“Yes. Good news. More of the people were safe than we thought, for they hid in the woods when they heard the troops coming. We had feared many more casualties—or perhaps even capture.”
“Hilda will be so glad to hear that when she wakes up,” Margarethe said.
Jolan gave an exaggerated yawn, and taking the cue, Albert rose and placed the lute gently on the table.
“I will let you ladies get your rest now. Let me know if there is something else I can do to be of service.”
“We will, Albert,” Jolan assured him. “Good night.”
“Yes, good night, Albert,” Margarethe echoed. “And thank you.”
Albert tipped his head. “For what?”
“For caring for Hilda so tenderly, and for absenting yourself from the dancing. It saved me several dances, for which my feet are grateful.” She winced.
Albert grinned. “Hilda says that you will choose a husband soon. If you make your choice known, that would save you many dances.”
“No doubt it would.”
“Klaus was just saying tonight how he’d love to have you as his bride,” Albert teased.
Margarethe narrowed her eyes. “Good night, Albert.”
He smiled, leaned over and kissed her cheek, then Jolan’s, and with a wave of his hand, he was gone.
“Klaus, indeed,” Margarethe muttered.
ten
After Mass, Willem greeted Margarethe and motioned for her to sit across from him at table while waiting to break their fast. “How is Maid Hilda this morning?” he asked.
“Sound asleep. I stopped by her chamber to check on her, and Jolan says she cried out but once in the night. She seems to be improving each day.”
“Excellent.” He raised an eyebrow. “And your feet?”
She gave him a mock scowl. “Just fine, now that they have rested.”
Laughing, Willem turned to greet Lord Einhard who was on his way over to join them. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Willem, Margarethe.” He seated himself beside his niece.
At that moment the servitors brought in the meal—great golden loaves of bread and mugs of cider. After the blessing, they broke off chunks of the bread and began to eat, each apparently waiting for the other to speak first.
“Willem, not long ago I asked you to write some music for May Day—for a certain occasion,” Lord Einhard began.
Willem listened quietly, wondering what Margarethe might be thinking.
“We have not spoken of it since, but the assignment is yours, if you are still willing.”
“I am willing, my lord,” Willem said reluctantly. “But it would help with the composition of the piece if I were to know what choice your niece has made.”
Lord Einhard glanced at her. “Margarethe knows that she is at liberty to discuss the matter with you as soon as she has made her decision. She also knows,” he said, frowning a little sternly, “that time is running out, and she must decide soon. Naturally, she will talk with the man himself before she discusses her plans with any of us.”
Willem nodded respectfully. “Of course, though I suspect she was dancing with him just last night.”
Margarethe shrugged as if disgusted with the whole business. “Naturally—since I had to dance with each of the brothers, which is tedious indeed to keep track of so many. I may make my choice known soon just to be free of the accounting!”
Einhard chuckled, and Willem forced a smile. “About the commission for the music—I will double the amount I originally told you, Willem, since you are no longer in my employ.”
“Thank you, my lord. I will do my best,” he said, a lump forming in his throat.
Lord Einhard leaned over the table. “I know how difficult this is for you, and I appreciate it all the more,” he said holding Willem’s gaze. “I wish things could be different.”
Willem sensed the man’s sincerity and wondered at it. Did he not consider Gregor a worthy man for his niece? Or did he favor Willem for some reason? Surely Margarethe could come to love Gregor as other women had come to love their husbands in arranged marriages. It was he—Willem—who would have no wife, no love, ever. His memories of Margarethe would have to last him a lifetime.
He could find no reply for Lord Einhard and ducked his head to consider the spicy liquid in his mug. Just then, he felt a small hand under the table, reaching for his. She gave it a brief squeeze before releasing it. He dared a quick glance in her direction and saw the tears starring her eyes. How could he bear it?
They ate in silence before Margarethe spoke up. “How long will you help with the war, Uncle?”
“I will stay with my troops for another week at least. Then, if all goes well, I will leave them with Otto and go home next Lord’s Day. I’m sure Mechthild is anxious.”
“As any wife would be, Uncle.”
Willem heard the slight catch in Margarethe’s voice, and knew she was dreaming of how it would be if it were she, sending Willem off to war.
“Is your patient doing well?”
“Much better, Uncle—now that we have found that she loves music as much as we do.”
“Have you asked what instrument she plays? It is likely that she has talent. Her mother was quite musical, as I recall.”
“Hilda has not spoken of her mother, but Albert told me she died last year of a fever. Did you know her, Uncle Einhard?”
He nodded. “She was a noblewoman, a younger daughter for whom no husband was found. She pleaded with her father to let her marry the miller, and he was persuaded to do so. It was a love match, as I understand it, and they were very happy together.” Lord Einhard grew pensive, then excused himself from the table and left the hall.
Willem watched him go, then looked at Margarethe, who was gazing sadly at him. “Why do you suppose he told us that story?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think he meant to tell it. I doubt that he even realized how it would affect us until afterward.”
Willem sighed deeply. “I am a nobleman, but I would be better off if I were only a commoner. . .one with a mill.”
“Perhaps you can find one at a good price and buy it,” she teased, then bit her lip as he gazed at her, his longing written all over his face. “I’m sorry, Willem. So sorry,” she whispered. This habit of jesting when in pain—he couldn’t remember if he had acquired it from her, or she from him.
“I would make a poor miller,” he said, going along for her sake. “Perhaps I could buy a pig farm instead. I could spend my days making music and hire a pig herder to do the work. Would you be available for the job?”
Her mouth dropped open, but her eyes were sparkling—more like the old Greta. “Me? Highly unlikely.”
Gregor, who was approaching from behind Margarethe and had overheard her last remark, dropped down beside her. “And just what is highly unlikely, Margarethe?”
“Willem here fancies himself a pig farmer, with me as his hired hand. Can you imagine it?”
Gregor joined in their game. “Willem, you’ve always had a rare gift for searching out a person’s talents. Still, I would never have thought of Margarethe as a pig herder until you suggested it. But now I can see it quite clearly.”
“Well, I have no pigs as yet, and I have bathed. So why does no one sit beside me?” He threw up his hands. “Even Lord Einhard has left us.”
“Speaking of Lord Einhard, he told me something interesting yesterday,” Gregor said, turning to Margarethe. “He said that you have decided not to marry one of his other allies, but one of the four brothers of Beroburg. Is that true?”
“It is true. I desire a good mother-in-law, and the others could not promise me anyone so kind as Lady Edeltraud. So I will do what I must.”
Gregor’s face lit up. “Excellent! You will make me a fine sister-in-law.”
Willem watched the disbelief spreading across Margarethe’s face. “Sister-in-law?”
Gregor gave Willem a conspiratorial wink. “Klaus will be so pleased. He has wanted
to marry you and tame you since you put that frog in his shoe.”
“That poor frog,” she shuddered, in an attempt at lightheartedness. “But it is not Klaus I will wed. He needs a wife with a very good sense of humor—and much more patience than I.”
“He does, indeed,” Gregor agreed, nodding vigorously.
Seeing the direction of this conversation, Willem decided to withdraw. “I have work to do,” he said, rising. “And it is best that I get to it. If you or your patient should like some music this afternoon, Lady Margarethe, send for me. I’ll be in my study.”
“Thank you, Willem,” she said. The love and longing in her eyes pierced him through, but there was nothing he could do about it.
❧
Hilda was disappointed when she discovered that she had slept through morning Mass. At home, she never missed a service on the Lord’s Day. Still, she did feel rested, and for that she was grateful. Jolan, too, had overslept in the adjoining room and emerged sometime around mid-morning, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning, Jolan,” she said, realizing her error almost at once. “Oh, forgive me. I meant to say, Lady Jolan.”
“No matter, Hilda. I would be happy if we forgot about using titles altogether. It is only an accident of birth, after all, that you were born in a village and I was born in a castle. Now, shall I help you to the privy?”
“Oh, I’ve already taken care of that. I’m feeling ever so much stronger today.”
“It is the rest and the healing herbs, I think. Wait here,” Jolan instructed her, “and I’ll see about breakfast.”
But she only went as far as the door. “See what someone has left for us? Our breakfast. Whoever it could be is taking very good care of you.”
“Yes. . .He is,” Hilda agreed, thinking how gracious was God to send her such loving new friends.
They broke their fast together, eating in silence. Then Jolan helped her dress, and Hilda braided Jolan’s hair in return.
“Is there anything you would like to do today, Hilda?”
“I need to write to my father. He will have the news from Lord Albert, but he would much prefer to hear from me. That is, if there is paper I can use.”
“I’m sure there’s some in the music room, though Willem always uses parchment for writing music, because it is easier to erase.”
“The music room?”
“Yes. Instruments and music and such are kept there. It is an inner room, fairly safe from the damp. Would you like to see it?”
“I would love to see it—and all the instruments, too.”
They left the chamber and walked toward the music room, surprising Willem there as they pushed the heavy door open. He was sitting on a stool at a cluttered table, plucking a lute. He turned at their entrance, and Hilda could see that he had been crying—a very strange sight indeed, for she had been taught that men, once they are grown, never cry.
Without thinking, she went to him and put her arms around him. He put the lute down and returned her embrace ever so gently.
As they drew apart, Hilda saw that Jolan was looking on in amazement. “Willem, what is it? What’s the matter?”
“It’s all right, Jolan. A small matter.”
Jolan stared at him curiously for a bit, then turned to Hilda. “There is paper here for your letter. Do you want to bring some back to our chamber?”
“Or you may use this table if you wish,” Willem said, clearing a place for her at the table.
Jolan seized upon the notion. “A fine idea, Willem. You can stay here, Hilda, and write while I make some infusions in the infirmary.”
“Very well,” Hilda agreed, taking the chair Willem held for her.
When Jolan had left the room, Hilda spoke what was on her mind. “Now it is my turn to listen. If you should want to talk, Willem, I am here,” she offered.
Willem sat very still, saying nothing, gazing at the blank parchment before him.
“If you will not, or cannot tell me what is troubling you, then I will simply pray that the Father of us all, who knows all things, will give you whatever it is you are praying for.”
She was a little surprised to see the tears welling again in his eyes—so much so that they began to trickle down his cheeks like a spring rain. She covered his hand with hers and set about to beseech the Heavenly Father to comfort Willem, that good man.
“Thank you, Maid Hilda. You are most kind,” he whispered. “I must say, though, that I seldom weep this way—and certainly not before an audience.”
She smiled. “And don’t I understand tears? I’ve shed enough of them in the past few days. I’ve heard that God stores every one of them because He knows our pain.”
Without another word, she began to write, only half-hearing the melody he was picking out while she worked. Almost unconsciously, she began to hum along. And when Willem joined in, taking the lead, she switched to an alto harmony, their voices blending flawlessly.
When she looked up from her writing, the look on his face startled her. “Oh, I’ve taken liberties, I know! Would you forgive me?”
“Oh, it isn’t that. Not at all. It’s just that I was surprised to hear your harmonizing. If that tune were a song, would you prefer that it be a chorus or a verse?”
“Verse,” she said with great conviction. “The melody line of the verse needs to be simple so that the words will be prominent. The words of the chorus will be remembered for their many repetitions.” She paused. “But who am I to tell you such things. You’re the musician.”
“No more than you, it seems, Maid Hilda.” He appeared strangely moved. “What else do you know of music?”
“I can sing a little—when my ribs are not cracked—and I can play rebec, shawm, and recorder, the instruments I had as a girl.”
“Your mother taught you,” he stated, surprising her.
“How did you know?”
“Lord Einhard spoke of her at breakfast.” He looked very sad again, probably because he feared bringing up such a painful subject.
“Lord Einhard knew her long ago, before she married my father.”
“I see.” Willem nodded but did not pursue the matter further. “Do you have any ideas about the chorus?”
“Have you a recorder here? My ribs hurt me when I sing.”
Willem passed her a soprano recorder.
“Thank you. Now what words have you given the chorus?”
“I haven’t written the chorus yet. My head and my heart are working at cross purposes today.”
Hilda paused to pray silently, then played the tune of the verse again before launching into something else entirely—a melody that carried the essence of the verse, but was bold and triumphant and proud.
Willem stared at her, transfixed. “Can you play that again?”
She nodded and obeyed, noticing that Willem was paying close attention. He picked out the tune on his lute, looking to her for approval, then transcribed the music while Hilda finished her letter.
“Hilda, this may not be the music I should be writing today, but it is a worthy tune. If it earns me a commission, part of it is yours,” he said, looking perfectly serious.
“Oh, no, Willem. I couldn’t take anything. Mine was only a small idea. You had already done the important work. Besides, I have no need of money.” There was no way she could ever save up enough to replace her lost dowry anyway—money lost to the physicians her father had secured for her mother, against all hope.
At that moment there came a tapping on the doorframe, though the door was standing ajar. Looking up, she saw that it was Albert. “Greetings,” he called out to her. “I was told I might find you here.”
“Greetings, my lord,” she said, pleased to see him again.
“Hilda has been most helpful with a composition I was working on,” Willem told him.
“The lady loves music. I’m looking forward to hearing her sing when her rib has healed.”
Gazing at the two men looming over her, Hilda felt her throat begin to
close and a suffocating feeling overtook her. While she wanted to flee, her knees buckled beneath her when she tried to stand, and she put her hand to her head to ease the dizziness. Her heart, pounding wildly, felt as if it would leap from her chest.
Albert pulled up a chair and sat down near Hilda, saying nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Willem wanted to know.
Albert shook his head, frowned, and whispered, “Play something soft and soothing.”
Willem obliged, and Albert held out his hand to her. As the music flowed through the room, her pulse gradually ceased its rapid fluttering, and her breathing slowed. Closing her eyes, she held tight to Albert’s hand.
“What happened, Hilda?” Willem asked gently when the lovely piece came to an end, and she had regained her composure. “What frightened you so?”
“I really can’t say. I suppose it’s just that I suddenly became aware that I was alone in the company of two men. It makes no sense, for I count you both friends.” She sat very still, pondering the problem and clinging to Albert’s hand.
“I understand,” he said. “I’ve had such fears when facing battle—or worse yet, recalling the horrors of past battles. It’s as if some darkness overtook my spirit for a time.”
“That’s it exactly! Do you often have these sensations at night as well?”
“They’re worse at night than at any other time. But they won’t last forever.” She could tell he was trying to comfort her. “As the experience dims, so will the night terrors.”
She thought Albert looked very tired, as if he were remembering something even now.
“I, too, have had nightmares, frightening dreams that I cannot remember when I awake,” Willem added.
“You have company, I see,” said Jolan from the doorway.
Albert smiled. “Come join us. Hilda needs some hugs.”
Jolan laughed as she entered the room and put her arms around Hilda. “I have not had enough hugs since I left home myself,” she said. “They’re good medicine—like music,” she said, catching Willem’s eye.
“Oh, Hilda,” said Albert, “before I forget why I came here, I must tell you that I will be leaving after dinner today. I want to go home to see how my people are faring before I return to the battlefield tomorrow. I can take a letter to your father if you wish.”
For a Song Page 9
