Velvet Song Read online

  Wincing once at his calling her, a freewoman, a serf, she nodded and ran deeper into the forest.

  Noon took a very long time in coming, and while she waited in the dark, cold forest in a torn dress without her cloak, she became fully aware of her terror at what could have happened at the hands of the nobles. Perhaps it was her training by the priest and the monk that made her believe the nobles had no right to use her people as they wished. She had a right to peace and happiness, had a right to sit under a tree and play her music, and God gave no one the power to take such a thing away from another person.

  After only an hour her anger kept her warm. Of course, she knew her anger came partly from a happening last summer. The priest had arranged for the boys’ chorus and Alyx to sing in the earl’s—Pagnell’s father’s—private chapel. For weeks they’d worked, Alyx always trying to perfect the music, driving herself to exhaustion rehearsing. When at last they had performed, the earl, a fat man ridden with gout, had said loudly he liked his women with more meat on them and for the priest to bring her back when she could entertain him somewhere besides church. He left before the service was finished.

  When the sun was directly overhead, Alyx crept to the edge of the forest and spent a long time studying the countryside, seeing if she saw anyone who resembled a nobleman. Tentatively, she slowly made her way back to her apple tree—hers no longer, as now it would carry too many ugly memories.

  There Alyx suffered her greatest shock, for broken into shreds and splinters lay her cittern, obviously trampled and retrampled by horses’ hoofs. Quick, hot tears of anger, hate, frustration, helplessness welled up through her body, spilling down her cheeks unheeded. How could they? she raged, kneeling, picking up a piece of wood. When her lap was full of splinters she saw the uselessness of what she was doing and with all her might began to fling the pieces against the tree.

  Dry eyed, shoulders back, she started for the safety of her town, her anger capped for the moment but still very close to the surface.

  Chapter Two

  THE BIG ROOM of the manor house was hung with brilliant tapestries, the empty spaces covered with weapons of every kind. The heavy, massive furniture was scarred, gouged from ax blades and sword cuts. At the big table sat three young men, their eyes heavily circled from a short life of little sleep and much wine.

  “She bested you, Pagnell,” laughed one of the men, filling his wine cup, sloshing it on his dirty sleeve. “She beat you, then disappeared like the witch she is. You heard her sing. That wasn’t a human voice but one meant to entice you to her and when you went—” He stopped, slammed his fist into his palm and laughed loudly.

  Pagnell put his foot on the man’s chair and pushed, sending man and chair sprawling. “She’s human,” he growled, “and not worth my time.”

  “Pretty eyes,” one of the other men said. “And that voice. You think when you stuck it in her, she’d cry out in some note that’d curl the hairs on your legs?”

  The first man laughed, righting his chair. “Romantic! I’d make her sing me a song about what she’d like me to do to her.”

  “Quiet, both of you,” Pagnell growled, draining his wine. “I tell you she was human, nothing more.”

  The other men said nothing and sat silently for a moment, but when a servant girl passed through the room, Pagnell grabbed her. “In the village, there’s a girl who can sing. Who is she?”

  The servant girl tried to twist away from his painful grip. “That’s Alyx,” she whispered.

  “Stop twisting or I’ll break it,” Pagnell commanded. “Now tell me exactly where this Alyx lives inside your beastly little town.”

  An hour later, in the dark night, Pagnell and his three cohorts were outside the walled village of Moreton, tossing pronged, steel hooks to the top of the wall. After three tries, two hooks held, their attached ropes hanging down the wall to the ground. With much less expertise than if they’d been sober, the three men pulled themselves up the ropes to the top of the wall, pausing for a moment before retrieving the hooks and ropes and lowering themselves down to the ground in the narrow alleyway behind the closely packed houses.

  Pagnell raised his arm, motioning for the men to follow him as he quietly went to the front of the houses, his eyes searching the street signs hanging over the silent houses. “A witch!” he muttered angrily. “I’ll show them how mortal she is. The daughter of a lawyer, the scum of the earth.”

  At Alyx’s house he paused, slipping quickly to the side of it and a latched shutter. One strong blow, one quick sound and the shutter was open and he was inside.

  Upstairs, Alyx’s father lay quietly, his hands clutching at his breast, at the pains starting there once again. At the sound of the shutter giving, he gasped, not at first believing what he heard. There had been no robberies in town for years.

  Quickly striking flint and tinder, he lit a candle and started down the stairs. “What do you ruffians think you’re doing?” he demanded loudly as Pagnell helped his friend through the window.

  They were the last words he uttered for in a second, Pagnell was across the room, his hand on the old man’s hair, a dagger digging deeply as he slashed the man’s throat. Without even a second glance to the body as it thudded lifelessly to the floor, he went back to his friends at the window. When they were through, he started up the stairs.

  Alyx had not been able to sleep after the day’s ordeal. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Pagnell, smelled his horrible breath, felt his tongue in her mouth. She’d somehow been able to keep what had happened from her father, not wanting to worry him, but for the first time in her life something besides music occupied her thoughts.

  So upset was she that at first she did not hear the sounds below stairs, only becoming aware of her surroundings when she heard her father’s angry voice and the odd thud that followed.

  “Robbers!” she gasped, flinging back the woolen covers to stand nude in the room. Quickly, she grabbed her dress, pulling it over her head. Why would anyone want to rob them? They were too poor to be worth robbing. The Lyon belt! she thought, perhaps they’ve heard of that. Opening a small wall cupboard, she expertly lifted the false bottom and removed the only thing of value she owned, a gold belt, and fastened it about her waist.

  A noise in her father’s room startled her as footsteps came toward her room. Grabbing a stool and a heavy iron candlestick, she positioned herself behind the door, waiting breathlessly.

  The door on its leather hinges opened very slowly, and when Alyx had a good clear shot at the foreign head, she brought down the candlestick with all her might.

  Crumpling at her feet was Pagnell, his eyes open for just an instant, seeing her before falling unconscious.

  The sight of him, this nobleman, in her little house, renewed her terror of the afternoon. This was no ordinary robbery, and where was her father? More footsteps, heavy ones, pounding up the stairs, brought her to her senses. After one desperate glance, she knew the window was her only means of escape. Running to it, she didn’t give a thought to how high she was when she lowered herself and jumped.

  The fall slammed her into the ground, where she rolled back against the wall, stunned, breathless for a full terrifying minute. There was no time to lie in the dirt and try to collect herself. Limping, a pain in her side and left leg, she hobbled toward the side of her house where a shutter gaped open.

  The moonlight was not a good source of light, but lying beside her father in a tilted candlestick holder was a glowing candle—all she needed to see clearly the great gaping hole in her father’s throat, his head lying in a pool of his own blood.

  Dazed, Alyx left the window and began to walk away from her house. She didn’t notice the cold air on her arms, the chill piercing through her crudely woven wool gown. No longer did she care about Pagnell or what he intended to do to her, what he took from her house, because he had already taken all he could. Her father, the one person who had loved her not because she was a musician but just because he liked her, was de
ad. What more could the nobleman take than that?

  Walking, not seeing where she was going, she finally half fell, half collapsed in front of the church, on her knees, her hands clasped, and began praying for her father’s soul, that he be received in Heaven with all the welcome he deserved.

  Perhaps it was the years of training Alyx had received that made her able to concentrate so single-mindedly, or perhaps it was her grief, but she heard nothing of the turmoil that went on about her, neither saw nor heard the crackling flames that consumed her house and cremated her father’s lifeless body. The constant fear of fire within the walls brought most of the citizens from their houses, and in their terror they did not see Alyx’s slight form huddled in the recessed door of the church.

  At first light, the gates were opened, and waiting outside were six armored knights bearing the emblem of the Earl of Waldenham. The great stallions’ hoofs cut into the narrow paths between the houses, the knights slashing with two-handed swords at any sign or roof projection that got in their way as they moved slowly, possessively, through the town. Women grabbed their children away from the dangerous horses, holding them, paralyzed, as they watched these massive, formidable, helmeted men make their way through the peaceful town.

  The knights paused at the smoldering ruins of the Blackett house and the leader pulled a parchment from his saddle, nailing it to one standing, charred post. Without lifting his helmet, he looked down from atop his tall horse to the wide-eyed, frightened townspeople. With one swift gesture he took the lance he carried and deftly speared a dog, tossing the instantly killed body into the ashes.

  “Read this and beware!” he said in a growl that reverberated off the stone walls of the town.

  Without heed for the townspeople, the men kicked their horses forward and thundered out of the town, taking the opposite side, destroying yet another road before they vanished through the gates, leaving a stunned populace behind them.

  It was some moments before anyone recovered enough to look toward the paper nailed to the post and the priest, who was able to read, stepped forward. He took his time in the reading of the parchment, and the townspeople were silent while they waited. When at last the priest turned, his face was white, drawn.

  “Alyx,” he began slowly. “Alyxandria Blackett has been accused of heresy, witchcraft and thievery. The Earl of Waldenham says the girl used her devil-given voice to entice his son, and when he tried to resist her, she profaned the church. At his further resistance, she smote him with her evil powers and robbed him.”

  For a moment, no one could even breathe. Alyx’s voice given by the devil? Perhaps she was astonishingly gifted, but surely God had given her her ability. Didn’t she use her voice in praise of the Lord? Of course, there were some songs she created that were far removed from church music, perhaps . . .

  As one, they looked up as they saw Alyx walk across the ground that separated her house from the back of the church, saw her stumble slightly over a torn piece of earth cut by the knights’ horses. With puzzled expressions, some with doubt on their faces, they parted to let her pass. She stood still and silent, gazing at what had been her house.

  “Come, my child,” the priest said quickly, his arm about her shoulders, as he half pulled her to the parish house. Once inside, he began to work quickly, tossing bread and cheese into a canvas bag. “Alyx, you must leave this place.”

  “My father,” she said quietly.

  “I know, we saw his body inside the flames. Hush, now, he was already dead, and I will say twenty-five Masses for his soul. We must worry about you now.”

  When he saw she wasn’t really listening, he gave her a sharp shake, making her head snap back. “Alyx! You must listen to me.” As a light began to come back into her eyes, he told her about the notice for her arrest. “There is a reward for you, either dead or alive.”

  “Reward?” she whispered. “Of what value am I?”

  “Alyx, you are of great value, but you have angered an earl for some reason. I have not told anyone of the reward, but they will soon find out and they will not all protect you. Some greedy cur will be only too willing to give you away for the reward.”

  “Then let them! I am innocent and the king—”

  The priest’s laugh cut her off as he wrapped her in a heavy, too long cloak. “You would be found guilty and the best you could hope for is a hanging. I want you to go now and wait for me at the edge of the King’s forest. Tonight I will come for you, and I hope I will have a plan that we can use. Go now, Alyx, and quickly. Let as few people see you as possible. I will come tonight and bring you an instrument and more food. Perhaps we can find a way for a young girl to earn her keep.”

  Before Alyx could reply to what was happening, she was pushed out the door, the bag of food about her shoulder, her hands holding the long cloak up. She hurried toward the gate, making no attempt to hide, but since nearly all the townspeople were still gathered at the ruins of Alyx’s house, no one saw her.

  Once in the forest, she sat down, exhausted, griefridden, her mind unable to comprehend or believe the events of the last few hours. An hour passed in which the image of her dead father stayed fixed before her eyes and she remembered their life together, the way he’d cared for her. At last, after a night of prayer and a hideous morning, she began to cry, and cry, and cry, and wrapping the cloak over her head, huddling down into a tight little ball, she gave vent to her grief. After a long while, her tired muscles began to relax and she fell asleep, still shaking, buried under the folds of the cloak.

  It was close to sunset when she woke, her muscles aching, her left leg hurt from her jump from the window, her head throbbing. Carefully, she pushed back the wool from her face only to see a man sitting on a log not far from her. With a frightened gasp, she looked about for a way to escape.

  “There’s no need to run from me,” the man said gently, and his voice made her recognize him. He was the servant of Pagnell, the one who’d helped her escape the nobleman yesterday.

  “Did you come for the reward?” she asked with a half sneer. “Perhaps I will tell how you helped me before. I don’t think your master will like that.”

  To her surprise the man chuckled. “Have no fear of me, child,” he said. “Your priest and I have had a good long talk while you slept and we have a plan for you. If you are willing to listen I think we can hide you well enough that no one will find you.”

  Nodding curtly, she looked at him, waiting for him to continue. As his plan unfolded, her eyes widened in a mixture of horror, fear and some feeling of anticipation at the prospect of adventure.

  The servant had a brother who had once been a soldier for the king, but since the man had had the misfortune to live through all his battles to an old age, he’d been discharged from service with no means to support himself. For two years he had wandered alone, nearly starving until he happened on one of a band of outlaws, misfits and out-of-works who made their life in a vast forest just north of the town of Moreton.

  For a moment, Alyx sat quietly. “Are you proposing I join this band?” she asked in disbelief. “As an . . . an outlaw?”

  The servant understood her outrage. The priest had been full of praise for the girl’s good qualities. “Yes and no,” he answered. “A young girl such as yourself would not be safe with the band. For all they have a leader now and there is a measure of Christian goodness among them and some discipline, still a little thing like you would not last long.”

  With a sigh of relief, Alyx gave a little smile.

  “And, too,” he continued, “no one would hesitate to take you to the earl for the reward.”

  “I can sing. Perhaps someone would hire—”

  Putting up his hand, he cut her off. “Only the nobles can afford their own musicians, or perhaps some rich merchant, but there again, a lone girl, unprotected . . .”

  Dejected, Alyx’s shoulders slumped. Was there anywhere safe for her?

  When the servant saw that she was aware of the problem of hiding h
er, he went on with his plan quickly. “If you became a boy, you could hide with the outlaws. With your hair cut and boy’s clothes, perhaps a binding about your chest, you might pass. The priest says you can change your voice at will, and your looks might well suit a boy as well as a girl.”

  Alyx wasn’t sure she should laugh or cry at his last remark. It was true that she was no classic beauty with full lips and big blue eyes, but she liked to think . . .

  “Come now,” the servant chuckled, “there’s no need to look like that. I’m sure when you reach an age, you’ll fill out and look almost as lovely as a lady.”

  “I’m twenty years old,” she said, eyes narrowed.

  The servant cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Then you should be grateful for your looks. Now, come on, for it grows dark. I brought some boy’s clothes, and when you’re ready, we’ll travel. I want to be back before I’m missed. The earl likes to know where his servants are.”

  This idea that she might be endangering him made her move quickly, taking the folded clothes he offered. At the touch of the cloth, she paused for just a moment before fleeing to the trees to change. It took only seconds to rid herself of the dress she wore, but the boy’s garments were unfamiliar. Tightly woven cotton knit hose covered her legs up to her waist, where she tied them snugly. A cloth came next, and she tried not to give a sigh of disgust when she realized she needed very little binding to flatten her breasts. A cotton shirt, fine and soft, went on, a heavier wool shirt with wide sleeves over that and, on top, a long doublet of sturdy, closely woven wool. The doublet came to the bottom curve of her buttocks and was beautifully trimmed with gold scrollwork. Never had she had such rich clothing next to her skin, and she could feel the raw places, rubbed by her woolen dress, beginning to heal. And the freedom of the boy’s clothes! she thought as she kicked high with first one leg and then the other.