Keturah and Lord Death

Beatrice fetched Choirmaster by the hand and led him before the king. “Your Majesty, here is the man who makes me sing, for his music is the music of angels. And—and we are to be married.”

The crowd murmured, oohed, and tittered with surprise.

Choirmaster dabbed his nose with a sparkling white handkerchief.

“I assume this match is also according to your wishes, Choirmaster?” the king said.

“Your Majesty, it is,” he said, bowing deeply before the king. He did not let go of Beatrice’s hand.

“You must write an Easter mass for me next year,” the king said, “for which I will pay you in gold.”

“It has always been my deepest desire,” Choirmaster said, smiling—the broadest smile I had ever seen upon him.

The couple backed away, and the king called, “Now the Tailor.” Tailor came forward and I saw that he was wearing not even one item of orange clothing.

“You have done as fine a work as any of the royal tailors. You are Lady Temsland’s choice,” said the king. “Besides your gold, what is the reward that you would wish for?”

“To marry the woman who sewed most of the finery you speak of, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Ah. And who would that be?”

Tailor gestured to Gretta, who came forward boldly and curtseyed.

“Is this your wish, young maid?” the king asked.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “here is an imperfect man, the only one in the world perfect enough for me.”

“Then it will be. And each year you will both come to my palace and sew my daughter a new Easter gown. For that I will pay you in gold.”

“It has been my greatest wish,” said Tailor, bowing with great dignity.

The villagers cheered, for there was nothing they liked more than weddings. The king raised his hand for silence.

“Keturah Reeve,” he called. “Come forward.”

I came forward and curtseyed.

“The queen has chosen your pie as the most wondrous thing of the fair,” said the king. “You too will have a quarter of the shoe of gold.”

He held it up to drop it into my hand, but I curtseyed again. “Please, I would ask that my share be divided among the poor of the village, Your Majesty,” I said, for I knew that tomorrow I would not need money, that tomorrow I would not be what I was today.

The king turned and said a few words to Lord Temsland and John, and I turned to join the crowd.

“Wait, Keturah Reeve,” said the king. “The gold will be distributed as you requested. But there is the matter of your wish granted.”

I returned to my place before him.

John Temsland, beside the king, smiled and nodded at me, encouraging me. There he stood, so young and beautiful and strong, and he loved me. His mother and father, too, smiled gently, even lovingly, upon me.

I could ask now to be made a lady, and John would marry me. Oh, the good I could do for my people as the future Lady Temsland!

I realized that the crowd had been waiting for my answer. I waited too—waited for the words that would come to me as they always did around the common fire, waited for the words that would begin this new story of me … The villagers seemed puzzled by my silence, as if they all knew precisely what they would ask for me if it were up to them to choose. No one appeared more puzzled than John.

I knew I must speak, and I must speak now.

“Your Majesty,” I said. He was a dear lad, John Temsland, so handsome, with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes clear as a baby’s, who loved me …

“Speak, Keturah,” John said.

I felt the evening sunshine upon me—but what was the joy of sunshine if there were no night? Wasn’t the sunset the sweetest time of day? Could I ask for only day and never dark?

And what of my friends? Could I ask for them ever to be at my side? Already I felt them moving past me, faster and faster, while I stayed still. And oh, the peace in that stillness.

What of riches and gold? What of lands and honors? But when I thought of these things there was a silence inside me—a hollowness. It fit ill, like the wrong ending to a good story.

Everyone was happy—old and young, rich and poor, male and female. But I could not touch their happiness, could not hold it. It was a dream and not real. What was real was the sense that in this life I had never quite been satisfied, had never long been at peace, had never loved or been fully loved as I longed to be. I could not name what was in me then, but I knew that the cure was not anywhere around me—not in Grandmother’s and my friends’ smiling faces, not in our shining little village, nor yet in any of the booths of the fair.

No, all I could think to ask for was my one true love, and this not even a king could give me. It was in that moment that everything became clear. “Your Majesty, I ask”—there was an audible intake of breath from the crowd—“I ask that the great hart and his mate no longer be hunted.”

The king looked at me, astonished, and then at John. I did not look at John. I would not. I could not. Behind me the people were murmuring among themselves.

“Very well,” the king said at last. “It is a strange thing you have asked, but you shall have it. Lord Temsland, John, do you swear?”