For a Song Read online

  For a Song

  Kathleen Scarth

  Copyright

  © 1998 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  one

  Adlerschloss

  Southwestern Bavaria

  1327 a.d.

  An untimely March snow melted in the thin morning sunshine as Margarethe hugged herself for warmth at the open castle window. Though she wore a blue wool tunic over her woolen smock and a purple velvet surcoat over that, it was still much too cold to be comfortable. But Father Bernard had not yet arrived for her lessons, and she refused to sit by the fire like some old village woman at her spinning wheel.

  This third-story window in the room where she had studied since she was seven offered a view of both bailey and countryside. She knew every outbuilding, the stables, the gardens, the great round towers atop crenellated walls. Uncle Einhard was quite proud of his castle, built in the modern style in this, the fourteenth century since the coming of Christ.

  She could see beyond the walls to rolling hills and forests, fertile farmlands stirring to life in spite of their light blanket of white. Somewhere out there—over the horizon and many furlongs distant—there was fighting and bloodshed. But here in her own corner of Bavaria, the seasons came and went on schedule, undisturbed by man’s foolish disputes over boundaries and borders.

  Margarethe left off her musings, for she had spotted something more interesting nearer at hand. A kitchen maid, plump as a Christmas pudding, stood against the stone wall by the brewery door. She glanced up, her mouth dropping open as she met Margarethe’s eye, then took her hand from the folds of her russet cloak to reveal a large snowball. Margarethe grinned and put a finger to her lips, signaling her complicity. The maid resumed her vigil in anticipation of the ambush.

  At that moment Margarethe heard Father Bernard’s ponderous approach through the rushes in the hallway, and tucked a stray wisp of hair back under her cap. She turned and beckoned him over to the window. He joined her just in time to see the kitchen maid hurl her snowball at the brewer.

  It struck the fellow on the shoulder, and he started after the maid, but slipped in the mud, flailing his arms and legs to avoid a fall. The maid’s laughter rang out, rising to drift through the open shutters and mingle with Margarethe’s and Father Bernard’s. Hearing them, the ruddy-faced brewer looked up and gave a jaunty little wave.

  Father Bernard saluted him and turned to Margarethe, who closed the shutters and drew the draperies against the chill. “A good morning to you, my lady. Pray forgive my tardiness. I was detained by your uncle.” He bowed and smiled.

  Margarethe’s breath caught in her throat at the sadness clouding his dear old face. She did not protest when Father Bernard took her arm and led her over to the study table near the fire. “Did my uncle say something that would lead you to believe he is thinking of. . .ending my time as your student soon?”

  Father Bernard was exceedingly gentle as he seated her. “He is considering several matrimonial prospects for you now that you have seen sixteen summers.”

  Margarethe sighed and settled into her chair at the spot where she had studied for nearly nine years. “Then I am glad it’s too muddy to send messengers to the Schwarzwald. Uncle Einhard can’t arrange for me to marry anyone without my parents’ approval.”

  Her parents, whom she had seen but a few times since being fostered here at the age of seven to study musci with her Aunt Mechthild, seemed so far away. She understood why they had visited so seldom: with the floods of the past few years, the road were near to being bogs. And even in fair weather, there was always the threat of highwaymen and thieves, or soldiers marching to join “Otto’s war,” as he uncle called it. As it was, she had grown to love her aunt and uncle dearly, as well as her old teacher and a certain other.

  “Your family loves you far too much not to choose wisely for you.” Father Bernard regarded her kindly, tapping a finger on the sturdy oak table, then continued. “Your Uncle Otto will be here for supper tonight.”

  “He is no uncle of mine!” Margarethe scowled, then quickly sobered. “I am torn, Father. Should I pray that the mud lingers so that messengers can’t get through? Or should I pray that the mud dries up so that Lord Otto and his sons will stop bothering about me and go back to their silly war?”

  There was a note of reproval in the priest’s voice. “Any of Lord Otto’s sons would make a fine match for you, Margarethe. All hold lands nearby.”

  “And holding land is vital to a match, I know.” She could not restrain her bitterness and was relieved when her old tutor opened a book to begin their studies.

  After the Latin lesson, they reviewed the medicinal properties of borage, peppermint, and loosestrife. Margarethe was reminded once again of the passage of time. She had seen a few daffodils this morning blooming bravely in the snow by the herb garden.

  Father Bernard took his leave early. “Willem has asked for extra time with you today,” he said, while Margarethe carefully schooled her face to a look of disinterest. “I believe he has in mind practicing a new song to entertain your uncle’s supper guests.”

  “Very well, Father.” At the mention of the music instructor’s name, Margarethe had felt her pulse quicken. “I am looking forward to our history lesson tomorrow.”

  As soon as he left, she pulled a strand of hair from her cap, curling it around one finger, then shook out her surcoat over her tunic. Pinching her cheeks for color, she hurried to fetch her lute and was tuning it when Willem appeared, his steps silent except for the whisper of the rushes.

  She smiled up at him, and he held her gaze as he bowed over her hand. He was wearing a new green tunic in a shade that brought out the blue of his eyes by contrast. “Good morning, my lady. I see that you are already hard at work.”

  “Certainly, good sir,” she replied, allowing herself a slightly flirtatious tone. “I am weary with studying and, were my relative not coming tonight, would enjoy playing only a few simple tunes today.”

  Willem shook his head. “Alas, it is not to be. Lord Einhard advised me that a special song was in order for this evening.” He slanted her a knowing look. “I thought we might introduce our latest composition.”

  She sighed, dropping the banter for the moment. “I suppose. I do wish you’d let me play some easier part for the instrumental passage, though. My fingers aren’t wise to it yet.” She looked down at her lute to hide her smile.

  Willem came and sat beside her with his homespun bag of wind instruments. “It is you who composed the words and the melody. And since that passage is my only contribution to the piece, do let it remain.” He dropped his gaze to her hands on the lute. “Those fingers may be soft, my lady, but they are nimble and skillful beyond your admission.”

  She felt a blush stain her cheeks, and hastened to tune the last string. “Besides, no one will notice any mistakes as long as you don’t grimace.”

  Margarethe laughed.

  Willem strummed his own instrument, and they played some chords to warm their fingers before applying themselves to the new song. It was a love song, to be performed as a duet, and it would have been most pleasant were it not for that tricky part.

  They ran through the tune several times. Then, tiring of the tedious exercise, Margarethe grinned mischievously. “I think I need your help with this, Willem. Can you show me once more how to get my
two hands to work together?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and glanced out the doorway. “I would have thought by now, you’d be able to do this quite easily.” His look was one of amusement before he tiptoed to the thick timber door and pulled it closed.

  Coming around behind her chair, Willem bent over, putting his hands over hers and guiding her through the intricate passage so she could get a feel for the places where the fingering changes intersected with the plucking pattern. Margarethe, savoring his closeness, missed a few notes.

  “You’re not paying attention, my lady,“ Willem chided, his breath warm on her cheek.

  “Oh, I am paying attention—but not to the music.”

  His familiar chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “Play it through once more.”

  She played it again—better than before. “I think you must be part magician—so artfully do you instruct me.”

  “It is you who have enchanted me—with your skill and beauty,” he whispered, then rose to fetch a chair near hers. “Let us try the Schwarzwald tune, but without the lyrics. I would speak with you without being overheard.”

  Margarethe nodded and began strumming the simple song about the Black Forest, where she had spent her early years with her father and mother and a little sister she barely remembered. There were only a few memories of the call of the cuckoo bird, and running on forest paths, gilded by slivers of sunlight through the thick canopy of trees, and playing and hide and seek with neighboring children. “What would you speak with me about?” she asked with a sinking heart.

  “Lord Einhard has asked me to compose new music to celebrate. . .a certain occasion.”

  “What occasion is that?”

  “Your betrothal.”

  She stumbled over a chord. “My betrothal? But when? And to whom?”

  “He mentioned May Day, I believe.” Willem turned to regard her in surprise. “And you have no notion who it is to be?”

  “I only know who I want it to be.” She fought the lump in her throat, then concentrated on her playing.

  They played without further conversation for a full chorus before Willem broke the somber silence so at odds with the cheerful song. “Though I am a nobleman, I have no prospect of acquiring land. My brother is not in poor health, nor is he given to war. I cannot ask him to divide the land with me, for there is not enough for both of us. And I am a second son, as you know, and there is no remedy for that.”

  “Second sons often end up as priests or monks.” In this case, Margarethe mused, it was not a happy thought.

  “I am grateful that I did not, else I could never have been even this close to you, sweet Greta.”

  Margarethe frowned as she played the lively tune. “I care nothing for land or palaces. I want only to be with the man I love,” she said, leaning close so Willem could catch her words above the music.

  “But we knew this day would come. I am praying for strength when the time comes, but I fear I cannot bear to see you wed to another. By summer, I might have become a traveling minstrel or even a foot-soldier—anything to be away from here on your wedding day.”

  Margarethe nodded, not trusting her voice, and a tear slid down her face as Willem signaled the end of the song. He wiped the tear with his finger and anointed his own cheek with it, smiling sadly. “Do you remember the first time we spoke openly of our love?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “We would not have spoken of it then, except I was so young and impetuous.”

  “I had wounded you,” he admitted, tenderly caressing her hand, “though completely unintentionally. It will be two years come summer—that day when we rode out to our creek.”

  Margarethe remained silent, remembering.

  “You did not mean it, but I, too, was hurt that day,” he said. “In my heart I knew I loved you, though I had not confessed it. We sat side by side on the grass by the creek while you tossed daisies onto the surface of the water. Then you asked me, ‘I want to know why you do not love me anymore.’”

  “I’m sorry, Willem. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know. Nevertheless, the truth of your words stung like the tip of a lance. I had indeed been pushing you away. I could not permit you to continue your childish displays of affection for me. But I should have explained. I should not have turned my face from your kisses or held you away from me without a word. Still, I hoped you would understand.”

  “I understood only that the man I loved no longer loved me.”

  His laugh was brittle. “Ha! Nothing could have been further from the truth. I loved you from the day we met—sweet mischief and all. But as you blossomed from a child into a woman, I knew that I must put away all such thoughts of love. There would be no hope for us ever to marry.”

  Margarethe stormed to her feet and paced in front of the blazing fire in the grate. “It’s all so unfair! That I should be forced to wed someone I don’t love and be denied the one person in all the world I do love!”

  When her fury subsided, Willem risked a comment. “I never told you, but I was tempted by your logic.”

  Hope renewed, she returned to her place beside him. “Were you?”

  His eyes roamed her face as he reached for her hands. “I’m afraid so. . .until the next day, when we made up our rules.”

  “I never did agree to the no kissing rule,” she maintained.

  “How well I know, little one. But it was necessary. You will be glad one day that you never kissed me.”

  “Ah, but I have kissed you.”

  “Not since you were no taller than a yearling fawn. And not since we each guessed the other’s true feelings.”

  ”Only because you won’t let me!” She pursed her lips in a pout. “Tell me again why we may not kiss anymore.”

  Willem’s usual explanation was accompanied by a playful grin. “Because once your lips have touched mine, you would be completely spoiled for anyone else’s kisses forever.”

  “Oh, now I remember.” She gave him a coy smile. “Some-times I feel I should like to take a chance, though. Then at least I would have something pleasant to remember you by.”

  “Ah, Liebchen, we are not prophets that we can foretell what is to come. Perhaps there is still a chance for us.” Margarethe searched his eyes, but they held no spark of promise. “Come, let’s stand and stretch. We should practice the vocals before the hour’s end.”

  She heaved another sigh and rose. “Could we stand near the window then? I want to see if our kitchen maid is still throwing snowballs.”

  Willem led the way to the window and opened the shutters, then tipped his head to one side as he studied the landscape. “Snowballs? You have not looked out lately. There is no snow.”

  Margarethe followed his gaze out over the bailey where the snow had melted and added its moisture to the mud and bourght traces of green to the soft bosom of the earth in the fields. With resignation, she looked again toward the gardens, where a few of the daffodils she had seen earlier, struggled to open to the meager sun.

  Spring was surely on its way. She could do nothing to slow its arrival, nor the arrival of May Day—day her betrothal would be announced. The day two hearts would break.

  two

  Supper was a lavish affair. Following an oxtail soup flavored with leeks and garlic, the servants processed from the kitchens, bearing great platters of roasted pheasant nested in a bed of rice, wild boar with apples, and a rack of lamb. There were cheeses and breads and even exotic preserved foods from Spain.

  Much to Margarethe’s discomfort, Lord Otto and his four sons were seated at her table, along with Lord Einhard and Lady Mechthild. So there was to be no escape from boring conversation this night. It was all she could do to avoid casting glances in Willem’s direction. As was the custom he, along with the other hirelings of the household, was seated at a lower table off to the side.

  She made the best of the situation, chatting with her dinner companions, but welcomed the meal’s finale—an elegant marzipan fashioned in the shape of a bear, th
e heraldic symbol of the House of Beroburg, in honor of their guest and his family. Now maybe they could get on with the musical entertainment, which—next to Willem—was her true passion in life.

  His light touch on her shoulder sent a trail of tingles down her spine, and she rose to join him in front of the assembled guests, grateful for his rescue. They strummed a few chords, then began with some of the older songs, calling for the assembled crowd to join in on the chorus.

  After a time, Willem whispered, “Are you ready to try the new piece, my lady?”

  “As ready as I shall ever be,” she assured him, willing away the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. What if they didn’t find her melody pleasing?

  He gave her a furtive wink and turned to address the hall. Margarethe was attending to the tuning of her lute, so missed his opening remarks until she heard him mention her name. “My lady wrote the song—both words and music. As her instructor, I could hardly allow such audacity,” he paused to allow for a ripple of laughter, “so added an instrumental passage of my own. But for that single addition, this is the Lady Margarethe’s own composition.”

  Willem’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at her. She could hardly miss the fact that he was as handsome as ever—dressed as well as any of the lords in attendance, but in brighter colors. His parti-colored green and purple tunic reflected her own gown tonight, as he had requested. And even her aunt had entered into the preparations, persuading her to leave off her girlish cap and substitute instead a veil and circlet. The effect, she’d had to admit, was quite different from her everyday look. “Enchanting,” Willem had murmured just before they’d taken the stage.

  He nodded his readiness now, and she led out on the lute. It was always a joy to perform with him, but tonight it was as if they had been created to sing together, so flawlessly did their voices blend.

  They sang the simple verses by turns, beginning with Margarethe:

  Cheerful did the sun shine, sparkling on the brook,