Sylvia (7 page)

Even in late autumn there were still some green herbs to gather in the fields and lanes to supplement my small bag of corn and, while constantly hungry, I had sufficient gruel and green in my belly not to weaken my resolve to walk a hundred furlongs each day. On the fourth night my bag of corn was almost gone and I hadn't found anything to gather worth eating. Hungry and becoming concerned that no destination had yet presented itself, I crept within a wood for protection. I found a dry hollow deep within the roots of a giant oak tree, said my prayers, adding a despairing but not overly hopeful request for food, before wrapping myself in my blanket to slumber.

When I awoke, as if by a miracle, a dozen or so plump mushrooms had pushed up among the fallen leaves at my feet. I offered up my thanks at once to a merciful God, wondering meanwhile what it was I had done to persuade Him in His infinite mercy to come to my aid. I cooked and ate some of the mushrooms and saved what remained for a later time. With the rare pleasure of a full belly my spirits soared and my strength returned. I regained the road to continue my journey to the mythical blazing hearth, warm loaves and hot soup I had so set my mind upon.

By mid-morning it had begun to rain and the ruts in the road soon filled with muddy water. Soaked to the skin I lost my morning courage and became quite miserable, though I continued walking as the surrounding countryside consisted of open fields and rolling hills without a wood in which I might take shelter. I came at last upon a peasant farmer's cottage and knocked on the door.

The frau opened the door. ‘Yes, what do you want?' she asked, looking at me suspiciously.

‘I seek shelter from the rain this night, good mother. Perhaps in your cow shed?' I asked meekly.

‘Ha! I knew it! You are looking for food without work.'

‘No, mother, just shelter from the rain.'

‘You lie, child, they all say that. God does not feed idlers or beggars and nor do I.'

Exasperated by her tone I foolishly pointed to my bag. ‘I have food of my own, a little corn and some mushrooms.'

She looked me up and down, tight-lipped, one corner of her mouth turned down, as though examining a scrawny goose at the market. I was soaked through, so that my patched and mud-splashed dress clung to my ribs. With muddy feet, my hair wet and scraggly and me scrawny and dirty, I must have been a pathetic sight. ‘Ha! In that bag you have food you have stolen! You are a thief and now you ask for charity?' she scolded.

‘No, mother, only a place to shelter tonight from the rain. The food I came by honestly and I ask for no sustenance from you.'

She thought for a moment, then pointed a stubby finger at the splendid leather bag on my back that Father John had made for me and said slyly, ‘If you give me that bag we will give you shelter.'

‘Good dame
,
' I begged, ‘I cannot part with it, it has been blessed with holy water and made by a kind monk to suit my needs on the road. Will you not show God's mercy? “
Suffer little
children to come unto me
,”' I said rather pathetically, repeating the line I had learned from Father John in the vain hope it might soften her peasant heart.

‘Ho! I am not so easily gulled. God has no time for vagabonds and children who carry expensive leather bags and steal corn from the pious poor. It is not yet winter and you are already wet. Be gone from my doorstep! Be on your way!' With this she slammed the door in my face.

‘Bitch!' I shouted, much to my own surprise. Then, suddenly elated by my unexpected vehemence, declared further, ‘May you ride in the night with the devil and may his vile seed give birth to a changeling!' It was the first time I had ever cursed anyone and it felt very good. I continued walking in the rain and it was true: the raindrops, heated by my anger, seemed no longer cold. As the evening progressed the rain turned to soft drizzle and towards the end of the twilight ceased altogether. I found a hedgerow thick enough to shelter me; wet and exhausted I fell asleep as only a child might in such an unforgiving clime.

I woke to a morning bathed in rare sunshine and my spirits rose, even though I could find no dry twigs to light a fire to break my fast and I had barely sufficient food to last two more days. This day, I knew, would be different. I had sometimes in the past experienced such days when I would remain clean and untouched. These were days when my voice would be purer in song and I was filled with a quiet merriment of the soul. It was on such days in particular when small children would follow or seek me out in the woods and beg for a story. They would laugh and clap and beg for more tales of ghosts, goblins, wights, elves, wicked witches, ogres, dwarfs and giants, as well as the well-known stories of Amazons who lacked breasts, snake-eating troglodytes, bearded women, Cyclops, pygmies, androgynous men, monstrous races and other netherworld creatures. Their eyes would grow large and frightened and they would clutch each other for reassurance when I told of the ‘wild hunt' demons and spirits that invaded the air during the twelve days of Christmas. Often, to the delight of the children, with all the creatures and characters I created, I mimicked the voices and adopted the mannerisms of the more important and pompous people in the village. These were bewitching days when I had been blessed and this soft late-autumn morning, filled with sunshine and promise, on the road to somewhere else, I knew to be one of them.

I walked on until mid-morning when I came upon a stream running through a glade of oak and elm, the oak already almost bare of leaf and the elm ablaze with autumn colour. The banks of the stream were covered in moss and fern with bold, rounded rocks etched with lichen, the water running between them silver over bright black pebbles. I walked downstream until I was well away from the road and could not be observed, although I had seen no other traveller all morning. My garments had dried on my body in the sunshine, but the hem of my dress was stiff with mud and needed washing. If, perchance, I should arrive at Cologne, I told myself I would need to be clean and respectable-looking when I presented myself to the rich merchant's wife my imagination had now turned into existence.

I undressed and bathed in the icy water and then, as I stepped from the stream, I knew at once that I must pay penance for cursing the peasant woman who had denied me shelter from the rain. I had acted in haste brought on by my tempestuous nature and yet God, in His infinite mercy, had not punished me for my uncharitable words, but had sent me the gift of mushrooms to stave off my hunger. I would, I decided, remain naked until I could bear the cold no longer. Then I would attempt, in the spirit of repentance, to remain naked and still for the passage of five chants,
Kyrie
,
Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Agnus Dei
, singing both the parts for the choir and the cantrix solo parts.

Who knows how the mind works? There I was, unclean from my father's wanton and vile attentions and guilty of his murder and also condemned by the Church as a blasphemer. Yet I was not about to do penance for these horrific sins of the flesh and the spirit, but only for a bitter and impetuous tongue, when it might all the while be justly claimed that I had every right to rebuke the mean and unpleasant peasant woman.

And so I sat upon a rock until the cold seeped into my bones and my lips grew numb and the skin felt as though it would peel from the roof of my mouth, until I knew I could bear it no longer. It was then that I attempted to sing, the words of the first hymn thin and only half pronounced from tremulous lips. But soon the Latin words began to flow easily from my tongue and I felt a warm glow within my bosom. It was when I had reached the
Agnus Dei
that I heard the notes of a flute, clear and clean as it accompanied my singing. My voice rose with the beauty of the music and I felt sure I had never sung as well to the glory of Christ Jesus. I came at last towards the end, singing the psalm verse as a solo, then on to the responsorial chants and the glorious solos to complete the melismatic chants, and all the while the flute played constant and most beautiful. Finally, aware for the first time that my fingers had grown stiff with the cold, I reached for my blanket and wrapped it about my body.

‘Good day, young maid,' a male voice said behind me. Alarmed, I sprang to my feet clutching my blanket tightly as if it should protect me. I turned to face the intruder. A young man, perhaps twenty years old, stood with the sunlight behind him so that a halo seemed to appear behind his long dark hair. Tall and thin and most comely in appearance, he stood smiling at me, a flute held in his hand. ‘Don't be alarmed,' he urged, a mischievous smile upon his lips. ‘In my life I have yet to hear a voice as beautiful. Are you an angel descended from heaven?'

I did not possess the presence of mind to send him on his way, but stood open-mouthed staring at him. Then, gathering my wits somewhat I said as boldly as I could, ‘You have spied on me!'

‘Aye,' he replied unabashed. ‘Would you not also do so if you had stopped by a brook in the middle of nowhere and in the morning sunlight heard the voice of an angel singing to the glory of God?'

‘What have you seen?' I asked suspiciously.

‘I have seen the sunlight on your hair and a fish,' he laughed.

‘A fish? In the stream?'

‘Nay, it sits most beauteous between your shoulderblades and is the sign of Jesus the Messiah.'

‘It is simply a birthmark,' I snorted. Then growing bolder, ‘You came too close then!' I accused.

He pointed to a small hawthorn bush that grew waist-high equidistant from where we each stood. ‘You were seated, I saw only your back, part thereof – the sacred fish between your shoulderblades and the golden halo of your head.' He paused and grinned wickedly. ‘The bush concealed the nether part.' Then looking at me, his head cocked slightly to the side, he asked my name.

‘I am Sylvia Honeyeater.'

‘A most comely name. Where do you journey, Sylvia Honeyeater?'

‘To Cologne,' I told him. Not wishing him to think me some poor waif without a purpose, I added somewhat self-importantly, ‘I have a position as a kitchen maid in a rich merchant's house.' So accustomed had I become to this fantasy that I was barely conscious that I was telling a lie. ‘And pray tell, what is
your
name?' I asked with what small dignity I could still possess clutching an old blanket about my person.

He bowed slightly. ‘I am Reinhardt of Hamelin. I think myself a musician.' He shrugged and tossing his head he gave a deprecating laugh. ‘Alas, in truth, I am a ratcatcher.' He grinned. ‘Though, if it will help you to think well of me, a most God-fearing ratcatcher who likes to play the flute!'

CHAPTER TWO

The Ratcatcher

REINHARDT THE RATCATCHER SUGGESTED that we wend our way together at least for a while and I readily agreed, for there seemed little about his manner that was fearful and his demeanour was most sweet and polite. He told me that Cologne was yet five days travel but that there were several villages on the way where we might find food.

‘I have food only sufficient for two more days, or if I share it with you, only today,' I confessed, thus allowing him to think that I might be a burden and so decide to be on his way alone.

He laughed. ‘Ah, Sylvia, the ratcatcher never goes hungry. Where there are folk there are rats and rats eat corn. So, you see, I am always welcome wherever I sojourn. We will eat well and sleep beside a warm hearth tonight.'

I looked at him fearfully. ‘I will not bed with you!' I exclaimed. ‘I am a good girl,' I lied.

He grinned. ‘Aye! You are an angel who sings to the glory of God. I have seen your halo shining in the sunlight.' Then looking serious, he added gently, ‘I solemnly promise you shall be safe with me, little sister. I shall play the pipe and you shall sing and folk will summon us not only for the rats but also for ourselves.'

‘You played three discordant notes,' I accused.

‘Only three?' he said teasingly. ‘Out of the five Glorias we have done?'

I laughed. ‘You are right, three is not many. In the congregation of St Thomas it is rare to hear a note well struck.'

‘Then we may play together?'

‘Only if you promise you will never touch me.'

He looked hurt and said quietly, ‘I have already given you my word, Sylvia.'

I had seen that hurt look before and it is not uncommon in men and women who may the least be trusted. ‘I have yet to learn if the word of a ratcatcher can be trusted, as I know the word of a wandering minstrel may not!' I said firmly.

‘Ha! What know you of musicians then?'

‘They are rapscallions and layabouts,' I replied, quoting my mother's caution to beware of the beguiling ways of itinerant men with little girls.

‘I see no motley of red and yellow or tinkling bell cap on this fellow!' he rhymed cleverly. ‘No pied piper am I, as you can see I wear the dull weed of a working man. So, for the purposes of trust, you may take me for a ratcatcher.' Laughing, he removed his broad felt hat and gave me a sweeping bow. ‘Most reliable types, we ratcatchers. You may be sure you will be safe with me, Sylvia Honeyeater.'

He had a sweetness about him that I found compelling, yet I cautioned myself to be on my guard – he was a stranger and besides, I was not accustomed to folk approaching me in a friendly manner. ‘I will walk with you a small way, then I shall decide,' I promised, my voice sounding brave while my heart was aflutter. Then pointing to a bend in the stream I said in as matter-of-fact voice as I could manage, ‘Now, pray go beyond that bend and turn your back so that I may get myself attired.'