That evening while Leeson played his flute by the fire, I thanked God for keeping me safe, for not having me work the fields, and for the comfort and companionship of this dear couple. In my thankfulness, I thought on Felix. If my dear friend were still alive, I’d tell him the lessons I’d learned in prison that would someday make me a better queen.
‡
Chapter Thirteen
The morning of my sixth straight workday at The Bell Tower started out routine. Peg studied my face and gave her little speech. “Yer plaaayin’ is good for business, but yer pox are bad. I want my customers to have an appetite. Make sure they don’t see yer face.”
I went about grinding the mutton burger for the day and then shaping the seasoned meat into patties. Midmorning, I assisted the cook in grilling the burgers. I kept reminding myself to ask Peg for a favor, but each time she stepped into the kitchen, there were interruptions.
“Peg.” I finally grabbed her attention. “I have a favor to ask.”
Her gaze darted to the cook, who might overhear.
“There is a kind, elderly man in prison named Long. He has been there for years for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving family. He makes up little songs, and he sings.”
“What’s the favor?” A deep line creased in the center of her forehead.
“He hasn’t seen his wife or his children for years.”
“Everyone knows Long is blind.” She was familiar with him.
“Would you give him a chance, like you did me?”
“You’ve brought in a ditty of dixels.” She bunched her mouth together, thoughtful. “What will he do when he’s not making up songs?”
“Sit there at the table.” I motioned to the back of the room. “He can dry dishes.”
“Aye, we’ll have him dry the knives.” Peg broke into a chuckle, and Lefty, the cook, laughed too.
Gerdie’s high, nasal voice interrupted our discussion. The waitress’s singing was cue that it was time for me to play. I passed the long-handled spatula off to Lefty and then made my way through the swing doors.
“Keep your appetites, folks, and watch Gerdie,” Peg bellowed to the patrons.
Near the entry, Gerdie sang as she served hope—the amber-colored beverage made of rye—while I tiptoed through the back of the room toward the dimly lit stage.
All the tables were filled, which was the norm, but the number of uniformed guards seated near the base of the stage was unusual. Was royalty here? I could not survey the room without turning too much to look. Was it Prince Wron? Had he heard about my playing?
“To hear the Swamp Woman play, you must order from the menu,” Peg bellowed. The menu consisted of mutton burgers, fried mussels, chips, and hope.
Barefoot, I smoothed my cotton skirt beneath me and sat down on the stool, my back to the dimly lit room. My pile of curly hair hung loose, nearly to my waist.
Because I played solely from memory, it always took a little while for me to settle on which memory I would follow.
“Swamp Woman, play,” a man bellowed from the far side of the room.
“Play, wretched creature.” Sadly, I recognized the voice of one of our regular customers.
“Be kind,” ordered another of our regulars.
Somehow, I tuned out the voices, and the melody began with longings of the heart. It moved from Long still in prison and how he yearned for his grandchildren, to Knot and how he longed for peach pie, and then to myself and how I longed to be healed and for my father to arrive. Knowing the men at Peg’s would appreciate bold emotion, I gave in to a memory I hadn’t yet reflected on: Felix and the Giants’ Snare.
With fists full of dark chords, I immersed myself in the memory of his struggle and the screams I’d heard from afar. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I knew I could not stay in this memory too long, so I allowed it to ride to the haunting beauty of Shepherd’s Field.
I had grown up among fine-looking things, but never had there been such an infusion of the senses: the birds’ sweet song, the floral perfume, even my pox had temporarily been healed in that beautiful meadow. The pinkie key on my right hand stuck and did not resurface. I nudged the key back up and then abruptly clasped my hands in my lap.
There was a distinct sniffle, and then the rowdy table-clapping began.
A man trespassed onto the stage and lifted the back lid of the piano. “Sounds like there’s a blooming orchestra in there.” He grinned back at the audience.
Chuckles reverberated about the room.
After I finished playing another memory-inspired tune, only one set of hands clapped. The large group of guards had only stayed for one song. A nip of disappointment settled on me.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” a woman’s voice asked.
Though Peg didn’t want me to, I glanced over my shoulder to scan the room. Only one patron remained, a middle-aged woman in the center of the room. A dark shawl covered her head and shoulders, and two bags of pears were stashed beside her on the table.
We were completely alone.
“I play from ear and from memory—my memories.”
“Then play me one of your favorite memories.” She sniffled and dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes.
It was a rare request.
Each time Father returned from war, I would run and throw my arms about his neck, and he would just hold me and hold me and tell me Everything is all right. Even though he smelled like war, and sometimes tobacco, to me his voice was the sweetest sound in all of the world. It was like God had put a bell in my heart that only my father could ring. Even though he was a warmonger and made me mad at times, I loved him in the deep trenches of my soul.
I began with middle C because it is as close to home on a piano as one can be. From there I moved to memories of beef burgundy, which was Father’s favorite homecoming dinner; Mother’s happy, tear-streaked laughter; and the smell of his pipe in the study. Happiness bubbled within us, teamed with the awareness that with Father’s homecoming loomed his inevitable good-bye.
When I finished my favorite memory, the audience’s applause had returned to its normal volume. Was the commoner still seated amongst them? I did not turn to see.
I played for another hour before I took a break to the kitchen to peel potatoes.
“The guards were in and out, in and out. It was like they couldn’t make up their minds,” Gerdie said.
The heaviness in my bones returned.
“Now, don’t look so glum.” She lowered a basket of sliced potatoes into a large vat of oil. “You did your best; that’s all you can do.”
ΦΦΦ
Three days later . . .
“Now’s a good time for you to ring the bell, Swampie,” Peg said. “Come right back in. I’m sure there’s folks waiting to hear you pla-aay.”
It was the second time I’d been given the privilege of ringing the bell. I enjoyed walking out front of the shop and getting fresh air. The dinner bell was rung each evening at six o’clock—reminding Yonder citizens that it was a good time to visit The Bell Tower.
I wiped my hands on the front of my apron while I exited the stone belfry. In the distance, three guards walked the dirt road toward me. Cragdon, the fair-haired guard in the middle, carried a large, limp plant.
“Swamp Woman,” he called loudly.
“Hello, Cragdon.” My hand rested on the pull for the heavy front door.
“This is for you.” After several strides, he extended the wilted foliage with its long taproot and draped the plant over his arms onto mine. Small, trumpet-shaped purple flowers hid amongst the fuzzy, dark green leaves.
“Thank you.” If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the same plant I’d seen in Shepherd’s Field.
“It’s queen of the meadow, a possible remedy for you. It is a gift from the Queen.”
My gaze narrowed. “The Queen?” I smiled, both surprised and pleased. “Please inform the queen that I am touched by her kind and considerate gift.”
The door swung open be
hind me. “What is taaaking you sooo long, Swampie? I told you—” Peg’s gaze took in the royal guards.
“A gift from the Queen.” Cragdon nodded to the wilted plant in my possession. Stepping toward Peg, he handed her a sealed envelope.
“Tell the Queen she can’t have her. The Swamp Woman’s mine for another twenty-one daaays.” Peg stuffed the envelope down the front of her tunic. “A deal is a deal.”
“I’m merely the messenger.” Cragdon bowed slightly.
I carried the plant into the kitchen and hung it carefully on a nail, next to other dry herbs. While I peeled potatoes at the sink, a million worries galloped through my mind. What did Peg mean… have her? After Peg’s, I would be a free person again, wouldn’t I?
ΦΦΦ
The following day, Peg had still not breathed a word to me regarding the letter. I found myself too curious to remain silent. “Peg, what was in the letter from the Queen?”
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, my employer shrugged. “If ya heal early, the Queen wants you. But if ya don’t, you get to staaay here.” She smiled, looking at my pox.
Had the Queen heard me play? Or perhaps heard about it from the guards? To my knowledge, Prince Wron had not visited The Bell Tower.
“Who was that woman with the pears?” I asked.
“I dunno. We were all ushered out while you were plaaaying, like I didn’t have a saaay in my own place.”
ΦΦΦ
Midmorning, Peg yelled for me from the dining area. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and hurried through the swing doors.
“Swampie, I brought ya a friend.” Hands on hips, Peg grinned.
Two guards ushered Long past us toward the stage. Dixels must have been dancing in Peg’s head for her to act so quickly on my request.
“Let me hear ya sing, old man,” Peg bellowed.
I recalled his awkwardness with the Queen, and tossed the dishtowel at Peg on my way to join him on stage. “Sing for me, Long.” I curled my arm in his. “Something simple. Sing the song about your missus that you sang for us in prison.”
“Awh… Dory, I missed your sweet voice.” As he smiled, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“My missus will be sorry she sent me for bread.
No dixels in my pocket, just a song in me head…”
Without a tremor, Long finished three stanzas of the tune.
Peg’s mouth bunched thoughtfully. “He’ll do, but it won’t be good for business, Swampie, you standing with him onstage. Keep your pox covered.” She shook her head and walked away while I hugged Long.
ΦΦΦ
When Long sang, the audience at The Bell Tower reminded me of prison: the crowd noise hushed to a pensive silence. News of Long’s freedom spread throughout the kingdom, and more and more folks gathered at The Bell Tower to hear him sing.
“Do you see my wife?” he asked me for the fourth time that day. We stood together on the stage.
“What does she look like?” This opening had quickly become a part of our act.
“She used to be...” His hand outlined a woman with plump curves. “With coarse hair and strong hands.” I gripped my hood about my face and peered below us at the dimly lit sea of faces.
“I don’t see her, but don’t worry. It won’t be long.”
He cleared his throat, peering into the darkness.
“Little old woman… where are you?” His voice trembled as tears clouded his eyes.
“Our children have grown,
I’m here all alone.
Little old woman who shared my bed.
Little old woman who sent me for bread.
Little old woman, where are you?”
He crossed his long, knobby fingers over his chest.
“My heart’s on fire waiting for you.
How many years have gone and come?
Our son is a man, our girl is a mum.
Little old woman, these words are true,
Tonight, I get to go home with you.
Please be alive, and well with thee.
Please be my Molly who married me.
Little old woman . . .”
With his eyes closed, Long slowly turned his head, listening. I took his hand in mine and assisted him offstage.
“Long, give her time. She’ll come.” Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. “She’ll hear about you. Give her time.”
ΦΦΦ
“Long’s depressing songs are surprisingly good for business,” Peg whispered while I peeled potatoes. “There’s standing room only, and the folks are still coming.”
“Long hasn’t seen his wife in years; that’s why they’re here,” I said.
Eyes narrowed, Peg stared at me. She truly didn’t understand.
“To share in the joys of the day,” I said. “Their sweet reunion.”
‡
Chapter Fourteen
With several of his men, Prince Wron walked the cobblestone streets of the heart of the village. Under Cragdon’s direction, they took the dirt road heading north toward Delfrey. The shutters of the nearby homes were open, which was out of the ordinary for this time of evening. Most often folks wanted privacy around the dinner table. Perhaps they were enjoying the poignant melody that drifted in the air.
“Is this what my mother wanted me to hear?” Wron asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is the music coming from?”
“The Bell Tower,” Cragdon said. “Your mother wants me to go to Delfrey tomorrow and find the nicest piano I can for the Great Hall. She was very impressed with the Swamp Woman.”
“So I’ve heard. I still can’t believe she did what she did.” He smiled at the thought of his mother dressed like a commoner, and seated at Peg’s, of all places, amongst their guards. But she’d always loved music.
“I believe she found the Swamp Woman’s music healing.”
“Yes, I think so, too.” Last night, she’d appeared pensive while she knit in front of the fire, and perhaps a little lonely.
Up ahead, a surprising number of people picnicked alongside the road.
“If Peg knew the townspeople listened for free, she would not let the music escape,” Cragdon said.
“Yes, she would buckle that place up tight. She is all business.” Though Wron chuckled, he felt uneasy. The music tugged at him, swirling the deep waters of his soul. He was reminded of the tale of the Pied Piper and how the rats followed the piper, only to drown themselves in the river.
“I have every intention of marrying her,” Cragdon said.
“Peg?” Wron suppressed a laugh.
“No, you know I meant the Swamp Woman.”
Cragdon’s incessant search for a bride continued. “Well, I’m sure your beloved will not take kindly to being called Swamp Woman.”
“Dory.” Cragdon’s voice softened.
“There is hope for you. You have not fallen for a woman’s beauty first, this time.”
“I’ve reserved a table for us near the front.” Cragdon led the way, while several guards accompanied them inside.
Peg greeted them and, with a spring to her step for so late in the day, escorted Wron and Cragdon to a table, several rows from the stage, and then took their order—two glasses of hope and a plate of chips. The fire in the hearth lit the dining area, and torch sconces lit the stage.
With her back to the room, Dory played without sheet music. The mesmerizing piece appeared to be bottled up in her head and in her fingers. Peg delivered their beverages and the plate of chips.
“She is very good.” Wron nodded toward the stage.
“If you’re here on account of the Queen”—Peg bent low to his ear—“remind yer mother that the Swamp Woman is mine for at least twenty more days.”
“Have you read her correspondence yet?” Wron asked.
“Remind her that a deal is a deal.”
Wron grinned, returning his gaze to the stage. Dory’s long, lean, pox-riddled arms ebbed away from her willowy figure, and then back again wi
th grace and uncanny deftness. Her auburn curls rippled to the curve of her waist. With her back to the audience, the girl was beautiful.
Perhaps it was the music that transformed her appearance. He glanced about the room at the other patrons. Shoulders down and relaxed, softness forged their faces. Her music, if used in the right way, might have reduced the Twelve-Year War to ten. After the entrancing song ended, Dory stepped away from the piano. Barefoot and with her back to the audience, she quietly walked offstage.
“Is that it?” He nudged Cragdon’s elbow.
“No, Long, the blind man, will sing.”
A young, fair maiden sang loudly near the entrance. She was tone-deaf, and her voice was not altogether pleasing.
“Keep your appetites and watch Gerdie,” Peg bellowed. “Do not look toward the stage.”
Wron did the opposite and turned to watch as Dory, with a hooded cloak over her head, led an elderly man up the steps and to the front of the stage.
“Has anyone seen Long’s wife today?” Dory asked the audience. Her disfigurement was hidden in the shadows of her hooded cloak.
“I saw her with an apronful of corn standing in her garden,” said someone near the front.
“I saw Molly hanging clothes on the line,” yelled Clarence from the mercantile.
“It appears everyone has heard the good news, except, that is, for Long’s wife,” Dory said. For a moment, Wron found himself entranced with her accent as much as the rest of the audience appeared to be.
“Can anyone help us find her?” Dory asked the crowd. “It has been three years since Long has seen his wife.”
“It’s been longer than that.” Clarence’s bellows were followed by a rowdy round of laughter.
“My home is not far.” Long’s clothes hung on him like they no longer had stitching. “You take a right at the Mill Road. You’ll pass a cherry tree, and then you’ll see my Molly…” Gesturing with his hands, Long outlined a plump woman’s curves.
The Piano Girl - Part One (Counterfeit Princess Series) Page 12