Read Online A Rose for the Crown by Anne Easter Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Easter Smith
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titter.
“Good day, mistresses, how do you do?” Will spoke softly, raising his dark eyes and smiling. The girls ran to the bench he had just occupied and sat down unceremoniously as he drew up a footstool for himself. They shared a comradeship with the young musician that would not have won Elinor’s approbation, but as he was Richard’s favorite entertainer and these lessons were Richard’s edict, she left the three of them alone, only occasionally putting her head around the door. She need not have concerned herself. Both girls were intent on mastering the small harp from which Will evoked images of rolling hills and dales, rills and torrents, chivalrous knights and wispy wood sprites with his delicate touch and tender baritone. All her life Kate had hummed to herself, but she had never heard songs and ballads such as Will sang. Nor had she ever touched an instrument other than a tabor she had picked up once at a market stall and banged in time to the wild music played by a group of wandering gypsies. Their sound had thrilled her, but nothing could compare with the catch in the throat, the tug at her heart and the soul-soothing calm she experienced each time she heard Will play and sing. She had music in her, Will told her after two lessons, and already she was able to play two melodies and was memorizing the words to the songs.
Anne was slower to learn and her voice had a nasal quality that was not pleasing. She reveled in Kate’s progress, because she knew her father would be happy that Kate had a special talent for something. Kate’s sewing was embarrassingly bad, Anne admitted, her attempts at writing only slightly better and her interest in housekeeping pitiful. She listened as Kate sang.
“Foweles in the frith
The fesses in the flod
And I mon waxe wod, mulch sorwe
I walke with for best of bon and blod.”
Will nodded, pleased with his pupil. Kate asked him to explain the song’s meaning.
“’Tis two hundred years old. It is the lament of a man who has lost hislove. It means: Birds in the wood, fish in the river; I am going mad because I walk in misery for the loss of my perfect love.”
“How sad,” Anne sighed. She asked Kate to sing it again. As Kate began to play, Will reached out and changed the position of her left hand so that she could better pluck a base string. Kate felt his touch and shivered slightly. It was a pleasant sensation to be touched by a young man. The tremor did not go unnoticed. Will withdrew his hand quickly and determined not to flirt with this maid, who was obviously easy prey. His place in the Haute household was far too important to jeopardize. He turned his attention to Anne, who blushed when he complimented her on her saffron gown, giving Kate her first taste of jealousy.
After the lesson, Anne and Kate fetched their shawls and hand in hand walked out to the courtyard, humming the melody of the new lament. Gardeners were trundling barrows of the last of the harvest of vegetables across the cobblestones and into the storage barns built against the east wall. The haylofts were filled with bundles of straw gathered from the manor fields, ready to fortify the stabled horses during the winter months. Chickens stalked in and out of the barn, pecking at whatever fell through the cracks in the barrows and squawking at each other over every grain.
Brother Francis, the Mote’s chaplain, appeared from the gatehouse and walked across the courtyard, the hem of his coarse, gray robe picking up bits of straw as it whisked from side to side. As well as being Richard’s clerk and confessor, he was responsible for teaching Elinor and the girls to read and write. Kate and Anne genuflected as he swept past them into the house.
“God be with you, my children.”
“And with you, Brother.” The girls were relieved that their next lesson with him was not until after matins next morning.
They skipped through the gatehouse arch, over the bridge and straight up the path to the herb garden,
“Good day, mistresses, how do you do?” Will spoke softly, raising his dark eyes and smiling. The girls ran to the bench he had just occupied and sat down unceremoniously as he drew up a footstool for himself. They shared a comradeship with the young musician that would not have won Elinor’s approbation, but as he was Richard’s favorite entertainer and these lessons were Richard’s edict, she left the three of them alone, only occasionally putting her head around the door. She need not have concerned herself. Both girls were intent on mastering the small harp from which Will evoked images of rolling hills and dales, rills and torrents, chivalrous knights and wispy wood sprites with his delicate touch and tender baritone. All her life Kate had hummed to herself, but she had never heard songs and ballads such as Will sang. Nor had she ever touched an instrument other than a tabor she had picked up once at a market stall and banged in time to the wild music played by a group of wandering gypsies. Their sound had thrilled her, but nothing could compare with the catch in the throat, the tug at her heart and the soul-soothing calm she experienced each time she heard Will play and sing. She had music in her, Will told her after two lessons, and already she was able to play two melodies and was memorizing the words to the songs.
Anne was slower to learn and her voice had a nasal quality that was not pleasing. She reveled in Kate’s progress, because she knew her father would be happy that Kate had a special talent for something. Kate’s sewing was embarrassingly bad, Anne admitted, her attempts at writing only slightly better and her interest in housekeeping pitiful. She listened as Kate sang.
“Foweles in the frith
The fesses in the flod
And I mon waxe wod, mulch sorwe
I walke with for best of bon and blod.”
Will nodded, pleased with his pupil. Kate asked him to explain the song’s meaning.
“’Tis two hundred years old. It is the lament of a man who has lost hislove. It means: Birds in the wood, fish in the river; I am going mad because I walk in misery for the loss of my perfect love.”
“How sad,” Anne sighed. She asked Kate to sing it again. As Kate began to play, Will reached out and changed the position of her left hand so that she could better pluck a base string. Kate felt his touch and shivered slightly. It was a pleasant sensation to be touched by a young man. The tremor did not go unnoticed. Will withdrew his hand quickly and determined not to flirt with this maid, who was obviously easy prey. His place in the Haute household was far too important to jeopardize. He turned his attention to Anne, who blushed when he complimented her on her saffron gown, giving Kate her first taste of jealousy.
After the lesson, Anne and Kate fetched their shawls and hand in hand walked out to the courtyard, humming the melody of the new lament. Gardeners were trundling barrows of the last of the harvest of vegetables across the cobblestones and into the storage barns built against the east wall. The haylofts were filled with bundles of straw gathered from the manor fields, ready to fortify the stabled horses during the winter months. Chickens stalked in and out of the barn, pecking at whatever fell through the cracks in the barrows and squawking at each other over every grain.
Brother Francis, the Mote’s chaplain, appeared from the gatehouse and walked across the courtyard, the hem of his coarse, gray robe picking up bits of straw as it whisked from side to side. As well as being Richard’s clerk and confessor, he was responsible for teaching Elinor and the girls to read and write. Kate and Anne genuflected as he swept past them into the house.
“God be with you, my children.”
“And with you, Brother.” The girls were relieved that their next lesson with him was not until after matins next morning.
They skipped through the gatehouse arch, over the bridge and straight up the path to the herb garden,
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