On All Souls night, the castle opened its doors to those who served it, allowing revelry and liveliness into its gloomy courtyards. In the past, this autumn spectacle had been something of a high point in his calendar, but this year it weighted heavy on his mind. He spoke with those who would lead the entertainment and managed to win the right to sing. He thought that perhaps if she was there, she might chance to hear him.

Over the months he had built up a rich story of her in his mind. He had no name for her, but could picture her well. She would be of an age with him and comely, long hair wrapped in a coil around her head, nimble fingers skilled with the needle, bright eyes and a wan smile. She would be melancholy from too long trapped behind those walls. 

He imagined her to be some serving maid, perhaps working to please the lord’s daughter and singing at sundown to help her lady rest. One day he would see her, and then he could court her in earnest. So set was he upon this notion of her that he could not consider any alternative.

On All Souls night they decked themselves in fantastic array, bold masks and raged costumes to ward of the spirits of the dead. It was a custom that went back to distant times. Behind his mask he felt a certain safety, as it hid his nervous features from prying eyes. They would ascribe the rest to his having offered to sing – there would be a splendid audience and such a night could change a young man’s life. In the courtyard there were touches burning, and a small fire around which they could carouse. Later there would be ale, cake and apples for their troubles. His mind was barely on the festivities.

To sing, it was necessary to remove the mask. Silence gradually fell around him, and he glanced about, better able to see with the thing off his head. Above him on a balcony, the household had gathered, the lord of the castle, broad and decked in red, his wife a pale mouse of a woman, his two sons clearly bored and wishing themselves already sporting with the village girls. The servants about them were old and wiry, and Bertram sighed inwardly, realizing that she could not be there.

He had learned his song well, and in months of singing beside the river, his voice had grown strong and clear, suggesting now the man’s tones that would soon replace it. He closed his eyes and lifted his voice, hoping that she might be nearby to hear him. His sensitive ears picked up the sound of movement on the balcony, and as the last note faded from his lips, he opened his eyes and glanced upwards. Beside the worn down lady of the house stood a radiant girl, her auburn hair coiled in a high pile upon her head, and her dress shimmering in the torchlight.

She looked down at him, her eyes bright, and then glanced to her father. Some murmured words were exchanged and then she called out to him.

"Singer, I thank you for your good efforts this night" and threw down a coin. 

He plucked the shining metal from the air, his heart pounding against his ribs. Bowing, he retreated into the crowd, finding some safe shadow from which he might one again look up at her face. He would have known her voice anywhere. But she was Rowena, Lord Evans’ daughter.

"So this is love?" he thought, as she vanished back into the darkness of the doorway. He had not imagined that it would strike him so cruelly, that the touch of it would inspire so much pain. The dead could not be more distant than this lady to him. The coin was warm from her fingers, and he pressed it to his lips for a second.

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A Song That Echoed Clearly -3 >>>Continued