Chapter 24
THE TALE OF THE THREE SISTERS
The Queen’s heart lurched as she absorbed the beauty of the pastoral scene.
For so long, she had existed alone in a city of ugly towers and narrow streets, yearning for the freedom of the natural world.
When she had been widowed, it was her chance to escape, but her dower house had been surrounded by mountains, stark in their beauty but unforgiving in their glowering menace.
When her sisters had joined her and their quest had begun, her heart had driven her to discover beauty, to relish the wonder of flora and fauna, yet nothing she had seen compared with the vista she now encountered.
An orchard of graceful trees stretched before her.
The trunk of each shone with gentle golden and green light, the strong, supple branches reaching towards a soft blue sky edged with gossamer wisps of snowy white clouds.
Wherever she turned, there were bouquets of cherry blossoms, changing in hue from the purest white to the deepest blush pink.
A heady scent filled the air and The Queen smiled as she inhaled, her body relaxing as though she had imbibed the finest of wines.
With joyous steps, she wandered among the trees, her solitude a balm rather than a terror.
Once upon a time, loneliness had been her companion.
She would be locked away for weeks on end, her husband visiting with threats and violence.
She feared she would die – lost, unmourned, her body thrown into the moat for the fish to eat.
Today, these torments were far away and when she came to a clearing on the edge of a shimmering turquoise lake, the water was a solace, not a taunt.
It was the most unusual colour and she stared in awe at its magnificence.
As she walked closer, she saw the brightly coloured tents and caravans of the troubadours, where a party atmosphere pervaded.
On the lake were vibrant boats and pontoons where the players called merrily to one another as they rehearsed their many and diverse acts.
As The Queen walked forward, shy but desperate to join the merry band, two jugglers who were throwing jewelled batons to each other in a series of complicated movements, deftly caught them and called a cheery welcome.
‘Madam,’ said the first juggler, bowing low, ‘we have long since heard of your skill with the lute. Legend has it your touch is of such lightness you create music that resonates with an ethereal clarity, the notes holding the purest and whitest of magicks. Would you do us the honour of playing?’
The Queen was overawed by this effusive greeting. She blushed as deeply pink as the blossom. For years, her talent had been diminished by her husband and his sons from his first marriage, her skills belittled and her desire for beauty in all things ridiculed.
‘This is kind,’ she said, ‘but you’re mistaken in these tales. I play most humbly.’
‘But, Madam,’ exclaimed the second juggler, taking her arm and leading her towards the edge of the lake, ‘why such bashfulness? Come play your lute and let us all experience your magic.’
‘My lute is with my belongings in the castle,’ she protested, but with a flourish the first juggler produced the instrument.
‘We heard you planned to visit and this was delivered a few moments before you appeared through the trees,’ he said.
The Queen was surprised but delighted and for the first time in many years, her fingers tingled in anticipation.
It was with a light heart and a joyous step she followed the merry jugglers to the nearest pontoon.
They chattered and praised her as they led her to the large, flat, colourful barge in the middle of the lake, where the other troubadours tumbled and juggled, sang and played their instruments, warming up while waiting for the master jongleur to call them to order.
When they saw her, the troupe called out in great excitement and The Queen found herself surrounded by the crowd of jewel-bright entertainers.
Each wore a costume of gorgeous extravagance and she felt she was among a flock of exotic but friendly birds, all eager to make her acquaintance.
Then from behind came the thunder of a drum roll.
The entertainers turned as one to greet their leader, Stefan.
A muscular man of towering height, his hair was long and tawny, a lion’s mane glinting in the midday sun.
His skin was tanned, his warm golden-brown eyes sparkled and around his broad shoulders swung a long purple and green cloak embroidered with glittering mermaids and shimmering fish.
‘Madam,’ said Stefan to The Queen as he bowed deeply from the waist, ‘would you do us the honour of playing your lute?’
The simplicity of the request calmed The Queen’s nerves and, with a smile, she gave her assent.
As she took her place on a golden stool in the centre of the barge, waves of warmth and friendship rippled towards her through the fragrant air.
There was a hushed expectancy from the troubadours, an appreciative audience, understanding and encouraging a fellow artiste.
With well-practised fingers, she strummed her lute, adjusting the strings, making them sing in perfect harmony. She looked at the gathered crowd before raising her eyes to Stefan, who, with baton in hand, counted her in, and The Queen began to play.
The notes streamed from the instrument on her lap, a flow of liquid beauty enchanting and entrancing all around.
No longer a woman and a musical instrument, they had merged to become a living, breathing organism creating the purest of sounds.
As she played, words spiralled through The Queen’s mind and, a moment later, she heard them being sung aloud by a haunting and ethereal voice of such clarity and tone-perfect pitch she felt as though she was drowning in sound.
Even if she had wanted to stop, she would not have been able.
Instead, she played and played, allowing the words to unwind in her head like a fisherman untangling the iridescent catch from his net.
As each phrase formed in her mind, the beautiful voice transformed it into song, tapping into her very soul as the music filled the air.
At last, her fingers and her heart were spent, the notes drew to a natural close.
Silence followed as those around breathed again, the bewitchment of the song fading before they burst into rapturous applause.
She lifted her face, wet with tears and stared around for the source of the voice that had accompanied her so unexpectedly, the person who was able to read her mind.
There on a small platform, standing alone, was the man.
In a suit of harlequin silk, his hair dusted with tiny petals of cherry blossom from the orchard, he bowed from the waist. He was younger, smiling, but before her eyes, he transformed, his features twisting into the face she remembered, the man who had caused all their misery.
‘I think, Madam,’ he said, ‘the time has come to show you the secret of this castle.’
And as he reached for her hand, everything went black.