Elizabeth Hopkinson

        

         My heart is steadfast, O God;

         I will sing and make music with all my soul.

         Awake, harp and lyre!

         I will awaken the dawn.

                           Psalm 108:1,2

        

1.         For the director of music. To [the tune of] "The Death of the Son." A psalm of David. (Psalm 9).

        

         He arrived in spring. It was three years since my hope had ended and, for the first time, I did not regret it.

         All women are sinful and caused the Fall; this is common knowledge. At least it is since the new priest arrived to teach us correctly. Father Bartholomew only knew three tales: our Lord walking on the water, Jonah in the belly of the whale, and the resurrection (and he confused those), and spent most of his time caring for the infirm and tilling God's Acre, since he could not read. I think it was because of him that I decided to take the veil, even though I now know he was a pathetic, ill-educated excuse for a priest, unworthy to shepherd a flock. Now even the unlettered must learn their scripture and we must all confess our sins regularly. But I have never confessed the Visions. That, I suppose, is the sin that caused Roger's fall, and led the family into greater wrongdoing.

         In our small manor there is little to cause them. Father Antony's masses all look like brown sludge. But Father once took me to the great Cathedral, years ago when Roger was still with us. The Kyrie Eleison was like gold rain and the Gloria was hundreds of pale blue triangles rising up to the beams. I thought at the time that they were pointing up to heaven. But the next Christmas, the songs of the wassailers became fiery darts. There is nothing heavenly about that. I do not even like to think the word witchcraft. I dread to think that I might be evil when all my desire is towards holiness, so I keep my mouth shut. I know what Father Antony would say.

         Before Roger's misfortune, I think I had almost convinced Mother and Father to accept my vocation, even though it would have meant going right out to the coast to join the nearest abbey. Now new religious houses spring up like mushrooms. The new one beyond the wood lot will be finished before harvest; I see men going past to work on it. I expect it will not be long before the sisters arrive and a new cycle of work and prayer begins. That was the life I hoped for. I could not see myself happy as an ornament to a knight, supervising his kitchen and bearing his heirs. I wanted to educate myself beyond what I received at home—and certainly beyond my priest's three tales, which I had surpassed in the cradle! I wanted to learn to write. I wanted to sing Psalms and (yes, I cannot deny the sinful desire) to see what new forms and colors they would take when raised by the voices of the nuns throughout the changing seasons. But Roger's accident changed that and I knew the inevitable would arrive. That spring it did, in the form of Sir Rowland.

         The manor was in uproar that morning. Mother was all fuss and flap. "Stand up straight, Eleanor. Remember what I taught you. Are you wearing the amber beads?" The household was assembled in the courtyard at the risk of ruining the dinner, and my back was itching where one awkward beam of sunlight shone straight at the seam of my woolen dress. Sir Rowland owned three hundred acres and was a favorite of the Baron. He was thirty years old (positively ancient to my eyes), rode a black horse, and I had not seen him for five years.

         At first I thought he had brought a squire with him. But a squire better dressed than his master would be an unusual thing indeed. The cut of his tunic alone, the quality of the cloth, suggested a level of wealth that surpassed even what I remembered from Grandfather's castle in distant childhood, when Mother's family had been one of the first in the county. And such a squire! Father Antony had preached on the lusts of the flesh, but I had never imagined such a pleasant feeling as I got looking into those black eyes. Perhaps Mother had been mistaken about the arrangement? No, one with such fine features, such a lithe athletic form, would wed a princess at the very least.

         "Courtesy, Eleanor!"

         My mother's hissing command brought me to my knees in a deep curtsey. Father and Sir Rowland were bowing low to each other. I heard the knight murmur something about "escort," and then I felt his cold blue eyes boring into me. I hoped he would find my hips too slender, but even that thought could not hold me for long. The squire was dismounting. He leapt from the saddle with the lightness and grace of an angel, his hair blowing about his face in the breeze. He wore no mail of any kind; that was an unusual risk in these parts.

         "Griffin, the steward will direct you!" boomed Sir Rowland from the entrance porch.

         He silently assented and turned to hand the reins to the stable boy. I saw it then, the velvet bag on his back with drawstrings tightly closed, the sweep of the harmonic curve within quite evident. But by then I already knew who he was. And I could count the sins of the last five minutes on my fingers.

         If a woman is sinful, a minstrel is doubly so. He cannot even correctly be called a Christian. But that does not mean a man cannot make use of him. Even in our quiet corner, we had heard tell of the Baron's minstrel. It was said he spent as much time in the saddle on his master's missions as he did at his harp strings in his master's hall. It was also said that he was sullen and secretive, but that could have been jealousy. Everybody likes to gain a great man's favor. He was certainly well out of the marriage market as far as any respectable person was concerned, especially the daughter of a pious knight. My heart sank. I had felt a forbidden desire in the presence of my future betrothed and I had rejoiced in it because, for the first time, I did not regret the cloister.

        

        

         The fowl had gone dry and the jelly of fish was sagging when we returned to the kitchen. Mother was hollering orders above the clanging and hissing, and little Joan was crying in a corner because she had accidentally confused walnuts with hazelnuts. It was a relief to step into the cool of the Great Hall, on a quest for the spice box. Father and Sir Rowland were absent, perhaps temporarily inspecting the gardens. The menservants were busily preparing tables and moving furniture. I sighed as I bent down to stroke Gripper, Father's brachet, who was nuzzling my legs. I knew I must try to be engaging and virtuous tonight, but between the memory of dark, almond eyes and the prospect of the Visions, it would not be easy.

         "Mistress Eleanor?"

         The unfamiliar voice made me start, and I stood up, smoothing down my skirt and trying to look demure. Griffin was a span or so taller than I, so I could avoid his gaze without having to hang my head like a peasant, but the stitching at his collar transfixed me and even the tones of his speech produced tiny orange sparkles in the air.

         "You keep the key to your father's treasure box, do you not?"

         "I do." The tone was perhaps more curt than I intended. The servants would know it was unseemly for me to be speaking with a minstrel.

         Griffin held something out in his white hand. "I carry this for my master. Release it to no hand but mine. It is of great value."

         I would not have needed his word to recognize the worth of the book he handed to me. The clasps and squares were of gold, and I could detect the flash of gilding between the closed pages. The Baron's reputation as a collector is well known and his private reliquary is legendary. I'm sure our poor parish could use half the miracles he has stored away, but Father Antony says the distribution of wealth is ordained by God alone.

         I looked at the boss. At its center was what looked like a small fragment of bark.

         "A relic?" I asked, forgetting to be detached for a moment.

         Griffin hesitated. "It is a Psalter."

         "I will deal with it immediately," I said. Father's Psalter had always been a great comfort to me; I read it every day when I could. This would lie alongside it for the duration of the stay. I secretly wondered if I might be permitted to chant at least one psalm from it.

         My gaze had inadvertently risen to Griffin's face. He smiled and his dark eyes lit up.

         "I thank you. Have a good day."

         My knees as I climbed the steps to the solar were trembling and, however much I blinked, orange sparks danced before my eyes.

        

 

         I was not required to do much at the feast except enter behind Mother, speak when spoken to, and smile only at appropriate moments. Joan had to remain with Nurse, at which she protested loudly, but I would gladly have swapped places for anything.

         I did not like Sir Rowland. Without his mail, I could see his figure more clearly. He had a chest like a barrel and great thick forearms. I tried to imagine them encircling me in private, and suppressed a shudder. The idea of slender arms and white hands embracing me was one I tried hard to put from my mind.

         I could not see Griffin anywhere. Even the estate workers would not want a minstrel sitting beside them. I began to think he had retired to the barn or the granary, but when we finally reached the banquet, Sir Rowland stood up and boomed:

         "Come, Griffin! Have you not a song for us?"

         He must have eaten his morsels in the shadows with the dogs, but as he rose and brought his harp to the dais, he looked as fresh as if he had just dressed. There was silver stitching at his hems and the fore-pillar of his harp was carved with fruit and flowers.

         "A ballad in the new style," he announced with a bow.

         I thought he sounded affected when he said that, not at all as he had been earlier, but I suppose it was just a part he played. At any rate, as soon as he plucked the first string, I forgot it. Over the years, I had learned what to expect with the Visions, but that night all was changed. A shimmer of green cut through me like a knife on the first chord, and the sun seemed to rise out of the dark space above me, so warm I could almost feel it. And then he began to sing:

        

         In days of old, in Holy Land,

         The harp of David sounded sweet.

         He played upon the king's command

         And made his music at Saul's feet.

         A miracle was David's harp,

         With sound of healing in its strings,

         It cured the mad, as clerks may carp,

         And soothed the troubled hearts of kings.

         A thing of strength was David's arm:

         As doughty knight he knew no peer.

         Yet devils sought to do him harm

         And end his harping with Saul's spear.

        

         It might have been considered in poor taste to sing about the Holy Land, but it was probably the sort of thing the Baron liked, and for minstrels to sing of minstrelsy was certainly high fashion. But that was none of my concern. His voice was inside my head. And something was taking shape in the air at every word.

        

         "Come close, my brother Jonathan.

         The time has come for us to part.

         Now swear to me, as you are man,

         My name is written on your heart."

         So David spoke and made lament,

         A final song of parting pain.

         He wept as though his heart were rent

         And Jonathan kissed him again.

         As two young lions they had been,

         But where they next met, who can tell?

         Their tears dropped where the grass was green;

         They parted where the arrow fell.

        

         A golden age was David's reign:

         He rested old and full of years.

         The arrow lay upon the plain,

         Once watered there by David's tears.

         "Take up my harp of old, good man

         And heal my soul with its delights.

         My spirit aches for Jonathan,

         Who once was slain upon the heights."

         But none could tune the ancient strings,

         And none the ancient tune could play.

         The harp of old no longer sings,

         The soul of David wastes away.

        

         The swathe of green was becoming something. I had only ever seen shapes and colors before, nothing beyond the abstract. But this Vision had a form. It was a hill, perhaps? Maybe a forest? And something else; I couldn't quite see what. It would form any moment.

        

         A poor young harpist, seeking shade,

         Sat down beneath a tree new grown.

         Its leaves a meager banquet made.

         He plucked his harp-strings there alone.

         The king leans in the casement high;

         His ears have heard an ancient song.

         In peace at last he now can die,

         And rest with those who loved him long.

         Still, where the arrow's sapling stood,

         Men yet may hear the lion's roar.

         The king of old walks in the wood,

         The soul of David sings once more.

        

         "Eleanor, are you quite well?"

         My mother had taken my arm and was looking intently into my face. The Vision had broken up; swirls of green were going round and round the candles and torches.

         "Forgive me," I said. "I am a little tired. Perhaps I may retire now?"

         Father and Sir Rowland had risen to their feet in courtesy. I saw them exchange glances and Father whisper something to his guest. No doubt they believed the words of the ballad had affected me. Father would tell Sir Rowland that I was still grieving for my dead brother. But this would be a falsehood. Roger is alive.

        

2.         For the director of music. To [the tune of] "The Doe of the Morning." A psalm of David. (Psalm 22).

        

         A man may obtain pardon for his sins by taking the cross and fighting the infidel. (Personally, I always felt a little sorry for the infidel, but that is because I am a sinful woman.) If he falls in battle, he goes straight to heaven and his name is glorious. This is well for him, provided that he does actually die outright and not just become maimed or crippled, in which case he simply goes home. Roger did not even come home crippled. He came home mad.

         A knight injured in battle may still command some respect and live to inherit; a madman is a danger and a disgrace. Mother and Father ought to have given Roger up. If the devil was in him, the Bishop could have told us. But they could not bear to think of that, and one thing led to another, I suppose. No family wants to ally itself with madness, and we needed alliance now. Pilgrimage is expensive. Roger had lost everything and gained nothing. It went against the grain, but Sir Rowland was a man with an eye for new estates, and it would keep the moneylenders away. I was lucky, Father said, that a man in his position would even consider me, but for the sake of Mother's family it seemed he was prepared to give it a go. Better then to remove Roger from the scene. Better to say he was dead.

         There is a small wood on the far side of the millpond, bordering onto marshland. I am not supposed to go there without a manservant, but I had slept poorly after the feast. Flashes of green and yellow exploded on the insides of my eyelids. My heart was beating at an unnatural rate and a soft voice in my head bid me good day over and over again. I needed to seek solace away from the chaos of the house. I would go to the wood. I would visit Roger.

         Carefully, I crept downstairs. A few of the house servants and field workers had risen, but most were still in slumber, Sir Rowland's men scattered among them. A bed at the far end of the hall, covered in Mother's finest damask cloth, housed the knight himself. I picked my way between the bodies, to the rhythm of assorted snores, sighs and shuffles, and slipped out of the smaller door.

         The air was cold and crisp at that hour, and I had forgotten my cloak, but I walked as briskly as I could. I hoped that old Thomas and Margery would not be abed when I arrived. Roger's ailments, I knew, often kept them awake at all hours. The rest of the manor seemed asleep, except for the birds who were giving flurries of excited twitters from every tree and hedge. The faintest wisp of grey smoke rose from the oven as I passed, and the arms of the mill were moving very slowly, as if in a dream. Did the corporal mercy of visiting the sick cancel out the venial sin of falsehood, I wondered? And did a wicked sister inevitably make a mad brother? These were thoughts that crossed my mind every time I walked this way, and I had never come to a satisfactory answer.

         I have always liked the wood, and I liked it even better at that early hour, even though coming out of the sunlight made me shiver. Thomas' cottage stands quite deeply within it, away from the common pasture. That is one reason, I expect, why Father chose him. It meant I had a fair way to walk, in and out of the little clearings, where the cobwebs shone like silver on the leaf mould and patches of grass and bluebells pushed their way through. It is a still place. I expected to hear nothing but birdsong and the occasional rustle of some furtive creature in the undergrowth. I was wrong.

         I cannot remember now if I heard the music or saw the Visions first. I know that the yellow sun burst against the bole of an oak tree and flared out in every direction. And I know that the first audible notes of a melody drifted towards me from out of a shallow valley. It was nothing like the "ballad in the new style" that we had heard in the Great Hall. There was nothing new about it. It was ancient, mystical, the music of another time and place. It caused vines to wrap around my arms and then dissolve away, and flickers of light like flocks of tiny doves to take flight into the canopy. But there was no doubt in my mind as to the musician. As best I could, I stumbled down the bank into the valley.

         Griffin was sitting between the roots of a great beech, his long cloak serving as both covering for his shoulders and blanket against the damp ground. His harp sat between his knees, and his eyes were cast down, almost in dream. Almost, but not quite. His pensive gaze was leading somewhere, and mine followed it.

         A fallow doe was lying in the grass, not four cubits from Griffin's seat. Her huge liquid eyes were fixed on his. I was sure she ought to have heard me, but she never moved. For that to take place, especially in the fawn season, seemed impossible. I had tried enough times to make deer come to me as a small girl, with scant success. Even more unusual, I now noticed a shaft was sticking from her rump, the blood trickling down her thigh. It was not a debilitating wound; whoever tried to poach her must have been a very bad shot. But she did not even turn to lick it. Her eyes never left the minstrel.

         I cannot pretend that it was easy to concentrate on this. It was becoming difficult to distinguish Vision from reality; I could not even be certain the doe was real. Copses of unfamiliar trees seemed to be growing among the old ones, with a subtle scent I could almost smell. But that did not prepare me for the lion.

         If he had come stalking the deer, I know I would have screamed, though there has not been a lion in England for a thousand years. But he came proudly, with his head held high and his golden mane glittering in the freckles of sunlight between the leaves. And he did not come alone. I have seen many men ride many horses, and almost as many riding asses. I have even seen a peasant ride upon a cow once. But I had never seen a man ride a lion until then. His bearing was even statelier than that of his steed (if so it could be called). His nose was curved, his beard was curled, and the golden crown on his head outshone the lion's mane. And yet there was something sensitive in his features. A ghost of a smile twinkled in his black eyes, but I could not tell if he would laugh or cry first. I was certain he could hear the music.

         My eyes went back to the doe. She had not moved at all; she barely blinked. But a change was taking place. The wound on her hindquarters was shrinking. Very gradually, the drips of blood were vanishing; the flesh was closing up, squeezing out the barb until at last there was nothing to be seen but soft fur. The arrow fell harmlessly to the grass.

         Griffin plucked a final chord; it was soft but it seemed to throb and echo away for an amazing length of time. The doe rose, shook herself, and trotted away up the hill and into the woodland. I blinked. The king and the lion and the strange trees were fading in a mist of green. My head was swimming and my legs felt unstable.

         "Holy Jesu! Mistress Eleanor!"

         The snappish edge to Griffin's tone as he grabbed me by the elbow and raised me back up suggested that he had been as oblivious to my presence as the doe had. I do not know if I could have been any more shaken, but little shivers ran along my skin where he had touched me. It was not unpleasant.

         "What are you—?"

         It was an extremely awkward moment. He could not be certain I had discovered his secret and I could not very well tell him mine. I made a curtsey just in case and then remembered too late that he was my inferior.

         "I must return to the house," I said. I could not risk the cottage now.

         Griffin stood up. His composure seemed to have returned. "At least take this," he said, unfastening the clasp of his cloak. "You're shivering. You will catch a chill."

         I longed to take it, and not just to warm myself. But I could imagine Mother's looks if I appeared wearing a stranger's cloak, now of all times.

         "I must go," I said again, and turned to leave.

         "My lady?" It was the first time anyone had addressed me by that title. I waited for the blush to subside before I turned back. "I will require the Psalter later today."

         I nodded. It should not have mattered, and I could not say it, but I badly wanted him to know that he could trust me.

        

        

         My early morning excursion did not go entirely unnoticed. Mother gave me a hissing lecture in the solar on appropriate-behavior-for-a-young-lady and making-a-good-impression-on-our-guest. After matins we were to go hawking in the close and I was to be maidenly and pleasant. It ought not to have been too bad. I love my merlin, Ranger, and for the fun of the sport I could have tolerated the overpowering knight. But the previous night was catching up with me. I had a headache coming on and I yawned in the presence of Sir Rowland at least twice. Also, I had a lot on my mind.

         I had never seen a miracle before. Miracles are usually performed by saints, like St Agnes, to whom I pray daily that I will not have to marry. But saints lead lives of heroic virtue. A flagrant sinner cannot be a saint. I had never had a Vision like that before either, and I was not sure I wanted to again. Did the appearance of the lion make me more fallen, or less? Or was that something that, for once, could not be blamed on me?

         There were other thoughts too, and questions that I was not even sure I dared ask myself, but by noon they were becoming confused and blurry, and even Sir Rowland suggested that I was looking pale and might benefit from a short rest. I had one foot on the staircase when a shadow on my right made me pause.

         "A thousand apologies, Mistress Eleanor, but might I trouble you for my Psalter now?"

         I have to admit the minstrel looked a little weary too, but he was clearly better trained in sleep deprivation than I. The only expression on his face was a touch of concern, which made me want to look away quickly. The hall was almost empty, but a table had been moved to the window, and pens, inks and knives laid upon it. "Someone can write?" I thought. I made the slightest bow.

         "I will fetch it."

         The hutch that serves as my bed houses the treasure box also. There is not much in it—some coin, the spices, Mother's jewels. I took out the Psalter. Its leather board felt warm under my fingers. The boss shone. It was so beautiful and my desire for succor was very great. Almost without noticing it, I undid the clasps.

         I think I have come to love the Psalter more since I was denied my place at the abbey than I did previously. Many of the Psalms I know by heart; Father Antony would be proud of me. The page I looked at was exquisite. Gilding offset brilliant vermilion and vines tumbled into the margin from a magnificent illuminated capital. It was the handiwork of a true scribe. It was just not the Psalter. Apart from the title, which I could not translate, there were no words on the page at all. There was nothing but the rise and fall of black marks against ruled lines: nothing, that is, except for the illustrations, and I have never seen so many of those, not even in the Great Bible in the church across the valley. Birds, beasts, and plants of every description adorned all four margins, and some even crept their way between the black lines. But it was the drawing in the right-hand corner that caused my blood to chill. There, exactly as I had seen him in the wood, was the golden lion, and riding on his back, the black-bearded king. Every question and suspicion that had occurred to me that morning thrust its way to the front of my mind. The book slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

         Vellum flopped over as it struck the floorboards. The book had turned to a much later page, a page with nothing on it at all but the pricking of the quire. It was only half-written.

        

         I slept like the dead, for all my confusion. It was much later when I awoke and supper was in full production. There was no space to do anything but lock up the Psalter again—I did not dare examine it this time—and re-adjust my snood before running down with the ginger. I kept my eyes open, though. The moment Griffin left the hall would be my opportunity. It was hard to keep watch over a sea of moving trestles, but eventually I saw a slender figure slip into the open. I skipped up to Father with what I hoped was a delightfully engaging smile.

         "Oh, please! I forgot to say thank you to Ranger this morning and she understands every word, you know. Of your courtesy, Father?"

         With the help of the saints, he would think I was making a marvelous effort and Sir Rowland would think me far too childish for a bride. Father stroked my cheek with the look of one who fears to lose a treasure.

         "Run along, then, but be back for your mother."

         I made courtesy and headed through the porch as quickly as was genteel. By some amazing stroke of fortune, Griffin was actually making for the mews, possibly as one of the few places to have some peace and avoid censure—of the spoken kind at any rate. Hawks are, of course, incredibly judgmental but at least they cannot talk. The falconer cleared out with a mutter when he saw the minstrel coming, glaring back as he left, as if Griffin might eat his birds. I waited until he was gone, then sneaked under the shelter without a word. Griffin was examining a hooded saker falcon as if all else was insignificant. He turned as my footsteps echoed against the enclosures. I could see by the look in his eye that he knew my presence was not accidental. I swallowed hard and took a breath.

         "Who are you?" I said.

        

3.         For the director of music. To [the tune of] "A Dove on Distant Oaks." Of David. A miktam. When the Philistines had seized him in Gath. (Psalm 56).

        

         Griffin's eyebrows contracted in a confused look. Clearly this was not the question he had been expecting. I shuffled my feet. Perhaps I had not made the right beginning? I ought to have stridden into the mews and said, "I saw the lion," or, "I know about the Psalter." But I didn't, really. I didn't want to be made to look a fool, or worse.

         "What do you want with me, my lady? Do you wish to ask me about the doe?"

         "Not just the doe. I..."

         I had an important question to ask. Everything depended upon the answer. Now, I perceived, was not the time to be imperious.

         "Your master trusts you with his secrets?"

         "Implicitly."

         "If I trust my secret to you, will you tell me about the doe? And the Psalter?"

         The saker was jumping and flapping about on its perch until the bells on its jesses shook like a timbrel. It is Father's bird; he calls it Pompey. Griffin put a finger through the mesh and it gave him an affectionate peck. When he looked back at me, there was a spark in his eyes that I think was amusement.

         "I hope you always meet with loyal retainers, Mistress Eleanor. Not everyone would tell their privity to a chance acquaintance."

         There may have been a rebuke from heaven in there somewhere. My choice of confidante was not proper. What else I wished to share with him was certainly beyond the pale.

         Griffin put his finger towards the enclosure again. "My master goes hawking with a tercel peregrine," he said. "It is a fine, princely thing. It soars high above the woods and fields, and swoops down on its prey like lightning. But it is a bondsman, just as these are. Just as I am. And yet my master says he would rather be a peregrine or even a minstrel on some days. The king himself, he says, would gladly exchange his crown for the wings of the smallest fowl if he could taste its freedom. The great do not sleep easily.

         "And nor do I," he added with a yawn. "I beg your pardon. I must continue my tale. My master's kinsman had some lands in Palestine. Groves of olive trees, they say, and the scent of cinnamon and saffron everywhere. One day he was at his falconry when the hawk pursued some turtledoves into very ancient woodland. The kinsman followed and, as he reined the falcon in, he saw one of the doves land on a high branch and pluck a leaf with its beak. When it sang, it was with a human voice. He had found the lost tree of Jonathan's arrow."

         "Then the ballad you sang us at the feast is true?"

         "It is a true legend, yes. I wrote the ballad myself. The kinsman too had heard the legend but he could not be sure of what he had found nor what its properties might be. He feared that his lands may soon fall into Saracen hands and he did not want to surrender his treasure. So he cut the tree back to a stump and sent a box of its dried bark and leaf to my master, who he had heard possessed a minstrel of..."

         His voice trailed away and he smiled awkwardly.

         "A minstrel of great skill, you would say?" Seeing him ill at ease made me a little more confident. "And you have done as the harpist in the ballad did?"

         "And am now invaluable to every baron and prince in the realm. What man of mighty sword and uneasy bed would not like to have his troubles eased as David eased those of Saul? My master knows when he has found a true treasure."

         "What happened to the kinsman?"

         "He fell in battle. I am sorry."

         Apparently, even the Baron's household had heard the tale of Roger's demise. My heart pumped loudly as I thought of what I was about to ask.

         "Alas, none of us are invulnerable, Mistress Eleanor. A stray—or not so stray—arrow could find me just as easily as it could find a knight. That is why my master and I came upon the idea of the book. When I say it is a Psalter, I speak truly. It is the book of King David's forgotten psalm tunes, of which scholars write but do not know. I can call up the music from within my soul in still and lonely places, and commit it to memory. Then later I can record it in the book. It is a painstaking process and I cannot be sure it will avail. There is greater power in David's harp strings than the ability to lull a Baron to sleep. You saw that for yourself."

         "I did." Thrills of excitement and fear were running up my back. I knew now who the king with the lion was, and I was sure that, in some way, Griffin had seen him too. The minstrel had turned back to coaxing Pompey; I could see the movement of his shoulder blades beneath the fine cloth of his tunic. I thought of the courage of a man who could calmly anticipate his own death and seemingly not fear hell. I wished he would hold me.

         "Is it not a breach of trust to sing the ballad abroad?" My voice sounded like a squeak.

         "Not at all," Griffin smiled. "Why should I not sing of my life's greatest work? My master's little boast, also." He winked. Then he looked me frankly in the face. "So you see, Mistress Eleanor, it is not such a very great secret among those with position enough to make use of it."

         I swallowed. The daughter of an almost-bankrupt knight was hardly a woman of influence in the world.

         "And now, my lady, what is it you would confess to me?"

        

        

         I was sure Mother could see my heart beating as I silently stirred and tasted the soup. I had no idea how I was going to face eating it; my vitals felt like they were stuffed with rocks. The conversation I had just had, the arrangement I had made, repeated over and over again in my mind like patterns in a tapestry. I could not think if I was doing great good or great evil; I wondered if purgatory was very long and painful. A sinner does not confess to another sinner; there is no absolution in that. And yet part of me wished I had told him everything, had completed the tale once I had begun it. Why did I have more trust in a man of depravity than in a holy father? I felt safe with Griffin. Maid though I am, I know he could have asked a high price for what I needed, one from which St Agnes' example provides the only way out. Maybe such a man did have the right to deal with holy things.

         I think Griffin must have slept somewhere. No one could have the dexterity to juggle fire clubs on a few snatched hours, knowing there would be no bed for him afterwards. Mercifully, he kept the harping to a minimum, telling us instead the tale of a man who became a werewolf and was betrayed by his wife. I both longed and feared to see the Visions again. As long as I saw them, I felt that Griffin and I shared one mind, one soul. But there was too great a risk of losing control, and I needed to keep my wits about me.

         Mother twitched anxious stares at me as I picked at my food, breaking the bread into ever-smaller pieces. A sickly bride would not look like the woman who was to bear Sir Rowland's sons. I tried to ignore her and watched the crumbs rolling across the board and onto the floor. It would not matter after tonight. I would not think of it.

         The night you want to end is always the one that lasts longest. I thought Sir Rowland would never cease calling for wine we scarcely had. The steward must have had to milk the barrel like a cow's udder because I knew Father would not give up the pretense. And even then there were tables to be moved and beds to be made and prayers to be said, and after that, the long, long wait in the darkness, willing sleep to come quickly to all but yourself.

         I had sworn I knew the call of the nightjar—who does not?—but even if I hadn't, I could not have mistaken the orange sparkles, fizzing like fireflies in the moonlit solar. At least I would remember a cloak this time, though I scarcely felt prepared in any other way. It was thick wool but it couldn't quite take away the inner chills. If I was caught now, ruination was not far behind. Risking the rustle, I crossed myself and hoped the Holy Mother was listening, and felt disposed to pray for a maiden about to disobey both code and command.

        

 

         Griffin was hooded and he held a torch in his right hand; the flickering orange cast strange shadows on his face. He made a slight bow when he saw me and untucked something from under his arm.

         "Can you carry some spares, my lady?"

         I took the torches and Griffin set off almost immediately, stepping silently through the kitchen gardens, past the henhouse and the stables. He seemed to know the way as well as I did, if not better. The shadows confused me and turned the cozy manor into something from a winter's tale. I was terrified we would encounter a watch somewhere, but Griffin seemed to know how to dodge into cover and cut across lesser-used ways. I wondered just what sort of intrigues he had been involved with on the Baron's behalf, and how close he had come to death.

         By the time we reached the wood, I was shaking despite my cloak. I had to clench my jaw to prevent my teeth chattering. The trees looked grim and menacing; I wished there had been no mention of werewolves at supper. Griffin looked at me as I handed him a torch.

         "Are you afraid?"

         "No."

         My voice utterly belied me. I heard a soft sound in the darkness that could have been a chuckle.

         "With your permission?"

         I could not suppress the shiver now, but it was a shiver of delight. Griffin's white hand was holding mine in the darkness; the warmth from his palm was flowing into mine. I could not have looked at him now had I been forced; the sensations I felt were so new and overwhelming. We moved quickly now, weaving between the tree trunks, the torch held low to show up any pitfalls or obstacles, the sound of soft footfalls and gasping breaths the only sound. It was like a scene from a dream, and I half-wished I would never wake up.

         Eventually, Griffin slowed down. The ground was sloping gently downwards, and the trees seemed to open into a clearing. By the trunk of a large tree he paused; beech mast crunched underfoot. I realized that it was the exact place where we had seen the doe. Griffin looked across and raised his eyebrows. He could guide me no further. I felt a slight squeeze to my palm.

         "Your turn," he whispered. "Lead on, Mistress Eleanor."

         The cottage was in darkness when we arrived. Not even a dog barked as I approached the door. Griffin let go of my hand. I tried not to sigh as the warmth faded; I knew what had happened this night would not happen again. I could hear him breathing deeply behind me in the darkness. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be as nervous as I was. I knocked.

         A lamp flickered and the door opened with a sharp crack. Thomas' face was drawn and his look of fear only slightly relaxed into blatant surprise.

         "Mistress Eleanor! At this hour?"

         His gaze shifted to the minstrel and the slight narrowing of his eyes made my throat tighten. Thomas had every right to suspicion, but I felt it as a personal injury.

         "This is Griffin, Thomas. Of the Baron's household." It was the first time I had spoken his name aloud. I hoped the bad lighting concealed my deep blush. "It is all right; we can trust him. He has come to make Roger well."

        

        

4.         For the director of music. To [the tune of] "Do Not Destroy." Of David. A miktam. When Saul had sent men to watch David's house in order to kill him. (Psalm 59).

        

         My brother Roger was one of the finest examples of chivalry in the county; everyone said so. I saw him at a tournament once. He must have been younger then than I am now, but he seemed a man in my eyes. He rode straight and firm, and all his harness was brand new. Someone in the crowd gave him a favor to wear. I couldn't bear to look when all the horses actually charged, but everyone said he acquitted himself bravely, and one of the barons gave him mead to drink, although I think he was sick later on. Mother said he was just like his grandfather, and I didn't understand why she was crying at the time. To me, he was just my beautiful brother and I thought there would never be anyone like him in the world.

         The disheveled man rocking by the side of the cauldron by Thomas' dim lamplight was still my brother. I had to remind myself of that every time I went, although it hurt badly and I did not want it to be true. He had his hands over his head, and his knuckles and forearms were covered with cuts. He must have been slashing himself again; it was hard for a man of Thomas' age to stop him. Thomas set the lamp in the wall. Roger moaned. His eyes were red and there were traces of food and spittle in his beard. It made me want to retch and weep at the same time.

         Griffin had followed me discreetly into the cottage and was kneeling on the floor beside the last few torches. He had taken the velvet bag from his back and the harp was in his hands. Bright flashes of green dazzled me as he plucked the strings to tune them. Curtains twitched in a recess and a frightened face appeared, still flaccid with sleep. Thomas moved across to his wife and I saw them grasp hands through the gap. I felt around on the floor for a cushion I knew was there somewhere and passed it over. Griffin sat down.

         "I make no promises," he said, glancing around. "I only ask that you remain silent and I will do what I can."

         I saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He cradled the harp in his lap and put his fingers to the strings.

         Music filled the small room from the first touch. The cauldron and the drinking vessels and Thomas' woodsman's tools vibrated with it. My first thoughts had only been of Roger, and whether such a sorry gathering as this had any right to expect the miracles of the patriarchs. But within moments, I was struggling to hold any thoughts at all.

         The cauldron had begun to glow. It was changing from dirty black through orange to pale gold. A few notes later, it was shining like a mirror, more reflective than the clearest surface of a lake. I could see in it the trees I had seen in the wood, their delicate blossoms falling into the fountain of a walled garden; flocks of doves soared into the air; the sky was a different kind of blue than any I had seen before. Then there was an avenue, and down its center paced the noble lion, the king astride his back, coming ever nearer and nearer. How they got from the cauldron into the cottage, I could not say. Nor was I certain how they managed to fit in the room. The lion's tail was lashing against Roger's nose. He looked for a moment as if he would rub it away, but he didn't. I could feel myself shaking terribly, and I thought at first that the king would address me in person. But he had eyes only for Griffin.

         However Griffin had previously encountered the ancient king, it was not in the way I did. The dreamy expression he had when playing never left his face, and he did not lift up his head. I believe that I alone saw a benign smile come to that noble face as he stretched out his arm and held his signet ring to Griffin's lips. True, it did look as though Griffin kissed it, but it could have been a trick of the light. The king knelt on the cottage floor so close that I could have touched his linen robe, and took the minstrel by the shoulders. Then, without disturbing the harping at all, he kissed him firmly on both cheeks and stood up. Only then did he look at Roger, and a kind of sadness came to his smile, the sadness that comes to old men when they remember.

         That was the last thing I saw clearly. The whole cottage began to lurch and spin. Trees merged into lamplight merged into harp strings; pulsating orange beads pounded against my eyeballs. I was shaking so violently, I was sure the very foundations of the cottage would be rocked. I clawed desperately for a handhold on the wall and heard something fall to the floor with a clatter. Perhaps I did likewise. It was easier to give in and let the dark clouds swarm over my cold forehead. I did not feel my face hit the damp straw. I only felt uncertain hands touching my cheeks and hair, and a hoarse voice crying:

         "Eleanor? Oh God, oh God! Eleanor, it really is you!"

         Roger was so thin, I could feel every bone in his body as he embraced me, and I'm sure he was shaking just as much as I was, but as I sat back and looked into his eyes, I could see again something of the beautiful boy within the wasted skeleton.

         "Eleanor." He felt my face again and bit back tears. "Eleanor, where is Father Bartholomew?"

         "He's gone, Roger. So is half the manor. Roger, we need you."

         It was too much for my constitution to support, too much for any of us, I suspect. The miracle had happened and it did not feel at all as it did in the lives of saints. I couldn't stop crying and shivering, and Roger wouldn't let go of me. Margery eventually stopped crossing herself and reciting Gloria Patri long enough to wrap a blanket round my shoulders and stoke up the fire to make some gruel for us both. A cup of wine would have been more effective, but even ale was scarce for cottagers. Griffin sat in the shadows, looking tired and lonely. I wanted to go over and hug him too, but etiquette would never allow it. I only hoped he knew just how much I valued what he had done.

         Eventually the tears dried up, although I couldn't help sniffling. Margery wanted me to get straight into bed, but I refused. I had to be back at the house before dawn; reputation and fortune depended on it.

         "And you must come too, Roger," I said. "Griffin will help you if you feel weak." I stroked his wasted hand for the hundredth time. "Father will be overjoyed to see you. All will be well now that you are with us again."

         Roger timidly placed his other hand over mine. I could feel him tensing.

         "I do love you, Eleanor. I love you all dearly. But some things are more than a man can face. I cannot go back."

         There are some hours that seem like minutes and some minutes that seem like hours. This was one of them. I expected tears to take me again, but there seemed to be none left. Roger ran a finger round the empty gruel bowl, making it spin on the floor. The fire gave a sudden spark. Nothing else moved.

         "It was not cowardice that sent me mad, Eleanor. You mustn't think that of me." Roger was still looking at the ground as he spoke. "Battle is a terrible thing; it is not like the tourney. Men die of thirst, of heat and wounds. Horses die. I pray you never have to see it. But it was as a knight I sailed and as a knight I fought. I did not fear more than prudence allowed. I held true to my oath, and so I should now, were it not for—"

         His voice began to break. He was holding very tightly to my fingers, almost crushing them. Suddenly, he looked me in the face.

         "Do you remember when I was made knight, Eleanor?"

         I nodded. He had indeed been beautiful then. The ceremony was private, of course, but I remembered the shining spurs, the new sword. How Mother had wept then, and Father had clapped him on the back! The Baron was certain to send for him. Deeds of valor would speak for themselves. And who knew what advancements were possible on another pilgrimage? I couldn't help glancing across at Griffin, still cradling his harp in silence, as I thought on what honors the great man had chosen to give without the lifting of a sword. And even then he did not know the half of it. Roger re-adjusted his grip.

         "When they put the sword in my hand, they said I was to shed my blood to defend Holy Church. They said I was never to injure anyone unjustly, with that sword or with any other."

         He was weeping now. Tears were running into his beard. Griffin put the harp down and edged a little closer.

         "We were at Acre," Roger said at last. "The city was under siege and we were to take it back. The king himself was there. All believed we would conquer. We would force the Saracens to give back the True Cross and win a great victory."

         It did not seem like a sad tale, but my brother was weeping as no knight should.

         "Roger, what is it?" I said. "What is wrong?"

          He sniffed. "We were sitting in our camp at night. Everyone said the city would be breached on the morrow. Some only thought of home or their paramours, but more were thirsty for blood, many more. They said it was a victory for God, we all did. And I thought of Father Bartholomew.

         "Do you remember his tale, Eleanor? The one about Jonah?" We both smiled sadly, thinking how often we had heard the same story repeated. "I took no account of it as a boy; it seemed to have little bearing on my life. But I saw his face in Palestine. I could hear his voice, telling how the Lord rebuked Jonah about the thousands in the city who could not tell their right hand from their left, and all the innocent cattle."

         I had begun to weep again myself. "Father Bartholomew was only an ignorant priest, Roger. He had no—"

         "He was a good man, Eleanor. A holy man. He preached nothing he did not live himself. I was ashamed to have learned nothing from him. So I ran. I ran back into the wild, into the arms of Saladin for all I cared. I wonder the barons did not hack me down. But perhaps they already saw the madness in my eyes."

         Griffin passed me a handkerchief. It was cambric and lace, the sort of thing I had always imagined as a love token. I whispered my thanks and tried to make the words sound significant, as if they could encompass all that had happened that night, but my uneven voice let me down. I blew my nose instead, and tried not to think how heavy my head felt now.

         "You have to let me go," said Roger. "I could make for a monastery perhaps, somewhere I can live a life of peace. I cannot hold a sword again. Father will not understand, not his only son and heir. It will take me again, Eleanor, if I go back to that life, and there will not always be a miracle to bring me back."

         Here he looked at Griffin for the first time, and something seemed to meet in their eyes. They could not have looked more different, the one lacerated and red-eyed, with crumbs still clinging to the hairs of his face, the other stitched with silver and—I thought right then—achingly beautiful. But it seemed in that moment that Roger was more Griffin's brother than he was mine.

         It was too much. I had always been the one who was to take the religious life. Now I thought again of the shrinking manor and Mother's stares and the awful prospect of Sir Rowland's bed. Roger was not going to save me from it. The miracle was hollow. I put Griffin's handkerchief over my face and sobbed until I was exhausted. Roger pulled my head onto his shoulder and began to stroke my hair where it had escaped from its covering. It reminded me of childhood, of lazy summer days in the meadow, picking cornflowers while the bees buzzed overhead. Without meaning to, I started to yawn.

         Thomas and Margery seemed to have been frozen throughout the conversation with Roger. Most likely, they thought it was not their place to interfere. But bed and board was Margery's domain. Come what may, she was going to insist that I lie down and sleep. I began to protest again but it appeared that even Griffin had turned against me.

         "I agree with the goodwife, my lady. You are not well." He began putting his harp back into its bag and picking up the remaining torches. "I will go to the house with a message and return with horses so we can make our plans." He looked to Roger.

         "But what will you say?" I could not imagine how any message could get me out of such a scandal as this.

         Griffin bent his face towards mine. "Sleep," he insisted. "I have dealt with greater intrigues than this one."

         Everyone else in the cottage had begun to yawn and stretch too. I was certain from the depth of shadow under his eyes that Griffin was just as weary as any of us, but as he shouldered his bag and lit a torch from the lamp, he hid it well. I felt desperately sorry for him.

         "Be alert," he said to Thomas. "I will come again soon."

        

        

5.         For the director of music. To [the tune of] "The Lily of the Covenant. A miktam of David. For teaching. (Psalm 60).

        

         I was still tired when I woke. Sorrow has a tendency to be exhausting. Light was coming in through the shutters and shining on Griffin's face as he slept. His arms and legs were curled like an infant's and his hair spread over the cloak he had used as a blanket. I thought for a while that if I kissed my finger and reached it down to touch his cheek, no one would ever know. But then I remembered that the eyes of God are always upon us, and in the next moment he rolled over and woke up.

         There was much to be decided that morning, and it seemed uncertain at first who would take the lead. By rights it ought to have been Roger, but he seemed more than happy to defer to Griffin. A few hours' sane sleep had made a wonderful difference to my brother. There was a new tranquility in his face that I do not think I had ever seen. He still ate sparingly, but he let Thomas help trim his hair and beard. It made him look younger, but grave, like a clerk. His eyes followed the minstrel everywhere, as a young page follows a seneschal when he has forgotten the correct behavior. I knew that, when they left, it would be together.

         My parents, according to Griffin, were anxious that I should not be moved from the cottage until I was quite well. I was desperate to know what he had actually told them, but he seemed curiously reticent on that point. He did divulge that the whole household now believed him to have departed on some urgent errand which, he added with a half-smile, was almost true.

         "So all that remains is the matter of Sir Roger." He looked to my brother. "I have thought on this, but my plan requires the good faith of all in this room. I do not quite think I have the right to ask for it; for that I must rely on another. Mistress Eleanor?"

         My heart gave a sudden jump. I had not expected Griffin would need me for anything. In my eyes, he had the right to ask for anything he liked, but I supposed my father's retainers might not see it that way. I swallowed.

         "What is your plan?"

         "The whole county believes Sir Roger to be dead. From now on, that must be the truth. We must leave now, while it is still early. Thomas is to wait as long as he can, and then inform your father that Sir Roger escaped the cottage and ran into the marshes, where he was drowned. The body could not be recovered. He was over-excited, you must say: the sudden appearance of his sister and so forth. You, Sir Roger, must take a new name. If you are to join a brotherhood, that should present no difficulty. I will go with you as far as the monastery. If anyone asks, you are my brother and we are traveling to find new work as fools and musicians. Is that understood? If we pledge to this, we cannot go back. Sir Roger is dead from this moment."

         I nodded gravely. "Thomas and Margery, do you follow this? I know it means disobeying your master but, for Roger's sake and mine, can you agree to it?"

         The old couple sat very still. Margery started to cry. Then, without a word, she went to Roger and threw her arms round him, and the two held on for a very long time. Thomas patted him gently on the shoulder and tried to look elsewhere. I suppose that, after three years, he had become like a son to them. I did not think we had any need to doubt their loyalty.

         "And you, Mistress Eleanor, do you agree?" said Griffin.

         "Yes."

         I hoped he could read my lips because my voice had no sound to it. This truly was an unconfessable sin, if sin it were. Somehow the Visions seemed tame by comparison. I thought of the years of falsehood before my parents, watching their repressed grief and knowing that it was unfounded, feeling the intense loneliness that comes with an untold secret. Then I remembered that I was soon to be mistress of another manor—or two or three—and might not ever need to see them, but as an alternative, it was not desirable. I didn't know which was worse.

         Roger had released himself from Margery's embrace. Griffin had already started to pack, and was outside the cottage door, whistling to his horse. The orange sparkles still appeared in the air at the sound of his tones. Roger held out his arms to me.

         "I do love you, Eleanor," he said again. "And I am so grateful to you."

         "I know." I pressed my face against his clean tunic. A spare one of Griffin's, no doubt; the scent of it on my cheek produced a confused mixture of emotions. "Will I ever see you again?"

         "I cannot say. I hope so."

         We will meet in heaven, I would have said, but I was not so sure. Roger would atone for his sins, what few he had, through penance. I thought he would be waiting for me a long time in paradise, if I arrived at all. And as for Griffin... I looked at him standing in the doorway, the early shafts of sunlight making his hair gleam like polished oak. His face was still pale from sleeplessness, and our Lord alone knew what was in his mind, what other intrigues and scandals our little matter now kept him from. He was a man outside God's grace, Father Antony would have said, and yet he carried within himself a miracle of pure holiness. I thought of the king's kiss, and I knew Griffin was not going to hell.

         "Godspeed, Roger," I said.

         I sat down on the bed and folded my hands in my lap. I felt completely hollow. The cottage would be a dark and unhappy place in a few moments and I wished I had the strength to begin walking back to the house immediately, if only for something to do. Whatever my future life contained, it was better to start it soon and think less. Sir Rowland would be waking up soon and wondering where I was—again. At least I could still save the manor, even if I had managed to lose all my dreams in the process.

         "My lady?"

         Griffin had come back into the cottage and was kneeling at my feet. I blushed. His posture put me in mind of the perfect knights in the new romances, although he probably knelt before the Baron in exactly the same way. His black eyes were mild with a servant's submission. I did not want him to go.

         "Be careful, Griffin," I said. "It is a dangerous country."

         "I will deliver your brother to the monks safely. Do not fear."

         From the look on his face, I could not tell whether his misunderstanding was genuine or otherwise. He lowered his gaze for a moment. Then he looked back up and placed both of his hands over mine.

         "I will return very soon for my Psalter. Take great care of it. It is very precious to me."

         My throat tightened. I could just about manage a nod and a sort of smile, although I cannot imagine how it looked. Griffin smiled back and gave a boyish wink. Then he stood up and made a bow, the elaborate bow that marks the bondservants of the highborn.

         "Fare well, my lady."

        

        

         It is almost autumn now. The field workers will soon be planting in the strips beside the wood lot, and Father Antony will sing the masses of Our Lady, the same brown sludge as last year and the year before. The bread harvest will come in and Mother and Father will try to make merry, although not much makes them smile any more. Often I wish I could break my silence and tell them the truth, but I cannot go back on the covenant we made. I must choose my sins and my virtues now. I do not know if God will understand, but I think Father Bartholomew and Roger would believe He does.

         The alliance with Sir Rowland fell through. He had already left by the time I returned from the cottage. Mother and Father hope to try again with a Sir Edmund of Ripon, who is but twenty-two and newly returned from Jerusalem. I know I will never love him, but maybe I could grow to tolerate him in time. Father especially seems concerned that I should find a gentle husband, one who will provide me with as much stability as the present unrest allows. I still do not know what message Griffin delivered to him that night, but I sometimes hear the words, "sleepwalk," and, "unbalanced," when they think I am out of earshot, and I find that both my parents treat me with a greater tenderness than previously, and allow me more time in the fresh air with the horses and hawks, while we can still afford to keep them. I know that Joan will fare well after I have gone. She seems altogether more tractable than I, despite her culinary mishaps. Mother will be glad of her.

         Griffin has not yet returned for the Psalter. Occasionally I fear his death; but although rumor is slow to reach us, it is steady, and as we hear no news, I know he will come for it soon. It lies yet untouched in the treasure box, beneath my head every night as I sleep. I have never opened it again; I fear to encounter the king with the lion, benign though I know him to be. With it lies Griffin's handkerchief, lily-white as his minstrel's hands. I must confess fearing less to touch that when no one else is in the room.

         I speculate much on the manner of his coming. Sometimes I imagine he will come under cover of darkness and take me secretly to the abbey—or into his arms, as the fancy takes me. In truth, I fear he will come only as the Baron's servant, and speak to me only to demand the return of the precious book. And yet there was a look in his eyes as he spoke which serves to fuel dreams, if nothing more.

         It is a long time until Christmas. In between the brown sludge and the fiery darts lies a colorless silence. But I know that somewhere, alone in an empty wood, or in the hall of a house too great to acknowledge this manor's existence, the soul of David sings.

 

 

Copyright 2007, Elizabeth Hopkinson

Elizabeth Hopkinson is from Bradford, West Yorkshire (UK), home of the Bronte sisters and the Cottingley Fairies.  She loves the cinema, medieval literature and mocha, and has played the piano at her home church for seventeen years (not continuously!)

Her work has appeared in DKA before, as well as Interzone, Strange Horizons, Byzarium and Fantasist Enterprises' Bash Down the Door anthology.  Her short story collection, My True Love Sent to Me, a set of "medieval" romances based on the 12 Days of Christmas, is available from Virtual Tales. Elizabeth won the James White Award in 2005 and got to sit behind Alan Lee at the award ceremony.

Her homepage is < www.hiddengrove.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk >.

 

    

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