Songs of Love & Death

Timbal had tied back her hair and covered her head with a rag. She’d turned the pot on its side and was on her hands and knees, with her head and shoulders inside the kettle, scraping away. Two small dogs had appeared from somewhere. Tails wagging, they awaited every handful of scraped-off debris, cheerfully snapping and snarling at each other to see who would claim it. In the midst of one of their yap fests, she heard her name in a questioning tone. “Yes?” she replied as she backed hastily out of the pot.

“Excellent,” Azen replied merrily. “I’ll see you then.” The minstrel swept her a theatrical bow that fluttered his blue summer cloak, and turned away from her.

“I don’t know what you asked me…” she called after him.

He turned around, walking backward away from her. He was smiling. “And yet you agreed? I call that a good sign for me!”

“Agreed to what?” She could not keep the smile from her face, even as she touched the greasy cloth that covered her hair, and wondered suddenly how foolish she had appeared to him, with her rear end sticking out of a soup pot.

“You agreed to walk out with me this evening, after your chores are done. I’ll meet you at the bottom of your stair.” He had not paused in moving away from her. Now he turned and walked rapidly away.

“Don’t you have to sing tonight?” she called after him.

He spun around once, laughing. “Only if you want me to!” he replied. “It’s my night to do as I please,” he added, and then he turned a corner and disappeared behind the milk shed. She stared after him. Her heart was hammering, the kettle scraper in her hand forgotten. What did it mean? For a time she remained crouched on her haunches, staring after him, her task forgotten. Should she go? She had said she would. But she had said “yes” before she knew what he was asking, or even who was speaking to her. She hadn’t really said “yes” at all! Would she have, if she had emerged from the pot and heard what he was asking her? Of course not! She had decided he was not for her. An instant later, she admitted the truth to herself. Yes. She would have.

And she had.

It seemed Cook gave her every dirty and disgusting task the kitchen offered for the rest of that day. When finally the day’s work was done, she was greasy and sooty and bone weary from scrubbing. Any other night, she would probably have gone straight to her bed. Instead, she hurried down to the women’s bathhouse. She scrubbed herself there and washed tangles and grease from her hair. She wrung out her hair and knotted it up on the back on her head, and hurried back to her room. Unfortunately, Azen was already waiting at the foot of the stairs. He arched his brows in surprise at her dripping hair. “Just a moment!” she assured him, flustered beyond words, and fled up the rickety steps.

She changed hastily out of her servant’s dress and into the only “good” clothes she owned. Her skirt was green with white trim, and her blouse was pale yellow. As she fastened the simple silver hoop earrings that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday, he was very much on her mind. What would he have thought of what she was doing now? Would he have approved of her walking out with a minstrel? For an instant, sadness washed over her that she could not ask his permission or opinion. She wondered what had become of their old cart and team, and if the men who had killed her father had profited from his death. Then she shook her head clear of such thoughts. They had never helped her, not in the days right after his death and certainly not now. She would have to make her own way in the world, and live with her own decisions.

She tore a comb through her dark hair, braided it, and pinned it up, hoping the wet would not be so noticeable. She pulled on her blue boots, took a breath, and left her small room to descend the stairs. Thoughts of her father had driven some of the giddiness from her. If she made any mistake with this man, she reminded herself, she’d have no one to rely on except herself.

She cautioned herself to wariness, but as she came down the steps, Azen was looking up and smiling at her. His dark eyes seemed suddenly a pool that she might drown in. “There you are!” he exclaimed, as if completely surprised by her presence. He lifted a small covered basket from the ground and hung it on one arm while offering her his free one. It seemed only natural to take it, and once she had, she could think of no polite way to let go of it. “I know a place where the night birds sing,” he told her, and off they went.

She did not have to talk much at first, for which she was grateful. He entertained her with an accounting of his day, turning his simple tasks to a tale full of humor and mischief. She could not help but laugh, and for a time, he seemed to expect no more from her save that she listen and smile at his nonsense.