitude, but her crestfallen expression paralyzed him. He was speechless.
She turned away, exhaled, and started stroking her horse.
“Mayhap Lord Roland,” she started softly, “has displeasure.” She appeared to be talking to Garth, but he believed her question was meant for him.
Speak, he ordered himself.
“Nay,” he blurted, startling her with his English outburst. “I’m well pleased. Truly.” She gave a hopeful smile. “I, I’m humbled into speechlessness.”
Her eyes narrowed and she studied him briefly before snorting. “Humbled into speechlessness, you?” she said, giving him a sarcastic look. “Hmph,” she snorted, glancing at him anew. “Mayhap I could use that.” She gazed off, deep in thought, it appeared. “Brave and glorious as he may be, speechless in his humility.”
Roland put a hand over his face. Guillaume and Sedric would laugh themselves out of the saddle over that line.
“Oh,” she sighed, “it was my desire to sing a noble song of your exploits. But now, fear upon me, it plays like a tavern tune. It wasn’t my intention,” she said, “to mock you.”
“You have not mocked me,” he said, “by your song. But I will be if you use that last line. It’s the way of it.”
She inhaled, a soft grin returned. She vigorously rubbed on her horse’s neck, with the hand not holding the bow.
“Then I will continue my endeavour. May you have goodness,” she said.
“And goodness to you,” he said, tipping his head.
Songs and melodies filled the air. Singing was a lively diversion from fatigue and Roland did feel he had exhausted his conversational skills. He had received some meagre musical training at court. A great waste of time, he thought. There was enough hard work to be done in the day of a page or squire. In the Great Hall he served the knights and visiting nobility, cleaned the weapons and tack of the High Lord and various knights, mucked stalls, fed, exercised and worked with horses. Plus, learning to read, write, add and subtract, religion, philosophy, history. Roland learned young that the king and especially Lord FitzGilbert valued knights with some learning. Did it truly facilitate strategic thinking? Logic, order, discipline? The martial drills, weapons and horse play were the regular highlights to his day, but all left him exhausted and frequently limping to his pallet for a night’s sleep, always too brief. To attend lessons in singing and etiquette were a pure waste. Oh, he had done it, Maid Eloise wasn’t the only one who could be impertinent. He had a decent voice and that was easier than learning an instrument. The only instrument he needed was his sword, El Muerte Rojo. And his manhood. Involuntarily, he shifted in the saddle, assuring himself yet again it was still there.
Eloise was singing a love song, a haunting melody of a lady whose lover had taken up the cross and followed King Philip to Outremer.
There was some beautiful music to be made. Lovemaking could be compared to singing. There was the act itself. Lovemaking could be deep and moving, the way a Gregorian chant filled your soul with awe and reverence, a religious experience if ever there was one. Lovemaking could also be a quick and private secret between two admirers, a passionate little tune that fills the air like the melodies of songbirds. Or the lustful desperation between man and woman when all that exists between them are the raucous choruses of a bawdy drinking song that speeds through the veins until the next fashionable tune comes along. Deep in thought now, Roland realized how much he had missed in music theory. And not just the splendid act of engaging in sexual intercourse with a woman, how about the many musical vibrations associated with the body itself?
The saddle became uncomfortably restrictive and Roland squirmed to relieve the pressure on his engorging instrument. With all this music, his instrument of manhood wanted to play loud and hard. Any song, any melody: he longed to make music with Eloise. He released a subdued groan as he unsuccessfully tried to make himself comfortable yet again. This wasn’t healthy. He looked over at the cause of his constricted malady and was startled to find she had begun what was best described as a bawdy tavern song, though her lyrics were those of a child’s ballad.
“Ah, excuse me,” he interrupted as politely as possible, coughing to clear his throat. Her blue-grey eyes looked up with imploring innocence. It was hard to fathom she was the same pious blasphemer of miles past. Her cheeks were rosy, and her teeth were light and aligned. He dare not look too deeply into her eyes, still alarmed of the visage he had seen. “You know there is another version of that little ditty.”
“Sir, I believe there are several variations,” Eloise acknowledged, trying not to blush.
“And which variations do you suppose came first? Eh, the proverbial chicken or the egg?” he asked, mischief in his penetrating eyes and teasing in his deep voice.
Eloise hated being caught out in her ignorance, a proverbial dilemma indeed. Roland was toying with her, and she was at the disadvantage. Everyone had seen the indiscriminate mating of fowl, cats and other beasts. She had handpicked sires and dams, dogs and bitches, witnessing the successful breeding and births. She had assisted her mother and the midwife with the miracle of life or death. Again, she found herself enduring intense pressure from Roland’s direction as well as an equally intense yearning from within. Blessed Saint Mary, she was whining. Dahlquin should be strong and capable.
“Come now, El, you have a penchant for philosophy. What say you, my route scholar?” His upper lip was thin and firm, but his bottom lip was full and well formed. The proximity of his being engulfed her. Had he ridden closer? If she reached in any direction, she would feel him there.
“I’m willing to risk another Dahlquin headache,” he assured her.
“There isn’t an answer to your riddle, Lord,” she replied, keeping her voice even, to display confidence she lacked. “But I’ll venture the gift of Sucellus may be responsible.”
Roland looked puzzled.
“Bacchus, if you prefer, was responsible for at least two versions of the song in question.”
“I prefer the Ballad of Medb,” he said, indicating a lewd song of the Celtic Goddess Medb and her Roman slaves. There was nothing philosophical or scholarly about that, Eloise thought, trying not to shrivel under his vehement gaze. Medb, the goddess of war and fertility, Dahlquin could use a bit of her conquering spirit, though Tiomu’s men deserved far worse than serving her insatiable lust. Consorts to Satan was mayhap a suitable punishment for Tiomu’s lot.
Eloise sang the first two verses of Medb’s triumphs and virtues. Roland listened, but didn’t join in. The chorus presented a greater challenge.
“Hail, Queen Medb, slayer of armies,
Not hmm nor tongue her lust can be granted,
Bearded Salmon-rose lips that bite like a shark,
La la la-ing her slaves till their hmms fell off”
“Hmms?” Roland questioned. “You can’t say cock?” He chuckled. “And la la la-ing?”
She knew she was blushing, and his scrutiny only caused her more discomfiture. The entire lewd chorus was disconcerting. Did he honestly believe she would say fucking?
“You have your limits of impudence, I see,” he conceded. “Such sweet lips shouldn’t be uttering such vulgarities.” His firm lips were curved up in a seductive smile.
“Ah, may you have goodness, I-” stammering, she looked down. Then she tried to sneak a sideways glance to see if he was still looking at her. He winked. Out of her depth in this engagement, without resource for instruction, Eloise took a deep breath and sat up tall in the saddle. The tingling in her groin only emphasized her moist seat. Salmon-rose lips at both ends, indeed. She blushed anew, worried she might slide out of the saddle.
She emitted a weak chortle, not a groan, not a laugh. Not only did she ride in a very damp saddle of her own excitement, it was wet everywhere she looked.
“Blessed V
irgin Mary, protect me,” she whispered, fishing for the wooden cross pendant under her surcoat. Feeling the warm wood in her palm, she crossed herself six times.
“Six times sinful?” Roland asked.
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace,” Eloise started reciting. He joined her.
“Agreed, mayhap it’s time we take up the cross,” Roland said when they finished the Hail Mary Prayer.
Prayers of penance recited; they took turns singing an inspired song of pilgrimage to Palestine. Roland would sing one verse, Eloise the next. Both voices shared the chorus:
“Good Christian Knights come boldly
To liberate Jerusalem for God and all that’s Holy
Our cause is just
Paradise is promised to those who in God do trust.”
They scanned the vast, open expanse of the Bog of Allen surrounding them north, south and west. Inspired by the bravado of the Pilgrims of legend, they pushed their horses on. Indeed, it seemed they were on pilgrimage: for Connacht and Ireland. And even England. Past the halfway point, the eternal Bog became less threatening, and more conciliatory as the mounted minstrels ambled overboard or bog as the road provided.
“Come on,” she encouraged Roland to join her improvising percussion as she beat out a lively rhythm with her hands on her thigh or the saddle.
“Be thankful I’ll sing,” he said, without smiling. “No one could travel this fast. It’s not possible. Tiomu’s men could never keep up this pace,” he muttered. He shook his head. “Surely we’re but two days from the Leinster castle.” He looked at her. “No one would ever suspect our severe duty to hear us sing. It’s a good disguise all told.”
Garth tensed and she felt his head pop up in alarm. Roland stopped; she and Garth stopped, and Eloise followed their gaze. Across the flat expanse were two riders and a mule-driven cart, mayhap casks in the back.
“Are those women driving the cart?” Roland asked. “Are they waving at us?”
“I believe so,” she acknowledged, though she and Roland looked about as if someone else must be about. Then he lifted a hand and waved back.