Chapter Nineteen The Golden Bird
Chapter Nineteen
The Golden Bird
It was evening when George began to play his fiddle, slowly at first, and then with such joy that the children sprang up and danced around him in twirling circles, crashing to the floor when they’d spun themselves dizzy.
Ethel had already served her rabbit stew, complete with the parsnips and mushrooms Anne and Alice had gathered.
Anne pretended it was a healing elixir as she swallowed spoonfuls of the hearty soup.
She remembered, as a child at Hever Castle, making “potions” with Mary and George by gathering mushrooms and grasses in the gardens, maybe the spiky leaves of a holly or last season’s rosehips, and stirring them together in a pot filled with water from the little lake.
“I’m a witch!” Mary would cackle, chasing her younger siblings around with the inedible mixture.
Anne and George would hide together in the large garden, tittering joyfully, hoping to get caught.
That was ages ago now. Here before Anne, another brother named George, though not her George.
As Anne ate, she felt the strength return to her, so that by the time evening came, she was sitting up on the edge of the bed, swinging her feet in time to George’s music, clapping her hands and smiling.
The happiness of the fenlanders was contagious.
These did not seem to be the same people she’d heard disparaged whenever they were mentioned.
No, here, she saw a people who were merry and quick-witted, hardy and healthy, intent on enjoying their lives.
“Your brother is an excellent musician,” Anne said to Alice, who sat beside her on the bed, clapping along to the beat of the music.
Alice nodded. “Yes, he is.”
“I didn’t know fenlanders studied music,” Anne continued, “and yet he is so skilled.”
“ ‘I didn’t know fenlanders studied music,’ ” repeated Alice in a lilting tone, as a child might mock another who has said something stupid. “My lady, are you so convinced of the superiority of nobles that you think no one else in the world can be moved to song?”
“I didn’t mean—” began Anne.
“Surely you have noticed,” Alice interrupted, “that folks everywhere can whistle, can hum, can praise creation through melodies sung. Surely you have noticed that the nobles themselves get their music lessons from their more musical lessers. My lady, do you not think before you speak?”
“I’m sorry,” Anne said. “I’m trying. This is all new to me.
” She thought of Mark Smeaton—poor Mark Smeaton, whose head now sat on a pike on London Bridge.
Smeaton, the gifted lutist. He’d been Cardinal Wolsey’s musician before he was Anne’s.
But where had he come from before that? Where was he born?
Who were his people? How had he learned to make such gorgeous music?
She knew he was not from noble birth. How many times had she reminded him that he was her inferior when he’d become overfamiliar, mistaking his place in her apartments as one of companionship rather than entertainment?
And yet he played more beautifully than any lord or lady, for whom music lessons were a necessary chore—another thing to become proficient at, an accomplishment to tick off a list, like needlework, Latin, or jousting.
Of all the nobles she knew, perhaps the only one truly gifted with artistic talent was Thomas Wyatt, whose poems were wild and bewitching, but even so Anne now wondered if there weren’t common folk who, given the chance, might compose verse just as lovely, or lovelier, or wilder.
“George has always been a talent at music,” said Alice, relaxing from her defensiveness into pride for her brother.
“When we were small, he would gather up our cups and plates, flip them upside down, and arrange them in order according to the sound they made when struck with a spoon. He’d spend hours playing on the dishes the melodies he’d heard our father and uncles whistling.
’Twas truly impressive.” Alice shifted on the bed, smiling.
“I never had that in me; ’twas something he was born with.
We had an uncle who was the same way, our mother’s brother.
’Tis his fiddle George plays now—he passed it on to George when his hands became too bent with age to play. ”
“And is this how you pass your evenings in the fens?” Anne asked. “At play and dance? ’Tis lovely.”
Alice nodded again. “The fens are special. We don’t have landlords here.
We don’t have to farm. I’ve been out in the world enough to know how other commoners live, toiling morn till night to grow the grains they cannot eat themselves, that they must sell to turn to flour, to make other men’s bread, all so they can pay the lord the rent.
” Alice narrowed her eyes. “Rent. Rent for the land where they were born, where their parents were born, and their parents. How is that fair?”
Anne sat quietly. What Alice described was the order of things, and Anne had never thought to question it, as she’d been told of her family’s right to property and governance over their lessers her whole life.
“Those people work themselves into the grave,” Alice continued.
“The menfolk toil all day. The womenfolk birth babe after babe, cannot feed them all properly, waste away from exhaustion. No.” Alice shook her head.
“That’s no life. We may not have it perfect here in the fens, but ’tis our land.
We take what we need. We use what we take.
Our men sell some eels to make a bit of money upland, and we pay our tax to the crown, but once we’ve worked to feed ourselves for the day, to fix our shelters, to keep our children warm and dry, we have time to relax, to make merry, to sing and dance and fiddle, to play games.
In my estimation, there aren’t many other commoners in this good country who can say the same. ”
Alice rose to her feet, and, changing the subject, held out a hand to Anne. “Surely you know how to dance?”
Anne smiled shyly. “Well, yes, but—”
Before she could finish, Alice grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed and out among the dancing children.
There, Alice led quite as well as a man, whisking Anne around the hut in a fast country dance she wasn’t familiar with, but quickly picked up.
Alice smiled and pulled Anne closer, whispering in her ear, “You dance well, my lady, for a noblewoman,” then winking at her coyly as she spun her out with one arm, and drew her back in.
When George finished his song, the two fell apart, laughing, as the children collapsed around them, dizzy and heavy-headed, grinning.
They look like little fairy children, Anne thought, and she wished she could spirit Elizabeth here, to frolic with these spritely woodland babes, to sing and dance and love, to be safe.
She could almost feel Elizabeth’s weight in her arms as she collapsed into them after a good spin.
“All right, all right,” said Ethel, rising from the seat where she’d been resting her weary knees, “ ’tis time to light the rushes.
” She nodded toward the tow-headed boy, who, knowing his job, rose and used a dried stick to fetch a flame from the fire, then walked to each of four reed torches placed about the cozy room and lit them, one by one.
The torches stank a bit, of burning reed and tallow, but lit the little home up nicely.
“Gather round,” Ethel said. “ ’Tis time for a story and for the young ones to go to sleep. Children, fetch your mats.”
The children retrieved their mats and unrolled them in a haphazard cluster around the hearth and table.
The younger Martha placed hers right next to Ethel’s bed.
She must like to sleep near her minder, Anne thought.
Perhaps the girl had nightmares. Even George took a seat on the floor among the children, leaning his back against the wall, placing his fiddle at rest by his feet.
Anne settled back on the bed, and Alice joined her, putting her arm through Anne’s elbow and covering both their laps with a blanket. Anne nestled close, warm and familiar.
“Now,” said Ethel, “for a story.”
“Oh, Ethel tells the best stories,” Alice said quietly to Anne.
“What shall I tell?” asked Ethel.
“ ‘Tom Tit Tot’!” called Constance, seated at Ethel’s feet.
The boy who’d lit the torches called out, “ ‘Mr. Vinegar’!”
“ ‘The Golden Bird’!” cried Alice.
“Ah,” Ethel said, nodding at Alice, “ ‘The Golden Bird.’ Right then. Let us begin at the beginning.” Ethel motioned for Constance to fetch her a blanket from the bed, and the child rose, wove her way through the mats, retrieved a blanket from beside Alice, and returned it to Ethel.
The good woman draped the blanket theatrically over her legs as she resettled herself in her seat.
Her child audience waited, with rapt attention.
Ethel grinned, enjoying, it seemed to Anne, having them in her thrall.
“Now then,” Ethel continued, “in the old times, there was a king who had a fine castle with a fine garden.
The king had spent his life growing and admiring an enchanted tree, which fruited golden apples.
When harvest time came, the king noticed that each night, a golden apple went missing from the tree.
He ordered his gardener to find out who was stealing the apples from the tree, or, the king threatened, the gardener would lose his head.