For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  “Oh, that’s a good sign. I do hope she can get over Willem quickly and make a good life with Gregor.”

  She noticed that Einhard was thoughtful for a long moment, and wondered.

  “I’m still sorry about that. Margarethe and Willem should be wed. They’re so right for each other.”

  She looked over at him with a coy smile. “Einhard, ours was an arranged marriage, and we have been very happy together, haven’t we?”

  He squeezed her hand. “But neither of us was in love with anyone else. Margarethe and Willem truly love each other, the way you and I love each other. Perhaps she will learn to love Gregor, but I fear she’ll never be as happy as she would have been with Willem.”

  She could not answer, or she would weep. And it wouldn’t do for her people to see their lady’s tears and wonder what had caused them.

  ❧

  Inspired to write another verse for the battle song, Willem went to the music room immediately after dinner. It did not take him long to get his thoughts down on parchment and then to shape them into verse. “Thank You, Lord, for helping me. I know it serves some purpose of Yours.”

  He read the verse over again and was satisfied. It told of a captain saved from certain death by an angel sent in answer to the prayers of the women at home. Willem reflected on a truth he was just grasping. A battle can be won or lost by the actions of people who are nowhere near the battlefield.

  And now he had an idea for the chorus. Still, he must speak with some of the soldiers who had seen battle and could give first-hand reports.

  With two verses and the melody of the chorus written and driven by the need to complete his project, Willem carried paper and pen with him and went back to the hall to see who might be about.

  There he found Gottfried talking with two knights and asked if he might join them.

  “Of course, and welcome.” Gottfried moved over on a bench to make room for him. Seeing the supplies in Willem’s hand, he asked, “What have you there?”

  “I’ve been working on a song, and I want to include some heroic tales from this war. I was hoping you might tell of some exploit that should be remembered so that I might put it in the song for all to hear.”

  “A worthy project, indeed, Willem. Have you met Sir Osgood and Sir Johan?”

  Willem nodded. “Sir Osgood I’ve seen about the castle, and Sir Johan I recall from Lord Einhard’s house. Have you just joined us?”

  “Yes,” said the younger knight. “The healer finally said my ankle was well enough for me to fight and I’ve been most eager to perform some heroic deeds of my own.” The other men laughed and clapped him on the back.

  “Much of war is mud and blood, I fear,” admitted Gottfried. “Heroic deeds are sung about because they are so rare.”

  Far into the night, the two knights talked¸ recounting their adventures on the field of battle and others they had heard told around the fire. Willem scribed furiously. And when everyone else had left the hall and the two knights had retired at last, Willem was still writing.

  thirteen

  On his next foray into the village, Albert stopped by the mill and spoke at length with Karl, an interesting man, all the more so for being Hilda’s father.

  “My lord, will you marry?” the miller asked over a mug of mulled cider.

  “It is expected of me. And so I shall.”

  “Have you chosen your wife?” Karl scratched his chin, dusty from the grain he had been grinding.

  Albert shrugged and shifted uncomfortably on his hard stool. “My father has put several choices before each of us. I’m not particularly valuable for making alliances, since I am but the youngest son. But perhaps I can help solidify some alliance we’ve already made.”

  There was a long silence while both men gazed into the fire, pondering their own thoughts. Then the miller let out a sigh. “It is sad that nobles must marry for politics and not for love.”

  Albert set his mug down and wiped his mouth. “Oh, I have some say in the matter. In fact, since Margarethe made her choice known, I have been praying more than ever that the Lord would show me the wife He would choose for me.”

  “And I’m persuaded that He will. Take your brother’s escape from the lance. ‘Twas an amazing thing,” said the miller, his eyes wide with the memory of the tale. “And I know that my Adelie—God rest her soul—was an answer to my prayers for a good wife. For not a finer woman ever lived—unless it would be our Hilda.” His face, beneath its coating of flour, flushed scarlet. “ ’Tis a hard thing to forgive the man who stole her virtue—”

  A log blazed higher, sending a spark spiraling out onto the wooden floor. Albert rose to grind it out beneath his heel, then turned to regard the miller with compassion. “Be at peace. I happen to know that your daughter has already forgiven him and is making a good recovery from her ordeal. The physical scars have almost healed and, with the help of the Almighty, she will be able to put the whole sordid business out of her mind and heart. In fact—” he gazed off into space, remembering their prayer before they parted— “I am truly impressed with the goodness of her spirit.”

  Karl smiled, his chest swelling with obvious pride. “It is because of her mother. My wife was of the nobility, you know—and a godly woman. She taught the girl well.”

  “Yes.” Albert turned again to peer into the fire, watching the flames dance, as if they were responding to some unseen wind. “Yes,” he said again, thinking, reflecting. “She is quite a remarkable young woman—your Hilda.”

  ❧

  Willem was utterly distracted. Whatever he was about—whether coaching a vocal student or strumming his lute in the privacy of his own chamber—the song would not let him go. It plucked at his heartstrings with a relentless will of its own. Even when he tried to pray for Margarethe, the words came, unbidden, to his mind: “Write the song. Write the song.” Not the betrothal music he’d been commissioned to write, but another. A song of such force that it took his breath away.

  ❧

  By midweek, when Margarethe and Hilda examined Jolan, instructing her to breathe deeply, they were convinced that her rib had healed sufficiently to permit her to sing.

  She was ecstatic. “How can I thank you? I have had the best healers in Bavaria!”

  “And now we’ll see just what kind of voice you have,” Mar-garethe said. “We’ve been needing a third person for a trio.”

  Hilda laughed with delight. “So that was your motive then. You thought to mend me so as to put me to work! But I must warn you—I didn’t inherit my mother’s warm, rich alto voice.”

  They were soon humming together, finding Hilda’s range and proclaiming her to be a low soprano. Before long, they were harmonizing on a song Jolan and Margarethe had sung for Hilda many times during her convalescence.

  At the end of the second time through, they were startled by the sound of clapping coming from the open doorway and turned to find Willem standing there. He was looking most handsome this morning, Margarethe thought with a catch in her heart—dressed in the blue that so enhanced the blue of his eyes.

  “Wunderbar!” Those eyes were twinkling now. “Well, Maid Hilda,” he said, “I’m happy to see that you’ve progressed in your recovery—and that we have a fine new attraction for our after-dinner entertainment.”

  Margarethe sensed his delight, knew that discovering new talent was a great adventure for him.

  “Perhaps—if you would excuse us, Lady Jolan—” Willem gave his most courtly bow— “Margarethe and I might have some time with Maid Hilda to explore her gift a bit more.”

  Jolan waved her hand. “Oh, I have work to do.” She lifted a volume—Causae et Curae—from the table. “I must copy some passages for the infirmary, so I should be busy all afternoon. But if you need me later for any reason—”

  “Such as the three of you helping with some music for the end of the week?” Willem asked.

  Margarethe cast a doubtful glance in Hilda’s direction. It might be too soon for the injure
d maiden to be facing a roomful of people. But her fears were quickly allayed.

  “I’ve sung at village fairs and in our church with my mother,” Hilda explained with a reassuring smile. “I should welcome an opportunity to repay all of you—and my host and hostess—for their kindness to me.”

  Willem lifted her hand and kissed it. “Dear lady, I hope you plan to stay for a very long time. You are sorely needed here.”

  Knowing the gesture meant nothing, Margarethe felt only a small pang, soon replaced by the exhilaration of watching Willem at work.

  In the music room, the afternoon sped by as he put Hilda through a series of vocal exercises, making notes, and pointing out areas of strength and weakness. While she sang, Margarethe wandered about the room, finding some parchments on the table that looked interesting. There were verses about heroic deeds, written in a style unlike anything she had seen. Another contained some music, scrawled hastily—a verse and a chorus. She had picked up the parchment to study it more carefully when Willem caught her in the act.

  “And what do you think, Greta?” he said softly, having left Hilda to stand in front of a mirror to practice some scales.

  Margarethe smiled sheepishly. “I think you are writing something of great importance—such wonderful tales—though I can’t imagine what the occasion would be.”

  “Nor do I.” He shrugged. “I only know that when I pray a certain prayer, these words pop into my head: ‘Write the song.’ And I know that it is this song.”

  “Will you hum the tune? I couldn’t make it out over the background music in the room.”

  By this time Hilda had joined them at the writing table. “What song is this you speak of?”

  “You’ll recognize the chorus,” Willem said, moving the page so she could read over his shoulder. “You gave it to me when I had nothing but the verse.”

  She seemed surprised. “You would want to use that chorus?”

  “If you’ll agree. But I shall give you credit.”

  “Indeed you will not. I gave it freely. Besides, it is not mine anyway, for it came after prayer—when you mentioned to me that you needed an idea.”

  Margarethe, who had been listening intently, was struck with wonder. “Then God is writing this song.”

  Willem nodded in agreement. “It seems so.” He moved to pick up his lute. “I’ll sing what has come to us so far.”

  He sang the verse about Gregor’s miraculous delivery from death on the battlefield, then hummed the melody to the chorus.

  Margarethe clasped her hands together when he had finished. “It’s magnificent, Willem! Truly inspiring. We’ll pray that the words to the chorus will be revealed to you.”

  “God will send them when He is ready.” Willem set the lute on the table and dropped onto a stool with a long sigh. “It is the music your Uncle Einhard commissioned that concerns me now. I’m not sure why it won’t come.” She saw that he could not meet her gaze.

  Margarethe felt her own heart sinking at the thought. “But it will be needed in less than a month. Surely you have at least started it.”

  “That’s just the trouble. I had started it when this music came and consumed my mind entirely. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Forgive me,” Hilda put in. “But may I ask what music you’re speaking of?”

  “Lady Margarethe’s uncle has asked me to compose a song for the announcement of her betrothal on May Day,” Willem answered, with an uncharacteristic note of bitterness in his voice.

  “Oh. Is that what you meant when you told me you had to compose a score, but that your mind and heart were at cross purposes?” Hilda asked gently.

  Margarethe held her breath, waiting for Willem’s reply. “I do not want to see her wed. She would move to Gregor’s castle, and I will miss her. . .music.”

  It was enough. Hilda need not hear the whole truth. But when Margarethe saw the tears gathering in Willem’s eyes as he put the music away, she read what his lips had not uttered—and must never utter again.

  ❧

  On the evening before the Lord’s Day, the newly formed trio performed in not one, but four songs. Willem was hugely pleased with the response of the hall and with the expertise of the performers. Truly he was blessed to have such singers in the castle—and such friends.

  Willem watched Hilda closely throughout the evening. She seemed to be recovering well from her injuries. She tired before her companions, but otherwise seemed much better. Still, at times it seemed that her body was present while her spirit was elsewhere. Willem prayed for her, knowing that more healing must come before she was fully restored.

  “It is your turn to sing again, Sir Willem,” called someone in the crowd. And with that ridiculous application of a knight’s title, he laughed, then obliged them with a song.

  At the evening’s end, Willem looked for Gregor in the hallway outside his chamber—the first time he had been able to catch the man without Margarethe at his side all day. “I would have a word with you before you retire.”

  Gregor frowned. “Shall we return to the hall?”

  “No, my lord. I’d prefer we talk undisturbed. This is a private matter,” he said, feeling a growing apprehension.

  “In my chamber, then.” Gregor jerked his head toward the door.

  Willem walked in with him and surveyed the room as Gregor uncovered two cluttered stools where they could perch. Surely Margarethe had never seen this room, Willem thought, or she would already be lecturing him about housekeeping.

  “What is on your mind, my friend?” Gregor asked.

  “It is this war. I find myself very much in sympathy with the cause, and I want to help.” Willem watched Gregor’s eyebrows rise and made himself sit still while the knight contemplated.

  “You help us already, Willem. You can’t imagine how refreshing it is to come home to music and laughter and dancing. The atmosphere of this place has improved sevenfold since you came.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I trained to be a knight, but since there was no war, I have never seen battle.”

  “Are you saying you wish to fight with us?”

  “I am.”

  Gregor dropped his gaze and studied the toe of his boot, propped against the table leg. “How long since you were in training?”

  “Six years.”

  “Much has changed in weaponry and strategy in the last six years. You don’t own armor or a war horse, and being a foot is too dangerous for any nobleman.” He narrowed his gaze. “How is your archery?”

  “I am. . .was deadly accurate,” Willem replied. Was there no way he could prove himself?

  Gregor appraised him with a sweeping glance. “You’re strong, there is no doubt of that. Perhaps you could still string a bow.”

  “I would be proud to do so,” he replied, his spirits falling. He needed to go to the field as a knight. It was knights who did the great deeds. It was knights who were sometimes rewarded for their acts of courage.

  Gregor’s expression was grave. “Willem, I am pleased that you want to help. And I am honored that you came to me to offer your services. But I cannot allow you to fight in any capacity in my battalion. You’re too valuable to risk. Men like me are expendable, but a man who can bring an entire castle joy simply by opening his mouth, cannot be replaced.”

  “Would it not be my own life I’d be risking?” he pled. “Have I no choice?”

  “My father needs you to hold the household together. The depression has lifted since you came to us. And your life is not your own. You’re a believer, bought by the blood of Jesus Christ. As your Supreme Commander, it is He who gives the orders.”

  Convicted, Willem fell silent. “I had not even thought to pray about this,” he confessed. “I must do what He calls me to do.”

  “There is another reason I cannot let you fight in my battalion,” Gregor continued, speaking with soft intensity. “If something happened to you, Margarethe’s sorrow would overwhelm her. She loves you so.” Willem froze in his seat, not believing
his ears. “It’s true. You’re her closest friend, and I could not bear to see her hurt.”

  After another lengthy silence, Willem sighed. “Then I will do what I can without fighting. Some are called to fight, and some are called to sing.”

  “I would gladly trade you callings, my friend.”

  Gregor rose to see Willem out, and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder as he bade him farewell.

  That night Willem could not sleep at all. His prayers were filled with thoughts of Margarethe. “Write the song,” came the familiar response.

  “How can I write of what I do not know, Lord?” Willem groaned. As he waited for the answer, an idea dawned—like the rising of the sun.”

  ❧

  Margarethe was up before first light and attended the fighting men’s Mass as she had once before. Gregor seemed to be expecting her, and had saved her a seat. He was becoming so affectionate and considerate that her guilt increased each time she saw him.

  During the stillness of communion, she prayed, “Father, please help me find a way out. I don’t want to hurt Gregor, but I feel I belong to Willem. Only You can bring order to this chaos, and I humbly ask You to do it.”

  After Mass, she walked beside Gregor, turning only when she heard Willem’s voice calling out. “My lord, I could not sleep for an idea that will not leave me alone.”

  “Willem,” Gregor said sternly, “I gave you my answer.”

  “It is not what we talked about—yet it is,” Willem began. “Shall I tell you in front of your lady, or will you turn aside for a moment?” He was short of breath, and his eyes were dancing with excitement.

  Margarethe stared until Willem noticed her, but he quickly looked away. What could he be thinking of? She questioned his sanity, so strange was his manner as well as his attire, for he wore traveling clothes.

  “Margarethe, I will join you when I can,” Gregor said, dismissing her.

  Once again Willem caught her eye and glanced toward the ceiling. From that gesture—their private signal—she knew he was imploring her to pray. But for what?