The Minstrel in the Tower (2 page)

“I hope they have food and water with them, and I hope they like lute music,” said Alice.

The sun stood bright behind the travelers so that when they reached the top of a small hill, they cast long shadows. They wore dark, ankle-length hooded gowns and carried the round-headed staffs of pilgrims. Pilgrims walked the roads all over Europe to pray at a single saint’s shrine or at a number of shrines and churches. Roger saw that the two coming toward them were women. One was old, the other barely past her girlhood.

“Peace to you,” Roger greeted them, and both women echoed, “Peace.” Alice stayed silent, too awed by the beauty of the young girl to manage a greeting.

“I’m a strolling minstrel,” Roger announced. “If you will share your supper with us, I’ll sing a song for you.”

The older woman frowned, staring down her nose at them. Roger knew that he and his sister looked like tatterdemalions. Their shabby clothes were covered with the dust of the road. Roger’s wrists stuck out from his sleeves, and Alice’s dress was patched in three places. For more than a year Mother hadn’t made new clothes for either of them because she couldn’t afford to buy cloth.

Annoyed at the woman’s haughty look, Alice exclaimed, “My brother, Roger, is a wonderful singer! He knows all Mother’s songs. He can imitate voices and bird calls too.”

“Oh, Mama, let’s share our food with these children,” the lovely girl begged. “They look hungry, and we have enough for all.”

“Humpf! I suppose so, Aurore,” the mother answered with ill grace. Pursing her lips, she opened a leather pouch to take out bread and cheese and salted meat.

Since Alice didn’t want to stare greedily, she pretended to watch a nightingale in a tree
nearby. Then she cried, “Look! Someone forgot to pick the apricots in those top branches.” In a flash she’d tucked the hem of her skirt into her belt and was climbing the tree.

“Be careful!” Aurore cried. “You might fall!”

“You don’t have to worry about Alice,” Roger told her. “She’s always climbing something or other at home—trees or walls or even the roof when it needs new thatch. Our mother calls her
La Guenuche
—the monkey in skirts.”

Roger would rather have starved than climb the apricot tree. Heights frightened him, but Alice balanced easily in the top branches. She flung the ripe fruit to Roger until the tree was picked bare.

“Come down now,
La Guenuche,”
Aurore called, laughing. “You’ve surely earned your share of supper. Hasn’t she, Mama?”

“Humpf!” the older woman snorted, already eating. Her manners were quite elegant. She lifted dainty bits of meat to her lips on the point of a knife, and she spit each apricot pit into her hand before dropping it to the ground.

“We’re on a pilgrimage to the shrine at Rocamadour,” Aurore told them. “We’ve already traveled a week.” As she spoke the young girl lowered her hood.

Alice gasped at the beauty of Aurore’s hair. It was the color of the apricots. Thick, wavy, and shining, it had been woven into one long braid that hung over her shoulder. The older woman noticed Alice’s admiration and said, “Aurore will sacrifice her hair at Rocamadour. She’s offering it so that her father may be cured of an illness.”

“You mean, cut off her hair?” Roger asked, appalled.

“How else can she offer it, except to cut it off?” sniffed the woman, dabbing her lips.

Roger felt deeply sorry for poor Aurore, who looked sad at the mention of her coming sacrifice. Alice, though, touched her own dark, tangled curls and thought how nice it would be to have short hair that never needed combing to get the snarls out.

The woman stuffed each leftover crust back into the pouch. “We shall save these crumbs for any other beggars we meet on the way,”
she announced. “Now you may sing for us, minstrel.”

Roger had no wish to perform for such a wretched woman, but he’d promised to sing for his supper. Turning toward Aurore, he plucked the strings of his lute and began:

Then, on the spot, he made up a brand-new verse:

Aurore’s sad look disappeared. “You’re right, of course, minstrel,” she said with a smile. “Shorn hair does grow back.”

“We must leave now,” the mother fussed. “Come along, Aurore.”

Until they were out of sight, Aurore kept turning around to wave and shout, “Farewell, minstrel! Thank you for the song! Farewell,
La Guenuche!”

“Which way do we go?” Alice asked.

Roger hadn’t been paying attention, but Alice, as usual, had run ahead. She stood where the road forked, one part going left and the other right.

“I don’t know,” Roger said. There was nothing to show which direction led to Bordeaux.

“We can’t go both ways,” Alice declared. She picked a daisy from the side of the road and began to pluck its petals one by one. “Left path, right path,” she said as she pulled each
petal. “Left, right, left…” The last petal was a “right.”

“We’re not going to make up our minds because of a daisy. That’s silly,” Roger said. “We’ll go left.”

“It’s just as silly to choose left because the daisy said right,” Alice argued.

Roger was tired and worried, and there was no way to tell which road really led to Bordeaux. One direction was as good as the other. “You promised to obey me, and I pick left,” he insisted.

“Oh, all right!”

An hour later the road had narrowed to the width of a lane. Trees grew so thickly on both sides that the branches met overhead. Around a bend, a fallen log blocked the path entirely.

“You should have listened to the daisy,” Alice told him.

“Well have to go back to the crossroads,” Roger confessed. He wished there were someone to blame besides himself. “It’s almost dark now, so we can’t go back till morning.”

“Where will we sleep?” Alice asked.

“This road—or what’s left of it—must lead somewhere. We’ll climb over the log and keep going till it’s too dark to see.”

As the trees grew more dense and the night deepened, the forest seemed to speak. Crickets chirred, leaves rustled, small animals chittered, and an owl asked
who
dared intrude into his domain. Ahead of him Roger could hear his sister breaking through brush. Then all was silent.

“Alice!” he called sharply. “Where are you?”

“Just ahead. Keep coming. I’ve found something.”

“What is it? Answer me!” Darkness dropped over the forest like a lid on a chest.

“You’ll see when you get here,” she called.

Roger blundered through the trees in the direction of her voice. Suddenly something small and warm grabbed his arm. He nearly yelled, but it was only his sister’s hand.

“Over there—see the round thing that looks darker than the shadows?” she asked. “It’s a tower. We can sleep inside it tonight.”

“No we won’t! Snakes and spiders nest in dark places, and I need to take care of you. We’ll sleep in the open.”

“That’s even better,” Alice said. “The night’s warm enough, and I don’t have to worry about getting my dress dirty on the ground. It’s already dirty.”

“At least it still fits you. You never seem to get bigger, the way I do.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if our uncle Raimond turned out to be rich and would buy us new clothes?” Alice asked, gathering leaves for a bed.

“He could turn out to be poor. Or he could turn out not to be real,” Roger said. “Maybe he’s just a dream from Mother’s fever.”

Alice didn’t answer, and Roger realized she was crying.
I shouldn’t have mentioned Mother
, he thought, feeling sorry and clumsy. “Don’t cry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sure there’s an uncle Raimond. We’ll find him. Go to sleep now.”

Roger sat against a tree and held the lute across his knees. He strummed it softly, hoping the music would soothe Alice so that she could sleep without sad dreams. The tune he strummed was a Crusader song that reminded him of his father.

Trumpets had blared, visors had flashed, and sword hilts had gleamed under the bright sky the day his father went away. Banners and shields bore coats of arms showing lions, griffins, falcons, or stars. Each man’s right sleeve wore the cross of a Crusader.

Father had told Roger that the Crusade would be led by two kings: Philip of France and Richard the Lion-Hearted, who ruled the land of Aquitaine where they lived.

When dozens of noblemen rode past, mounted proudly on their war-horses, Roger had cheered and clutched his father’s hand. Archers followed, some carrying crossbows,
others bearing longbows. Then came hundreds of foot soldiers, with banners fluttering from their upraised lances.

Father waited for the whole column to
march by before he mounted his impatient steed and rode away. Watching him, Roger waved until every last Crusader disappeared over the edge of the hill. That was the last time he ever saw his father. He was six then.

Now the tall, round tower loomed in front of him. Blacker than the night, it was an eerie shadow that pushed Roger’s doubts toward dread. Was his father alive or dead? Was Uncle Raimond real? With one arm across the curved body of the lute, he settled on the ground to wait for the night to pass.