Free The Lute Player by Norah Lofts Page B

They were always at work on their corners, in a very lackadaisical fashion, and it amused me to neglect mine for a week and then to sit down and work for a couple of hours in a frenzy of energy and so keep myself even with them. It was only this spirit of competition which made the stitching at all tolerable to me. Their morning’s work, I noticed with satisfaction, had done very little to advance them.
    As I spoke they raised their heads and with little exclamations of excitement and satisfaction began to scramble their work together. Blondel made another of his accomplished bows and then took the sailcloth wrapping from his lute. He looked quite composed now and I saw that he had spoken truly when he said he was not nervous.
    I signed to him to wait.
    ‘Where is the princess?’ I asked.
    ‘Within,’ said Pila with a casual nod towards the inner door. ‘Our chatter disturbed her; she said her head ached and she didn’t desire anyone’s company.’
    ‘It’s to be hoped,’ Maria added, ‘that she won’t hear the lute. The boy should play very softly.’
    Catherine, who disliked me very much and between me and whom a little nagging war of attrition, waged with sharp words, went endlessly on and on, said, ‘A lute, of all things!’
    The simple phrase was an accusation of tactlessness laid against me. For lack of any other reason to explain their mistress’s recent decline in spirit, the ladies of the bower had fastened upon an explanation much to their taste—which was, in general, morbid. She was heartbroken, they believed, about the death of old Coci, our late lute player. I had never seen Berengaria show any particular sign of affection for the old man nor, I think, had they; but his death had happened by a most timely chance to occur just when things began to go wrong with her. I was in a position to know that at the time when Coci died everyone in a court could have dropped dead in a moment without causing Berengaria a pang; however, I subscribed to the legend because, satisfied with that, they refrained from further probing; and, living as we did, privacy was a rare and hard-come-by commodity, greatly valued even when purchased by a falsehood.
    I hobbled across to the inner door and opened it, looking into the dim apartment which formed an anteroom to the sleeping apartments. It had a very small window and the tower wall rose sheer outside, so the place was never light enough to work in without candles. In very cold weather, when the solar remained cold despite the heaped fire, we did sometimes use it as a sitting place; with a fire and many candles it was cosy and pleasant. On a bright morning it was inexpressibly dreary.
    Berengaria sat on a bench, her elbows on her knees, her chin propped on her linked hands, her eyes fixed on the section of the wall outside the window. She did not turn her head when I opened the door.
    ‘Berengaria,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, you’re back, Anna. What do you want?’
    ‘I want you to come out and listen to some music. I heard a boy performing very well in the market this morning and I persuaded him to come back.’
    ‘My head aches,’ she said, ‘and the last thing I want is to listen to music.’
    My natural impulse was to say, ‘Very well, don’t,’ and to go away and shut the door. But my newborn pity for her was still young and vital at that time and there were other considerations. In a small confined community a settled melancholy in its most important member is not conducive to cheerfulness amongst the others and the general atmosphere in the bower had, of late, been very miserable. So I said:
    ‘Do come and listen. He plays very well and we shall all enjoy it more if you are there.’
    She rose with a sigh of resignation and walked into the solar. I stayed to close the door behind her and when I turned to face the room I had a feeling that something had happened. Berengaria had halted a few paces inside the room and was staring at the boy; her eyes remained