Chapter 3: The Ghost Song
Margaret returned to the castle, entering by way of the kitchen, where she was wont to return from the forest and the brookside with armloads of vegetation. "Burda, please bring me a bucket of water," she called, and went into the scullery to fetch a vase. She selected a heavy, pale green glass vessel, poured water into it, and arranged the apple blossoms to her satisfaction. As she did so, she heard again the soft voice of the young man and saw him handling the knife to cut the branches. Her mind began to fill with questions-- who was he, why was he in the wood, and how was it that he knew her? How had she not heard his horse's approach? What of his strange apparel, his lilting accent? She stared into the mass of pink-white blossoms for a few moments, consumed by the faint fragrance that filled her head; then she turned away and asked that the flowers be brought up to the bower at once.
At that moment Elora entered the scullery and was only mildly surprised to find Margaret there, but she paused as she would have limped by and stared at Margaret wonderingly, and with her hand turned Margaret's chin toward her.
"What is it, Elora?" Said Margaret, thinking that she would be obliquely confronted about her covert trip to the forest.
"Why, young Lady ...You look lovely this morning," she said, and turned to continue on her way. "...Like you have just arrived from Faerie Land."
Margaret met Burda, a great strong woman who was but little encumbered by the large vessel, at the door of the bower and motioned her to the bedside of Hildreth, who lay dead to the world. After Burda had left, Margaret, who had rinsed her feet in the kitchen, slipped into bed beside her, but lay thinking ...of Roald's forgivable rudeness. Of Rivanone's affection for a man whom she had not chosen. Of her father's heartbreak over the loss of her mother and the love he now poured into his grist-mill and his bridges... and of the gray-blue eyes that searched the apple tree for the best withies. They held no threat, nor the brittle overworked courtesy with which Margaret had got used to the knights and the noble sons trying to impress her.
It occurred to Margaret suddenly to wonder at this. By his speech and manner and by the gold brooch fastening his cloak, and by the accouterments of the horse and the sword and shield hanging from the saddle, he was as a young knight, yet he had not been among the knights guesting in the castle.
"Nobly born is not noble in heart," Rivanone would say. But noble birth would be required of a fitting suitor, whatever the state of his heart. She thought again of Roald, and her conversation with Aunt Rivanone. She and Roald had been childhood friends. He was wealthy and well-connected, her father cast an approving eye on him, and once he achieved knighthood, he would very likely come looking for her as a bride... could she love him, as Rivanone loved Just? She gazed over at Hildreth and almost envied the simplicity with which she had unquestioningly given her heart to the man on whom Lord Gregory's favor had rested, and Herrick had returned her earnestness; now it was their wedding day. After this day, attention would turn to the question of Margaret's own marriage. She had much to think about, to sort through and talk to Aunt Rivanone about, and soon...
Hildreth stirred and opened her eyes. "Oh, look! How lovely, Maggie! You knew they are my favorite, oh thanks! How did you get them?" She told her sister of sneaking down to the brook, but did not tell all that had happened there; her story seemed somehow inappropriate in the face of Hildreth's excitement.
"After tonight, you'll have this bed all to yourself," she murmured.
"Will you be lonely for me?" Margaret teased.
"Not a bit!" They giggled quietly.
"You'll be mistress to footmen and handmaidens ...You and Herrick will have your own bower together..."
"I am excited. But, Margaret-- it will never be the same. I have always lived at Aldene and with you here, and in these last months I've been so eager to be wed and away from this frontier to Prim Briar, closer to Fearnon's castle and the court of Queen Charis-- who wouldn't be excited!-- but suddenly I feel terribly homesick for our knoll by the river, and the times we squabbled over my shifts you wanted to wear, and everything that has made this our home ...I've decided I want you to have this," she said, sitting up and removing a gold chain with a cross pendant from over her head. "Take it quick, ere I change my mind," she said, smiling through misting eyes. When Margaret hesitated, Hildreth put it over her sister's head, and pulled it down in front while lifting Margaret's heavy, dark hair out from under the gold chain with her other hand. Margaret was almost aghast.
"This is your favorite! Mother gave it to you." She raised the pendant and examined the cross, with rose brambles twined around it. She had coveted it for as long as she could remember. Now it was hers and the reality of Hildreth's leaving pierced her heart.
"It is very old, and no one at Caer Prim will know what it means to me, but you always will. And you'll think of me often when you admire it..." Margaret's eyes overflowed, and Hildreth wrapped her arms around her. After a few moments she patted Margaret's back. "We must get up! Come!"
Soon all the girls were awakening and servants bringing water for washing and bread for breaking the fast. Then began the dressing that occupied the morning. Elora appeared with servants who carried in Hildreth's wedding apparel. Elora presided for a short while until she could be assured that things were going correctly. When Aunt Rivanone appeared, who was to be matron of honor, Elora repaired next to the chapel. Hildreth was arrayed by the servants and Rivanone bound up her hair in a married woman's braids, and made sure that none of the young girls was applying too much perfume oil from a tiny glass-and-gold flask that one of them had brought. Margaret combed her hair less hastily than before, and looked into the wardrobe, where the satin dress she had selected days before seemed suddenly too bright. It had been patterned after one that Hildreth had and Margaret had coveted, and was a bright rose, shiny and brocaded, with gold beaded trim about the neck, sleeves and hem ...She sighed, and laid it neatly back down, telling herself she must not outshine the bride with gaudy colors. She chose instead a simpler, yet more finely-made gown of a pale rose, like the apple blossoms which Hildreth would twine into her long plaits; apple blossoms he had cut for her. For in every spare moment of her sister's wedding day, her thoughts ran down the half mile to the brook, for like a strange dream that wakes one, her mind kept returning there, and dwelling on the face of the stranger, and the words they had spoken with each other.
The nave of the church was packed with persons, the high and low of the country had come for the spectacle of a wedding of nobles; even the laborers wore their whitest tunics and newest of dresses, and the girls' hair was entwined with flowers. Ribbands and flowers adorned heads and arms and hats; small boys even tied them to wands and waved them about. The wedding had been planned to fall just after plowing was done, and a message had been cried among the people imploring all to take the morning off from planting and weeding and washing to be part of the festivities. Within the bailey wall an outdoor kitchen prepared a feast for the peasants on the parade ground, and wine and ale casks were rolled down; they would have their own dancing and music and games.
Margaret had seen many weddings in this church; when she was younger she and Hildreth would beg their nurse, Tyna, to take them down to the chapel to see the peasants' much simpler nuptials; after Tyna had herself wed and moved from the castle, Margaret had brought Varda down. Most of these took place after plowing, before hoeing of rows was needful or fruits ripening; so the month of June was the favored time, also after the harvest was in and before the lambing began; so these weddings were a part of the Advent season's diversion as well.
But no wedding had been so exciting, nor held such importance for Margaret personally as Hildreth's. Margaret stood in place with her family, and when Hildreth approached the altar, Margaret nearly gasped at the vision of beauty that her sister presented, though she herself had been among those dressing and grooming her. Beneath the veil, Hildreth looked like a Viking princess, her carriage and expression bearing a distinction Mar
garet had never truly seen in her. When Lord Gregory lifted the veil, kissed her, and placed her hand in Herrick's, Margaret knew the joy that pierces, in seeing them united, the radiance of their faces, the beauty of the words of their vows and the two being made one, yet keenly she knew also that Hildreth was no longer her own companion, that from this day she would only rarely see her sister, that she was losing her, and of course she had not appreciated Hildreth for the princess she was while she had her for her own ...God bless Elora, who discreetly pressed into her hand a soft kerchief from her position behind and to her left.
So it was a rather depleted and wan, yet almost relieved Margaret, who emerged from the church when the ceremony was over and followed the procession to Caer Aldene; she was glad the attention was focused elsewhere. She slipped up the stairs to her bower and took water from the jug to wet a cloth and cool her face. She lay across her bed and spread the cloth over her eyes, for they were red; she wished she had thought ahead and made eyebright tea to wash heartsore eyes.
After a few moments she forced herself to arise. "I cannot lay here feeling sorry for myself on my sister's wedding-day, all overwrought and pathetic. Arise and shine, Maggie!" she told herself, and walked to the mirror to examine briefly her reflection. How she had always coveted Hildreth's fashionable fairness and blond brows; Margaret had her mother's dark hair and brows like two black wing-feathers. These frowned together as she smoothed her hair under her golden bridal wreath. She tried to picture herself in Hildreth's place, floating radiant down the aisle… and was surprised to find that the face that awaited her at the other end of the aisle of her daydream was that of the stranger she had met by the brook.
"I do not even know his name," she said to her reflection, who in her thoughts, replied, But, he is the one.
Margaret shook her head, blinking her eyes.
The mullioned window of the girls' bower was paned with amber glass for privacy; Margaret now wanted the sun to stream in and the fresh air to clear her head before going down to the crowded hall. She unlatched the window and swung it open.
The view took in, over a turreted wall, the hills rolling down to the Briar River. The sky was filled with ragged white puffs of cloud with sapphire in between. The sun was warm on her face, the breeze fresh, almost bracing, and scented of earth; it had the desired effect of rousing her from her introspection. She looked over the brown, furrowed fields, empty today of the ox-teams that had populated them these past days; beyond was common pasture dotted with sheep, and here and there a milkcow. From here she could not see the village, hard by the bailey on the south side, or the cobbled road that went through the village and then turned west and unwound itself down the long plain that nearly vanished in the distance. Instead the view took in the rolling fields and pastures on the near side of the Briar River. Farther away, rougher clearings gave way to forested hills that footed the wild mountains to the east, through which only rough tracks too steep to ride horseback twisted to the wild coast, where only hermits dwelt with the seals in the rocky cliffs over the White Sea. But her thoughts did not roam any farther today than the brook and the apple grove...To a kind voice and rough, gentle hands cutting flowering branches.
She was hardly even conscious of these thoughts when she became aware of a clear tune cutting the late morning air. Looking down into the courtyard, where house sparrows chorused under tiled eaves, she spied a figure seated alone on a stone bench, playing a viol very sweetly. "Troubadour! Gilling!" she cried, and his face looked up and a smile lit the bearded face, and Margaret waved.
She went to find Elora to tell her that he had come. On the stairs she realized that Elora would be very much busied with supervising the goings-on in the Hall and that her feelings about her prodigal son were mixed. Margaret always had liked Gilling, with his stories of his travels and his ready songs and tunes. She decided instead to go and see him herself. For a moment she wondered how he had entered the door of the castle and won the courtyard, but Gilling could charm the whiskers from a wildcat.
She emerged into the courtyard and he looked up. Rather than acknowledge her directly, Gilling leapt up and played his viol.
On sharp-prowed ships I late have flown
O'er silvered waves, o'er blowing foam
To Isle Erin, fair and green
To see what there was to be seen.
I heard there harps, like bells a-ring
I heard pipes like fierce angels sing
But Isle Erin, emerald-green
Was not to me as Isle Ardine.
On sharp-prowed ships I late have blown
O'er silvered waves, o'er flowing foam
To Angeln, of all isles the queen
To see what there was to be seen.
Cathedrals full of rainbow light
Crowned great cities, strong and wide
But Angeln, of all isles, the queen
Was not to me as Briardene.
On sharp-prowed ship I late have flown
O'er silvered waves, o'er blowing foam
To Gallia and Italy
To see what there was to be seen.
The knights and noble ladies there
Were brave and lofty, rich and fair
But kings and queens were not to me
As Margaret of Caer Aldene.
Gilling ended with a resounding note and a flourishing bow, at which Margaret clapped delightedly, jumping up herself like a child in joy. Margaret curtsied to his bow, then turned toward the passage from the courtyard to the hall, for she really must appear soon, or cause a search to be made in her behalf.
There was feasting and dancing all day, and music, and honey mead, and flower garlands swagged over glossy carved beams. There were jewels and gleaming gold and scented hair. Young girls giggled in beautiful, feverish bevies. Dignified ladies and whiskered gents smiled in genteel clusters. Young men grinned, foppish or posturingly manly...All of which worked to divert and comfort Margaret; she threw herself into the festivities.
She minded not Roald's renewed efforts to deport himself gentlemanly around her, and generously tried to make him comfortable. At some point in the day she noted that Lord Gregory was talking with Lord Eldred; his glance and a gesture took in Roald and herself and she wished that, like Hildreth, she could set her heart on him so easily. He was, after all, a good friend and a good prospect for her ...Margaret sighed. Her eyes roamed the attractive company, and she knew well that there was a face she hoped to see. If only she had a name to drop in the hearing of Elora so that she might find something out!
The guests had turned out to watch the dancing of the villagers-- the farmers with bells tied to their shins and ribbons on their sleeves, the little maidens upon whom all strewed flowers as they danced and sang, the women who danced in a circle, some with infants slung across their sides, and the young boys who danced with stakes and clashed them together in time to the thumping of the bodhran drum. The nobles had in turn danced for the villagers in their fine clothing, and all had drunk a health together to Lady Hildreth and her knight.
The longbows had been brought from the armory for a tourney, Margaret herself showing fair skill. Then there was jousting, staff-fighting, and wrestling and horse-races across the lower pastures.
Later, when darkness was falling and most had retired to the hall, Gilling appeared with his viol. Gilling could have been a court musician in any hall in Ardinéa, could have been richly kept and held in esteem; but to his mother's everlasting chagrin, he would not be held to any hall; but longed to wander from place to place, returning after months or years, sometimes ragged and starving, sometimes full fed and wearing gold rings and velvet. But he was beloved in Caer Aldene, and the news he brought from far lands was always welcome.
"Hail and well-met, friend Gilling, "called Lord Gregory, who had learned of his timely return and anticipated his appearance. Gilling bowed deeply with his viol. The other musicians, seeing him, ended their tune and retreated in the direction
of the wine-casks. As was his wont, Gilling dispensed with speech but instead cut right into a flamboyant reel. After introducing the theme, he could expound and explore with variations that built all the while on a soaring rhythm which could set the most refined, slipper-clad toe to tapping.
Just as soon as he had climaxed and demurely cadenced this caprice, and before the applause had died away, Gilling cried out, "Here is news indeed, a lay which I have translated from the Gallic, which concerns events on the continent of great interest!" And playing the viol low on his chest, he loosed his clear, strong voice.
The lay concerned the marriage of a Frankish Chieftain's daughter, a beauty named Lisane, to the king of a warring tribe of wealthy barbarians, thus securing peace along their borders, or so they had thought. The Barbarian King's brother, Prince Hervé, attempted a coup which failed, but he had carried off the Queen. The Barbarian King had pursued his brother into the Frankish King's lands, violating the treaty which the marriage had sealed. In the ensuing battle of three armies-- the Franks, the Barbarians and Hervé's men-- the Barbarian King was killed by an arrow. His brother surrendered and was crowned king after all-- by the Frankish King, whose daughter Lisane herself requested to go with him. So King Hervé and Queen Lisane had removed to their country, and peace was secured for the neighbors after all.
The lay was thus ended, and was merrily acclaimed; the band rejoined the Troubadour, and several songs later the singer, mopping sweat from his brow, withdrew toward the side door, where he exited. Margaret, seated with the family group, turned to Varda's nurse who stood near, and asked that she find a servant to carry little Varda, who leaning upon her had fallen fast asleep, up to the bower. When Burda had carried her away followed by the nurse, Margaret stood and turned to a knight, a friend of her father's who stood nearby who, though rough-looking, she knew to be mild-mannered. "Gareth, I would like to take a turn in the garden," she said; he offered his arm and accompanied her out the same side door.
Torches lit the pavilion immediately outside; the wind was picking up and clouds were rolling in from the west, promising rain. She heard Gilling's music in the White Rose garden, and Gareth led her in. The fiddling ceased; she could see that he was listening to another of the musicians talk to him; a lute player with a fine tenor voice. He was telling the traveler that he had gotten a good song from a mutual acquaintance, to which Gilling then said, "Let us hear it, then!"
The young lutenist gladly plucked at the double-strung lute and sang it out as others seeking the fresh air turned into the garden and stood listening or half-listening. After the first few lines, Gilling joined in with his viol, and the bystanders joined the chorus.
Tamlyn was a noble's son and knighted by the King
And he was a comely one, on his war-horse riding
He rode out of an evening all for to go to war
But the maid who bid farewell was not to see him more.
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
Will you go through the Linden Wood, and what will come of thee?
But go thou through the Beechen Wood, Tamlyn, for love of me.
I have no fear of the Linden Wood, my truelove, said he,
And I will ride the Linden Wood all for love of thee.
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
He's mounted on his good black steed, his squire's gone before
And he's away through Linden Wood to ride him west for war.
Evening found him tarrying still in that dismal place
The sun was gone, the Harvest Moon had not dared show her face
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
His squire told a fearsome tale that wrung the lady's heart
How he missed Tamlyn and turned and back again did start
But he heard a fearsome noise of thunder and of bells
As if they were ridden down all by a troop from hell
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
He turned into the trees and hid behind a mossy stone
Clamor from the legion passing chilled him to the bone
Only in the morning light, awakened by the rain
Did the squire dare to take the wooded path again
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
Tamlyn's horse came riderless, its head a-hanging down
He rode not from the Linden Wood, nor was he ever found
But moonlit nights by the green wood, still he may be seen
A comely and a noble ghost-- The soul of Tamlyn.
It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.
The song ended with clapping from the small crowd that was growing around the musicians.
"A goodly tale," said Margaret. "Almost it makes one to be afraid to go to the woods," she said lightly, but in fact she almost shivered inwardly; being of the kind of nature very much affected by stories and music, and thinking of her own surprise in the woods that morning.
Gareth said, "In fact, I knew Tamlyn; we were pages together at Caer Cynrose. He was a good friend. I saw him occasionally as a squire, and attended his knighting. And it is not altogether a made-up tale; but he rode away on the last day in October, and his horse returned the very next day unharmed, saddlebags full-- so it was known that he had not been robbed, or attacked by wild beasts; but no trace was ever found of him."
"Aye, and that he has been seen is also no tale," put in Lady Phoebe, who with Roald and others had joined the crowd flowing into the garden. "Friar Jonah described to us a man answering his description, whom he met returning from visiting a hermit in the east wilds, while walking by moonlight. Friar Jonah is a man of great learning, not given to fantasy, either."
"I have heard that he was taken captive under the mountain, and I half believe it," said Roald's younger sister, Bissa.
"But that couldn't be true, since we can no more see elves than angels," said Lady Anne Gay. This led to more talk of supposed sightings, and speculations of what may have become of the man. Though Margaret had not heard of the story, it was apparent that it had been a fashionable topic of conversation at less remote courts than Caer Aldene before.
A wag in the crowd declared, "As for his truelove weeping these seven years; his betrothed, Lady Coulomb, eloped with Sir Tristun five years ago!"
"Lady Coulomb, the white bird!" called Gilling, and broke into a well-known song, joined by many voices in the group in the garden.
Ah! Love is like a bird
It lights on whom it may,
But rise the hand to grasp
And the bird will fly away....
Margaret swayed slightly. She realized that her early rising was taking its toll and she was utterly exhausted. Hildreth and Herrick had slipped off hours ago. Under cover of the song she stole away to her bower and her empty bed.