Martin’s chamber at the back of the inn and tossed another bag of coin on the small table in front of his master. The miller’s son looked up absentmindedly from the parchment he was working on.
“Well done, cat,” he said, “how many bags of coin is that now—four?”
“Five,” said Bismarck smugly, “and one ruby necklace.”
“Hah,” said the miller’s son, “we’re getting rich. The rent for this room has barely made a dent into our first bag of coin. What did you bring the king this time, more partridges?”
“Rabbits, believe it or not. Apparently his majesty is very fond of jugged hare. And I caught a few young ones—silly things—rather quickly this time. They’re fond of greens, that’s what I put in my sack.”
“Well, I’m partial to jugged hare myself, so can’t say I blame his majesty. I’ll have to get you to bring me a rabbit some day, too. But then I’d have to cook it, and I hardly know how; perhaps we’ll stick with porridge after all. Did you see your charming lady love today?”
Bismarck smirked and stroked his whiskers.
“Oh yes, yes,” he said, “I swear she grows more beautiful by the day.”
But Martin’s face had taken on an absent look that told the cat he was no longer listening. He turned back to his parchment and took up his quill again.
“Here is something else for you to take a look at,” said Bismarck, unheard. He pulled a rolled-up sheet of parchment out of the shaft of his boot and placed it in front of Martin.
“What’s this?” said the miller’s son after a few minutes during which he had scribbled busily and paid no attention to his surroundings. He picked up the parchment and unrolled it. “Hmm…” he said, thoughtfully, “a rhyme?” He began to read the verse on the sheet, then shook his head. “No, no, that won’t do,” he said, took up his quill, dipped it in the inkwell and made some corrections to the words on the sheet. “The worm that bites, the worm that turns…” he read out loud. “Yes, that works better. Would you believe it,” he said to the cat who was curled up on the bed, his boots taken off and carefully lined up at the foot end, “they had ‘the worm that snaps, the worm that will turn.’ Terrible rhythm, and worms do not snap. Bite they do, but slowly and grindingly. Everyone knows that.” He turned back to the parchment, continuing to read and make corrections.
Bismarck grinned a cat grin to himself. Just as he had hoped. He had swiped the parchment from the princess when she wasn’t looking, towards the end of his visit. He had seen her struggle with this rhyme; she was trying to use it for scrying in a dish of water, but kept muttering that the spell just wouldn’t take, and finally she had given up in frustration and walked out of the room. Bismarck didn’t mind that last part, it gave him and Blanche more privacy. His lovely lady was a little self-conscious in the presence of her mistress—a fact which he was sure the princess was well aware of, and was one of the reasons she usually stayed in the room, playing chaperone to her cat. She was a witch, after all, she knew cats.
But it looked like she could use some help with her spell rhymes. Martin was a great rhymer; often his rhymes had some little influence on those who bought them, even if he had no magic abilities himself. There was more than one lad in the town whose sweetheart had suddenly become more amenable to his wooing after he had given her a sheet of verse bought from Martin the Rhymer. There was power in the words alone, and the miller’s son had a gift for putting them together. The witch had all the magic abilities, but her rhymes were not the best. So the cat stole her parchment, and now his master was fixing it up. No need to tell him whose rhymes he was tinkering with, it would only make him feel awkward.
The cat put his head on his paws and went to sleep.
Martin held the parchment at arm’s length and read over the finished product. Yes, much better. It said the same thing it had said before, but it said it in a way that was right. The words fit, they sang. They told their own story. He suddenly noticed what fine quality the parchment sheet was. He brought it closer to his eyes to take a better look, and he caught a pleasing scent that came off the sheet. Then he became aware that he had had that scent in his nostrils the whole time he had been working on this rhyme—a very light, floral scent, something like lavender, and roses, and even a hint of the lilies he had smelled in the church after a wedding once. Very nice, very nice indeed. He took another whiff. An image of fine fabrics rose in front of his eyes—embroidery, brocades. Golden hair. A spring meadow, flowers, butterflies…
He reached for his quill again, pulled a fresh sheet towards him and began writing. Periodically he took up the written-on parchment, brought it to his nose, inhaled deeply, then put it down and continued writing on his new rhyme.