Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Thirteen: The Harper

Sir Breuse called a halt just after midday. They went forward and sat in the edge of the clearing where the folk of rank gathered. The squires and servants of the party attended to the horses and fed the humans their lunch.

Columbine heard cursing from the covered wagon. It was Bellina, Sir Breuse’s daughter, snapping at the harper.

‘Hurry up, Elia,’ she said. ‘Fetch the block so I can get down. I’m starving.’

‘Aye, coming Damosel B,’ said the small girl, who had slung her harp over her back. The harper had a very loose gait. There was a freedom in the way she moved. She seemed to present herself in whatever way she pleased, but something about that disturbed Columbine. Bellina Saunce Pité was very beautiful, but had the kind of iron will that ensured complete control over her own person, her words, movements and appearance. When Columbine put the daughter’s precision together with the character of Sir Breuse, it seemed less than likely that they would make an antic bard a member of their household. It made her suspicious.

The harper fetched a cushioned block from the back of the wagon, and helped her mistress down to the grass. Bellina’s step-mother, whom Columbine judged was about fourteen years to her step-daughter’s sixteen, was dressed equally finely, but where Bellina’s bearing was a sneer at the world, this other beauty’s slanted shoulders suggested a desperate desire for the shadows. Bellina did not wait for her step-mother, but strode past Columbine, Balin and Garnish without giving them so much as a glance. All she left behind was her rich, subtle perfume and the jingling of her jewels. Bellina took Balin’s eyes with her as she made her way to the colourful marquee that had been thrown up for the ladies. Columbine felt a pang of irritation at his stupidity. Boys could so rarely see what was plain to every girl’s eye: the blonde’s beauty barely concealed her mean and vicious nature.  Bellina Saunce Pité lived to be seen, and that constant desire for attention showed in her haughty expression.

Elia the harper helped Sir Breuse’s wife to the grass, replaced the block on the back of the wagon, and wandered over towards War-Strider. Up close, she had smiling eyes and a pale, freckled complexion, quite unlike her mistress.

‘Wotcher!’ she said to them. ‘That’s my new word. Do you like it? Learned it at Sir Breuse’s place down in London. They all say it down there. Wotcher. Meaning greetings, salutations, well met. Who are you lot then, and can I have some bacon?’

‘Ask Garnish here, it’s his meat,’ said Balin.

Columbine looked at Elia through narrowed eyes. Such forced friendliness made her even more suspicious of the harper. It put her in mind of someone who used smiles to make people comfortable shortly before stabbing them in the back. She reached out to stop Balin from saying any more. ‘Sir Breuse provides food for his own servants, harper,’ said Columbine. ‘Go and eat his, rather than taking ours.’

Garnish had taken his knife out to cut the girl a chunk of the pinkish-red meat. ‘She can have some.’ He sliced delicately, cutting with the grain. ‘There’s mustard in the pot if you want.’

The harper dunked the end of the meat in the colourful mustard, and sat cross-legged on the grass, her skirts stretched across her knees.

‘Many thanks, Garnish,’ said Elia. ‘I’ll give you something in return: you can have my whole life story.’

‘We’re Sir Breuse’s guests in the party,’ said Columbine. ‘We wouldn’t want to offend him by depriving those who keep you of their music.’

‘You’d turn down a tale from Bellina Saunce Pité’s personal bard?’ said the harper. ‘You must know Sir Breuse only has the best in his house: I’m pretty good. Bard to his daughter, his only child, his dearest, borne him by his first wife, the only one he loved enough not to murder.’ She looked around for listeners and lowered her voice. ‘The man’s life is brilliant. Gruesome. So much material for songs. Every time he goes out for a ride he comes back with a new wife to join the queue.’