Book of Enchantments

by Patricia C. Wrede

  I do not know what tale Eleanor made to account for her scratches and the rips in two of her gowns, but I know it was not the truth, for neither she nor Anne was ever disciplined for it. Indeed, if I had not been there myself, I would not have known why Eleanor no longer wore her favorite blue gown. Perhaps I would not have noticed the increased tension between my sisters, either. No one else seemed aware of it, though to me the atmosphere in the schoolroom seemed to grow daily more fraught with anger and resentment.

  So I was happy when Anne was finally old enough to put up her hair and move on to grown-up things, for it meant that the fights between her and Eleanor all but ceased. I thought their enmity must end with growing up, and for a few years it seemed to do so. I made my own transition to the world of feasts and dancing smoothly. I watched Anne with her suitors, but, as befits a younger sister, I sought none of my own until she should have made her choice.

  And then William came to court. "Sweet William," some of the verses say, and another song styles him "bonny William, brave and true." Well, he was bonny enough, with his gray eyes and hair like the silk on corn, and he had a tongue like honey, but from the first I did not like him. I had spent my early years watching my lovely sisters wound each other with comments no one else could see were barbed; perhaps it gave me a distrust of beauty and sweet words. But if that were so, Anne should have been armored even better than I, and she loved him from the moment he bent to kiss her hand before leading her out for their first dance.

  "Isn't he handsome?" she said to me that night as we made ready for bed. "And kind. And a little shy, I think."

  "He didn't seem shy to me when he was flirting with the serving maid," I said.

  "Meg! He did no such thing." Anne sounded really distressed. "You're making it up."

  "I know what I saw."

  "He may have talked with her, but it was just to put her at ease," Anne said. "I told you he was kind. You must have misinterpreted it."

  "I suppose I might have," I said, though I was sure I had not. Anne's expression lightened at once, and she went on singing William's praises until the maids came to put out the rushlights. She did not seem to notice my lack of response, or if she did, she put it down to tact or sympathy. But I do not think she noticed. She was too full of William.

  "He is not the only man who courted you this evening," I said at last. "Robert brought you roses, and Malcolm—"

  "Feh to Robert and Malcolm and all the rest," Anne said. "William is my choice, and I'll have him or no one."

  "You can't mean that, Anne!" I said, appalled. "It is too sudden."

  "Oh, I'll not be so hasty before the court," she said. "Did you think I meant to claim him tomorrow? We'll have a decorous courtship, and when he speaks to Father at last, no one will be amazed or put out. But I wanted you to know."

  "You've not planned it out between you already?" I said. "After only one meeting?"

  Anne laughed. "You are a goose. Go to sleep, and dream which of the men you will choose to look kindly on when I am settled. Robert, perhaps, since his roses made such an impression on you."

  I threw a pillow at her. It was not until later, when she was asleep, that I realized she had not answered my question.

  Anne was as good as her word. Over the next six weeks, she let her partiality for William begin to show, slowly but certainly, so that soon there was no doubt in anyone's mind that William was to be my father's first son-in-law. Before the court, she was discreet; when we were alone and private at night, she filled my ears with William's excellencies. They planned for William to make a formal request for her hand before the assembled May Day Court, in another month. And then Eleanor's birthday arrived, and she put up her hair for her coming-of-age feast.

  I should have guessed what would happen. Gossip travels on the air in a king's hall; even in the schoolroom, Eleanor must have heard of Anne and William and their coming handfasting. Coming, but not yet concluded. Hating Anne as she did, as she had for so long, it was inevitable that she would try to spoil her happiness.

  In all fairness, she did not have to try very hard. William took one look at Eleanor and fell as hard and far as Anne had fallen for him. And he was not in the least discreet about the change in the object of his affections. Indeed, it must have been plain even to Anne that he had never truly cared for her, for he had never treated her with half the tenderness he used toward Eleanor.

  When I saw how it would be, I went to Eleanor and begged her to relent, for all our sakes. She smiled at me and shook her head. "It is too late for that. William loves me, not Anne."

  "Yes, but the pair of you need not flaunt it before her," I said. I was angry, and sore on Anne's behalf, and I spoke more sharply than I had intended.

  Eleanor looked startled. "Is that what you think? That we have been brandishing our affection apurpose?"

  Then I saw that she had not; it was only her usual heedlessness. I said, "It is what Anne thinks."

  "Oh, Anne. She has grieved me enough in my life; this time it is her turn."

  "Do not say that," I said, distressed. "Love should not serve spite, and she is your sister, as much as I am." And you have given her grief for grief, all your lives, I could have added, but did not.

  "Dear Meg," Eleanor said. "Always the peacemaker. Well, I suppose I can do that much for you. But I cannot give him up now, even if I would. He will not have it so."

  "I know," I said. "I wish he had never come here."

  So, on the first of May, before the assembled court, William asked my father for Eleanor's hand, not Anne's. It was scandalous, of course—the youngest daughter to be married before either of her sisters!—but there was already so much scandal about the match that it hardly mattered. Anne was pale as milk, but she kept her head high. Only I knew how she wept in the garden afterward, and only I seemed to notice the white stiffness around her lips, which I had not seen since that day when she pushed Eleanor into the briars.

  It was that memory that sent me to Eleanor once again, to beg her to make peace with Anne. Yet I was surprised when she agreed; I had not expected her to hear my plea. I did not expect Anne to listen, either, but she did. I wonder, now, if things would have happened as they did, had I not interfered. Perhaps Eleanor wanted only to gloat over her latest and most final victory, and not to mend matters as she said she would; perhaps Anne wanted to vent her anger and pain, and not to ease her heart. There is no way to know. I tell myself that if those things were true, what I did can have made no real difference. But I do not really believe it.

  All the world knows what happened next: how Anne and Eleanor went walking by the river that ran dark and swollen with snowmelt, and how only Anne returned, her dress torn, her hands scratched, and her hair in wild disarray. She told us Eleanor had slipped and fallen into the torrent, and she had struggled through the briars along the bank, trying without success to pull her out.

  My father sent his men off to search at once, of course. William was first among them, his eyes a little wild, and Anne looked away as he rode out. Then she collapsed, all in a heap. I was almost glad. Tending Anne gave me something to do while we waited for the men to return.

  They returned without Eleanor. I heard one of them say that with the river swollen as it was, she had doubtless been swept out to sea. Anne heard, too, and we wept together. Father sent more men for boats, though he must have known by then that it was hopeless. "At least we can bring her back to the churchyard," he said, and his voice cracked when he spoke.

  We were not allowed even so much as that. My father's men found nothing, though the fisherfolk, too, joined in the search. Three days later, there was a terrible storm, with wind and hail and lightning and the sea in a wild rage. Afterward, everyone could see that little likelihood remained of finding Eleanor's body. The priest said a memorial mass, and my father paid him for a year of daily prayers. Things began to slip back into the routine of ordinary days, save that when we glanced out at the kitchen garden, or in at the sewing rooms, or down
the long high table, we did not see Eleanor's bright hair, nor thought we ever would again.

  Anne took it hardest of us all. She picked at her food but ate little, and she slept hardly at all. After that first day, she never spoke of Eleanor but once. "She was so frightened," Anne told me, "and I could not pull her out. I could not."

  I did not know how to comfort her. Indeed, I was surprised that she should need comforting. The rest of the court might marvel at her devotion to her youngest sister, but I knew how little love had been lost between them. I thought it was the horror of watching Eleanor drown that shadowed Anne's eyes, and perhaps it was. Or perhaps she was lost without Eleanor to rail against. Perhaps.

  A month went by, and the grief of Eleanor's passing was no longer a sharp knife in the heart, but a dull, heavy burden that ached the muscles and tired the spirit. William stayed at court, and now and then I saw him watching Anne covertly. He had loved Eleanor, I was sure, but Eleanor was gone and he still wished to marry one of my father's daughters. It was too soon for him to transfer his affections back. Nonetheless, he could watch and judge his chances.

  I did not think they were good. Anne was not one to take such a slight as he had put on her and then return to him smiling when he crooked his finger. William did not understand that. Once, he tried to speak with her, and she walked away without answering. Later in the evening, I heard him telling Robert that it touched his heart to see how Anne grieved for his Eleanor. He knew that I was near, and he spoke louder than he needed; I think he meant for me to carry tales to Anne. But that I could not do, even if I would have. Anne spoke no more of William than she did of Eleanor. It was as if they had both died, together, in that swollen river.

  And then, suddenly, Midsummer was upon us. As was the custom, my father planned a feast, though none of us rejoiced in the prospect. It was to be the first great feast since Eleanor's death, and everywhere we turned we were reminded anew that she was no longer there.

  To turn our minds from the empty place at the high table, my father sent out word that any harpers who wished to join us would be welcomed and would have a chance to play before the king and queen and their daughters. Harpers are always guested and gifted, of course, for harpers are known to hold some of the old magic and it is ill luck to do otherwise, but in the normal course of things only the best perform in the great hall. My mother complained of it, when she heard. She said we would spend an evening listening to every bad and boring player who earned a bit of bread on the highways and in the taverns, but by then it was too late to take back the offer.

  For the most part, she was right. The harpers nearly outnumbered the guests at our Midsummer feast, and though Father set a limit of two songs apiece, each seemed to have chosen the two longest and most boring pieces he knew. It was nearing midnight when the last man rose to take his seat and play for us.

  He was a tall man, blond and full of bony angles. He did not move with the practiced grace of the other musicians, and he carried his harp case as if it were an infant.

  "My lord king, I bring you a wonder," he said, and even in those simple words, his voice was gold and silk.

  My father nodded. "Sit and play for us, harper."

  "I shall not play, my lord, but you shall hear a song the like of which no man has heard before."

  "If you do not play, why do you carry a harp?" my father asked.

  "It is the harp that plays," the minstrel said. His voice deepened and seemed to call shadows from all the corners of the room. "Listen, O king! For this is no ordinary harp. I made it of the bones of a drowned maiden I found upon the seashore and strung it with her hair, and as I worked I sang the ancient songs of magic, that the harp might sing in its turn. And now, indeed, it does. Hear the tale, and marvel!"

  With that, he opened the harp case with a flourish and set his instrument on the stone floor before him. He did not seem to notice the horror that dawned upon the faces of our guests at his bald claim, or the way my father's face had gone white when he mentioned the drowned girl, or how my mother swayed in her seat when he told what gruesome use he made of the body. His attention was all on the harp.

  A moment later, so was ours, for as soon as the minstrel stepped back, the harp began to play itself. One after another, the strings sang in notes of piercing strangeness, sweeter and more biting than the music of any ordinary harp. They filled the hall and echoed in the flickering shadows. The notes ran up and down the scale, then began to play a simple song, a tune that all of us had heard a hundred times and more. But the words that sang among the notes were no song any of us had heard before, and the voice that sang them . . . the voice was Eleanor's.

  "Mother and father, queen and king,

  Farewell to you, farewell I sing.

  Farewell to William, sweet and true,

  Farewell, dear sister Meg, to you.

  But woe to my fair sister Anne

  Who killed me for to take my man."

  The harp played its scale once more and then began to repeat the verse. We sat frozen, all of us—all of us but Anne. She rose, her lips white and stiff, and walked to the harp. As it reached the final lines, the lines that named her Eleanor's murderer, Anne picked up the harp and smashed it against the hearthstone with all her might.

  The bone splintered, stopping the music in a jangling discord. The jarring noises hung in the air long after Anne turned to face the assembled guests once more. She stood there, her chin high, every inch a king's daughter, while the last lingering sounds died into silence and the silence stretched into dismay and horror.

  It was the minstrel who broke the silence. "You have killed your sister a second time," he said to Anne in his beautiful, silken voice.

  Anne looked at him coldly. "Then that much of what she sang is true, now."

  My mother slid to the floor in a faint. My father stood, though he had to brace himself against the table to keep his feet without trembling. "Take her away," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "No!" I said before I thought.

  He turned to look at me. "Margaret, it must be," he said, and his tone was gentle, though I could see the effort it took for him to speak so. "You heard the harp. See to your mother." He turned back to the hall and repeated, "Take her away."

  The guards moved forward jerkily, like ill-managed puppets. I looked away, for I could not bear to watch. They took Anne quickly from the hall, and as the door closed behind them, the guests unfroze and began to murmur in low, stricken tones. I could not bear that, either. My mother's ladies were all around her, leaving nothing for me to do. I rose to leave.

  The minstrel stood beside the door, holding his empty harp case. He looked at me with sympathy. I think that under other circumstances, I might have liked him. "It is hard for you to compass," he said softly. "I am sorry for your hurt."

  I am not so good as Anne at giving people a look or a glare that freezes them to the bone, but I did the best I could. "You desecrated my sister's body, and for what? To cut up our peace and raise doubts where there were none."

  "To find out the truth," the minstrel said, but he sounded a little shaken.

  "The truth? What truth? My sister Eleanor was a liar all her life, and all her life cast the blame for her own errors on Anne. Why should death have changed that?"

  "The dead are beyond such pettiness."

  "Are they?" I said. "For most of what the harp sang, I do not know, but this much you can hear from anyone at court: 'William, sweet and true' was true to neither Anne nor Eleanor. And if the harp lied about that, why not about the other matters?"

  I left while he was still casting about for an answer. I was tired and sore at heart and much confused. I did not know what to believe. Eleanor was a liar, and I know better than anyone the lengths to which she would go to spite Anne. But Anne had a temper, and when it was roused . . . well, I could not help remembering the briars. She might have pushed Eleanor into the river the same way and regretted it after. She might have. But did she?

  We buried the
shattered remains of the harp, which were all we had of my sister's bones. The ceremony brought no one any peace or comfort. The memories of magic and possible murder clung too close, and the tiny coffin made everyone think of the minstrel plucking and coiling Eleanor's golden hair for harp strings, and shaping her finger bones into tuning pegs, and cutting apart her breastbone for the harp itself. It would have been better if someone had thought to use a coffin of ordinary size. At least then we could have pretended to forget what had been done to her.

  They could not try Anne for murder on the strength of a harp song, and that was all the proof they had. Still, after such an accusation, made in such a way, something had to be done. In the end, my father sent her to a convent to do penance among the sisters. She died of a chill less than six months later. She never denied what the harp had said, any more than she had ever denied Eleanor's lies in public. But the sisters say that she never confessed her guilt, either.

  And I? I am the only daughter now, and it is a hard position to fill alone. William, "bonny William, brave and true," gave the lie to the harp's description once more by making sheep's eyes at me almost before the convent doors had closed behind Anne. I sent him away, and I was firm enough about it that he has not returned, for which I am grateful. But there will be others like him soon enough.

  Even those who see me, Margaret, and not merely the king's last daughter, do not understand. They say I grieve too long for my sisters, that I should put their tragedy behind me. I grieve for Eleanor and Anne, yes, but it is my own guilt that takes me to the chapel every morning. If I had spoken sooner, if I had made our nurses and our tutors and our parents see the depth of the rivalry between Anne and Eleanor, perhaps one of them could have put a stop to it before it ended in this horror. At the least, perhaps they would have listened when I tried to make them see that the harp was not to be believed without question.