For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  Help, Willem, Lord. Give him Your wisdom. Let him know what path he is to take. He seems so desperate of late. Comfort him. Let him know that I love him still. I do not know what he is scheming with Gregor, but if the idea is from You, then please bring it to pass.

  She continued to pray as she went to break her fast. At the table, she sat and waited for the men to come in, nodding to some who drifted in from other parts of the castle.

  When Willem and Gregor entered the hall, she could see their heightened enthusiasm, which only increased her apprehension. What was even more curious was that they headed directly for the main table, but passed her by on their way to speak to Lord Otto. She could not overhear the exchange that was made, but from the back-slapping that followed, she could only assume they were well pleased with something.

  “Stay, Willem, and sit with us,” Gregor invited when he had left his father and returned to Margarethe.

  To her surprise, Willem remained, dropping into the seat to her left while Gregor took the right.

  “What is happening?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.

  “Meet our new camp minstrel, my lady,” Gregor said with a broad smile.

  At first she could not make out what he was telling her. But when understanding came, she smiled. “It is well, Willem. You will find the missing words for the chorus there.” She fought the thickness forming in her throat.

  “Then you do not mind?” He stopped suddenly and tipped his head to one side, an eyebrow raised.

  “What? Mind leading the evening music and teaching all your voice lessons?” she said with mock indignation, trying her best to hold back the tears. “My lord,” she said, turning to Gregor, “I know this bandit is paid for teaching. Will you let him treat me so?”

  Gregor laughed. “Indeed. Teaching will keep you out of mischief while I’m away.” He dropped his voice. “We need him, Margarethe. Morale is low in the field, and he can encourage us with his music. Do as you please with the students. But you will be serving us well if you can keep the people happy at home.”

  She nodded miserably and applied herself to her bread and cheese. When it was time for the men to go, they rose. A feeling of near panic threatened to cut off Margarethe’s breathing.

  “It is a wet morning, my lady,” Gregor said. “I’ll bid you farewell here.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and he drew her to him to whisper in her ear. “Willem could use a hug as well. He was concerned about leaving you with all his work.”

  She faced Gregor as he released her, then turned to embrace Willem. “God be with you—and keep you from harm.”

  fourteen

  For the next few days, Margarethe was completely occupied with teaching and coordinating the nightly music. All of the students were pleased that they would not have to be without instruction while Willem was away. But as for all other matters pertaining to the music of the house, she was careful to consult with those who had shared the chief musician’s post before his arrival. They seemed pleased to have been consulted—equally pleased to be free of the responsibility.

  Margarethe had never known a house so fond of music. On previous visits, she had assumed that the rich musical variety offered after supper was in honor of the guests. Not so. Here at Beroburg, musicians were used regularly, with jugglers and acrobats simply offering a diversion while the singers rested between sets.

  So preoccupied was Margarethe, in fact, that it was Thurs-day before she noticed Hilda’s silent withdrawal from the routine activities. Concerned, Margarethe began to look for her.

  Not finding her anywhere about, she went to Hilda’s new chamber adjoining her own. Finding the door ajar, she stepped in. Hilda was standing at the window, gripping the cold stone sill with a white hand.

  “Hilda? Greetings. I’ve been missing you in the hall—”

  When the maid turned, Margarethe could see that her eyes were red and swollen “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Hilda shook her head. “I hope it is nothing. But I’ve been calculating the dates. . .” She sighed deeply, then dropped her gaze, unable to meet Margarethe’s eye. “My monthly blood is late.”

  Margarethe caught her breath at the implication, but fought for composure—for Hilda’s sake. Rushing over, she took her friend’s hand. “Women are sometimes late for no reason.”

  “I have never been late.”

  “But I’ve heard that when a woman has had a serious injury, it is not unusual for her whole body to react to the pain. . . .”

  “No, Margarethe,” Hilda continued sadly. “I was not severely injured in body. But now I’m so very frightened—” she sobbed, and fell into Margarethe’s arms where they wept together.

  ❧

  With orders to remain at base camp with the cooks and other servants during the daytime hours, Willem used the hours to finish his song. Sitting cross-legged in the tent he shared with Sir Johan and his squire, he peered out into the misty rain, praying and thinking.

  The words for the chorus came to him the first day out. But when they began to formulate themselves in his mind, he waited, resisting the urge to record them at once. Drawing aside, he prayed, needing to be sure that they were divinely inspired. At the same time, he was consumed with a sense of urgency to complete the song.

  On the third day in the field, the battle took a bad turn. The men came in discouraged, and fights broke out among some of the foot soldiers. The rain that had been falling when they left Beroburg was now relentless, pounding against the tops of the tents, the dampness seeping into everything. The bedrolls were soggy, water was standing in puddles inside, and there was not a thread of dry clothing among them. Supper was late because the bread was ruined, and the cooks had to send runners to Lord Albert’s castle for more.

  In the midst of all this, Willem walked among the men, attempting to spread a little cheer. But for the most part, they turned a deaf ear.

  If ever there was a time for a rousing song, this was it. Still, Willem wanted to be sure and knelt in a corner of his tent to pray. The longer he prayed, the more he was certain that this was the night to introduce the new music.

  After their meager supper, the men grew restless, and at Lord Gregor’s direction, Willem stepped to the front. “A song!” someone cried. “Give us a song!”

  “And high time, I’d say,” called another.

  Thus encouraged, Willem gathered his lute, stood in the entry of the main tent, and struck the first chord. One by one, he led them in some of the old familiar songs that had been favorites at the castle. He could feel the tension draining away.

  Finally, when he had their full attention, he spoke. “I have a new song this night. I cannot take full credit for writing it, for most of it came to me only after much prayer. This song is about you, and it is a gift to you from the Lord God.”

  Willem strummed the opening chords, whispering a prayer as he did, “Here it is, Lord. Use it as You will.” He sang the first verse to utter silence. During the chorus—that wild and proud sound, accompanying words of love and courage—there was a stirring among the men. The second verse was received much like the first, with rapt concentration. By the fourth chorus, the men had risen to their feet and were clapping in time to the music. Hearing a voice join his, he turned to find Lord Albert harmonizing.

  Even so, at the song’s conclusion, Willem was not completely prepared for the response. The men cheered heartily and threw their hats into the air. There was a general stampede as some clapped comrades on the back or shouted their approval. He himself was mobbed by the lords, and his lute was whisked away somewhere.

  “Wunderbar, Willem! Exactly what we needed!”

  “How did you gather all those stories? It must have taken months.”

  “Well done, Willem. Is there a baritone harmony you can teach me for the chorus?” That, from Lord Gregor.

  Soon their conversation was interrupted by a widespread chant: “Wieder, Willem, wieder. Wieder, Willem, wieder!” they
shouted. “Again, Willem, sing it again!”

  Gregor escorted Willem back to the tent entry, and the squire who had taken his lute into the tent to keep it dry, returned it to him. A cheer went up as he positioned his lute.

  “It’s a very long song,” he called above the din of rain and raves. “Are you sure you want the whole thing?”

  “The whole thing! Don’t leave out a note!” came the enthusiastic reply.

  They were of one accord, except for one ruddy-faced fellow, who yelled, “How about adding more about women?”

  A roar of laughter went up—a good sign indeed. Surely this was the song he was meant to write, for it was hitting the mark—much like an arrow, aimed true, striking the heart of its target.

  So Willem sang the entire song again. This time, he was joined on the chorus until an entire male choir was ringing through the night:

  To trade and travel freely,

  No tyrant taking aught;

  Our families safe, our farms secure—

  This is what we’ve sought.

  Maidens, wives and mothers

  Doing battle on their knees—

  Praying as they work all day;

  God has heard their pleas.

  Partners with us in the conflict—

  Mighty without sword;

  We fight for freedom, heart to heart,

  Contending for the Lord.

  Inspired by their example,

  We have a sacred trust.

  And so we have the courage

  To do all that we must.

  Though there were calls for more, Willem backed off, yielding the floor to Lord Otto, who led in a prayer for victory—something that had never happened in their history, to anyone’s recollection. But on the way back to their tents for the night, it was the melody of Willem’s new song they were humming.

  ❧

  On Friday, a messenger arrived from the battlefield with news of a great change among the troops.

  Lady Edeltraud summoned Margarethe and Jolan to the solar. “Perhaps the two of you can help me make sense of this. Remember how rainy it was the first four days of the week?”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Jolan replied.

  “All the men were wet and miserable and deeply despondent. Then Willem sang a new song, and suddenly the black mood lifted.” Lady Edeltraud rose, pacing the room. “Now I know the messenger to be a sober young fellow, but he vows this is the best song he has ever heard. Everyone is singing it as they go about their business, and praying as well.

  “Even Otto has been leading the men in prayer.” Edeltraud’s eyes were huge. “On Thursday our men gained ground—a significant amount, I understand, and today the enemy retreated entirely.” She peered into the two faces. “Tell me, if you know—how could a song bring such a change?”

  There was a slight pause while Margarethe searched for the right words. “It is not the song, Lady Edeltraud, but the God who gave the song that made the difference. We, too, need to pray.”

  “Yes, yes, I can see that. I pray this victory will continue in spite of Ewald’s reserves. Oh, and that is something else I learned from the messenger.” Margarethe waited expectantly. “The extra soldiers came from Austria, as we suspected. Ewald gave a daughter in marriage to an Austrian lord in exchange for troops for this season.”

  “What does his daughter think of that?” Margarethe wondered aloud.

  Lady Edeltraud sighed. “I do not know. I know only that I could never trade a child of mine to win a battle.”

  ❧

  Friday evening Willem and Gregor talked by the blazing fire outside their tents. “Never have we had a musician stir us as you have, Willem. My father wants to reward you at the end of the campaign. Think now. What reward would you have?”

  Willem shrugged. “What does every man want?”

  Gregor surprised him by laughing. “The one thing my father has more of than any man in Bavaria—land.”

  Willem nodded, gazing into the fire. “And if I had that which every man wants, my life would still be empty, for it would come too late.”

  “Too late? How could land come too late?” Gregor asked.

  Willem turned a sober look on him before he glanced away. “Forgive me, Lord Gregor. I talk too much.”

  A heavy silence descended between them before Gregor cleared his throat. “Willem, let us sing a song, just us two. Do you know ‘The Lady in Blue’?”

  Oh, yes. And in green, and brown, and scarlet. She was lovely in purple as well. “I do.”

  They sang softly so as not to disturb anyone, their voices blending.

  As the fire died down, Gregor clapped Willem on the shoulder and went off to his bedroll. But Willem sat, watching the dying embers, and allowed his tears to fall.

  ❧

  After getting ready for supper at the end of the week, Margarethe stopped in to see Hilda. “How are you?”

  “The same.” Tears welled in the blue eyes. “Except that I grow more fearful each day.”

  “God will be with you—and Jolan and I will stand by to help. I’m sorry my new duties have called me away so much, and I could not be with you more.”

  “It is well. Jolan has with me, and singing helps.” Hilda looked so hopeless that Margarethe felt a rush of grief for her friend. At least the men would be home tomorrow night. Hilda seemed happiest when Albert and Willem were near.

  “Perhaps tomorrow we will be able to hear the new song that has so stirred the fighting men,” Margarethe suggested, hoping to distract Hilda’s gloomy thoughts.

  But it was not to be. “I’m so ashamed to see them. Espe-cially Lord Albert. How will I tell him about. . .my problem?”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of. But do you need to say anything? You are not even certain yet.”

  “Perhaps not. But he will have only to look at my face to know there is something amiss.”

  It was true. Hilda’s usually rosy cheeks were pale, and her eyes were puffy from weeping. “Still, he has made himself your protector. He may know a way to help you.”

  Hilda shook her head. “Some things cannot be helped. I am praying that I am not with child, that it is something else instead. But if I am—”

  Margarethe sat with her, holding her hand, and thought about the situation. What a tragedy. The poor thing had already suffered cruel abuse. Now she might be called upon to bear pity and humiliation as well. Not to mention the suspicions of the village folk. She had hidden herself away at the castle and had not returned to her home since the attack. An unmarried woman with a child would have a sad life, even the daughter of the miller, a man of some means.

  The very best thing would be for Hilda to marry immediately so that the child would be assumed to be her husband’s. Else she might be shunned for life. At the very least, tongues would wag.

  Still, Hilda was not betrothed and had no prospects o of marriage. Nor did she have a dowry, what with her mother’s long illness taking all their money. And even if Margarethe’s uncle was willing to provide a suitable dowry, she was almost sure the proud Hilda would never accept it.

  Margarethe stirred, pressing her friend’s hand before she rose. “I must go. Will you come down to supper?”

  Hilda sighed and followed her out the door. “My appetite is poor. But I will come. Perhaps the change will do me good.”

  ❧

  Margarethe’s was the first face Willem spied when he arrived at the castle with the troops, more joyful than usual after a report from a scout had revealed that the enemy had fled the fighting field.

  “I’ve heard about your new song and am anxious to hear it,” she said, her smile warming him—heart and soul.

  “Then you shall—most likely this very night,” he said, feeling his love for her shining through his weariness. “How went this week for you?”

  “Your students and the music kept me very busy. I’ll tell you all about it when you have the leisure to listen.”

  “I will seek you out when I do—after a good hot bath
.” He stood, admiring her for a moment. “It was a good week, a necessary week, but I missed you,” he said softly, hoping that Lord Gregor wouldn’t come along to spoil this moment.

  But it was Lord Albert who passed by with a little wave and a salute. “Willem,” she whispered urgently after Albert had moved on, “pray for Hilda. She needs us so.”

  ❧

  Just as Willem left for the bathing area, Gregor came in. Margarethe greeted him with a kiss as he had requested, grateful that both men were home safe once again. How very strange it felt to love one man with all her heart, the other with only half.

  She heard the news from the front, rejoiced with Gregor, then saw Albert rush down the stairs, take his mother aside and go with her to speak with his father. Lord Otto frowned, then the three of them walked out of the hall together. Father, Margarethe prayed silently, if this has something to do with Hilda, please work Your way in it all.

  Jolan caught her eye across the room and gestured for her. Margarethe obeyed, seeing that her cousin was surrounded by fighting men, fresh from their bath, claiming to need massages even though they had not been wounded.

  The men, who had been clamoring for her services, dropped back at Albert’s approach. “Cousins,” he said, “I need your prayers, though I cannot explain why just now.”

  “Is it something to do with our friend?” Margarethe asked.

  He nodded.

  “You can count on us, Cousin,” Jolan assured him. “We have nothing pressing to do here, anyway.” Her glance swept the group of men who were clustered nearby, waiting for the conversation to end.

  “Then I can proceed with courage.”

  “And where are you going, Albert?” asked Margarethe.

  “To the home of Karl, the miller,” he called over his shoulder as he strode away and disappeared through the door.