The Minstrel's Tale Part 2

“From what my servants have reported of your playing, I’m surprised I’ve never heard of you,” the king said, taking his seat. A handful of nobles and favored servants ringed the room. “Montego, you said?”

“I travel very widely, your highness,” the minstrel replied. He carefully tuned the dulcimer as he spoke. “I am quite renowned in the western kingdoms, though I simply never stay anywhere for long. Is there a particular song or story that you would like to hear?”

“Do you know the ballad of Sir Chesbrook?”

“Oh, yes, though it’s sad to see how much the words have changed over time. Did you know that there were once thirteen stanzas? Only six of the originals remain, and four more were made up by different composers over the last two hundred years. They somehow thought that they were improving the song.”

The king smiled. “I can tell you are a man of history. Why don’t you sing the original ballad for me, then?”

“It would be an honor, my lord. I’m afraid that some of the meaning does get lost in the translation, but I will do my best.” He began to play, his fingers guiding the hammers expertly over the instrument, striking a trickling melody that resonated through the hall. When he began to sing, it felt to the people listening as though the room was slowly fading away. The loamy scent of moist earth came to the listeners first, then the balmy aroma of a field of flowers in the bloom. Bees buzzed through the air, at first mere ghostly echoes of sound. Slowly, slowly their view began to change shape, the bees and flowers and grass intruding on the room’s blank stone.

The first stanza, which was meant to establish time and place, had ended. Alban launched into the second, weaving the illusion masterfully from the dulcet strains of his music. The listeners observed a man cresting a hill, and as he rode closer, it seemed as though they had suddenly crossed over into him and now looked out at the world from his eyes. They felt the stiff leather of the saddle beneath him and the uncomfortable itching of the padding that lay beneath his chain mail. This was Chesbrook, the music whispered to them, the last of a once noble family stricken by poverty, on his way to the city to seek his fortune.

There was the sense of long weeks of travel, though only a moment passed for those hearing the song. The man’s clothes were filthy and threadbare, but hope surged in his breast at the sight of a magnificent city on the edge of a bay. Chesbrook wound his way down a steep hillside, filling his lungs with the damp, salty wind blowing in from the ocean.

He was allowed to pass the city gates and gawked at all of the wonders around him. But nothing could compare to the sight he beheld next. He picked her out of a crowd, the chance wanderings of his gaze settling on her. She had eyes of darkest green, wide, doleful eyes that caught him and drew him into their depths. She had soft, rounded features but sharply accentuated by thin, pouting lips. Chesbrook’s heart raced as he passed her, but she never looked up. Only when her back was to him, as she began to recede, did he realize that she wore the white robes of a priestess.

The story went on, describing how Chesbrook was not admitted into the castle because he looked like a common brigand. He found work in the city wherever he could, even mucking out stables. It was one of the verses that had been removed from the song and revised into a more romantic picture by some misguided composer.

Chesbrook’s fortune changed one day when the king rode through the streets in pageant for a holiday. Assassins attacked the procession just as it passed where he was watching with the crowd. He joined the fight immediately, drawing the sword that he always carried with him, faithfully cleaned and oiled. The assassins pushed back the king’s bodyguard, overwhelming by sheer force of numbers, but Chesbrook lay into them with a ferocity that was unmatched in any fighter of his day, slaying thirty with his own hand.

The king that very day promised him knighthood. It was at the ceremony that he came once more face-to-face with the woman who had haunted his dreams since the day he arrived in the city. The sword touched his shoulders once, twice, three times, and the king said, “Rise, Sir Chesbrook.” He stood and gasped at the shock that went through him. She came toward him, her silken dress trailing the floor, making it appear as though she floated above the ground. She raised an earthen jug and intoned a prayer, and her voice was like the silvery twinkling of bells to his ears. Slowly, she poured the water over him, blessing him and binding the oaths he had taken.

Chesbrook raised his head, daring to look into her eyes. The priestess looked back, a cold impersonal stare. Slowly, the stare melted, shifting first to recognition of something wondrous and then to sudden horror. She turned from him, said the final benedictions and then swept from the room, never sparing him a backward glance.

Sir Chesbrook found himself in the enviable position of most favored among the king’s knights. He was kept very busy, but he never forgot that look on the priestess’ face. He dreamed of her, but never the pleasant dreams he wished for. Always there was the look of horror, the knowledge of deep sorrow. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He had to see her again, to drink in the sight of her beauty, but also to know why he had caused her such pain.

He found her at the temple and approached her, alone in a room of worship. She turned from him without a word, but he caught her hand. She froze at his touch and began to tremble. Fear and desire warred within her. A priestess could not marry or have relations with a man. It was sin to even have thoughts about it. Sir Chesbrook’s lips touched the back of her hand and she closed her eyes against the terrible pain of longing.

“Please,” he said, kneeling before her. “Please, I love you. Do not leave me. I can't bear to be without you.”

And at last, the longing became too much. She fell to her knees and into his arms, desire burning away all reason.

The listeners could feel their kiss and the storm of emotions that raged between them. The minstrel’s concentration was focused narrowly on the strings and on the pitch of his voice. Sweat dripped from his brow as the melody quickened to a frenetic pace. For the audience, as for Chesbrook and the priestess, emotion and sensation became indistinguishable, a force that pressed them closer, and closer still, onto and into one another until their very souls touched and mingled together. Their passion went on and on, driven by an insatiable need, their bodies taken to heights of pleasure no one has ever experienced since.

And then, suddenly, it was over, the lust spent from their bodies, though the heat of love still burned between them. “I knew you would come to me,” the priestess said, rising from him, fighting even then to break apart the union of their bodies. “I prayed for the strength to keep me from sin, but in the end, it was my fate. I know what I am meant to do.” She sat down on a raised slab of stone, an altar, the knight realized, and her hand closed upon an object behind her. “I’m sorry, love,” she said, and plunged a dagger into her own heart.

Sir Chesbrook’s cry of anguish could be heard throughout the city. He held her naked body until the warmth had faded from her. Then he rose without a sound, dressed, and road out of the city. It was said that he searched for her the rest of his life for the gateway to the underworld, where damned spirits go in death. He died in a far off land, an old man with nothing but his tattered clothes and a sword that he kept always clean and oiled.

When Alban had finished, a few of the audience members were sobbing. “Well,” the king said, “that was certainly extraordinary. Some kind of magic, then?”

“You might say that,” the minstrel hedged.

“And I’ve certainly never heard that version of Sir Chesbrook’s story.”

“It is the truth,” Alban said simply. “If you please, your highness, I must prepare for my concert tomorrow.” He made certain to catch the eye of a certain girl before he left the room.

* * *

“You understand, Bastien,” the prince said, “that if you ever breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone, I will have your tongue cut out to match the parts you are already missing.”

The thin eunuch nodded, smiling dangerously. In his youth, his parents had dreamed that he would become a great singer. Sadly, he proved to lack the talent for it, and was soon reviled to nearly everyone who knew him, including his family, who threw him out of the house at age ten. He somehow survived the streets and taught himself to read. He had then managed to work his way up through the staff of the castle to the position of bookkeeper. Few had paid him any attention until Edwin one day noticed the way he watched people and began to pay for his services as a personal spy. He had soon learned that the man possessed a number of other skills equally useful and began to wonder if he might be in the employ of some foreign king.

Bastien’s voice was somewhere between the range of a woman’s and a young boy’s. “I understand, m’lord. But as long as you keep your promises, well, I should feel no compulsion to break mine.”

“Here is what you will do then. At dinner, you are to sneak into Reyna’s room. She keeps a diary. It will probably be near her bed. You are to write out this entry, matched to her handwriting and then plant this where it will be found.” He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to the eunuch along with a small bottle. “I’ve seen your forgeries. I expect nothing less than perfection. Do this, and I will make you rich beyond your dreams. I will raise you up in my court above other men.”

Bastien read the message and pocketed it carefully. “If you are discovered,” he said, “I will deny any involvement with this. Don’t expect to see my head on the chopping block next to yours.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” the prince said, showing his teeth.