For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  When my love came calling and on him I did look.

  In truth he was a fair one, wise and merry, too;

  And if he never leaves me, then I’ll believe him true.

  The next lines suited Willem’s elegant tenor:

  A lovely maid I saw there, tossing pebbles in the brook.

  Her song was sweet, her beauty rare, as on her I did look.

  Glad was I to go a’calling on the little country lass,

  For she is my dear wife now, ’til all my days shall pass.

  They harmonized on the chorus:

  ’Til all our days shall pass,

  we’ll be together all our days, together, you and me.

  As ever on the brook flows down,

  constant to the sea.

  As it’s renewed by snow and rain,

  our love’s fed from above.

  Willem sang solo, “I always will be true to you.”

  And Margarethe answered, “You’ll always be my love.”

  As the last notes faded, a shout went up in the vaulted hall. But instead of an encore, Willem summoned some other musicians to take their place and led Margarethe from the platform. “Well done, my lady. Still, it’s best not to overtire your voice,” he explained under his breath as he seated her.

  She cocked her head. “I am not tired in the least, and we are in fine voice tonight.” There. She was sounding like a petulant child, and he would be displeased.

  “We shall let them call for us again. Meanwhile, you must talk with your guests.” His smile softened the edge of admonition in his voice.

  Margarethe wrinkled her nose and glanced about her in distaste. She was suspicious of the reason for Lord Otto’s visit. It was more than a report from the battlefront. Besides, Uncle Einhard was not much interested in Otto’s war, as he called it. He much preferred to live in peace with their neighbors, and hardly ever squabbled over a few furlongs of land. There was quite enough to go around, it seemed to Margarethe.

  Someone spoke, and she turned to see who had addressed her. It was Gregor, Lord Otto’s third son, the least objectionable of the lot. He was rather attractive, but his nose and chin were both too big, which Margarethe reasoned kept him more humble than his brother Klaus, who could have been the model for the Roman statues in the castle chapel.

  “Forgive me, Gregor. I did not catch what you were saying.”

  “I said that not only is Willem a fine musician, but he must be superior teacher.”

  She favored him with a smile. “I perceive a compliment intended for me as well.”

  “Your perception is right on the mark,” he replied, his left cheek dimpling. He had a cleft chin, too, and Margarethe wondered how he ever managed to shave around such lumpiness.

  “I am grateful to God that my uncle had the wisdom to hire him. My music means much to me and keeps me company when I am lonely for my family.”

  From her left, Klaus spoke up. “Your uncle has always had your best interests at heart, Margarethe. You’d be wise to remember that in the days to come.”

  She suppressed a shudder. Klaus would have been appealing were it not for his pompous manner. But she tried to remember her training, and concealed her irritation. “Thank you, Klaus.” She turned again to Gregor. “When I was a child, you yourself were a good musician. Do you still make music?”

  “I sing on occasion. . .but only for my own ears. I am not nearly so gifted as you, my lady.”

  “Do you play then?”

  He held up his disfigured hands. “I have too long wielded the instruments of war, I fear.”

  Margarethe could not resist touching one jagged scar. “What a pity. Yet these hands and their skill with weapons of war have preserved your life.”

  Gregor’s expression shifted subtly. “So you do care for this poor life of mine.”

  She was relieved when Klaus leaned over her to speak to his brother. “We are not being considerate of the entertainers,” he said with a show of irritation. “Can’t you keep still, Gregor, and listen to the song?”

  Margarethe could not restrain a roll of her eyes for Gregor’s benefit, and settled back in her chair to listen to the music, but not before Gregor covered her small hand with his much larger one.

  ❧

  While Willem pretended to take in the performance of two musicians—one, playing a dulcimer, the other, a flute—he was really watching Margarethe sitting between the two sparring brothers. As for a prospective husband, Klaus would seem to be the more likely candidate. As Lord Otto’s second son, he was in line to inherit, although it scarcely mattered. Lord Otto’s wealth was a well-known fact, and there was plenty for all his sons, even Gottfried and young Albert.

  Indeed, each son already held several estates and would likely have more if their father’s victories continued. Only one major enemy remained before Otto would secure the valley with its roads linking Stuttgart with Zurich and Munich in the east with Strasbourg and the other great cities beyond. In fact, Lord Ewald’s forces, weakened by years of war, might fall this very year.

  If Margarethe were to be given her choice of the four unmarried brothers, whom would she choose? Even Albert was old enough to marry, and so she could take her pick. The subject was a sore point between them, and they had skirted the issue several times. But if Willem had to guess, he would say Margarethe might prefer Gregor. He was witty and kind and a fairly good singer.

  Just then Margarethe caught Willem’s eye, and he lifted his chin in acknowledgment. He hoped that she would find happiness in the home of her husband—whoever that fortunate man turned out to be. Willem himself had been attending mass daily for the past few months, praying for Margarethe and her destiny.

  Though she seldom attended mass, he knew she prayed, for he had caught her at it in the chapel and in her study chamber. He knew, too, that she insisted on reading the Scriptures for herself, asking Father Bernard to interpret difficult passages and asking all kinds of questions most people never thought to ask. But she had always been a curious child, and now that she was a woman, her bright mind still sought answers to the lofty themes of life.

  Not long ago he had come upon Margarethe in prayer. When their lesson was concluded, he’d gently asked her about it, assuring her that he would understand if she chose not to share her private thoughts.

  She surprised him by replying right away. “I was praying that I will be a good wife to. . .my future husband.”

  He nodded, a little sadly. “Then your prayers will be answered. As long as your relatives draw breath, you may be assured of having a husband.”

  She shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. I pray for my future husband’s safety and welfare, and that he will be blessed in every way. That he will love the Lord with all his heart, and I pray for. . .other things.”

  “Those are worthy prayers to be sure, my lady. I know that they will be heard. Dare I ask what ‘other things’ you might have mentioned to the Almighty?”

  Eyes downcast, she went on. “It is something very important about my husband. Father Bernard has taught me that the Scriptures instruct us to ask for what we want and to keep on asking—like knocking on a door until is opened, or seeking some lost thing until it is found.” She grew pensive, and he waited. “Oh, Willem, I hope you don’t think me a foolish child.”

  “Never, Margarethe,” he said. “Tell me what it is you ask for.”

  “I have asked God to give me you for a husband. I believe if He can do anything—anything at all—then even this request is not beyond Him. . .” With that, she broke down, sobbing pitifully and he felt his heart wrench. What she was asking was completely impossible.

  “I love you so, little Greta. And I will join you in that prayer, no matter how hopeless it seems,” he promised.

  As soon as he had uttered the words, he regretted them. But a promise given was a promise he intended to honor, no matter what. . .

  A sudden outburst from the dais brought Willem back to the present, in time to see Gregor ca
pture Margarethe’s hand. So. It was this son who would win her. That is, if God did not see fit to intervene. Willem might not be a warrior, only a simple musician. But he would storm the very gates of heaven with his petition for the love of his lady.

  ❧

  Margarethe was most eager to see Willem this morning after their rousing success of the night before. Many people had told her how much they had enjoyed her song. Even Aunt Mechthild had seemed moved.

  “You played and sang like an angel last night, my lady,” Willem said when he joined her for their lesson. “Everyone is commending me as an exceptional instructor now.”

  Margarethe’s joy was full. “They speak the truth.”

  “It is the student who makes the teacher proud,” he said softly, lightly tracing her profile with one finger.

  “We do sing and play well together, don’t we?” She watched as he placed his lute on the table and turned back to her.

  “That we do, my lady. Would that we could spend the rest of our lives discovering other things we do well together.”

  As naturally as breathing, Margarethe reached out as he drew steadily nearer, so close that she could see the little flecks of hazel in his eyes. “Kiss me, Willem. Please.”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “It would make matters worse, I fear.” Despite his words, the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, hearing his whispered words, ragged with emotion. “I love you, my lady. I would die for you.”

  He had never held her this way before, and Margarethe scarcely moved, not wanting the moment to end. “I love you, too, Willem.”

  The moment was shattered by her uncle’s stern voice from the doorway. “Margarethe. I will have a word with you.”

  They sprang apart, and Margarethe noticed the stricken look on Willem’s face. She tried to still her own pounding heart and spoke as nearly normally as possible. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “I would speak with you, also, Willem. Later. Wait for me in my office chamber.”

  “Please, my lord. Lady Margarethe is innocent. I was pleased with her performance last night and was over-familiar in my congratulations, that’s all.”

  Lord Einhard put up his hand. “In my office, please, Willem.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Willem bowed stiffly and moved past him, glancing back at Margarethe, who ached for him and could give him no sign since her uncle was regarding her steadily.

  “So, Margarethe,” her uncle began the instant Willem was out the door, “is what I overheard true?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” she said, then shook her head in confusion. “That is—he was congratulating me, but I am not innocent. I offered the embrace.”

  Uncle Einhard’s glassy-eyed stare was unreadable. “I also came to congratulate you. Your performance last night was superb. You have become a fine musician under that young man’s instruction.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Margarethe responded, her eyes stinging. What would her uncle do now? She shivered involuntarily as he walked up to her and cupped her chin in one hand, slowly tilting her head to look deep into her eyes.

  “Do you love him, Liebchen?”

  Margarethe took a deep breath. “Yes, Uncle, I do. I didn’t mean to love him, for I know he can never be a husband to me. But he did nothing to encourage me. In fact, he. . .”

  Uncle Einhard silenced her with an uplifted hand. “Greta, you are of an age to marry. I want you to be happy, as do Mechthild and your parents. You will have a say in the matter when the time comes. It is unfortunate that Willem cannot be considered as a prospect, for he is a man of honor and a nobleman. But he holds no land, and I cannot risk your future. Please understand.”

  “I do understand, Uncle. I only wish that things could be different.”

  After her uncle left, Margarethe looked out the window, wondering what would come to pass. She knew Willem’s story would match hers, for he would simply tell the truth as she had done. They would not reveal the depth of their feelings for one another, but otherwise, they had nothing to hide.

  From the day they had met when she was but a girl of eleven, Willem had always treated her as a lady, had ever been considerate of her. When she stumbled over her chords, he did not laugh. And when she needed correction for some childish infraction, he was gentle. He had listened to her dreams, and trusted her enough to share his dreams with her.

  Margarethe wept softly as she thought of him now, facing her uncle alone in his chamber. What would Uncle Einhard do? He was a good man, a kind uncle to her, but he dealt with wrongdoers swiftly. And in the eyes of all those in authority—God and man alike—Willem was guilty.

  three

  Waiting anxiously in the lord’s solar, Willem prayed that God would grant him favor with his employer. There was no question that he was guilty—of love, at least. Thus, deserving of punishment.

  His foreboding eased somewhat, however, when Lord Einhard entered the solar and gestured for him to be seated. “I have just had a most interesting conversation with my niece.”

  The bearded man’s gaze was unwavering, and Willem felt compelled to answer, his voice coming out in a croak. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I came to her study chamber to offer the two of you my heartiest congratulations. With your. . .uh, dedication to my niece, Margarethe has surpassed all her family’s hopes and expectations.”

  Willem shifted uneasily in his chair. “I thank you, my lord. But it was God who gave my lady the gift of music. I only helped her bring it to light.” Feeling his master’s intense scrutiny once more, he lowered his gaze to the rush-strewn floor.

  “Up until now, you have been an asset to this household Willem,” Lord Einhard continued. “But I fear that I have been selfish, keeping you on when you might have had a better opportunity elsewhere.” Willem looked up, fully alert.

  “I wanted to keep you on, partly because of Margarethe’s affection for you, of course.” Lord Einhard rose to warm his hands at the blazing fire in the hearth. “How much affection I have only just learned.”

  “Oh, my lord, if you knew how sorry—”

  “Peace, Willem. Peace.” The master turned his back to the warmth. In the morning light filtering through fashionably tinted windows and the flickering firelight, Lord Einhard looked fierce indeed—as daunting as the stag’s head mounted on the stone wall above the mantel. Except for the compassion in his voice, Willem would have quite lost heart.

  “I’ve called you in to tell you of an offer that has been tendered by Lord Otto of Beroburg Castle. He left before first light or he might be speaking for himself,” Lord Einhard went on. “The position is an enviable one—that of chief musician. There would be no teaching duties—unless you desired them. However, Otto pays well, and he has a much larger household than I and entertains on a grander scale, so many more would benefit from your craft.”

  Willem already knew much about Beroburg. Situated on the trade route between Stuttgart and Zurich, the castle commanded the most strategic location of any manor house in the area. From its parapets, one could actually see across the entire valley. The speculation was that Lord Otto had been successful in his assaults because of the ability of his scouts to spy out the activities of neighboring enemies, giving him the advantage.

  In any event, the castle was in the thick of things, and Lord Otto’s household was an active one, going about the business of war during the spring and summer seasons—and hunting, harvesting crops planted by the peasants, and generally making merry the remainder of the year. It would be an ambitious move for Willem. If it were not for his love for Margarethe. . .

  Still, to be near her each day—with no hope of wedding—was sweet agony. Surely both of them would be better off without his daily presence as a reminder of what could never be.

  “Would I be leaving your household in a poor position should I move on, my lord?”

  Lord Einhard seemed visibly relieved. “Not at all. It is a very good offer—for you and for Otto. As for me—” he turned back again to the fire— “I though
t to make use of Margarethe’s newly developed talent and offer her your old position. I should think it would amuse her.”

  And distract her from thoughts of me, Willem couldn’t help thinking with a trace of bitterness. Still, that his remaining here might rob his dear one of such an opportunity was a shattering thought. “Greta deserves every chance,” he murmured, then regretted slipping into the affectionate name he often used with her.

  With Lord Einhard’s back turned at the moment, Willem could not read his expression, but when he swung around, there was nothing to betray the fact that he might be disturbed. “Good. I’ll send a messenger to Otto at once, letting him know your plans. In the meantime, you are relieved of your duties as Margarethe’s music instructor, although I hope you understand that, under the circumstances—” he cleared his throat—” I am not charging you with any wrongdoing.”

  The man was a saint! And while Willem must leave his Greta, there was no help for it. “I am more than grateful, my lord.”

  And he was grateful. But there remained the task of breaking the news to his beloved.

  ❧

  From the window of her bedchamber, Margarethe watched the messenger thundering across the drawbridge and wondered what important message he carried—and to whom. She listened to the carefree song of a bird building a nest in the belfry and wished with all her heart that she could take wings and fly above her pain. Then, hearing the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she hurried to see who it was.

  Flinging the door wide, she found Willem, shoulders sagging, passing by. “Willem!” she called.

  He pivoted on the spot where he stood, and she read his heart in his eyes.

  “Tell me at once. What has happened?”

  “I have been relieved of my duties at Adlerschloss and am to take up a new position at Beroburg.”

  The words fell like hammer blows. He seemed so remote, so distant. “Can’t you tell me more? Have you been forbidden to talk with me?”

  “It is not forbidden—” he let out a sigh— “merely unwise.”