Chapter Twenty-four:
My life returned to some semblance of normalcy after Augustin and I had overcome our difficulties. He visited me in my dreams for three consecutive nights, and we held serious discussions on the current status of our relationship and its possible future. He apologized for his behavior more times than I could count, sobbing fiery tears on several occasions for how deeply he had betrayed me. The wicked side of him had enjoyed the violence with appropriate thrill, he confessed, but another part of him had wailed within during the whole ordeal. He had felt each stab of pain that had struck my body and spirit due to the intimacy of our bond, which he could not completely ignore, though he had tried.
Afterward, Wuotan had congratulated him extensively on his triumph over me, but Augustin asserted that his master’s praise had meant nothing to him. Instead, once he finally found the strength to rise from the sorrow in which he wallowed, he confronted Wuotan with a vengeance, threatening to spurn him entirely should he try to hurt me again. He informed his master that our devotion would remain no matter how he tried to tear us asunder, that it would be better for him to allow his Black Priest to cherish his one source of love without obstruction. Augustin refused to reveal the details of the agreement that they had reached, but he swore that he would never hurt me again.
Augustin admitted on the third night that it seemed love overpowered hate after all, at least in some ways. He declared that his memory of my love would never fade, and my willingness to forgive his brutality had solidified it permanently in his heart. He would love me even in hell; and for the remainder of his existence upon earth, he would shoulder Wuotan’s rebukes gladly, as long as he could cling to the memory of our love. He promised never to break our heart-bond without my permission and added that he would not even suggest the option again unless some insuperable fate pulled us asunder. The tides of time may sever our connection, but they would not expunge his memories. He would reminisce about our shared commitment until final death took him, glorying in the fulfillment we had gained during our years together.
I told Augustin in return that I would always love him, even while I lived my life in the twenty-first century, separated from him by nearly a thousand years. I acknowledged somewhat grudgingly that although the insane part of me wished to stay with him forever, my future would likely not allow this. I would do my best to move on with my life in my own era and consign my time with him to my private musings. I asserted that while I would never be able to convince myself to properly love Joel here in the eleventh century, perhaps one day things would work out better for both of us.
I reminded Augustin that if Joel died before the fall of Muniche, he ought to join me at the Thaden estate, the nearness of his hated ex-family notwithstanding. He did not seem to endorse this proposal, but he pledged to continue meeting me in the Gæstelort Troumerae at least twice per week for our studies and any other activities I wished to share with him, making full use of what time we had left.
I found myself pregnant once more in December of 1056, for my womb had apparently decided that it had some vitality left even after Augustin’s abuse. I still had trouble walking at that point, and it became more difficult to push myself out of bed in the mornings as my body burgeoned with excess weight yet again. I spent the final months of my pregnancy confined in my bedroom, my feet, face, and arms swollen with retained water. I had a strong suspicion that my blood pressure had risen dangerously, for my head often ached. Sometimes I sensed the labored throbbing of my heart beneath my clothing.
I informed Joel sharply more than once that he would have to just jerk off from now on if he wanted release, for I refused to go through this anymore. “It’s not like I’m well enough to run off on you anyway,” I told him tersely, “so you can stop feeling the need to plant your seed in a rotting pot.” Joel shook his head and murmured in a soothing voice that I would heal when all was said and done and we could talk it over then.
In August of 1057, I bore a black-haired, gray-eyed daughter after a painful, prolonged labor. She looked so much like me that I almost burst with pride when I held her to my breast for the first time, as Freia and Gretchen worked to stanch the blood and discharge from my vagina. Joel grinned at my elation and announced that since our fifth daughter looked so much like her mother, I may have the privilege of naming her. I cocked an eyebrow at him and said that he had just run out of ideas for Germanic names, which prompted him to shrug with a guilty smile.
I ultimately chose to name her Erika Freia, after my best Teuton friends from the present and the future. Freia blushed when I told her and promised to name her next daughter after me, if God blessed her with another. Her most recent child had been a son, named Edwin after Freia’s father. She had weaned him just two months before she came to aid me in my labor.
Things settled down again for the next few years. Our crops continued to pull a substantial profit each year, and the worst primeval diseases avoided our land. Joel actually took my wishes into account for once and insisted only rarely that we get intimate. When he did so, he rolled off of me to ejaculate into our chamber pot, claiming that he had heard that trick from Leo, our head vassal.
“It’s better than beating off,” he maintained, while I rolled my eyes at the subjects that the males in our charge apparently discussed. I found it hard to understand their preoccupation with sex after childbirth had dulled my body’s response.
Sometimes I mused longingly about the vibrator Erika had given me back home, with her staunch declaration that women could please themselves without making a mess. I suspected that such a tool could solve my problem. Augustin had gotten me off three times with just his fingers, after all. But my ridiculous husband was too daft to think of such a thing.
My feet and legs grew stronger over time, and I began to push my limits by pacing the garden paths and gradually traversing the staircases. Although they still appeared yellowed and weak, I started dreaming of using my feet as I once had, to bring music to the world around me. But I certainly could not do that without practice. I had not touched the organ since 1044, and I feared that my hands and feet no longer remembered how to create wondrous melodies on such an imposing instrument. The two pipe organs in Muniche stood in the Bayern castle and the cathedral, played only by privileged men. But I wondered whether it may be possible to build an organ in the great hall, against the wall that connected with the main house. Then I could retrain myself to play like I once had without any interference.
I shared my musings with Viktor first, on a Friday afternoon in October of 1058. He was in the process of sweeping the front porch while I sat on the bench facing the gardens, my back against the house and a cup of chamomile tea clasped in my hands. “I really miss hearing the organ at mass,” I said in Magyar, figuring that he had likely never heard the instrument played under any other circumstances.
“As do I, my lady,” Viktor responded, his broom sending bits of leaves and dust to the ground below the porch. His arthritis had slowed him substantially in recent years, but he continued to perform his tasks without complaint. His faithful service had impressed me over the years.
“Then you’ve heard the organ at Muniche’s cathedral?” I asked.
“Many times, in many cities. Buda, Brezalausburc, Wien, Linz, Muniche.” He paused in his work to straighten his back, a wince creasing his face.
I brought my teacup to my lips, not having expected Viktor to be a connoisseur of organ music. But the faraway look in his eyes told me that he had relished many a tune throughout his life. “I used to play the organ many years ago, before I came to Muniche,” I recalled, my lower legs shifting restlessly beneath my skirt, longing to dance upon the pedalboard anew.
“It is majestic music, far different from the lutes and fiddles often heard.” The old Magyar had returned to his duties, sweeping each step that led to the porch.
“I’ve been thinking about having one built here, in this house, in the great hall,” I confessed at length, my fingers quivering where they gripped my teacup. “I fear that my husband may think me mad.”
“I would be honored to admire your talents,” Viktor said, looking up at me from beneath his mop of gray hair. “I imagine your songs to be far more whimsical than the melodies played at mass.”
I chuckled and admitted that he might be right. I shared my longings with Joel that night. Since our farm had prospered significantly during the past harvests, I said that perhaps we could spend a bit of our reserves on something that would enrich our lives while we awaited the end. My husband looked thoughtful and stated that it would depend on what I had in mind. So I gathered my courage and told him that I wished to have a pipe organ built in the great hall, the chamber with a towering ceiling. At first, Joel ogled me as though I had lost my mind; but after thoroughly explaining my idea, he gave his wholehearted consent.
We commissioned Heinrich and his best metalworkers to fashion the pipes and asked the master of the sawmill to build the console. We had to import some of the necessary materials from other lands, and the venture cost us a large chunk of our savings. But we could sell the metal and wood again later to make up for our loss, I reassured Joel, perhaps during the summer of 1065. In the meantime, both of us could enjoy the glories of music again, for he had long since taught himself how to play the lute. He often plucked it by firelight in the evenings while I sang Teutonic ballads and various songs of the future.
The organ was completed in April of 1059, right after the vassals had begun to plant the barley and flax. I tested it for the first time one night as Jarvis pumped the bellows, carefully pressing each key one by one, listening to the varying tones of the different stops. I had included a grand total of fourteen stops ranging from rank two to sixteen. There were four flutes, three principals, four strings, and three horns—a trumpet, cornet, and oboe.
The organ had two keyboards and a full-sized pedalboard, and thanks to the skills of Paulus von Bayern—who had taken an interest in its construction, to my vexation—each keyboard had its own set of stops, so I could play the trumpet on one and strings on another. Each key seemed to work exactly right. After a barrage of encouragement from the children, Joel, and the few servants who stood nearby—including Viktor—I slid onto the organ bench, situating myself to play for the first time in a long time.
I knew that if I could remember any of the glorious pieces I had once played, I could not do them justice without using the pedals—and I had no organ shoes as yet. So I would have to start with something simpler: my favorite German hymn. I hit several softer stops and began to play, my fingers stumbling nearly as often as my feet. I ordered myself not to be discouraged and played the hymn four times. My fingers and feet found the proper notes without fault by the final stanza. My audience applauded when I had finished. The three older children clamored to be taught to play the organ, while Viktor nodded at me with a look of respect.
During the next few weeks, I practiced playing the complex pieces that I had mastered years before. I ran through them on the keyboards and pedals while the bellows stood silent, so no one would have to suffer through hearing my mistakes. I rode to Muniche one morning for an appointment with the local shoemaker, who, after measuring my feet and taking down copious notes on the proper method of fashioning organ shoes, vowed to finish my pair by the end of the week. Subsequently, I turned my horse toward the cathedral, wanting to seek out some contemporary music scores if there were any to be found. I needed to practice my sight-reading, and I wished to perfect my ability to interpret medieval music, just in case Prince Otto ever changed his mind about his song.
In one of the small chapels that branched off from the main nave, I found Paulus von Bayern, the person I needed to ask about obtaining sheet music. Despite my general distaste for the middle Bayern brother, I had realized over the years that his talent with organ music was considerable. After hearing him play for quite a few Sunday masses and special celebrations, I had concluded that while his royal brother could claim the title of composer, Paulus had more skill at interpreting the music. Whenever he played his younger brother’s melodies in the candlelit cathedral, chills would run up my spine as my soul drifted along with the tones of the pipes. I curtseyed once in Paulus’ deference when he turned to meet me. After exchanging a few cursory pleasantries, I asked him if he knew where I could find some organ scores, so I could put them to use on the pipe organ in my home.
He replied in his tenor voice that he had several stored in the basement of the cathedral. He beckoned me to follow him there, and it took some time for me to make it down the basement staircase. Paulus made a few inquiries about my new pipe organ, which I answered courteously. He commented rather tentatively that he might like to play my organ himself later in the fall.
My stomach churned a bit at this idea, and I did not reply. I had seen too much of Paulus in recent months due to the building of the organ. Though I respected his musical talents, I still considered him a coward since he would soon betray our people to the Saxons, paving the way for Muniche’s destruction.
I chose four scores to carry back to the manor with me, three of them written by Prince Otto, the fourth by a Catholic priest who had passed away some time before. When we ascended the staircase to the main floor, I told Paulus that I would return the scores as soon as I had memorized them, which prompted him to turn around to stare at me.
“Would you mind telling me, my Lady Swanhilde, where you learned to play the organ . . . so masterfully?” he queried, halting two steps from the main floor to gaze down at me inquisitively.
My lips twisted into a slightly scornful frown as I recalled that one song I had played at the Bayern castle back in 1044, and Augustin’s haughty words: This woman plays more masterfully than either of you. Apparently, Paulus had not forgotten that incident.
Since he knew full well that I was from the future, I decided in a flash to throw my atypical knowledge in his face. “I was taught by a Teuton priest, Father Paulus,” I said stiffly, thinking of Hans, “and I was actually studying organ performance at the university before I came here.”
Surprise appeared in his blue-gray eyes. He nodded thoughtfully, his face appearing quite serious in the dimly lit corridor. Seeing that he intended to say no more, I decided to press my luck. My own curiosity had sprung to life in the presence of the man who could consider himself the eldest Bayern brother.
“I’d like to ask you a personal question in return, Father Paulus, if you would permit the intrusion?” His eyes darkened, and he glanced briefly toward the doorway behind him before nodding at me. I looked him square in the eye and asked, “Did you agree with the filial curse?”
His expression clouded over with ambiguity, and a moment later he spun away from me, walking swiftly to the main floor and down the hallway with nary a backward glance. I pursued him haltingly as he returned to the small chapel, not wanting to let him escape without granting me a concrete answer. When he paused at the altar before the rood that pictured Christ’s crucifixion, I addressed him again, my voice urgent and out of breath. “Please, Father . . . I must know.”
After a long silence, he turned to face me, his brown robe sweeping the floor, his hands clasped rather agitatedly before him. “My lady, my opinions matter not. The Cursed One’s fate is regrettable, but such trials befall the unrepentant sinner.”
That summer, Prince Otto mustered his forces again to counter renewed Saxon incursions along the northern border. Joel joined the Prince’s army as before, along with fourteen of our young vassals, leaving Jarvis and me to handle the estate. Viktor passed away during the flax harvest. One of the peasant women found him unresponsive on the front path through the flower gardens with his broom clutched in his hand, likely dead of a heart attack or stroke.
The old Magyar’s absence plunged me into a renewed vat of mourning, for I missed the conversations we had shared in his native language about Augustin. And now I had no aged connoisseur of music lounging upon a bench whenever I practiced the organ in the great hall, his ears keeping track of my stumbling progress. But I supposed that it was best that Viktor had gone now with the Teuton lands still at peace. He would never have been able to flee to the mountains in his arthritic state.
When most of the troops returned at the cusp of winter, Joel told me that our doom was nigh, for Paulus had been captured.