The Minstrel and the Maiden

The gently twisting country lanes that lead from here to there,
Oft laden with the wayfarers who wish to be elsewhere,
Are pathways for the very words that need be passed along,
Tucked away into the mind, then sung in minstrel’s song.

The scruffy man now journeys there, unshaven and unkempt
A harp tucked in his simple bag, once more he will attempt
To entertain the folk he meets and hope for good report,
That per his dream he might become a servant of the court.

At village edge he stops to rest and smiles at passersby.
The smells of food assail his nose as clouds blot out the sky.
As rain begins he shivers for the rain is mixed with snow;
He draws his cloak around him as the wind begins to blow.

The village tavern beckons ere he knew where it might be,
Its warmth a comfort from the chill, its folk good company.
A bundled passerby’s gruff voice, “It’s there beside the inn.”
Our shiv’ring minstrel scurries on, with hint of thankful grin.

He feels the sack’s familiar bulge, and then he steps inside.
The sounds of voice and laughter boom, good cheer at Christmastide.
He glances ‘round to find the one who’ll tell him yes or no,
To entertain for food and drink, or back outside he’ll go.

The man behind the rough-hewn bar is ruddy faced and gruff.
The sack is shown and singing starts, the owner waves enough.
A gesture to’ard the open space, a bowl of gruel, some bread,
Our minstrel man takes out his harp, and snorts to clear his head.

A caref’ly chosen stool is his, it’s sturdy and quite stout.
A falling jester might be fun, but not what he’s about.
Amidst the shouts and raucous sounds he deftly sits him down,
A first row bloke twists in his seat, his face an ugly frown.

“What be my choice?” he says quite loud, the minstrel holds his tongue.
“Please listen first and then decide, e’en though I’m still quite young.
My simple songs may entertain, and stories that I tell
May lift you up, entranced and charmed, caught in my music’s spell.”

Tonite I tell of dedes with my goode tonge,
And thus with-inne a whyle my name is spronge.
That I pass here is my own destinee,
For I coude ryme in English properly.

His harp is strummed, then sharply plucked, the melody is pure,
And as more words spring from his tongue, his voice is strong and sure.
Then slowly all the patrons turn to listen as he sings,
His words and melodies surround with sounds of soft-plucked strings.

His eyes sweep ‘cross the crowded room, they dance from face to face,
Until his gaze is captured by a head caught up in lace.
The eyes he sees glow em’rald green, the hair be dark as night,
And n’er in all his minstrel years has he seen such a sight.

His pounding heart leaps to his throat, his voice cannot squeeze through.
His fingers fly o’er singing strings, he’s not a single clue
Of what to do nor how to act, his thoughts swing round and round.
A single glance has changed his world and he is held spellbound.

Another glance, her eyes meet his, is that a smile he sees?
O God in heav’n, his breath abates, be she now watching me?
You foolish dolt, of course she is, ‘tis I who play and sing,
And only for her shall I sing, and pray she’s listening.

If tyme and wealth are but my foe
I stille wol love hir and namo
Graunt me a day swich as me leste
And seyde, I did al this be my requeste

He sings into the tavern air, but really just to her,
And should her eyes now look at his, oh how could he endure.
He casts a peek, her hood is up, she’s just about to leave,
A chill runs through as on he sings, can there be no reprieve?

How foolish can I be he thinks, I’m ragged and she’s fine,
For I’m like stagnant water where she is like vintage wine.
I should be quite content that she was here with me this while.
He watches as she’s at the door – she sends a parting smile.

His night slips gently t’ward the day, his eyes drift slowly shut.
Some bread and gruel are shoved his way, he’s pointed t’ward the hut.
Its floor is dirt, no warming fire, and yet he doesn’t care,
For in his mind a picture grows, a smiling face is there.

He curls himself against the cold, his shivers quickly fade.
His mind fills up with pleasant thoughts of comely green-eyed maid.
A part keeps saying, “foolish lad,” those thoughts are swept away,
The night at last o’erwhelms his eyes as he awaits the day.

He wakens shiv’ring in the gloom and checks – the harp is there.
Some bread and honey quickly gone, twill be his daytime fare.
He plies the sloppy streets and lanes to pass the light-filled time.
The winter season’s chilling cold has covered all with rime.

He walks to fight the numbing cold, the shivers rack his bones.
He sings in time to stumbling steps, as usual all alone.
And yet deep down is spreading warmth, our minstrel has a plan,
A special song forms in the mind of this quite hopeful man.

As I yet praye to al this companye
If that I speke after my fantasye
I singe of mayde as faire as wyn,
With haire that shyninge as gold so fyn.

He hastens ‘cross the village square, the tavern door is shut.
Disappointment fills his face, a quick glance at the hut.
Then as if bidden by his will, the door swings open wide,
A gruff voice shouts, “close that door, lad, and keep the warmth inside.”

He stumbles o’er a fallen stool, a pain-filled cry rings out,
He tries to gain his feet again and glances roundabout.
“I hope the minstrel is not hurt,” she helps him to his feet.
The stool is set upright again, our singer takes a seat.

He glances up and once again his eyes are held by lace
Surrounding all that once-seen hair and that seraphic face.
His hand still held, he thinks he’ll faint, and then her voice again.
“My father may have need of thee, to help us entertain.”

“Now pray thee let me take my leave, but first a question sir.”
And he, surrounded by those words, can’t take his eyes off her.
“Will you, kind sir, please grace our feast with harp and lilting tunes?
Enthrall us with the mystic words of legends and of runes.”

A deep breath drawn, his chest thrown out, he thinks of what to say,
For minstrels should be men of words, no matter what the day.
“So please milady, take you leave, no matter what befall,
My harp and I shall follow you and heed your beck and call.”

Her moistened lips begin to curl, a twinkle in her eye.
The sounds that then caress his ears are soft, a lullaby.
“Those words you sing are clearly done, and also those you speak.
Perhaps the look that holds your face is telling what you seek.”

Perhaps he’d best keep what he’s gained and take no chances here,
For he is but a simple man . . . and yet she stands so near.
Oh tongue and heart be still again, but one more thing to do.
“Milady tell your father that I’ll gladly sing for you.”

He bows and sadly watches as she’s headed for the door,
Until he see the maid again he knows he’ll be heartsore.
And then again, surprise, he hears those words of hope and cheer,
“If songs be sung by ye tonight, then surely I’ll be here.”

The tavern fills as night draws neigh, the miscreants appear,
And as the stools and tables fill, it fuels our minstrel’s fear.
With harp in hand he sweeps the room with hope that he can’t quell.
But whether dreams are dashed or sealed, it’s only time will tell.

“Sing you fool, and play on the harp, lest I may get upset,
Else my ale may addle me to do something I’ll regret.”
A breath, a sigh, he sits him down, he has no other choice.
But just before his words begin, he’s beckoned by that voice.

“Please sing ye on, oh minstrel man, for I am right behind,
And turn ye not around just yet, for who knows what ye’ll find.
My father’s bid me come tonight to listen one last time,
To be assured the tales you tell are always told in rhyme.

With those words said she slips around and stands o’er by the wall,
And he, buoyed by her gentle words sits up quite straight and tall.
A glance reveals those em’rald eyes and strengthens his resolve,
For timidly he’ll not stop now, what’er it may involve.

Lo, here express of womman may ye find,
That womman was the los of al mankinde.
As God is kinde, his joy and blis give me,
Er I be deed, yet wol I kisse thee.

And thus he fills the nighttime air with sounds of harp and song,
And as his eyes drift ‘cross her face, he prays he may prolong
The time tonight and future days when she’ll be there at hand,
Surrounding mind with foolish thoughts he wills she’ll understand.

At last the tavern starts to clear, the minstrel’s voice near gone.
As folk drift off to catch some sleep before the pending dawn.
The maiden stands and moves his way, she’s just about to speak;
That hair, those eyes, that silky voice, the dimple on her cheek.

“Good sir, if it be well with you, then I’ll return at noon,
To take you to my father’s house, if that not be too soon.”
The very thought of her return, will surely fill his night,
As he anticipates the time she’s next within his sight.

Some bread and honey fill his morn, with naught to do but wait,
While huddled ‘gainst the chilling wind he hopes she’ll not be late.
He hears the heavy sound of hooves, her carriages hoves in view.
Will he the humble minstrel lad ride in her carriage too?

But she alights with wave and smile and says, “I thought we’d walk,
And if we move quite briskly we’ll be warm and we can talk.
It’s not what you expected,” as she waves the carriage on,
“But then I’m not like most you’ll meet, you see our ride is gone.”

She walks beside him on the road that he has trod before,
A lightness in his ev’ry step he’s n’er felt heretofore.
The flashing eyes, the gentle smile, his ears grasp every word,
He feels a warmth e’en in this chill, his heart of hearts is stirred.

She tells him how she came to see if minstrel could be found,
Not knowing that the fates decreed he’d hold the crowd spellbound.
And she had known that very night that if she had her way,
He’d be the one her father chose to play that festive day.

“‘tis Christmastide my merry man, our clan will gather then,
for food and dance and merriment, the women and the men
Will drink their fill of wine and ale until it dulls their brain,
And then they’ll fin’ly settle back for thee to entertain.

As one more smile is sent his way he’s not sure what he’ll do,
As if her smile’s a ray of sun that turns dark skies to blue.
The numbing cold that gripped his bones, that stole his sleep last night,
Forgotten on this won’drous day while she’s within his sight.

While blinded by the maiden’s face, he misses what’s ahead,
Not seeing walls that block the sky, he watches her instead.
His feet clack on the wooden bridge, he quickly looks around,
And sees that in a few more steps, he’ll be on royal ground.

With open mouth he says, “Are you?” and stares with new found awe.
“No, no,” she says and waves her hand, amused by his slack jaw.
“A steward is my father here, his faithfulness’ reward,
We live within the castle walls, and serve the castle’s lord.

“And thus it fell to me to find a minstrel for our feast,
So you be he who’ll entertain, and at the very least
Thee’ll be here for food and drink, and if there’s good report,
Thee’ll have the chance to serve the lord, and stay here at the court.”

She leads him through the castle gate, he’s ne’er seen one before,
A world of wealth and decadence, our minstrel troubador
Had only dreams and ill-found hopes of ever joining in.
With heart in throat, he can but hope his life will now begin.

Right on he meets the steward and is told what he must do,
And given information ‘bout a very special few.
He’ll write a ditty for each one, and sing for all to hear,
Quite confident that he’ll do well because the maiden’s near.

Year by year, to sungen and to rede
What hath in herte, the songes sede
With face of drede and bisy thought
I pray for wordes, that I have soght

His harp is strummed as voice rings out and midst the revelry,
He grips the regal eyes and ears of all the company.
And hidden near the shadowed wall, a maiden gently glows,
Quite satisfied and confident in knowing what she knows.

Her steward father promised her, unusual for the day,
That if the crowd was entertained, the minstrel’d surely stay,
A lowly member of the court, and yet a member still,
And if she’s lucky he may help drive out the winter’s chill.

In two short days our homeless lad has sung as n’er before,
And found himself a vision like no one he’d seen before.
A part of court, a place to sleep, a dream so soon fulfilled,
The doubtings ‘bout his future life now seem forever stilled.

Just one more look at em’rald eyes, now dare he dream yet more?
The glist’ning hair, the rad’ent smile, what does she have in store?
What’ere it be, he’ll live it all, if fate smile on his life,
He’ll sing and play, and also pray that she’ll become his wife.