Isabella MacDonald, 29
Musician/Composer
Chepe Syed, London,
Wednesday (mid-afternoon), 20th September, 1486
‘Isabella? Are you listening?’ Nicola’s light question interrupted me. ‘Prithee, Bella, read it again to me?’
I sat back from my frantic search through our trunk. In truth I’d only been half-aware of her words; more attuned ta their cadence than meaning. Her voice always seduced me.
She held out the heavy, gilded tome her godfather, William Caxton had given her, and smiled that winsome, a-hoping smile. I’d read stories from it every day for months since it arrived. The book was her most-treasured object. And the most valuable thing in this tiny, musty room.
I wouldna miss this place, once I was in the Fellowship and earning decent money.
In the winter winds whistled through the gaps with notes that set my teeth on edge. In the summer we sweltered under the close roof and lay a-talking, and a-listening for the waite-musician-watchmen ta make their rounds and play their night-music ta lull us ta sleep.
But even in this poor garret bedroom overlooking Westchepe Syed, Nicola managed ta be lovely. She reclined in her chemise on the straw-stuffed mattress, amongst the rumpled bedsheets. A beam of sunlight painted red in her long dark hair and turned her sightless eyes snowy-white.
But I had ta resist her. Today, at least. I dragged a green surcoat from the trunk and held it up. Yes, it would do. No time ta steam the wrinkles out, though. At least it matched my eyes and showed off my red hair. I threw it on over my grey kirtle and white chemise and tied a coif over my hair.
‘Aye, Nic, I’ll read it,’ I said, a-fumbling with the surcoat lacing. ‘But not now. Remember? I have ta take Father’s sword and my shawm ta the Cahorsin shop and get money for the membership fee. I canna be late. Harold’s a-waiting. He’s promised ta come with me ta see the Master.’
‘Oh, but no, Bella.’ Nicola’s fine dark brows pulled tight in a rare frown. ‘Not your shawm as well. You’ll not be able to play this evening?’
I shrugged and fastened the lacing. ‘I’ve still got my lute and the recorder. Quieter alongside your lute, anyway. And once I’m in the Fellowship of Minstrels I’ll be able ta ask higher rates. Write music for the playhouses. Maybe get a noble patron. And the Fellowship can afford ta get my music printed on Master Caxton’s new printing press. Then, God willing, the court’ll hear my compositions and we can move ta better lodgings.’
I sat on the edge of the bed, set the thick copy of le Morte d’Arthur aside, and held Nicola’s hands. ‘I promise, Nic. Once I have membership, everything’ll change. You’ll see.’ But I was a-sweating already. What if the Master of Minstrels said No?
Nicola stretched out a hand. I leaned inta it. Her calloused fingertips scratched my cheek.
‘I know, love,’ she said, soft and sweet. ‘But it matters not to me where we live, so long as we’re together. If I’d wanted a rich life could I not have married Sir Edward?’
I swallowed a lump in my throat. ‘Aye, but I canna stand the way the men in this churlhouse gawp at you. An I canna always be here ta protect you.’
Her smile became wry. ‘But I need no protecting and you need not join the Fellowship. You’re better than any of them. But you’ll not listen when I tell you that so, prithee, go. And good luck. But remember, we sing for our supper after the sunset bells ring.’
I kissed her soft, warm mouth and savoured the taste of mead on her lips. I sighed in regret for having ta leave and gathered my shawm and the sword in its sheath. ‘Practice that new piece I wrote and I’ll be back a-fore Vespers ta take you ta church.’
She kissed me again and shoo-ed me out, locking the door behind me. The first notes of my new tune drifted from her lute. She had a perfect ear. I’d only played it once for her.
Downstairs, Harold waited, his homely, broad face a-lighting up when I ran down the risers. ‘You look a treat, all dressed up.’
I dipped a mocking little curtsey.
He grimaced. ‘You sure ‘bout this, Bel?’ he said, scratching at his curly brown hair. ‘I mean, you’ve gotta place to live and food for free for singin’ each night. There’s many-a member who can’t even boast that. Do you—’
‘Aye, I’m sure,’ I said. I had my recorder and a roll of my music tucked inta the satchel over my shoulder. I’d make them see I was worthy. They’d print my music by the book-full. My hands shook and Harold snatched the shawm and sword a-fore I dropped them.
‘Rollo?’ I called ta the Broken Seld’s innkeeper. He stuck his balding head out from the corridor at the rear of the taproom and lifted caterpillar brows. ‘I’m a-going out. Make sure no-one bothers Nic?’
‘O-course,’ he said, sniffing. One meaty hand lifted a club he kept leaning up against the wall. ‘Always.’ The faint sound of Nicola’s sweet voice carried from our room and his round face softened.
Harold and I a-hurried south ta Cecily Hayward’s pawn shop on Bred Street. It was the work of moments ta sell her the shawm and my father’s good steel sword. It cost me a pang ta part with both. But my father had always prayed for a boy, not a disobedient daughter who wanted nothing more than ta play music. Died still wanting a boy to protect him in battle.
Cecily sighed over the shawm, for she had a generous heart in her generous bosom. She hid the instrument away, a-promising ta keep it safe.
With coin-purse tucked deep inta my kirtle, we strode toward Bassing Lane. And everywhere music followed me. The chatter of passing goodwives a-carrying baskets of groceries rose and fell like partsongs. The pattering steps of apprentices running errands for their masters set up a rhythm counter ta the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. A blacksmith’s hammer struck a clear C on the anvil, steady and slow. I found myself a-humming a new melody round the hammerblows. A song about a smith and his lover. About a battle and a death.
‘Bella?’ Harold’s deep bass voice interrupted the song. He’d stopped and stood a-pointing at the little stone hall on Bassing Lane. I came back and joined him, staring up at the front with its thick stone ground floor, and plaster and timber upper storeys. A sign with a lyre and a swan hung out front, a-creaking in the warm late-summer wind.
I pulled back my shoulders, lifted my chin and followed Harold up the two steps, through the thick oaken door. Harold snatched off his hat and twisted it in his big hands.
A servant showed us inta Master Smith’s office. At the door, I gulped and almost backed out. What if he hated my music? What if I only thought it was good? Was I just a-fooling myself? Only a frowning look from Harold got me over the threshold.
‘Master Smith,’ Harold said.
The master looked up from his desk and nodded a greeting. ‘Harold. Good to see you, boy. One moment.’ His voice was smooth and resonant. I wanted ta write a part-song for him and Nicola. A love duet. His quill pen travelled over a sheet of parchment, a-scratching in the thick silence. I took the chance ta look around his cramped, dark office.
Two real wax candles lit his work and tallow ones stood in brackets around the walls. In between, hung more lutes, gitterns, viols, hurdy-gurdys, and other instruments than I’d ever seen. Some I couldna even name and shame a-flushed inta my cheeks. I oughta know. A real member would know. I chewed on my lip and fiddled with the satchel. I shouldna be here.
The scratching stopped and Master Smith carefully sanded his work then set it aside onta one of the enormous piles of parchment on his desk. So much parchment and vellum. Even some paper. What I could do with that. How much I could write, print—maybe even sell ta other minstrels.
Master Smith cleared his throat and looked over the top of his little round eyeglasses. He leaned back in his chair and swept a narrow hand over his smooth dark hair.
‘So? What can I do for you, Harold? Time to sit for your Master’s level?’
Harold shifted from foot ta foot and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Nay, sir. I doubt I’ll ever be good enough to make Master. I’m happy playing in the Broken Seld and makin’ lutes and viols for folk.’ He paused and shot me a quick look. ‘This here is my friend, Isabella MacDonald, sir. I’ve come on her behalf. To beg a favour.’
‘Oh?’ Smith looked me up and down.
I dipped a quick curtsey.
‘She—’ Harold began.
‘I’d like ta join the Fellowship, Master,’ I blurted, unable to wait on Harold’s slow words anymore. He groaned.
Smith leaned forward, his chair creaking. He gave a tired, disdainful laugh and flicked ink-stained fingers at me.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Harold. No women. You know the rule. Women don’t have the intellect to understand music, to write it, to feel it. And the bishop certainly won’t allow music written or played by a woman into the chapels and cathedrals.’ His smug expression was the sort my father used ta give when I said I’d be a minstrel one day. ‘Go back to your husband and your hearth, good woman. Leave music to men and look after your children.’ He slid another piece of parchment before him and dipped the quill inta an inkpot.
Harold shuffled toward the door and grabbed my wrist. I yanked free and pulled my sheet music out.
‘But sir,’ I said, palms a-sweating. ‘I can play five instruments. And look at—’
Smith shot ta his feet, scowling. ‘How dare you, woman? I am Master here, and while I am, the rule stands.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Out of my office now before I call a constable. Out.’
I opened my mouth, shut it, whirled and stalked out the door with tears a-blurring the way so much I could barely see. Outside on the street I strode back and forth with fists clenched at my sides and anger a-burning a hellfire path through my whole body.
‘It’s not fair, Harold,’ I railed. ‘He didna even look. Didna even let me play.’
‘I know, Bella,’ he said regretfully. ‘You shoulda waited for me to lay the groundwork instead of stomping in like you did. He don’t like change. Not shoved at him sudden like that.’
‘So this is my fault?’ I said. ‘It’s my fault the Godforsaken Fellowship is like everywhere else and thinks women are fools?’ Abruptly the fight went from me and I sagged against the warm stone wall. ‘Maybe we are. Maybe I am for thinking I could do it as well as a man. Maybe I’ve been a fool all along and my father was right.’
Harold came close and put an arm around my waist, he tucked me against his body and I sighed and leaned on his shoulder.
‘You don’t need them, Bella,’ he whispered. ‘Marry me and we can play music together. I don’t mind. And once you have a baby you’ll be happy, anyway. You won’t need to earn money playing in inns.’
I pushed away and stared at him in horror. ‘Marry you? God’s blood, I canna. I ran away from home so I wouldna have ta marry.’ He didn’t know about Nicola and I, for we hid from everyone. God frowned on our kind of love. But I’d never suspected Harold cared for me. I was too angry now ta hide my teeth or protect his feelings. ‘And I don’t play ta earn money. I play and write because I have ta. I canna sleep for music a-pushing its way inta my dreams. Everything sounds like a tune or a lyric. I don’t want ta be a goodwife and have babies. I want ta play music. I want other people ta play my music. Canna you understand?’
He stood, stiff and pale, staring at his feet. ‘I understand, alright. I understand you’re a stubborn wench who would rather die poor and alone than be with someone who cares.’ He slapped his hat on and tugged at the brim. ‘I won’t bother you again. Good luck.’ And with that he spun on his heel and marched away.
I didna follow or call out. I was still too angry with him, with the Master, with God, with all of them. Instead I stalked back ta Cecily’s shop and redeemed my shawm.
‘Keep the sword,’ I said bitterly. ‘Idiot men and their idiot wars. Let someone else buy it and I hope they all kill each other.’
Cecily laughed, her deep bosom jiggling. ‘Righty-o, love. I know how you feel. But I’m glad you’ve got your shawm back. I’ll come tonight and hear you and Nicola play, shall I?’
Her good cheer settled me a little and I managed a smile. ‘Gramercy, Cecily.’
I returned ta the Broken Seld and ran up the stairs without greeting Rollo or even a-glancing at the early drinkers in the public room. When Nicola let me in, I still couldn’t speak. I held back the tide of pain pushing at my throat and curled up on the bed, saying nothing ta her questions. At last she stopped asking and lay beside me, stroking my hair.
The abbey bells rang for Vespers and Nicola stirred. ‘We must go or we’ll be late.’
‘I’m not a-going,’ I said. ‘God hates us. Why should I care for him?’
‘Bella! Prithee, tell. What’s happened?’
‘It doesna matter,’ I said. ‘Go, if you want. Get Rollo or Anna ta take you.’
‘Please, Bella?’
‘No!’ I rolled over ta glare at her. ‘I wanted one thing in this life. One thing! Ta make music that people all over knew and loved. But I canna because I’m a woman. I have nothing left. Leave me alone.’
She covered her mouth. ‘Oh, Bella.’
I stayed silent, ignoring the break in her voice. She left and the place grew quiet as many folk went ta church ta pray.
Relieved ta be alone, I lay still for an age, a-holding back tears by force of anger alone. Finally, I took up my lute and Nicola’s, my recorder, tabor, and shawm and headed downstairs. I didna want ta, but we still had ta pay for our lodging and food. I set up in our usual corner and tuned the lute, a-thinking about what ta play.
The room was dim-lit by oil lamps and the glow from the fire in the brick fireplace. Too warm, and smelling strong of sour ale, and the fish oil Rollo burned in the lamps when he was low on money. But empty and desolate, save for a few hardy souls waiting for their supper.
I plucked out a melancholy tune I’d composed a decade before when Nicola’s father had betrothed her ta Sir Edward Sutton and we’d been forced ta part a-while. It suited my mood.
Alas, my love, ye do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you so long
Delighting in your company.
Greensleeves—
The outer door slammed open and six men entered the public room.
‘By Christ’s hair, Calain, I hope you’re right.’ A man’s thin tenor jolted me out of a daze. I scowled, resentful of the intrusion, but kept a-playing, quietly.
‘House!’ shouted the smallest; the one who’d spoken already. ‘House? Damn.’ He glared at me. ‘Where’s the innkeeper?’
Sarah Clark appeared, Rollo’s strumpet of a housekeeper. She wiped filthy hands on a filthy apron. ‘Whaddya want, then?’
‘Keep a civil tongue in your mouth, woman.’ The small man raised a hand as though ta strike her. Her piggy brown eyes widened and she shrank. The largest man in the group caught the strike before it landed.
‘Nay, my lord,’ his deep voice rumbled. ‘She came as quick as she could. Folk are at Vespers. Don’t take out your ire on those trying to help.’
Sarah’s red cheeks reddened further and her look at the big man changed ta something like worship. ‘I’ll get you drinks, good sirs.’ She hurried away with a backward glance.
‘Very well, Calain.’ The lordling sniffed and his gaze slid across me like I was of no account. ‘Come. We have time to talk, then, before the place fills with dross.’ He brought a kerchief ta his nose and the woody scent of moss and roses reached me. ‘Could you not have found us a better hostelry, Alistair?’ This last was addressed in a peevish tone ta the tall, thin man ta his left. The other three companions were a pair of thick-throated brothers and a mop-haired boy with a pout like a child’s.
The one named Alistair bowed and drew out a bench not far away. ‘Where, my lord? Lovell Hall, down the road, perhaps?’ His voice was a gentle mocking tenor, round and smooth. He carried a gittern and a longbow on his back and lay the gittern on the table with particular care.
I liked him. Two good men in the company of an arrogant lord. Odd. You could usually tell the quality of a man by his lord, and visa versa.
The lordling cast Alistair a darkling look and sighed. ‘No, you’ve the right of it. This hovel is all I can afford now that my own lands have been confiscated by that upstart on the throne. By God I’ll be glad when he’s gone and a rightful heir is back in charge.’
‘The young Earl of Warwick is only eleven, my lord,’ Alastair said.
‘And? So he’ll have a regent for a few years. That’s not your problem. Getting him out of the Tower, is. Hurry the preparations.’
The one named Calain, huge with broad shoulders, rumbled a reply. ‘Time will, my lord. We are laying the plans. Fret not.’
‘Well, you’d better be.’ The lordling held up a hand. ‘And damned-well find my ring, while you’re at it. That little brat who stole it must be around here somewhere. Check the pawn shops.’
Part of me wanted ta cheer whatever street urchin had stolen his ring. Instead, I played on in the shadowed corner. If it suited him ta pretend I didna exist, it suited me ta eavesdrop on their conversation.
Alistair bowed again. ‘That we shall, my lord. Now, what did you wish to discuss?’
If these men were against the king, it might pay me ta hear as much as possible. Perhaps my way inta noble patronage could be bought by the sale of traitors ta the crown. I didna care whose arse filled the throne, but the means ta keep Nicola safe, publish my music, and keep war from a-killing more of my brothers, lay in the richest hands around. And, right now, those were Henry Tudor’s.
A distant set of church bells a-rang out; a joyous cascade of tones. Somewhere in the eastern end of the city, by the sounds.
The men started and exchanged puzzled looks. I paused in my playing. What was it? Invasion? Another set joined in. And another, until the afternoon was a-wash with bells and I had ta clap my palms ta my ears.
A babble of voices arose outside. A thinner, higher bell jangled, jarring, and the trained shout of a town crier cut through the noise.
‘The queen is delivered of a boy. The prince is born. God save the king. God save the prince.’
‘God’s body!’ My lord struck the timber table with a fist and scowled at his companions. ‘Sooner than I’d hoped. We must move.’ He lapsed inta frowning darkness and I inta silence, a-straining ta hear.
‘Alistair, the king will undoubtedly have a banquet to celebrate in a few days,’ the lordling continued. ‘I have contacts who can tell me when and where. And tradition says the king should grant pardons and invite me to the feast. Which means it’s still the best time to strike.’
‘So soon, my lord?’ Alistair spread his lean hands. ‘The preparations aren’t complete.’
‘Then make them complete,’ he snarled. ‘Calain, help him. This is too important. I’ll pay you both double. Do we have a deal?’
Alistair inclined his head and the big man, Calain, did the same, but they exchanged a long, silent look. The other three men nodded like brainless lackeys.
‘Good,’ said the lord. ‘I have an appointment in Southwark tomorrow morning. I shan’t need an escort so you may both hasten your preparations in my absence. But Alistair, at noon I’ll need your assistance at Derby House. I’m meeting Lady Roslyn Stanley and you’ll be my lookout. Her uncle, Thomas Stanley, Earl of Derby, holds no love for me.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ Alistair said, a-bowing again.
Rollo and a crowd of church-goers burst through the door, a-cheering. Rollo started a-pouring ales as fast as he could. The lordling snarled at the bar wench, Beth, when she came with drinks. He shoved up from the table and stalked upstairs. A door down the hall from ours slammed shut.
I played a new song, one more joyous ta suit the crowd’s mood—even if not mine. Nicola made her way slowly through the mob and took her place at my side. She said nothing ta me. It wasn’t the time ta speak our thoughts, but I was grateful she was safe.
Harold didna join us, though. He probably never would. I hadna meant ta hurt him, but he deserved ta find someone who could love him. We did miss his rich voice for some of the madrigals and duets, though.
The crowd didna seem ta mind and we sang until we were hoarse and the candles guttered. Rollo shoo-ed those that could walk out the door around midnight. Those that couldna, snored under the tables with the dogs and the rats. We gathered our instruments and I guided Nicola through the mess of unconscious bodies, vomit and spilled ale.
In our room, Nicola was quiet, but so was I. Tired, dispirited, seeing my dream torn away, unable ta stop it. We barely spoke as we undressed and climbed inta bed.
In the morning the bells of Prime woke us after the first flush of dawn and I lay a-staring at the ceiling. Lead sat in my chest and my limbs were heavy. I was neither thirsty nor a-hungered and could think of no reason ta rise. The world was tuneless and flat, my hopes soured like a slipping string.
Nicola rose and made ready without her usual, cheerful chatter about what the day would bring. I was grateful for I couldna bear ta pretend happiness. She moved quietly around the room, a-washing her face, dressing, using the chamber pot.
Then she opened our trunk and withdrew her precious copy of le Morte d’Arthur. She carried it ta the bed and lay it gently on the mattress.
‘Here,’ she said, quietly.
‘I canna read, Nic.’ My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. ‘Maybe later.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘An it means so much to get your music sold to other minstrels, prithee then take this. Sell it. Go to my godfather and ask him to print your music. You can sell the sheets at festivals and in the inns and playhouses where other players work.’ She touched my arm. ‘For you to be so unhappy is something I cannot bear. Make your dream happen, an it is so important.’ She rose from the bed and opened the trunk again.
I sat up, staring at the book in hope and guilt. She was right. Selling it would give me more than enough ta print hundreds of copies of my songs. Everyone who heard my music loved it. So surely this was the way ta fortune?
A soft noise from Nicola made me look up. She was carefully pulling her clothing out of the trunk, checking the little shoulder-knot that showed an item was hers. Then she folded each piece and laid them on a square of cloth. When she was done, she tied the cloth inta a bundle and stood. She collected her lute and felt her way ta the door.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
She turned those pale eyes on me and her mouth drooped. ‘I know. I always knew music and being successful was important to you. But that it meant more to you than I…I never realised. And I’ll not stay and help you kill yourself working for recognition from the Fellowship. People who care not and matter not.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ran ta her and tried ta pull the bundle from her arms. ‘I love you, Nic. Why would you leave?’
‘You said,’ she started, then stopped and sucked a sobbing breath. ‘You said all you’d ever wanted was for your music to be heard. That you had nothing, now. I’m nothing to you. Prithee, take the book. Sell it and be happy, Bella. That’s all I ever wanted. For you to b-be h-happy.’ Her lovely face crumpled.
‘Oh, Nicola.’ I threw my arms around her and held her tight as she cried against my shoulder. What had I done? She’d given up everything for me—the chance of a comfortable life, her family’s protection and status, and now her most-loved possession. And I’d made her feel like she meant nothing.
I stared over her shoulder at the book and thought about our life. The times we laughed and cried and poured our hearts out. The times we huddled together under the covers in winter and a-giggled like children. The times we loved one another with such joy and pleasure it outsang the music in my head.
Releasing her, I carefully pulled the bundle and lute from her grip. Then I retrieved the book and placed it in her arms.
‘Don’t go, Nic. I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I love you more than anything and I’m a fool for hurting you so. You are more important, I promise. Stay.’
She hesitated and swept her fingers over the tooled leather. ‘What of your songs? Your music?’
‘Our music is better.’
She gave a sobbing half-laugh and put the book down. Then she threw herself inta my arms and kissed me and cried all at once.
A light knock fell on the door and we broke apart, giggling.
I wiped my cheeks and hers and opened the door a crack.
‘If I may, ladies?’ a quiet voice intruded. It was the tall man, Alistair, who’d dealt with the lordling last night.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
He bowed. ‘I’m sorry to startle you. I felt called to compliment you on your singing. And your playing. Both of you are most accomplished.’
‘My thanks,’ I said, and opened the door a fraction more, curious. ‘If that’s all?’
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘The song you were playing when we arrived last night…your own composition?’
I nodded. Where was this going?
‘Excellent.’ A sweet smile lit his angular face. ‘I’d like to commission you to write a song for me.’
‘For you?’ I couldn’t help the quick glance along the hall ta where his unpleasant companion had vanished. And I bit back an urge ta ask if it would be played in court if his lordly friend succeeded. Was there any harm in playing both sides? My father had died fighting for King Richard. Been put ta death by the victor for loyalty ta the wrong man. So perhaps hedging my bets and helping both sides was an option.
‘For me.’ His smile deepened. ‘And you might get the chance to play it for the king. I predict the right song will go down in history, and you’re the one to write it.’
I put out my hand. ‘Deal, sir. Tell me what you want me ta write about.’
He chuckled. ‘Blackbirds.’