For a Song

by Kathleen Scarth

  “She is quite well, I’m happy to report. Oh, and I took care of a wounded captain, who also recovered.”

  Friedrick was all ears. “What happened to him?”

  “One of the enemy soldiers charged him with a lance. Un-fortunately, our captain had neglected to wear his breastplate that day.”

  “Then he should be dead,” said Friedrich, philosophically.

  Margarethe nodded. “And he likely would have been killed, too. But as it happened, the enemy soldier’s horse slipped in the mud, and his lance only grazed the captain’s side.”

  “Were you there?” Friedrich asked, obviously intent on learning every detail of the incident.

  “Oh, no.” Margarethe laughed at the earnest little face. “At least not in the flesh.” She leaned closer to look him directly in the eye. “But your sister, the injured lady, and I were there in another way. We were praying at that very moment.”

  “And which of your fighting men was so lucky as to have your prayers?” asked Lady Mechthild.

  “Gregor,” Margarethe replied, lifting a mug of warmed cider to her lips..

  “Oh, so it was your betrothed. How interesting. You must love him very much if you are so faithful to pray for him.”

  “Oh, Mutti,” Jolan said, “they’re always together. Gregor is in our Lord’s Day musical group as well, along with Hilda and Albert and Willem.”

  “Fine musicians all,” Lady Mechthild commented. “Do you play here in the hall as you did at Adlerschloss?”

  “Of course,” Jolan spoke up. “In fact, Margarethe and I will sing for you this very evening, if you like—though we’ve had no time to prepare for your coming,” she said with a trace of reprimand in her voice.

  Mechthild nodded, pleased. “So we surprised you, then, my dears?”

  “Yes, and what a nice surprise,” Margarethe said. “My own parents will be here soon for the betrothal feast, though they will leave my younger sister at home this trip. She prefers to wait for the wedding.”

  Friedrich made his voice heard from the other side of the table. “When will I meet your father—the great man I am named after?”

  “Very soon, child,” Mechthild answered for Margarethe. “But you must keep quiet now. We have important matters to discuss.”

  Lord Einhard leaned over the table. “And where is Lord Gregor today, Margarethe? I was looking forward to seeing him.”

  “He is on some mission with Klaus. They will return very late tonight, he said.”

  “And I do not see Willem about, either,” he remarked.

  “They are together—on the same mission.”

  Lady Mechthild’s eyebrows rose. “Gregor. . .and Willem? They get along well?”

  “Oh, yes,” Margarethe said, wickedly enjoying the growing alarm on her aunt’s face. “They are probably best friends. Would you not agree, Jolan?”

  “I would say so. They even bathe together,” she said, bursting into laughter.

  “Hmm. . .It must be some very important mission indeed,” Einhard observed,”to send them out on the Lord’s Day.”

  ❧

  Margarethe waited for the men’s return, praying that nothing had gone amiss. When she heard the sound of horses’ hooves clattering through the gate, she dressed hurriedly, left her chamber, and met them in the hallway.

  “You are up late, my lady,” Gregor said softly with a warning look she could make out even by torchlight. Klaus seemed miffed; Willem, triumphant.

  “I waited up to see how you fared on your mysterious mission,” she replied. “Were you successful?”

  “Completely,” Gregor replied. “Perhaps we will be able to tell you about it soon—but not tonight.”

  She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Uncle Einhard has been looking forward to seeing you and was disappointed when he found you gone,” she said, hoping Gregor would relent and share the news now.

  “He will not be disappointed when he learns the whole story. But, Margarethe, it is late and we are spent. Thank you for your prayers.”

  She nodded, still wishing someone would tell her more. Why must men keep secrets? “Good night then, Gregor. Good night, Klaus, Willem. God bless you all.”

  Gregor pressed her hand to his lips, then left for his quarters. Klaus, too, bowed and passed by. Only Willem was left. “Do not ever stop praying, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. “God was with us tonight, and I know your prayers had something to do with it.”

  “Then I will never stop.”

  Willem smiled and lifted the hand he was holding to kiss her fingers. “Good night, Liebchen,” he whispered, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, and went on.

  Feeling more and more confused, Margarethe returned to her chamber, undressed, and got into bed. Willem had seemed so confident for the past few days—almost as if he were in a world of his own. He had even told her some fanciful tale about a cloth merchant—something Hilda had taught him. Then he had proceeded to baffle her even more by telling her he was thanking God for answering his prayers—even though there was no visible sign of the answer. Perhaps, after she and Gregor were wed, Willem would become a priest like Father Bernard. It did seem his thoughts were loftier these days, more focused on heavenly things.

  Sleepless, she lay awake, pondering. Willem was praising God for something He had not brought to pass as yet. Was that the secret of prayer?

  Here on the eve of her betrothal to Gregor, Willem might well have come to terms with the truth and changed his prayer to one of acceptance. But if he had not—if he were still praying for some miracle for them—she prayed fervently the Good Lord would answer. For if He did not and she married Gregor, Willem’s faith might be shattered.

  In four days, the betrothal would be accomplished. Only four days. God could still work a miracle. But she, too, ought to pray like Willem. She would try. She recited her list of family and friends—concentrating on their needs instead of hers. She prayed for wisdom and discernment, for an end to all war. For peace in her own troubled heart.

  As dawn streaked the sky, trailing fingers of pink and purple, Margarethe at last gave up and prayed Willem’s prayer. “Father, you know the prayer I have been praying since I met this man as a little girl. I thank You for hearing me. I thank You for hearing Willem’s prayers. You have been so faithful to answer other prayers, and I know You are answering this one as well. Perhaps not as we would hope—but Your ways are best and right. I praise You for being a good and loving God, One who knows what we need—even if we do not always get what we want.”

  She continued thanking and praising God until she fell asleep, completely content as she had not been in many months.

  ❧

  On Tuesday morning, at the shout of the lookout in the turret, Margarethe ran to her window to find a large mounted party approaching from the west. Hurriedly tucking her errant hair under her cap, she ran down the stairs.

  “Greta, you must let me dress your hair,” Aunt Mechthild said, half scolding. “There is yet time before Friedrich and Ida are within the castle walls. Your mother must not see you in a little girl’s cap.”

  Margarethe could not resist a teasing retort. “It keeps my head warm, Aunt.”

  “Back up the stairs with you now. I’m sure you brought something we can use.”

  Margarethe allowed her aunt to rebraid her long blond hair and select a becoming veil. Today she had chosen her second best gown—a dove gray tunic with a murrey surcoat. Margarethe liked murrey; it reminded her of berries.

  Putting the finishing touches on the new hairstyle, her aunt anchored the veil with a gold circlet studded with garnets. “There now, you look more like a young lady who is soon to wed—and not a naughty child tormenting her poor old aunt.” Lady Mechthild chuckled fondly.

  Skimming the stairs to greet her parents in the hallway below, Margarethe embraced them, then stood back so that they could get a good look at her—and she at them. It had been so long. Her parents seemed somehow much smaller than she reme
mbered them. Papa’s hair was touched with silver at the temples, and Mutti—well, when she spoke, her voice held the same lovely rich timbre Margarethe recalled as a child when her mother had sung lullabies at bedtime.

  “You are grown, my little Greta,” she said, holding Margarethe at arm’s length. “Taller than your Mutti. And to think, you are soon to be a bride.”

  The thought was less than reassuring.

  ❧

  “Mutti, let us make music together as we used to do,” Margarethe suggested just before supper. “Aunt Mechthild is anxious for us to entertain, and we might provide a diversion from thoughts of this never-ending war.”

  “Ever thoughtful,” Lady Ida said, patting her daughter’s hand.

  “Hmm. Yes,” her father muttered fondly. “Ever thoughtful—unless she’s playing a joke on someone.” His smile removed any sting his words might have caused. “Am I invited to make music with you ladies?”

  “Of course you are, Papa. Come and help me carry some things.” He accompanied her up the stairs and to the music room, where Margarethe chose an assortment of wind instruments and put them in a bag, then took up her lute and a viel and bow.

  He frowned. “Will you promise me not to let Mechthild play that thing?” he asked as he eyed the viel with misgiving.

  Margarethe laughed. “So her fame on the viel reaches even to the Schwarzwald.”

  “Her infamy, more like,” he said as he took up the bag and the lute. “Has anyone heard from Otto?”

  “I have heard nothing yet. The parley was to last only one day, though.” Despite her prayers, this comment triggered a spark of terror. What if negotiations failed? And now she had not one man to worry about—but two.

  They descended the stairs together in silence.

  “This delay is unnerving,” her father continued. “We should be hearing something. Still, I cannot picture Otto in peacetime. It seems unnatural somehow. After all, this conflict has gone on for the past twenty years. I suppose war is a way of life for him.”

  Margarethe couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Lord Otto had changed his mind and decided there should be no truce at all. Or maybe they were all being held hostage. . . For a dreadful moment, her faith faltered, and a thousand horrors came to mind.

  ❧

  On Wednesday Margarethe rose early for Mass. There were more people than usual on their knees this morning, likely praying for peace, as she was, and for the men who had gone to make the peace. She tried to pray without fretting, but there had been no word at all, and her natural instincts rose up to crowd her mind.

  Lady Edeltraud had considered sending a messenger to find out what was happening, but she dared not do anything that Ewald might construe as a hostile act. And so they had waited.

  During the mass Margarethe decided to use her new method of prayer—the one Willem had taught her. Doing her best to put her fears aside, she praised God, thanking Him for all that He had already done for them—Gregor’s escape from certain death; Hilda’s healing, both physical and mental; her growing friendship with Gregor, her love for Willem and the miracle they desired—if, in truth, such a miracle was best for all concerned.

  As she prayed, a small kernel of joy began deep within and bubbled to the surface until she felt that she would burst. “Bless Willem, Father. And Gregor and Klaus and Uncle Einhard—especially Uncle, for he is to be doing the talking today. Bring them home safely. . .and bring peace.”

  ❧

  With the preparations for the betrothal feast and the anticipated homecoming of the fighting men in full swing, the castle was abuzz with activity. Once again, Hilda must be moved to accommodate the many guests who would be arriving soon, it was hoped.

  “We keep moving you about, Hilda,” Jolan said while helping her relocate from the private chamber she had occupied for only a short time back into Jolan’s chamber. “I do hope you don’t feel neglected or unwanted.”

  Hilda laughed her gentle laugh. “Not at all. I know you care for me. You’ve proven it in a thousand ways.”

  Margarethe winced. “I feel guilty, for I have had my own chamber all along.”

  Jolan gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t remind me. However, since you are the guest of honor here, I suppose we must concede. Even the lords are doubling up to make room.”

  “I wonder what poor soul will have to share Gregor’s chamber,” Margarethe mused.

  Hilda covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide and Margarethe realized too late how her remark must have sounded.

  Jolan straightened and gave her a searching look. “In just a few months you will be that poor soul. And what would be so bad about sharing with Gregor anyway?”

  “Nothing, if he had his valet with him here. He sorely needs one. He leaves his clothes strewn about everywhere,” Margarethe explained.

  “Oh,” Jolan said slyly. “I thought perhaps he snored.”

  “Now what,” Margarethe demanded, “would I know about that?”

  “Then how do you know how he keeps his chamber?”

  “Please don’t quarrel,” Hilda begged, with a look of alarm on her face. “It serves no purpose.”

  “Ha! If you think we are quarreling now, you should have seen us when we were younger.”

  “I remember wishing I had a sister—or a very close cousin,” Hilda said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would not have been so wonderful, after all.”

  That brought an end to the chiding as Margarethe and Jolan erupted in gales of laughter.

  “I have a younger sister that I barely know,” Margarethe said, suddenly serious. “I am looking forward to seeing her. . .at the wedding.” But she was not looking forward to the wedding.

  ❧

  In the afternoon, Margarethe and her aunt and mother had called their own truce over the garments she would wear for the betrothal feast—a purple tunic with bands on the sleeves, embroidered by her mother, and a light blue diapered cloth surcoat her aunt had had made. Since she herself favored the colors, everyone would be satisfied.

  With that decision behind, Margarethe was eager to get on with a more pleasant activity—a family musical concert. They were playing their second number—a driving dance tune called an estampie—when a general stirring in the hall outside reached her ears, and she laid aside her viel and bow.

  Gregor was the first man through the door. He strode over, lifted her off her feet, and swung her in a circle. “Ewald has surrendered, my lady! Unconditionally!”

  “Oh, Gregor, my heart is so full,” she cried, “of gratitude for God’s goodness in sparing you and the others.”

  “It might have gone either way, had it not been for your prayers.” Noticing the little group gathered around, he turned to greet them. “Forgive me. These must be your parents, Margarethe. You resemble your mother—a legendary beauty indeed. Lady Ida.” He bowed over her hand.

  Her mother dimpled, her eyes twinkling. “And you’re much more dashing and distinguished than when you were a boy.”

  Margarethe could not help thinking that perhaps Gregor should be the family diplomat—not Klaus, who was always so dour

  At that moment Lord Friedrich stepped up to extend his hand, sizing Gregor up in a single look, she observed. Her father would not be able to find anything to fault in Gregor, she thought. Nothing except his housekeeping, at least.

  “So this is the young lord who will marry my daughter,” her father said, still skeptical, or so it appeared.

  Gregor smiled and would have replied except Lady Mechthild spoke up just then. “I must find Einhard,” she said, rising from her chair. “Oh, there he is now.”

  When Lord Einhard strode over to greet them, it was Gregor who spoke first. “Here is the hero of the parley. Never have I seen such courage and persistence.”

  Lord Einhard clapped Gregor on the shoulder as he passed him to embrace his wife, and then his sister, Lady Ida and Lord Friedrich. “I must confess I never worked any harder on the battlefield. But—”

  Glanci
ng toward the door, Margarethe saw Willem enter just as her uncle finished his statement, “There is the real hero.”

  ❧

  All of the lords attending the parley and their allies sent messengers to their homes with the good news, called for their families to join them at the castle, then stayed for supper, with music and dancing far into the night. Margarethe had never before observed such a sight. She herself, caught up in the excitement, was a part of many of the musical presentations. And she noticed that her cousin Jolan—when she was not playing an instrument—danced every dance, most notably with two of their young allies, Lord Selig and Lord Helmhold.

  Throughout the evening, Margarethe sang often, blending her voice with others in a variety of performances. Once she sang a solo. And when someone called for the love song she had written, she felt a bittersweet pang as she sang in harmony with Willem, feeling his gaze resting on her tenderly. There was a request for the war song, but Willem refused, and Margarethe wondered why.

  He shrugged. “It is Lord Otto’s idea. I am to play it tomorrow.”

  She smiled weakly at him. “Instead of the betrothal music you were to write?”

  “In addition to that,” he said, smiling broadly.

  Before she could press him further, Gregor claimed her for a dance, and she whirled away, looking back over her shoulder at Willem. He was a puzzlement to her. How could he appear so cheerful on the very eve of her betrothal to another?

  It was quite late when she finally retired, but she could not fall asleep right away. Strangely though, in thinking of the morrow, she felt neither fearful nor sad. Instead, she spent some time in prayer, thanking and praising God before a gentle blanket of peace descended over her, and she slept.

  ❧

  After Mass, Margarethe could not find Jolan anywhere. She looked all over the castle, then returned to Jolan’s chamber. “Hilda, have you seen my cousin?”