Chapter 16.3.2

I signed, "I have been in the hands of the Bard-killer, and then his son, the current Lord Reinard."

Master Iving caught my hands and frowned. "What is this? Can’t you talk?"

I clenched my hands and shook my head. I had been spoiled by having companions who knew the language of the hands, and now I remembered my muteness.

Peter stepped forward. "He said that he has been a servant of Lord Reinard."

The cheer was gone from his voice. He now knew some of what I had kept hidden from him.

"The Bard-killer?" Master Iving was alarmed, his voice harsh. "Why? And what did he do to you?"

I turned to Peter. "Translate this exactly: That last summer when I went traveling with Wallen, the Christian boy who would come to the guildhall, he took me to Songless Castle. The Bard-killer caught me and cut my tongue short, so that I can no longer speak not sing. With no reason to return to the Bardhall, I stayed there and became a harpist for his son."

Peter stumbled over the words, no doubt recognizing that Wallen was the same as the beggar who had run off with his cousin. The Abbot frowned at the words, and Master Iving darkened with anger.

"And how did you come to be here, but in such a poor state?"

How best to craft my story, so as not to tell a lie to a master? "This fall I met with Wallen and Sharp. The Christian had fallen in love with Lord Guerney’s daughter, who is betrothed to Lord Reinard. He had a plan to steal her away from Rockridge Castle, but needed my help, and so I donned a disguise. He did steal her, but once again left me in the hands of the Lord of the Castle. This good monk, Brother Peter, rescued me and with the help of Sir Charles, brought me here."

If I was lucky, Master Iving would not ask further about the knight. But he frowned as Peter spoke for me, and asked, "How do you know this knight?"

"I saw him often at Songless Castle." Alright, he lived there.

Master Iving thought for a moment after hearing this. "I think you have a ballad here, Gerard. But now, it is your turn to play for the master."

I took my place behind his harp and set my fingers on the strings – then realized what he had done. I was still a Bard-in-training, still subject to its rules and customs, still its child. Not abandoned to fate. I could go home.

He spoke again. "Think on this question as you play: where will go in the Spring, when you are once more free to roam?"

Any place but Songless Castle.

Fingers plucking strings, I played. I worked scales at first, loosening up my fingers, then played a simple melody to set my feet upon the path. Around me, the crowd watched, and I saw certain people smile with anticipation. Helena, who had come here with her father and now stood with the nuns, knelt with her hands before her breast. But Master Iving and the Abbot both looked at me sternly, waiting to judge.