The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  When the children went out for exercise, Silence stayed in the empty chamber, practising his part in the song they would perform for the festival. Solos and duets were common, so Hob had been excited to try a three-part song, with its interweaving harmonies, especially with Silence’s high voice. He swore they would be unique. Many minstrels travelled with a young boy – but usually the boy sang the part of the girl in songs. This three-part piece of Hob’s invention had harmonies unlike anything Silence had heard before.

  Six times, seven times, all the way through. He sang and played – then sang his line and played the notes of Hob’s line, hearing the distance between his notes and Hob’s notes, over and again, getting the intervals correct. He practised the intonation – the song was (unsurprisingly) about love and the early death of a beloved – so that the emotion would emerge. It was as exhausting as the pell in its own way.

  At last, his fingers stiff and his back aching from sitting hunched for so long, he stood, stretched, and went to the chamber door. But before he could make it to the hallway, the countessina slipped in. She was hooded in a dark robe, but if that was supposed to be a disguise, some approximation of a servant’s garb, it was inexpert: her silk slippers with their silver clasps peeked out beneath the cloak.

  ‘M’lady,’ Silence said, bowing. ‘What brings you to this room?’

  ‘You,’ she breathed. She stepped closer, and he retreated, trying to keep a reasonable distance. ‘I hear your voice wherever I go. I cannot think of anything but you. At night … I lie in bed … I think of nothing but your arms about me … your lips close to mine …’

  ‘M’lady,’ he stammered. ‘This isn’t seemly. I am flattered by your thoughts, but …’

  ‘Don’t you feel the same?’

  Silence shook his head. He didn’t, at least, not for her, and now was not the time to think about those other feelings. ‘I’m but a fledgling minstrel.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Don’t you feel anything for me?’

  He couldn’t think of a safe reply. To deny love would be rude to the lady. To claim it would be rash and untrue. ‘I am unworthy of your feelings,’ he said, with a bow. ‘You are, no doubt, to be promised to a duke’s son, or a count, or maybe even a prince.’

  If he thought his words would comfort her, he was wrong, for the countessina sank onto a stool and wailed, ‘My father is arranging for me to marry the Count de Lorgnet.’ And with that she burst into tears.

  Silence found himself at a loss. He couldn’t leave the girl while she was sobbing; that would be unchivalrous. When he’d wept, Griselle had gathered him to her bosom, or the seneschal had offered him a gruff, ‘Now, then.’ Neither of these seemed appropriate. At last, he extracted a kerchief from inside his jacket and held it out to her. She took it and dabbed her eyes and nose. ‘He’s horrible,’ she sniffled. ‘He’s old and smells like a wet sheep. And I am to marry him and share his bed and …’ The weeping began anew.

  ‘M’lady,’ he begged. Surely her sobbing would draw attention, and he’d be in thick stew indeed.

  ‘Play me a song.’

  So he played. Loudly. He played a song he had been entertaining the children with, about a Frog Knight who went forth into battle against a Bird Knight, each of them riding a mouse. It was silly, and it was boisterous, and he hoped it might lift her mood. Indeed, her crying quieted, and she crumpled the kerchief and sniffled some more, and dried her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know what a comfort it is to hear your voice. I think of nothing else. Will you come to this same cabinet tonight, when Vigils is called?’

  ‘M’lady,’ he choked, cutting off the song at the Frog Knight’s final charge. She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek, so startling him that he tumbled off his stool, and now he scrambled to his feet. ‘I cannot. No, not at all …’

  ‘Maurice, I beg you …’ She rose as well, flinging out her arms. Silence kept his lute between them, but she embraced him nonetheless, pressing herself against him, and he worried about the lute strings, among other things, and tried to extract himself. ‘Please, please,’ she said.

  ‘I will do my best,’ he said, and he bowed his way out of the chamber. In the hall, he straightened his jacket and took a deep breath before hurrying down the stairs, the scent of her powder clinging to him, a sort of strangled sensation in his throat, as if words he wished to speak were caught there. What could he say, what could he do, to get himself out of this situation?

  Alfred might have some advice, but more likely, he would laugh himself silly at Silence’s predicament. Or tell him just to lie with her and enjoy it. Nor could Silence share this information with Hob or Giles … they would blame him for whatever trouble was caused.

  He put a hand to his cheek, still feeling the tickle of the spot where she’d kissed him: he could not go to that chamber at Vigils. And yet, if he didn’t, that would be both cowardly and cruel. He didn’t want to cause her more torment, and yet she was causing him torment. And for no good reason! She wouldn’t want what he had to offer. He paused in a staircase to lean his forehead against the stones of the wall. Curse his Nature! Everything was all turned about. Perhaps his father had been right to sequester him at Ringmar; there was no proper place for him in society.

  The stone felt cool against his hot flesh. Nearby, an arrow slit let in a slash of sunshine and a breath of breeze. He missed being able to walk the walls of Tintagel. Missed the rage of the ocean. He missed Griselle – perhaps she would know what to do with this situation. He sighed. No, not even Griselle could fix this mess. Maybe not even Merlin could.

  They played that night for a small group – Count La Marche, the countess and the countess’s parents. Hob and Giles had been at La Marche long enough to know the count’s taste well and they played his favourites. At last, the old man held up his hand. ‘You are leaving us for a few days.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ Hob replied, standing and offering a bow. ‘To the festival in Moulins. We hope to return victorious.’

  ‘We will celebrate richly, I assure you. But may we hear what you will play at the festival?’

  ‘Of course, m’lord.’

  Hob took his seat, widening his eyes at Silence, and tapped his foot to indicate the tempo. Then they played.

  At the end of the song a few moments of quiet bathed the room. ‘Oh, lovely,’ breathed the countess. ‘Pure. Lovely.’ She looked at each in turn, but her eyes settled longer on Silence’s face, and he had to drop his gaze.

  ‘You will win for certain,’ the count added.

  The countess’s father leaned forward. ‘I have heard many a song,’ he said. ‘But never anything like that.’ He raised a finger and pointed at Silence. ‘You have a voice, boy, that is like hearing one of God’s angels.’

  ‘Amen,’ agreed the countess.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, my lady,’ Silence said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He had learned to read Giles’s face to know when a temper was coming on, and tonight looked particularly vicious. As soon as he had stowed his lute, Silence said, ‘I will go to the stables to make sure our mount is ready for tomorrow,’ and hurried out. He did indeed check on the animal and chat with the groom for a while. He missed being around horses, and he walked up and down the length of the stable, pausing to rub a shaggy pony’s neck. But his real purpose was avoiding Giles’s wrath – he wasn’t certain what had set the man off, but he suspected it was the praise Silence had received.

  The groom told him all he knew about the Moulins Fair, about the fighting and the jousting, about the rich rewards given to those who won the contests. Silence laughed and asked questions, glad for the warmth of the company, how it kept his mind away from Giles, and away from the countessina, and the ever-approaching time of Vigils. At last, though, the groom bid him good night, and Silence went out alone into the darkness, out past the quarters where the guardsmen slept, to the empty practice yard with the pells standing ever-ready.

  He wished that Alfre
d was around, but he had departed for the festival with Sir Ancient days earlier. The old man was too infirm to sit a horse, and so had to be carried in a litter slung between two horses. Silence could have used a word of advice, and Alfred certainly knew more about young women. What should he say to her? He should be kind and courtly. He should speak of her beauty but declare his chastity. He should … he had no idea. And so in the darkened yard, he practised the forms that Master Waldron had taught him, imagining how Sir Jackin would correct him, hearing the voices of his old teacher to widen his stance, to keep his rear shoulder back. He swung at the air, at the emptiness before him. He parried invisible foes across the practice yard and back; he circled, his feet shuffling, the night wind licking sweat from his neck, and was surprised to hear the watch cry: Vigils!

  Silence ran towards the keep, streaking through the kitchen gardens and past the coop. He had meant to arrive early, to compose himself, but had lost track of time. Slowing to a walk, he passed through the kitchen door. A pot boy sat by the hearth, asleep on his stool. What would he tell her? Out of the kitchen and into the great hall. He slowed his steps even more, taking deep breaths to steady himself.

  Ahead, a faint glimmer of orange. She must have lit a taper. The door to the cabinet stood slightly ajar. Silence padded forward, catlike, and caught a whispered voice coming from the chamber.

  ‘Where is he?’ The words hissed and low.

  ‘I don’t know.’ That was the countessina, more loudly.

  ‘Hssst. Quiet. He isn’t in his bed. And I can’t very well wait outside the door for him, now can I?’

  That was Giles’s voice. Silence pressed himself against the wall, as near to the cabinet door as he dared, standing by its hinges, so that if it opened, he would be hidden.

  ‘This is your fault,’ the countessina said.

  ‘It was both our doing. Blow out that candle. I’ll wait behind the door for him to come,’ Giles whispered.

  The candle went out. Silence waited, hoping they would say more, but they didn’t. With aching care, he stepped back down the hall to the kitchens, and out into the night. What now? He did not want to go back to his chamber. So he struck out for the stables once more and curled up in the straw. Why would Giles be waiting for him? How oddly the minstrel had spoken to the countessina, never once addressing her as ‘m’lady’. Silence rolled over, the straw prickling him. It had all been a pretence. The countessina hadn’t been interested in him at all. But why had she wanted to draw him to the chamber?

  Silence was tired of Giles’s vinegary moods. Tired of offering nothing but faithful service and getting only complaints in return. The virtues of knighthood bound both the king and his retainers, knitting them together with an understanding of service, of generosity, of duty. But Giles was bound by no such creed.

  For that matter, neither was Silence. He was not a knight. Minstrels had no list of virtues, no expectation of nobility. All that was needed was a sweet voice, a quick smile. A head for stories. He stared up at the darkened rafters of the stable. And yet … he couldn’t abandon what he knew to be right: honesty, courage, mercy … he recited the words over and over again to himself until he fell asleep.

  One of the horses kicking its stall woke Silence in the still-dark morning. He scrambled down from the loft, brushed the straw off, and hurried towards the keep. The pot boy was awake in the kitchens, rushing to follow the cook’s orders.

  ‘Yes, minstrel, I know you get a bag of food for your travels. Here, carry this to the others, and by the time you bring it back, I will have everything ready.’

  By first light, they were on their way, walking through the rolling countryside around La Marche. Silence led the donkey, which now and then balked and brayed its reluctance to go too far from its stall. Silence would let the rope go slack, rub the beast’s chin, and then coax it along. He would have preferred a horse, but a mildly ornery donkey was better than carrying everything himself. They crossed a bridge and Hob paused to let Silence and the donkey catch up to him. ‘Where’d you get to yesterday night?’

  ‘Down to the stables. I was talking with one of the grooms after I went to check on the donkey. It got so late, I thought it better to sleep there than to risk waking you with my return.’

  ‘So considerate! Giles, the old count was right. We have an angel for an apprentice.’ Giles said nothing. ‘I assume that’s why you have straw stuck on your back, eh? And here I thought you’d sneaked out to tumble some girl.’ He thumped Silence’s shoulder companionably. ‘Nothing wrong with that, eh? The girls fawn on you. Even the count’s girl, I’ve seen her making eyes at you, but that might be reaching high …’

  ‘Enough of that,’ Giles barked.

  Hob muttered something and soon fell back to a slower pace.

  A full day of walking brought them to a hilltop where they could see the spires of Moulins above the walls. Silence raised a hand to shade his eyes: houses pushed up against houses, sprawling out from the walls, all the way down the hill on which the city perched.

  ‘As I recall, not too far inside the gate, there is a fine inn …’ Hob began.

  ‘We’ll be sleeping near the fairgrounds,’ Giles replied. ‘The inns will be brim full and their rates raised to heaven.’

  ‘Sleeping on the ground? Not me,’ Hob said. ‘Any innkeeper would be glad to have us play for our bed.’

  ‘When there’s a festival with a competition for musicians? Every inn will have ten minstrels vying for space. We’ll sleep out tonight.’

  No doubt Alfred and Sir Ancient were comfortably ensconced at some inn. Silence had thought he might be able to find his friend, but now that they had arrived, he realized how naïve he had been. Finding Alfred in this morass of humanity would be like finding the proverbial pin in the straw.

  Even though the fair hadn’t started, the fairgrounds were crowded. Some knights had pitched tents – hedge knights, hoping victory in a tournament would win them a place in a lord’s retinue. They passed young squires polishing suits of armour and craftsmen with their wagons of wares. Women carrying baskets or jugs pushed through the fairgoers, offering bread and pickles and pies and beer. At last they found a nest of musicians gathered around a merry fire, and here, as Giles and Hob made their introductions, Silence set about tethering the donkey and getting them established for the night. Further on, he could see the pavilions for the jousting, the booths and stages for performances and competitions. Even as the light failed, he could yet hear carpenters hammering away.

  For once, it was Hob who woke first and shook Silence from sleep. ‘We must get some distance away and practise,’ he whispered.

  Silence unfolded himself from his blankets and found his lute. The horizon contemplated dawn as the three of them tramped away from the sleeping minstrels (though others had already stirred from their blankets), over to the long line of stables. ‘I don’t see anyone about,’ pronounced Hob. ‘Can’t let them hear our song before the competition.’

  They tuned their instruments and warmed their voices and their fingers. By the time they were through with these exercises, the stables and grounds had come awake around them, and Silence could hear the shouts and cries of grooms and workmen.

  They ran through the piece until the church bells rang Terce. Banners and flags snapped in the morning breeze, marking the pavilions of the various lords and counts and dukes and barons. Now and then, cheers arose from somewhere in the grounds, and he could hardly bear to sit and play the song again. He was grateful when Hob spat on the ground and said, ‘I think that’s enough.’

  ‘The competition starts at noon. Let’s eat and then make our way to the stage,’ Giles said.

  The fair was a city unto itself. Onlookers and hawkers crowded the passageways. Everyone seemed to be yelling – trying to sell something or trying to force a handcart through the press or simply trying to have a conversation. Silence stuck close to Giles and Hob as they pushed their way inside. At first, he looked in every direction, but he soon foun
d it overwhelming. ‘Nothing like it, eh?’ Hob said, a broad smile on his face. ‘Makes me feel alive.’

  It was exciting, but also terrifying. They found a booth with sweet buns and ate while watching a mummer’s show, which had gathered a crowd of children. Before it had concluded, though, Hob nudged them along. ‘Let’s find our place.’

  The stage for the song competition rose about six feet above the ground, with a canopy stretched over it. Opposite, about twenty feet distant, stood a small pavilion of equal height, with a more elaborate canopy, under which three chairs waited. A large group of minstrels milled about beneath the stage. Some played their instruments, others chatted, and a few stretched out on their cloaks, catching a nap. Hob entered their names on the list and they joined the waiting crowd. Seldom before had Silence felt nervous about performing. After all, he sang and played most every day in front of varied audiences. But this … it occurred to him as he scanned the crowd that this was not only a larger audience than he had ever played for, but an audience made entirely of musicians.

  ‘Take a few breaths, boy. Don’t get all skittery. You’ll sound like sheep dung if you’re nervous when you sing. Pinches your voice up,’ said Hob.

  The advice didn’t help much. But Silence did take deep breaths and calmed himself by studying the crowd. There were a few young men milling about, one or two his age or younger. Most of the musicians were closer to Hob and Giles’s age; minstrels who had been on the road for years. All were dressed in what they considered to be finery, whether that was a clean wool jacket or some strange flowing robe. Silence, like Hob and Giles, wore a black velvet jacket with Count La Marche’s arms: the field of blue, slashed by red with a fleur-de-lis above and below. Giles sported a hat as well, also of black velvet, but with a surfeit of plumes rising from it. Silence was surprised a bird hadn’t landed on Giles’s head and tried to woo the hat, an image that made him think of the countessina.