the alchemist's daughter

The Alchemist’s Daughter

The love of my lives? I can’t say. Love is a fuzzy thing. It blurs lines...There is one, different.

I met her while a troubadour. At its heart, the life of a troubadour is a life of folly, filled with women and fleeting pleasures.. I never wanted to be any other thing. Kings have told me, if not for love of country, they would want no other life but mine. Proof, again, that love is a fuzzy concept.

At the time of this story, I had never experienced a selfless love and, therefore, my opinions on the matter were shallowly held. Depth would be added upon my arrival in the village of Densholme.
Densholme is one day’s carriage ride from the palace of King Henry, eighth in his line. Henry fancied himself to be a troubadour, and he played well enough to be one. Having a taste for the young ladies, and a preference to believe he could woo them without the power of his authority, Henry often played and sang songs of seduction and romance. He wrote some of those songs himself. His musical reputation was a source of pride for him.

I took pride in being chosen to perform at a wedding attended by the King.

Upon arrival in Densholm, I made straight away to the home of the alchemist. It was he who had contracted with me to entertain at his daughter’s wedding.

Bram, the alchemist, was sullen when I arrived. He explained his lack of cheer by telling of two daughters and two weddings.

Ella was smitten but unwise. Her groom was the rakish town crier. Like myself, he was a fool of a philanderer, possessing manly good looks and the brain of a pea hen.

Bram forbade the wedding, but he was made to relent, as the crier's sister was a favorite courtesan of King Henry. The king let it be known the marriage would be blessed by his attendance.

Just one year earlier, and to his regret, the alchemist had successfully prevented his eldest daughter, Hanna, from marrying a man of higher character but lesser prospects.

This suitor had four years remaining on his indentured servitude agreement. He tended and harvested the wheat.

Ever vigilant to my own self promotion, I saw opportunity. I made the father a promise. Boasting, “I will write a special tune, an appropriate tune, to satisfy your wisdom to be heard, yet bless the wishes of the young lovers.” I made the promise knowing full well I had already written and performed just such a song for many weddings.

After receiving my compensation, I headed for the inn. A dusty road requires a bath, hot food, a beverage, and a glance at the town's available damsels.

The inn was better than most. Being a day’s ride from the palace gave it access to a more diverse and plentiful supply of foods and wines.

The dining area itself was no different from the others on the circuit. A dark room, dominated by a giant hearth, with a bubbling black pot, aromatically steaming, filled with soup made from whatever was in season.

I had no issue with my room, my bath, or the food. What I was anticipating the most, however, was the after-meal visit to the tavern area.

I caught sight of the serving wenches as they hurried past the door with pitchers of brew. One in particular caught my eye. My anticipation of conquest grew all the more at the sight of her.

Only one table in her area had an empty seat.

That table sat beside a window with a view of the wheat fields. Sitting opposite the empty chair was a man with the weathered look of one who spent many years tending the fields. With his permission, I sat myself down and prepared my snare.

From beneath my jacket, I removed a parchment and quill. From my satchel, I removed my ink. No woman ever resisted asking me for what purpose those tools were used.

With my head down, ink pot out, parchment before me, and quill in hand, I sat. My eyes followed every move of the lovely lady. With trap set and baited, I waited.

“Looking like you are posing in a studious manner, to me,” said the man across the table. “Looking like you have designs on Hanna as well.” He laughed a little too long for my comfort.

“Begging pardon?” I bluffed.

“The girl with the flowing dress,” he said, “The lady with sleeves the color of the almost ready wheat.”

It was true. Her dress seemed more supple and colorful than the others. The fabric, not gossamer, yet conceivably crafted by fairies. When she walked, her garment chased after her as if in a hurry to protect her figure from becoming exposed in it’s naked form.

I looked out the window at the freshly harvested sheaves of wheat. Once again, he was correct. The wheat was losing the dark green color of grass. The sleeves, hem, and neckline of her garment was a match for the lighter and quickly-fading green hue.

“You are an observant man,” I said. “She and her dress are quite lovely. So, too, is your village this time of year.”

Just at that moment, the maiden of our discussion appeared. She glanced at my parchment while asking the nature of my pleasure.

“Give my friend another round, and I will have one of the same, please.”

“I thank you, pilgrim,” he said, “but it is two hours before dark, and I have an early morning to attend.” He winked at me and drained the remainder of his goblet. As he stood to leave, he leaned into my ear and whispered, “You’ve met your match, sir.”

I had only until the second draught arrived before she asked the nature of my writing. I told her I was going to perform at the wedding of the alchemist’s daughter. I lied to her, telling her, “I have just composed a song specifically for the occasion.”

“May I see it?” She asked me in a way that surprised me. I knew her motivation wasn’t coyness. It didn’t sound like curiosity. It was closer to … a need. I passed the parchment across the table, and she sat down in the empty chair.

The poem wasn’t lengthy, but it took a long time for her to read it. Did she read it more than once? Was she a slow reader? I asked her opinion and she lifted her head for the first time since she began to read. There was a sweet smile on her face but tears in both eyes.

“I like it very much, sir. My sister will like it as well.”

“Your sister?” I was off my game now, feeling more curious than adventurous.

“My sister,” she repeated. “I too, am a daughter of the alchemist. In my mind, I feel like this was written for the both of us. I pray this will change my father’s heart toward the man my sister loves. For me, it is too late.”

“Too late?” I asked. “Tell me more.”

“You are not the first troubadour to lure a woman with beautiful words, sir. I know what you want. I won’t give it, but I can give you something better.” She pointed past the window to a lone oak on a small rise overlooking the wheat field. “I will be done with my duties in one hour. If you come to the oak, I will show you how common things can be turned into silver and gold.”

I couldn’t refuse, and she met me beneath the oak at the time promised. I had brought my lute and she a bottle of wine.

Nature provided one of those fall evenings where the air itself energized the mind, and the sunset brought shifting colors to the hills. With the warmth of summer still held in the ground, the cool air held no threat of an uncomfortable chill in the body.

Again, I couldn’t help but notice the movement of her dress as she crossed in front of me and settled under the tree. “Your garment,” I told her, “Is the fairest dress ever worn by a maiden.”

“You’re kind to say so. I made it myself, softening the weave with ingredients in my father’s cabinet.”

“And did you dye the cloth as well?” I asked.

“Yes. I had in mind the colors of the village at this time of year. It was meant to be my wedding dress.” She had a wetness starting to well in her eyes, but continued. “I was meant to be married at this time last year.”

The way she spoke in low tones of sadness reminded me of the chords played by gypsies in their haunting songs of desire and loss.

This melancholy mood was not what I had hoped for. All I could do was change the conversation. “Would you care to hear a cheerful song?” I inquired.

“I would,” she pleaded.

Hanna poured us both some wine, while I sang a silly ditty about a frog and rooster.

The silly tune seemed to help. Soon, we were trading stories. Me, of my adventures in far away places. She, of her love of the ingredients from far away places and the magical properties they held.

As time passed, I found myself speaking from my heart about feelings I had never before spoken. She spoke of wishes never fulfilled. I plucked at the lute while she spoke, and I felt she was singing her words. Thus was the level of pleasantness I felt when hearing her voice.

My reverie was interrupted by her sudden silence, then she touched my hand. “Look“, she said, and pointed at the moon. “Now follow“, she whispered and, still pointing, directed my eyes from the fullness of the moon, slowly down, until she stopped the motion of her hand, and I was looking at the sheaves in the field. The sheaves that once had matched the coloring of her dress were now a shining silver under the light of the moon.

“I have made silver from the wheat of the field,” she announced. Then she laughed like a child at play, and my heart, feeling moonstruck, ached to keep her for my own.

When again I spoke, sounds came out as a moan until I cleared my throat.“Tell me about the man you love.” I said. “What is in him that can win the heart of a woman such as you?”

She had so many heartfelt reasons, and she shared them.“His name is Evan. He is nothing like you,” she announced, without any measure of cruelty. “The two of you could be best of friends. He has the ability to appreciate the talents in others that he, himself, does not possess. He appreciates, without jealousy or covetousness. He is a handsome man, unaware the ladies look to him. He is a man who would find his greatest calling in building a world around his family. He is a man who would relish the advice, gently given, of a creative and industrious woman in the design of that life. He would protect that world with his life. He knows what is right, and he knows what is wrong, and he has the courage to stand his ground. What he has no courage for is to take the woman he loves against the wishes of her father. For that I am heartbroken, and he is without his simple dream.”

So, there it was. The mundane glory of a life worth living. The opposite of my own. The life I had run away from made madly appealing when the addition of this daughter of the alchemist could be imagined in it.

Hanna had taken one measure of my vanity, added another of my wanton lust, a pinch of my own selfish desires, infused them with her own spirit, mixing a concoction inside of me that would burn in my heart for a lifetime.

I made myself the vow that I would forever forgo my desire to own her in conquest.

I wondered, against my own desires, if I could be of assistance in helping her attain the man she ached to marry.

Again, I changed the subject to things light and without consequence. We ended up laughing about the follies of the world, while I played a tune on the lute that seemed to sweeten the conversation with a melody enchanted by being near her. Its form came from songs I had heard while traveling in Spain. It’s melody, not thought out or written, came from somewhere else. A place in my heart I never knew existed. Time was lost once more, until she suddenly held out a finger, pointing again at the wheat field.

“Look,” she said. “As I promised.”

The sun was coming up, its rays moving across the valley. As they moved, they enveloped the standing sheaves, and turned them, one by one, the yellow color of gold. She had kept her promise. In one night she had turned the common into silver and gold without benefit of enchantment or potions. She had turned my spirit, by enchantment alone, into a creature who who plumbed the depth of a deeper love.

Now, I knew, I must keep my silent promise to help her find the happiness she deserved. Tomorrow evening was the wedding. Early morning, I sang to her father my song of the dutiful parent and love-struck daughter.

The sweetest of melons just slipped from the vine.

From planting, through nurturing,

Growing in time.

Though I over-watered, she turned out just fine.

She is the most beautiful thing

I ever called mine.

I would not have chose you to take her away,

But there she stands, waiting, on her wedding day.

After the dance where I give her away,

Please take her, and hold her forever,

Like you do today.

He told me it was his thoughts, put to music.

Life, having been a breeze from one selfish act to the next, didn’t prepare me for what the father told me next. “If only my eldest daughter had not been claimed by our diseased king …” He didn’t finish the statement. I had to pry the news from him.

“My daughter Hanna, upon hearing the King would attend her sister’s wedding,took her own wedding dress from the chest to wash it. When the dress had dried she wore it to the inn where she was given employ.

Among the eyes she caught that day was the king himself. He sent word this morning he would take her for his bed. It is the king’s will. Nothing can be done... save this.”

He held out a vial. I guessed his intent. “It’s for the King’s wedding toast,” he said.

“Stay that thought, good man.” I implored him. “Don’t bring evil to an unbalanced event. You may tip the balance to the devil’s side.”

“If I don’t,” he told me, “Evan would hang for a similar attempt, and all hearts would be lost to the devil’s way of thinking. I know the man’s mind.”

“I, sir, know the mind of a troubadour,” I countered. “The king fancies himself to be a troubadour at heart, and his deeds betray that he, indeed, is of that cloth. I can strike a bargain with him that will be smiled on by angels if you would relent.”

I had so much to do, and I wasted little time. After leaving the alchemist's shop, I went to see Hanna. She promised she would not wear the seductive dress to her sister’s wedding. I told her it would best be left unworn until her own wedding ceremony with Evan.

She smiled without melancholy for the first time since I had seen her. She had made me a ridiculous promise carried out by moonlight and sunlight. I now had made her a promise to be carried out by the magical properties to be mined from the well of musical enchantment. I had a song to write, a performance to give, and a deal to be brokered.

I channeled the Spanish form, the magic of the previous evening, and the alchemical melding of variable light and basic nature. I wrote for the king a song of green sheaves and magic.

The rest is history. Like all history, skewed, but still with some truth in the chaff. King Henry sold his rights to Hanna for a song. I called the song Green Sheaves.

The words he changed greatly. His lyrics tell of a lovely prostitute who scorned his advances. The melody he changed not at all. The title he changed to Green Sleeves. His changes betray that he long remembered his first vision of a maiden in a magical dress.

For myself? I was happy, yet melancholy, when asked during performances, “Do you know Green Sleeves?” For me, it doesn't matter if I think of both song and woman. I play for my patron’s pleasure, satisfied in knowing the song I bartered away to a king holds less value than what I let go for love.