by Alex Myers
Perhaps he would have been a better minstrel if he focused more on the music. But what he liked about music was that it felt like a stream, running along through the woods. Merry and pleasant, and carrying everything away. The more he played, the more his mind wandered. Back to the story Alfred had told of his mother, back to the look on Alfred’s face as he’d passed by, the deliberate blankness that he used to mask the pain of enduring an endless string of taunts. And the face itself, handsome with its heavy brows. Even in the few months Silence had known him, Alfred had changed. More whiskers sprouted from his chin and along his jawline, dark as his brows. His voice had deepened, too, settling to be lower than Hob’s, though it still occasionally cracked. He strummed on and wondered how the dancing young ladies (he tried not to look at them and instead stared at his fingers on the strings) saw him … his smooth cheeks, his slender form … hopefully they focused on his music, but even then, what about his voice, still as high as any boy’s?
‘Girls, girls!’ Lady Isabel clapped her hands and Silence stopped playing. ‘That’s enough for today. It is dangerous to warm the blood too much, and I see that many of your cheeks are pink!’ The girls twittered and leaned against each other as though they were exhausted. ‘Out, now. The bell will sound for Nones soon.’
Silence stretched his fingers in the suddenly empty chamber. What a strange thing, to live a life in which it was dangerous to sweat, to make one’s heart race. What would life be without that? He couldn’t imagine. And yet, that would have been his life, but for one decree from King Evan. He shook his head and stood up. No doubt Hob and Giles would have chores for him. Perhaps he should be thankful for the king and greediness; he didn’t think he could ever live as these ladies did.
CHAPTER NINE
As the winter gave way to spring, Giles began to consider taking to the roads again. ‘If we stay too long in one place, we will lose our reputation, we won’t learn any new songs,’ he’d insist every few weeks. Hob, on the other hand, preferred to stay put. ‘Security,’ he’d say.
‘Boredom,’ Giles would counter.
‘Food and a warm bed.’
‘And your precious wine,’ Giles would snark.
‘And your precious women!’
‘Pah! There are women everywhere.’
The compromise reached, as they entered the high summer season, was to remain in their position at La Marche but also go to festivals. The Count of La Marche happily accoutred them in jackets with his colours so that they could compete in his name. Hob was satisfied knowing they’d only spend a night or two away, and Giles could feel that they weren’t mouldering in the keep. As for Silence, he was pleased to visit new places and have stories to share with Alfred.
So it was that, in the summer that Silence had turned sixteen, the three of them went around to festivals of the Ascension in the villages near to La Marche. When he returned to the keep, Silence found an eager and envious audience in Alfred.
‘I never manage to leave,’ the squire complained. Alfred served one of the count’s oldest retainers, a knight the two of them called (though Silence admitted it was disrespectful) Sir Ancient. ‘Tell me everything you saw.’
‘Well,’ considered Silence, ‘in the second village, a troupe of mummers was also there, which made Hob angry, because he thought the crowd would give their coin to the actors.’
‘I saw mummers last year at midsummer. They did “The Knight and the Saracen”.’
‘This group did a play with the devil in it, and angels drove the devil away.’
‘With wings? Did the angels have wings?’
‘Of course,’ Silence said, trying to sound worldly. ‘They always do.’
Alfred moaned with envy. ‘I never see anything.’
‘Maybe the count will be called to fight …’
‘And Sir Ancient will be left to defend the keep. The last time I left La Marche was to go to his niece’s wedding, and that was when I first became his squire, three years ago …’
Silence fished around for something else to share; Alfred could go on for hours about how unlikely it was that he’d ever get to be a knight, and though Silence had much compassion for his position, it hurt to know that however long Alfred had to wait, it was still a possibility for him. ‘Oh, and Giles got in trouble with some woman; she loved his singing, she said, and next thing I know, I’m standing guard at the stable doors as the two of them …’
Alfred laughed raucously. ‘That’s a job I’ll never do for Sir Ancient.’
‘Next I know, we’re running away from that town. Turns out the woman had a husband, and Hob spent the rest of the trip cursing Giles because we had to walk in a day of rain …’ Silence broke off. ‘I’d’ve rather been here, working at the pell.’
‘You have no sense of romance!’ Alfred protested. ‘And here you are the minstrel, singing of it all day.’
‘You’re the one who’ll be a knight. That’s what the ladies want – a gallant, dashing knight.’
‘I’m a poor, landless squire. All I want is something quick in a pile of hay.’
Silence coughed to cover his discomfort. He didn’t want that! All he could think of was the dogs in the kennel back at Ringmar, how the seneschal had bred them. The horrible noises, the furious humping. How it had confused Silence at the time, whether they were fighting or what. And even though now he understood what the dogs were occupied in, yet it confused him still; for what part of that could he play? It was all turned around in his mind.
‘Look at you, going all pink!’ Alfred yelled and slapped Silence on the back. ‘With your golden hair and beautiful voice, Maurice, you can have any one you want!’
‘I don’t want any of them, I assure you.’
‘Will you next become a monk?’
Silence forced a laugh. ‘I have to go wake Giles and Hob.’ And he hurried off to the kitchens, breathing out a rush of air. Why did his Nature make everything such a tangle? He knew women were the proper objects of adoration and he did long to protect them, to cherish them … and yet, when he thought of love, in the sense of bodies, in the way of dogs and goats and Giles, too, in the stable, he thought of … he paused for a moment and stepped into the shadows of the kitchen wall. He thought of … strong arms, how just last week, Alfred had playfully wrapped him in a wrestling hold and Silence hadn’t wanted to break free.
When he’d (gently) roused the minstrels and set out fresh water and food, Silence took his harp and lute and went downstairs to a cabinet off the great hall. It was a room with a variety of uses: when the Count of La Marche held festivals, these cabinets housed musicians and trays of delicacies – each room a different flavour or spirit. When the Count of La Marche planned a campaign, these cabinets held brooding clusters of knights with scrolls and maps. When it was tax season, these cabinets contained naught but ledgers and clerks.
But, for now, this one was empty. He ran through the exercises Hob had taught him, the ones that would build the strength and nimbleness in his fingers. Silence approached the harp much like he approached the pell – with a sort of dogged determination, a belief that effort and repetition would yield results, and, ultimately, a sense of fatigue and satisfaction when it was all over. When his knuckles stiffened, he switched to the lute. A few days ago, travelling around to the villages, they’d heard a pair of musicians who’d been in Alman and had strange new songs. Hob had an amazing talent for hearing a song but once and being able to play it back. He’d come away from that village with half a dozen tunes he wanted the three of them to learn, and now Silence sat and worked the lute part for one of them.
When he grew weary of that, he switched to ‘Foy Porter’, always a favourite. He closed his eyes and began to sing, letting the lute flow along with the words, the one supporting the other. ‘I will remain faithful, be a guard to your honour. Serve you until I die, dear lady, dear lady. It would be easier to hold back the waves of the sea, than to keep me from your side …’
He opened his eyes to adju
st the tuning key on the lute. The third string always went loose – he should ask Hob how to fix that … the door to the cabinet inched open and he scrambled to his feet.
‘Oh, Maurice!’ A girl slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. She wore a pale blue gown, the cloth giving off the slightest shimmer.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Silence, bowing. The girl was Countessina La Marche. He thought of her as a girl because that’s what she had been when they first arrived at the keep a year ago. But of late she had, as Griselle would put it, blossomed. Her skinny hips had rounded, her chest swelled. Indeed, she was plump, now – her cheeks flushed pink, her brown hair loosely bound, the epitome of maidenhood. The countessina was the eldest of the count’s many daughters; behind her ran a string of girls, all the way down to a babe in arms. Giles joked that if the count kept trying for a son, he’d soon have to found a convent.
‘Oh, Maurice,’ she breathed again, leaning against a panel. ‘Don’t stop singing.’
He bowed once more, a flush running up his neck. The countessina was undeniably beautiful and he found himself flustered, stammering, trying not to look at her too much. ‘If you so wish,’ he finally managed, taking his seat and picking a lighter tune, an easier one, as well.
‘I’ve been listening since you entered the chamber.’
‘Then you have heard some terrible things, m’lady.’ He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
‘I’m not old enough to be called m’lady, m’lord,’ she mocked.
‘And I’m not noble enough to be called m’lord, m’lady. Since you are closer to a requisite age than I will ever be to gaining the requisite nobility, it is entirely appropriate to call you m’lady, m’lady,’ he replied.
She tossed her hair at him. ‘You minstrels! No wonder everyone calls for you to sing, if that’s the way you speak.’
‘Very well. I will sing.’ Silence picked up the harp, glad to have the excuse of tuning to keep his eyes and hands very busy. He hated lying. He hated the need for a false name, he hated having to deny his nobility. A knight ought to be true. But he was not a knight. He ran his fingers along the harp strings, releasing a cascade of notes. The countessina sighed at the sound. Silence’s fingers found the opening notes of what in Cornwall they called ‘The Flower Song’. A good song for summer, a good song for girls. Perhaps he ought to have picked something else. But he had been with Giles and Hob, and Giles in particular, long enough to know that this was part of the role a musician played at court. Spark romances, set the mood. There was no question that the countessina was beautiful, and already her father had brought in a number of suitors. No doubt the young woman was feeling the first bites of love and sought either solace or inspiration from the music.
He sang lightly, with enough voice to fill the cabinet with music. Reaching the end of the verse, he plucked the notes of the interlude, and heard the countessina sigh, ‘Oh, Maurice.’ With haste, he began singing once more before she could say anything else – abbreviating the interlude rather abruptly.
‘Will you play it again?’ she said, inching towards him at the moment the last notes ceased ringing.
‘M’lady, I must be going.’ He rose from the stool and offered her a generous bow. She rose as well and stepped closer. Silence felt his palms prickle with sweat as he backed towards the door. He did not want to meet her eye. Had he been any boy but himself, he might have dared to press his lips to her fingers, or even to her cheek. How good that would have felt … but, no. Much as he hated to admit it, much as he heard the echo of his father’s voice, Silence knew: he was not like other boys.
‘You should have been going much earlier, Maurice.’ Giles pushed open the cabinet door. He wore a fine jacket, in a colour popular this season – ‘Spaniard’s Blood Red’ – with a matching cap that sported a grouse feather. ‘Not dallying in chambers with your betters.’
‘It was I that asked Maurice to play for me …’ the countessina began.
‘My pardon.’ Giles bowed mockingly low with a smile that bared his teeth, giving him a vulpine look. ‘But he is our servant and our chamber needs his attention.’ He grabbed Silence by the back of his tunic, much as a mother cat might grab a kitten by its scruff, and half-threw him from the cabinet, slamming the door behind them.
‘Idiot,’ Giles said, and cuffed Silence with his open hand, hitting him on the back of the head.
‘I went to practise, and she found me …’ He took a few steps away from Giles. The blow hadn’t been hard, but it also hadn’t been deserved.
‘Of course she found you. You think I don’t know about your sneaking about?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir, I …’
Giles lifted his hand to strike again and Silence simply stepped back into a fighting stance. He wouldn’t dare to hit Giles, but he would dare to parry any blow. The tall minstrel narrowed his eyes and sucked in his already gaunt cheeks before letting his breath out in a hiss. ‘I must let Hob know we’ve a viper in our midst. Here we’ve cared for you, taught you all we know. And in return?’ He raked his eyes over Silence. ‘You seem ready to do us violence.’
‘You’re the one who just struck me, sir,’ Silence said, keeping his tone even. ‘I mean only to defend myself.’
Giles folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. ‘And yet, you are the one who has harmed us.’ He held up a hand when Silence began to protest. ‘You have endangered our position here, with your little flirtation with the countessina. Now, go and practise that three-part piece, the one Hob taught you.’
The injustice of Giles’s comments rankled; he was the one, after all, who pursued anything in a dress, often to everyone’s detriment.
The next day, Count La Marche hosted a visiting noble, yet another man in pursuit of the countessina’s hand, and the three minstrels were in demand late into the evening. Silence’s eyes itched from the smoky room in which they played, and he could barely keep from yawning as they bowed themselves out of the chamber.
‘Good news,’ Hob said, as they wended their way through hallways towards their sleeping quarters. ‘The count has given us leave to go to the Moulins Fair.’ He handed his lute to Silence, and began to unlace the strings of his shirt with a sigh. ‘Much better.’
‘Moulins,’ Giles snorted. ‘Unless this boy starts to practise song as much as sword, it will be a waste of our time.’
Silence bit back a retort. He had been practising. But it would do no good to contradict Giles; the man had an increasingly short temper.
‘I’ll work with him tomorrow. It’s bed for me tonight,’ said Hob.
Giles, too, shoved his lute at Silence and strode off in the opposite direction. Hob stared after him a moment and shook his head.
‘Is the Moulins Fair large?’
‘I forget that you grew up at the arse-end of the world,’ Hob said. ‘Yes, it is the largest fair hereabouts, with contests of all sorts, including a fat purse for the finest song.’
The visitor stayed for several days, and they played for him and the count often, yet Hob insisted that they wedge in practice for the fair. Giles complained of Silence’s lute-playing, complained that he let the tempo drag, demanded that Silence practise more, yet was himself often absent when Hob wanted to rehearse and absent, too, when they returned to their chamber in the evening. All of this left Silence little time on his own, not to mention little time for sleep. But he managed to drag himself to the practice yard, yawning and feeling miserable.
‘You look like death,’ Alfred said when he arrived. ‘Don’t think I’ll go light on you.’
He didn’t, and Silence took a pummelling. Mostly, he got practice in dodging and parrying; he couldn’t muster the strength to offer a blow of any speed or force.
‘Go back to bed, if you’re going to fight like that,’ Alfred scoffed, taking off his helm. ‘I have news. Sir Ancient is going to the Moulins Fair.’
‘So are we – to compete in song.’
‘I thought you would
. Sir Ancient has been having trouble breathing when he lies down. He’s had to sleep sitting up, and he heard that a certain healer of renown would be at the fair …’ Alfred threw up his hands, as if to show what he thought of healers and the likelihood that Sir Ancient would find any relief. ‘What matters is that I will get away from this pile of rocks. Perhaps I can even convince him to let me compete.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Silence, and for a moment, both of them stood in contemplation of future glory.
‘If I am to win, though, I’ll need to practise with a better partner, for some challeng—’
Silence gave Alfred a playful shove on the shoulder, and Alfred, always one to over-react, tackled Silence around the knees. They both crashed to the ground, rolling about, each trying to get the better grip. Silence managed to get astraddle Alfred’s chest. ‘A challenge, eh?’ He batted playfully at Alfred’s head. ‘Think you can get loose?’ he chortled, and though he soon found himself getting tossed aside, and then being the one pinned to the ground, he still laughed. He felt a tingling in his thighs, like the feeling one gets when a limb goes numb with disuse, but pleasant. Then Alfred stood and hauled Silence to his feet. ‘Time for chores,’ Alfred muttered. They brushed the dust off each other’s backs and Silence had the urge to say something, but what would he say? That he’d rather wrestle with Alfred than be kissed by the countessina? He couldn’t say that. Even if it were true.
A quick airing of the chamber, shaking out the bedcovers, neatening the pallet where he slept, tossing the washwater out into the yard. Then up to where the noble children of the keep played or sewed or studied with nursemaids or priests. It was the sort of childhood Silence would have had, if his parents had raised him at Tintagel. Stranded at Ringmar, he had longed for such companions and activity. But now that he played songs for the children, or taught them how to strum the lute, or occasionally corrected them as they read aloud, he was happy at what he had experienced: the solitude, the devout attention of Griselle, and the ability to go off into the woods or the practice yard.
