The courtesans loved my gown and the three girls from Cathay simultaneously burst into tears as they stroked its beautiful silk. The party was in its nature both merry and sad, for there was much crying and carrying on as we women are wont to do when, as I knew myself to be, a much-loved friend departs. As the midnight hour approached we had drunk much of good wine supplied by Master Yap and all were very merry of spirit. Then Marlena, one of the girls, called out and asked that I should sing ‘Cursed be the Linden Trees’. There was much nodding and clapping and cries of approval as it was a favourite at Ali Baba’s.
You will remember this song, I feel sure. I shall sing the first two verses to remind you.
I was such a lovely girl
while I flourished as a virgin.
The whole world praised me,
everybody liked me.
Hoy and oe!
Cursed be the linden trees
planted by the way.
When I set out for the meadows
to pick flowers,
a crude fellow decided
to deflower me there.
Hoy and oe!
Cursed be the linden trees
planted by the way.
I began to sing a cappella but to my surprise, almost immediately, the beautiful sounds of a lute accompanied me, its player most accomplished. I glanced in the direction of its sound to see a lute held in the playing manner by two male arms that extended from behind a set of drapes that hung from the wall concealing one of the passages that led to the client boudoirs.
All about me the girls could barely contain their giggling, so that I struggled at first to concentrate on the song, wishing all the while to give them of my best voice, as I would never again return to sing for them. Besides, the lute player was better even than I had at first supposed and he challenged my voice and lifted it as Reinhardt had so often done in the past. By the time I approached the last verse all was still but for the two of us. The courtesans, though loose with the wine they had consumed, had grown quiet as they realised the character of the playing and my joyous response to it.
Perchance it was the wine, but I had already fallen in love with the hands that plucked at the beautiful-sounding lute. What if it is some old codger, slack of limb, his only strident instrument his lute? I thought to myself. Such masterful playing is not often found in a young musician.
The giggling had commenced once again and all eyes were turned on the muslin drapes. Then the lute commenced to play once more, though it was a tune I did not know. At first soft yet loving and then in parts strident, then anxious, and within it I could hear the maiden’s plaintive cry. Then followed her delight as her lover held her to his breast, then at last painfully sad, so that to my ear it was the music to a most beautiful love song I would have longed to sing.
I braced myself for a disappointment for I felt myself wet with desire. Then the curtains parted to squeals of delight by the girls who could contain themselves no longer. There stood a young knight perhaps twenty years of age, so beautiful that he took my breath away. The sun had stroked his skin the colour of the finest young leather, his eyes were as blue as mine but the hair that fell to his shoulders was black as a Sicilian’s, his lips well fleshed but manly and his nose straight and just a trifle arrogant. He was tall and strong of stature and as he played he walked towards me and smiled, his teeth good and straight and white enough to dazzle. He was perhaps twenty steps away from me, time sufficient for me to note he wore a black velvet tunic with silver buttons to the front, scarlet hose and pointed black leather slippers, and I saw that his codpiece bulged as it constrained the one-eyed snake within.
And now came various girlie cries: ‘He’s yours, Sylvia!’ ‘We found him at last and just in time!’ ‘May we share him, please!’ ‘It is safe – you are five days past the blood!’ ‘Enjoy, our lovely one!’ ‘That codpiece doth not lie!’ ‘Go to thy handsome lover, Sylvia!’ ‘Time to use what we have taught you!’ (Laughter.) And then in Arabic a spate of rapid words from Fatima that cut through all the others: ‘Take him as if it will never happen again, love him, possess him, stroke him, bite him, lick him, soothe him, suck him, ride him from the top. Make love to him the way we have taught you until he comes gloriously. Then massage him and sing to him to bring him back to desire. Then scorn him with a brazen voice and challenge him to do for you what you hath done for him. My precious jewel, if you are to be loved by a man but once, let him prove himself worthy, let him break his back for you. Go well, my pretty one!’
By this time the lute player stood in front of me and, still playing, raised his right eyebrow in a query, and then gave the slightest jerk of his head in the direction of the drapes and turned and walked away from me.
‘Go, Sylvia! Go, thou! Go now, my lovely! Go!’ the girls called out, some clapping their hands at the wonderful mischief unfolding in front of their eyes. I could feel their happiness for me and the delight that all their careful plans were about to be brought to fruition, even to delaying the time for my deflowering until it was safe for me to be loved by a man.
I should like to say I hesitated, overcome by modesty. But I did not. Instead, so as not to interrupt his playing, I ran ahead and opened the drapes for him to enter the passageway where I would for the last time wear my maidenhood. Then to their cheering and laughter I passed through the curtains myself and followed the handsome lute player.
We entered a boudoir specially prepared with the finest silks and draped with flowers such as might be readied for a prince or archbishop. On a small table beside the lovers’ couch stood wine and cakes and freshly picked grapes and dried fruits and nuts and with it all a bottle of the finest arousing oil.
The young knight set aside his lute and took me in his arms and kissed me tenderly, his breath free of any rancidity. I thought I would swoon for the feeling to my entire being was more even than I had ever imagined. That so slight a thing, my body held thus by a pair of male arms, should so affect me left me bewildered. ‘You are such a pretty maid,’ he whispered, ‘such a pretty, pretty maid for me to plunder.’
There was no threat contained in this plundering word, only promise, and my desire was for him to take me in any way he wished and urgently. I thought not of Frau Sarah’s precious purse and how it should not be opened with impunity. But now I would, without a moment’s thought, have opened it, my legs clasped about his back. I was overcome by desire and panting. I craved the divine rod of Eros – my most ardent wish was that it be plunged deep within me, my purse plundered to this sweet knight’s heart’s desire.
But then Fatima’s voice came to me. Above all she had been my most skilful teacher, as she had learned her amorous craft in a sultan’s harem and knew every way there was to please a man. ‘Sylvia, men are animals who when their blood is up will kill or rape. Even at their tender moments, violence still lingers in their blood. When first they come to you they hunger for thy pussy and think not of you, but only of themselves. Their needs are simple and their pussy plunder is hard and quick and over before there is any benefit for thee. You are left bereft while he is sated, his breathing heavy and his breast content, between his legs his useless rod lies soft and spent.’ When she had first told me all this I had thought it very funny and ran to compose a song that they all thought was great fun. I called it ‘My Pretty Maid’.
Now, such are the words a maiden doth hear
When a randy knight errant whispers into her ear.
‘Come, my pretty maid, feel my true affection,
Take in thy snow-white hand my fine erection.’
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
‘Prithee, will you remove thy offending dress
To let my pulsing rod thy lovely nest possess.’
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
‘Let your pretty mouth play on my throbbing prong
And yo
ur sweet lips sing the siren’s song.’
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
‘Now let me plant within thee my virile seed.
Through thy gate of Eros comes my prancing steed.’
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
Then hear now how fair maid to herself replies
As he groans and grunts and pummels her poor thighs.
Soon now he’ll hear my plaintive maiden’s cry:
‘Enough, kind Sir, enough, enough, you satisfy!’
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
Then with an anguished shout I’ll feel him come
And then a moan and with a final thrusting it is done.
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
As he lays his head upon my heaving breast
He boasts that I’ve been mounted by the very best.
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
This rigid rod he likened to a mighty steed
Lies atrophied and twitches like a centipede.
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be. I come for thee.
If my loving has brought about his flaccid worm
Alas, I cry, why is it never then the maiden’s turn?
For thee, for thee, my pretty maid, for thee.
How happy you must be, I come for thee.
Now snoring lies this knight in deep repose.
He . . . happy that he’s come. I . . . anxious that he goes.
I must quickly add that this was not my experience with the lute player for his love was long and tender. While I seized upon Fatima’s advice to love him first and well, he needed no chastisement to return his amorous attention to me. After I had oiled him and with my lips rekindled his desire, he laid me down upon my stomach and starting at my neck he smoothed the fragrant oil along my back and buttocks and legs to my ankles. Then he commenced to massage me, his pliant hands seeming to know the nature of every muscle in my body. As he traversed over my buttocks it was as if he plucked a single note upon his lute string, his finger slipped within me and played that sweet erectile organ only the briefest moment before it was gone again. So that each time his hands returned to my neck and began the slow slide down my back the promise of the loving finger caused me to gasp as I anticipated his lovely pluck. When it came at last, I moaned with pleasure.
I had learned well the gasps and moans and sounds of mock arousal from the courtesans, but now my cries came uncontrolled until I could bear it no longer and thought I must surely burst asunder from desire. I begged for him to enter me but still he lingered. Then he lifted and placed me on my back. Gently parting my legs he crouched within them and but a moment later his tongue entered me and unerringly found the little rod and played upon this loving flute until the flood within me finally burst and I screamed out in ecstasy. Only then did he mount me. Like waves rolling continuously into shore, I came and came and came.
Then long did he linger with kisses and caresses and sweet talk, before once more he turned me on my stomach and oiled and stroked my back, but this time more tenderly and sans his plucking finger for I was wondrously wet and ready. Then he mounted me from behind, stroking softly at first and then harder and harder until my gasping was beyond mere gathering of broken breath and then together we reached that vortex of extreme and unrelenting loving, that marvellous indescribable moment of coupling when two people do come together.
If I appear the hussy I deny it not. But if you do not judge this the devil’s work and me his evil instrument, I ask that you forgive my wantonness, knowing as I did at the time that this was the first and also the last time I would know a man with intimacy. I too was ashamed at the urgent need within me to act as I did and if it seemed impulsive that I went so willingly, it was not. I have spoken before of my hunger and I can only say that I felt fortunate that this was now replete and that, unlike my song where the lover cares only for himself, this lute player had been my most tender and concerned lover. I could not have asked for more. I knew, though it was sinful and I guilty, I would savour this first loving forever, knowing that I had experienced the eternal mystery of creation.
More so now than ever I felt myself the reluctant nun. I knew in the pantheon of nuns that loved Jesus as their betrothed and He them as His faithful and devoted wives that He would place me last. All-knowing, He knew that I came to the holy altar for selfish reasons and, moreover, had indulged myself up to the very last moment and not delivered myself up unto Him unsullied and virginal before pledging my troth and accepting His sacred ring.
But I confess as I lay supine with the arm of my lover about me I did not think even a moment on this consequence. In truth I felt cleansed and consummated and filled with the wonder of the creation of loving. Then came the first blush of guilt, for I realised that I did not know my lover’s name and in my haste to abandon myself to him had not even thought to ask it.
I turned and resting on my elbow I looked at him and asked, ‘What is your name, my lovely lute player?’
He smiled a quiet smile. ‘Ah, that is the joy of it, Sylvia. You know it not and are much the better for it.’
‘Pray tell, how am I better for it?’ I asked, grinning stupidly to hide my shame.
‘I have been told that you are about to enter a nunnery?’
‘Aye. Do you think me shameful?’
He laughed. ‘Do you think you are?’
‘Perhaps . . . Aye, I confess, it is, but I truly loved it.’
‘Then how may it be shameful?’
‘I go to be God’s bride,’ I said, suddenly shamefaced, these words summoning the awful truth of what I’d done.
He thought a moment then turned to me. ‘Sylvia, I am well accustomed to loving women. I count myself most fortunate – my lute attracts them like a bee to summer blossoms and I confess I seldom sleep alone. If this seems boastful then take it as you may. But this I say to thee. I am told, though you did not bleed, that I am the first man you have known and I am truly grateful to have been so chosen. You are an exceptional lover and as pretty as a maid might ever be. How learned you such loving ways and kept your virgin’s mantle I cannot say, but the pity is that such joyous coupling will now be lost to all who may have been fortunate enough to pluck this lovely rose. What would be shameful is if you possessed my name and forever after thought only that it was I you loved and not what you truly loved, which was the act of loving. When this is felt and it is rarely so the first time for a maid, then it is the mystery of life and is created by God. Only He can create perfection and only His name may be used when thinking of it.’
With these lovely words, which did both forgive my sinning and flatter me immensely, he rose and quietly dressed and then he kissed me. ‘Farewell, Sylvia, I must leave you, but will cherish you for what you brought to me.’
‘Nay! Lute player, I thank you for your tender loving, but I wish but one more thing from you.’
‘What is it, Sylvia?’
‘The words to the love song you played when you came for me.’
To my surprise he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nay, you do not want them.’
‘Please, I must!’ I begged.
‘Nay, they are foolish. A joke before I truly knew you.’
‘I must have them, or else they will haunt me forever.’ I hummed the first few bars. ‘See, I have the tune already, now I must have the words.’
‘I fear you will think less of me for telling you.’
‘Nay, I will not. Please?’ I begged again.
But still he seemed reluctant and looked at me somewhat shamefaced. ‘It is a song composed by a young novice nun who finds herself bemoaning her new
life in a convent. I thought it a joke most private when I played it. But now I fear this feeble jape turns on me, nor will it serve you well to know the words.’
‘Lute player, I am not easily made churlish, but if you do not tell me I will scream and tear my gown and beat myself to bruising and gouge my eye, then swear that I came about this state by thy cruel hand,’ I laughingly threatened him.
‘Very well, Sylvia, but know you that it was you who persisted. It is called “The Reluctant Bride”.’
Whereupon he sat and taking up his lute he sang to me while I memorised the words. And when he was done and I had this song in my head, I could feel my courage begin to fail me.
The following morning, shortly after the ringing of the Angelus, Father Hermann and I departed for the long day’s walk to the Benedictine convent at Mount Disibodenberg. St Mary’s on the Kapitol possessed a horse and cart for the transporting of priests but he refused to use it. ‘We shall walk as do all commonfolk,’ he informed me. Then he added in his usual critical manner, ‘Not like other members of the clergy that arrive seated on a cart with their feet clean and the hem of their cassocks free of dust or mud.’
‘I would much prefer to walk, Father,’ I replied. This was true, as I knew I might not appear back in the outside world for four years or even longer. It was late summer and the wheat and barley were being brought in from the fields, always a happy time in the countryside.
‘Our Lord did only once ride upon a donkey when he entered Jerusalem for Passover, which is what we now call Lent,’ he reminded me. ‘But at every other time he walked with His disciples. Tush! We priests have forgotten that we are called in His name to follow in His footsteps. Footsteps, you hear, Sylvia! Not cart wheels or mule hooves, footsteps! Only once a donkey! But oh no! Now we would raise ourselves to some lofty status that denies our vows of humility. Now we travel high-seated above the crowd, waving a blessing to those who acknowledge us, our chins and stomachs bouncing and a fat basket filled with bread, smoked fish and wine recumbent at our feet.’
‘I have a little money for food, Father,’ I replied.
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