A SONG THAT CAN’T BE SUNG

How Sizma risks her life to enforces a ban on music.

Inside the royal marquee no one spoke. A makeshift hearth burned ferociously, the only animated presence in the centre of a ring of silent, miserable, agitated courtiers, hangers-on, cronies and sycophants. Sizma didn’t include herself in any of those descriptions, but she watched the flames and through the shifting haze Atymos slumped in his big chair, arm dangling over the side, half eaten chicken leg within sight of one of the royal dogs that waited for an opportune moment. Somehow it knew the chicken leg would be the last meal it ever ate if it jumped forward now and snatched it.

Court Jester strummed a chord on his lute. Atymos held up his hand and stopped him. “Not now. It would be a mockery.”

“Mockery is my responsibility, Gracious Majesty.”

“In a more appropriate situation. Not now.” He glanced at his chicken leg and threw it to the royal dog. A cursory sniff and it was gone. “What are we to do? What am I to do?” He heaved himself out of his chair. “A winter music festival and what did we have? What did we have Court Instrument Maker?”

“Oh, silence, Gracious Majesty.” The Court Instrument Maker stood and sat down again, his back hunched, eyebrows like two untrimmed hedgerows. He felt the burden of responsibility for the disaster everyone had endured over the previous two days.

“Silence, yes,” Atymos said. The dog wagged its tail. “What are you so happy about? There will be an investigation into this. Heads will roll. Many of them. Rolling down every hill in the realm. People will trip and fall over the number of heads rolling across their paths. Chamberlain, see to it.”

“The investigation or the rolling of heads, Majesty?”

“Both. You like a good execution, Chamberlain. I don’t know why, but you are adept at making people talk. In fact . . . in fact, go out there and find someone who can explain this debacle.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“This afront to culture and decency.”

“Anything else, Majesty?”

“No. Not for now. Find someone, go on. Go.”

Sizma was relieved to escape the gloom and the fear of breathing too heavily in case it disturbed Atymos’s self-pity. Outside the marquee fires burned and crackled, smoke writhing in the still winter air, sparks and embers drifting like fireflies. There was the smell of destruction, of carbonisation and a sense of spoiling. Storage tents glowed in the light of the fires, carts steamed as ice evaporated off crates, boxes and sacks, and the hard snow crunched beneath Sizma’s hooves. It was the only sound to accompany the crackling fires.

Beyond the carts and the royal storage tents, a small troupe of men and women drank mead, ate apples and danced to a tune that existed in their imaginations. They hopped and skipped, locked arms and spun around, their faces gleaming with happiness, breath billowing steam into the chilly half light. When they saw Sizma they stopped, stood silent and stared at the snow.

“Don’t let me stop you. Please, continue your bizarre merriment. Atymos wants to speak to one of you.”

“What about?” One man dared to look up at Sizma.

“He just wants to know why the music festival had no music? No one seems to have an answer.”

“We’re afraid he’ll execute us if we tell him.”

“I won’t execute you. Tell him what?”

They looked around, each dancer waiting for one of the others to speak. “His Gracious Majesty doesn’t always accept the answers even when they’re the truth.”

“Tell me and I’ll go back and tell him.” Sizma sat on the stump of a felled tree and waited.

The dancers relaxed. “It’s the ban on music.”

“What ban on music? He hasn’t banned music.” Above the trees, visible through a gap in the skeletal canopies, a bright silver moon waited for the answer.

“Two weeks ago, after the festival had been finalised and all the preparations completed, we received a note saying that His Majesty’s favourite piece of music must not be performed. On pain of death. Only the Royal Choir has permission to perform it in private, exclusively for His Majesty at a time specified by him and only him, for his enjoyment and only his enjoyment.”

“And it wasn’t performed? Nothing was performed.”

“No.”

“So you followed the instruction?”

“Yes.”

“And what was this piece of music? I know nothing of this.”

“Neither do we. The note didn’t say what the piece of music was, or is. We have no idea. We can’t not perform it if we don’t know what it is.”

Sizma understood. “I see. So you didn’t perform anything in case you accidently performed the music that was banned?”

“Yes. We can still dance, we can recite poetry and stories, but this is a music festival not a dance or literature festival. A silent festival.”

“A silent festival. Did anyone point out the dilemma of not knowing the prohibited music?”

“Yes,” several dancers replied. “But just telling us the title of the music risked it being performed out of curiosity.”

“Well the festival’s over. His Majesty returns to the palace tomorrow. We’ll have to square this circle and arrange another one. Leave it with me. Everyone leaves everything with me.” Sizma left them to their silent peculiar jig and strolled back through the fires and carts to the royal marquee planted in the snow like a ridiculous canvas mausoleum. Inside, the gloomy atmosphere continued.

“A game of wit perhaps, Gracious Majesty?” Court Jester was convinced he could liven things up and exhausted every party trick he knew.

“No.”

“Solitaire? Perhaps I can show you my latest magic trick with a deck of cards and a rubber ball.”

“I don’t want to see a magic trick with a card and a set of rubber balls, I’ve seen your magic tricks and they’re all rubbish.” Court Jester took the rubber ball out of his mouth and placed it back in a small pouch. “Find the Lady, rabbits in hats, the impossible extending walking stick, I’ve seen them all. I want to hear music.”

He strummed another chord on his lute-

“Not from you. Chamberlain, what news, and this had better be good.”

“Gracious Majesty, it’s all your fault. You are the culprit.”

One explosion at Court Jester left Atymos drained. He swelled in preparation for another. “Is that meant to be funny? He’s the Court Jester, not you.”

“You banned a piece of music, Majesty, but didn’t tell anyone which piece it was. Now they won’t perform anything for fear of playing the music you have banned.”

“I haven’t banned anything, Chamberlain. I merely prohibited the performing of my favourite composition.”

“I think people have interpreted that as being one and the same. Majesty.”

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Chamberlain. This is not good, not good at all.” He threw everyone out of the marquee including the dog. It was a long night, few rested and Sizma tossed and turned in her own bed wondering what impossible task Atymos would give her to solve this new conundrum. And she wasn’t wrong. On the way back to the palace, sitting opposite Atymos in his gilded carriage, she became sensitive to the lack of music in the countryside.

Where men in fields would normally be singing raucous folk tales they went about their gathering and coppicing with their mouths shut. Through villages, women humming tunes to themselves rushed about and busied themselves with livestock and children without a murmur. The carriage drivers would often be heard whistling, but not this morning. The carriage clattered across the frozen tracks, the snorting horses coming closest to anything resembling a tune.

Back in his throne room, Atymos paced about, spinning round to speak and then abandoning his ideas. “Two days of celebration, Chamberlain. I’ve been to happier funerals.”

“Can you tell me the name of this music, Majesty? It might help me find a solution. And you know I am the most discreet member of your court.”

“Yes, yes, you are, Chamberlain. Most discreet. Yes, come with me.”

A mysterious adventure began, Atymos took off for the long corridor that connected the throne room to the main entrance staircase, passing figurines, busts and sculptures of him, portraits, small pencil sketches and the tapestry of him on horseback woven two hundred years ago. Down they went into the bowels of the palace, past the royal heating system and the court laundry rooms, down into the darkest passageways until they arrived at a large pair of heavy timber doors. A guard stood outside and without looking at Atymos handed him a huge key.

Behind the doors was a suite of rooms as luxurious as anything up above. “Who lives here, Majesty?”

“The Royal Choir, Chamberlain.” He clapped his hands and one by one the choir appeared: young men, older men, women of all ages, tall and short, they huddled together in the reception room and when Atymos clapped his hands again they arranged themselves into a formal group. Another man stepped forward, tall and lean and bowed to Atymos.

“Gracious Majesty, Overlord of All Glorious Territory, High Council of Culture and Creativity, Overseer and Overprotector of All Realms and Settlements, Grand Justice and Supreme Magistrate, Fair and Equitable High Monarch and Defender of Valleys, Townships, Lowlands and Select Routes and Byways, Arbiter of Wit and Intellect, and Perennial Champion of Concerns Becoming and Suitable of All Monarchs and Prime Leaders. Praise in Eternity Be To You.”

“Oh, not you as well. Tell him, Chamberlain.”

“You forgot the and. Gracious Majesty and Overlord et cetera et cetera.”

“Leave it for now,” said Atymos. “There isn’t time to find a new Royal Choirmaster. Begin the piece.” He stood back, folded his arms and waited.

“Piece, Gracious Majesty?”

“The piece. The piece. You know . . .” He winked. “You know. That one.” He winked again.

“Oh, you mean-“

“Don’t say it.”

“I thought you wanted me to know, Majesty,” said Sizma.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Forgot. Sorry, Royal Choirmaster. Miserere.”

“Of course, Gracious Majesty.” They began, a beautiful harmonic sound that only the finest trained voices could reproduce. Every varied body shape had a reason, the baritones, the tenors, the sopranos, all in perfect pitch, breathless, effortless beauty, the song ethereal, light as a feather, high notes picked up with a mesmerising clarity soaring like a cloud in July. Sizma had never heard such beauty and the room disappeared in a haze as the voices carried her away into some unknown paradise.

At the end she was jolted back to life with a thud to her shoulder. “What do you think, Chamberlain? Not bad, is it?”

“It’s astonishing, Majesty. Who wrote it?”

“Who wrote it again, Royal Choirmaster? Gregory something or other?”

“Allegri, Gracious Majesty. Gregorio Allegri.”

“There you are, Chamberlain. You wanted to hear it. Now you’ve heard it. Go out and stop other people from hearing it.” Time to leave. As they passed the guard outside the door Atymos said to him, “The Royal Choirmaster forgot my name. See to it and sort out a temporary replacement for him. Come, Chamberlain. You’ve got work to do.”

She had no idea where to start. She knew the words and the music (after an excuse to go back and grab the music sheets), but the task was as straightforward as they come. Send out a revised notice prohibiting the performance of the music in question. Simple, Atymos had said. But no word of the title or the composer.

It was a puzzle and who better to approach about puzzles that Yakinydese, the Royal Setter of Quizzes and Puzzles. He lived in his own library on the fourth floor of the palace, one window to allow a beam of sunlight that rotated around the room as the sun passed by outside. He had a fireplace, but never lit it to avoid burning down his bookshelves, and if there were tables in this room they were well hidden by parchments and puzzle books, drafts of quizzes and contests, challenges and word games.

When he opened the door to Sizma he studied her for a moment before inviting her in. “What has a face but no mouth?”

“A clock?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Or a watch.”

“Yes, a watch.”

“A cliff.”

“Yes, yes. That too. You’re His Majesty’s Chamberlain, aren’t you?”

“Is that a real question or a test?”

“No, I’m sure I’ve seen you around before. Yes, yes you’re that Sizma aren’t you? Your sister’s the torturer.”

“Yes. Correct. Two points. Well done.”

She followed him into the depths of the room, Yakinydese studying bits of paper as he headed for two large armchairs. “Please, sit down.” She sat down. “Name?”

“I thought you knew?”

“Sorry, I can’t get out of the habit of quizzing people. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a conundrum of my own and I thought with you creating and solving conundrums all the time you might have some tricks and tips for me.”

“I see.” He took out a small notebook and pencil and leafed through pages full of words and phrases, grids of numbers and shapes. “And what is the conundrum? Let me guess. In a thrice, I am the sum total of wind, rain, sun and snow.”

“Four hundred and thirty-three.”

“Astonishing. How so?”

The weather throughout the year. Four seasons plus twelve months plus fifty-two weeks plus three hundred and sixty-five days. But not a leap year. Three years out of four. Now, my conundrum.”

“I can see why you’re his Chamberlain.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish my daughter were as clever as you.”

“So do I.”

“I’d like a sculpture of her, but I can’t find a piece of wood thick enough.”

“Very droll. My conundrum.”

“Yes.”

“I need to tell people about a piece of music without telling them the name or the composer or singing it to them or playing the music on an instrument.”

“Yes. Good. Right.” He found a new page in his notebook and wrote. Music. No title. No name. Nothing! “Challenging. Perhaps an anagram?”

“An anagram? No, they might solve that. They mustn’t know.”

“But how will they know if they’re correct?”

“They mustn’t find out.”

“Is there a prize for guessing?”

“No, watch my lips. They must not find out the answer.”

Yakinydes scratched his forehead with the pencil, stared out of the window, doodled, left his chair, came back to his chair, stood up, studied the spines of his books and sat down again. “This is an impossible task.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here. If anyone knows how to square this circle it’s you.”

“I create puzzles, I’m not a miracle worker. I’m not a magician. Let’s look at this again. You want to tell people the name of a piece of music without saying the name, the composer or describing the music.”

“And after all that they must not guess or figure out what the music is.”

“Why?”

“So they can’t perform it.”

“Why not just tell them not to perform it?”

“Because then they’ll know what it is.”

“Is this a joke, court Chamberlain?”

“No.” There were no answers here and Sizma wondered of Yakinydes even understood the question. His room really was a mess, like a jumble of letters with words hidden amongst them. Stools had piles of small books, some scattered around the legs, the tables were full of paper with long impossible to pronounc words, strings of numbers with rectangles drawn around them, bits of origami, shapes made out of spindles of wood, a peg board and skittles. Sizma ran her finger along it all waiting, hoping to stop on some haphazard clue.

“If you wanted to create this conundrum for yourself, how would you do it?”

“I have no idea, Chamberlain. I’ve never been asked before. All my puzzles have answers. That is the point. Every test has a solution otherwise it isn’t a test, it’s a punishment.”

At the far end of the table, Yakinydese set aside space for his word grids and crossword puzzles. Sizma lifted one of the large sheets and studied a half-finished puzzle. “Nine letters, part of a minute. T something, something . . . something E.”

“Go on.”

“Nine letters, part of a minute. Timepiece.”

“Very good.”

It was very good. It was brilliant. It was the answer she was looking for. “Yakinydese, you are a genius.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re just not aware of it. Thank you.” She rushed out. “Thank you very much.”

Back in her study Sizma found the sheet music to Miserere and a small piece of parchment. When she was done she headed down to the palace music room where Court Jester practiced his music. He looked underwhelmed when she burst through the door. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me.” She stood in front of him and waited for him to look up from his lute. “Your knowledge of music is encyclopedic.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Everyone knows about your repertoire. Is there a song or a piece of music, anywhere, anything, that you don’t know about?”

“I’m sure there’s some obscure folk song or ditty I’ve never heard before.” Sizma held out the parchment with musical notes written on it. “What’s this? Have you written this?”

“No. Do you recognise it?”

Court Jester hummed and then played the notes. “No. I can’t say they’re familiar.”

“Do they remind you of anything?”

He played them again and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve no idea.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“These are the opening and closing bars of the music Atymos has banned. Are youy sure you don’t recognise it?”

One more time he played the notes, leaving a gap before the final bar. “There isn’t enough to tell me what it is.”

“Exactly. That’s the instruction. Musicians, singers, performers, songwriters and composers must avoid using these bars at the beginning and end of a piece of music. So long as they do that they will never know or unwittingly perform this music in full.”

Court Jester understood and grinned. “Very clever, Chamberlain. He strummed his lute again and sang. Young Sizma solves the puzzle, the forbidden song remains, and His Gracious Majesty’s secret tune is contained by his wonderous Chamberlain. There is one question remaining.”

“Go on.”

Court Jester delicately plucked the strings as he spoke. “If no one is allowed to perform this song, how has Atymos heard it?”

They were alone. “The Royal Choir. He keeps them locked up in a suite of rooms deep undergound.”

“What?”

“They’re the only ones allowed to perform it.”

Sizma was on her way out when Court Jester called after her. “Do me a favour, Sizma. Never tell me the name of that music.”

The word went out, Sizma’s instruction was printed and distributed to every town, village, settlement, concert hall and music school. Troubadours, crooners, folk singers and divas, writers, composers, makers of barrel organs, publishers of sheet music, conductors and band leaders received the message. And they understood. On her way back from the Royal Postage Centre she met a dancer who thanked her for finally giving an instruction that could be followed.

“At last, music will return to the realm, Court Chamberlain.” The dancer left her, singing as he went, a horrible ditty so out of tune she considered recalling the instruction.

In the courtyard below the window of Atymos’s throne room, Sizma paused for a moment and sat on a camomile seat below an arbor that in summer was full of jasmine blossom. It was her favourite spot in the garden, not just for its fragrance and the view across the lakes, but because she could hear every word spoken in the throne room if the window was open. Which it often was, and it was open now. The voices sounded familiar. Atymos and Court Jester.

“She said what? She had no business telling you that, Court Jester.”

“I assumed as much, Gracious Majesty. That is why I thought it important to come and tell you.”

“Do you know what she said to me, Court Jester, do you know?”

“No, Majesty.”

“On that very floorboard where you stand now she said to me I am your most discreet member of court, Majesty. Mee, mee, mee mee. Oh, I’m this, I’m that, Gracious Majesty. I can remember your title when no one else can, Aren’t I special, Gracious Majesty. “

“She is a little above herself at times, if I may say so, Gracious Majesty.”

“No, you may not say so. Only I am allowed to ridicule the little wretch. With her little horns, I keep telling her about the length of her horns. And that tail. I cut my finger on the tip of that tail, Court Jester.”

“What will you do, Gracious Majesty? I hate to think my message may lead to her execution.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. She is . . . well she is very good at what she does.”

“Oh, of course, Gracious Majesty. No doubt about that.”

“Even if it was you who came up with the solution to the music ban. And it wasn’t a ban, it was a prohibition.”

“Of course, it was, Majesty.”

“Leave it with me, Court Jester. I must think hard about this.”

“Would His Majesty like me to accompany him with some thoughtful music as he thinks.”

“No.”

“As you wish, your most elegent and Gracious Majesty. And may I just say how pleasing it is to hear music in your realm again.”

“Get out.”

Court Jester met Sizma on the staircase. “Ah, Sizma. Your solution has left His Majesty in a fine mood.” He whispered, “We can all breathe easy again,” and patted her shoulder.

Entering the throne room, after knocking on the door and waiting to be called in – and she was made to wait several seconds longer than usual – Sizma approached the open window. “Quite cold outside, Majesty. Would you like me to close the window?”

“No, leave it open.”

“Can you hear music outside, Majesty? People are singing again.”

“Apparently so.”

She waited for Atymos to unravel his situation, break the news she had already heard.

“Is there something wrong, Majesty?”

“Well, yes, there is, there is something wrong, Chamberlain.” He wouldn’t say.

“Have you banned the communicating of bad news, Majesty?”

“Impertinance, Chamberlain. Too much impertinance. I haven’t forgotten what you said.”

“What did I say, Majesty?”

“That it was all my fault. What were the exact words you used?” He clicked his fingers trying to recall. “You are the culprit. You said to me, satyr demigod of this realm, you are the culprit.”

“My apologies, Gracious Majesty. I was taught never to lie to a satyr demigod.”

“No. What?”

“I am obliged to speak the truth to you. If you are responsible for a situation I must be honest with you. Perhaps my choice of word was wrong.”

“Well, whatever. You made a fool of me in front of court, in front of one my dogs. He hasn’t forgotten. Won’t do what he’s told now.”

“I am at your mercy, Majesty.”

“Chamberlain, I can hardly hand you over to your sister, can I? What will she do, brand you with cold tongs? Put you on the rack and not stretch you, just leave you there until you’re bored.”

“Whatever fate you have for me may I have one request?”

“Which is what?”

“That music is played at my execution. Now that music can be performed again.”

“Yes. Yes, I meant to speak to you about that, Chamberlain. I’ve gone off Miserere. Heard it so many times now it’s quite boring. It does go on a bit. I have a knew favourite. And as Court Jester has found a way of informing people how to avoid it, I can issue a new prohibition.”

“That is good news, Majesty.”

“No idea who composed this one though. I tell you, if I ever find out I’ll shower him with gifts beyond comprehension. Whatever he wants.”

There was nothing else to say. Sizma’s time at the royal court had come to a natural conclusion, execution, the way so many other careers had ended. “Is there something else, Chamberlain?”

“That’s all, Majesty. Have you a preferred method of execution for me?”

“Yes. Good question.” He stood next to the open window and gazed across the fields and hills. “Perhaps a hanging on that hill near the column. Would you want something quick or drawn out, Chamberlain?”

“I’ll let you decide, Majesty.”

“Yes. By the way, I like the idea of music being played at an execution. They’re always such miserable occasions. Tell you what, as a thank you for all your service, why don’t you go down to the Royal Choirmaster and select a tune with him. Her. I believe the first soprano took over from him. Would four o’clock suit you? You look reluctant, Chamberlain. You do know where the Royal Choir is. After all, you told Court Jester, didn’t you? That is why you’re in this pickle, Chamberlain. Indiscretion.”

“I’ll see to it right away, Majesty.” Sizma bowed and left Atymos at the window. He refused to turn and watch her go or say goodbye, but then he never said goodbye, but she noticed his grip on the window frame as if he was enduring some acute pain or trapped wind.

The Royal Choimaster was indeed the first soprano, or ex-first soprano. She didn’t look too pleased to be in the new job.

“Well, it’s so fraught with danger, innit.”

“There’s a new secret song, I believe?”

“Yeah. Seus Diabolem. It’s a composition by Hildegard von Bingen. He likes his ecclesiastical music, done he?”

“Yes, apparently so. The reason I’m here is to ask you all to sing at my execution.”

“What?”

“Yes, Atymos has had a change of heart and he’s going to execute me on Monument Hill. We’ve agreed there needs to be more music at executions so I’d like you to do the honours.”

“That’s ‘orrible. But if it’s what he wants we can’t argue, can we?”

“No. Anyway, four o’clock. Monument Hill.”

She had one more visit before the hangman’s noose or whatever Atymos had decided on. Court Jester had a student and was teaching him how to balance on a barrel. The student wobbled and wavered and when he finally lost his feet landed with a gut-wrenching crash on the hard wood floor.

“Sizma,” Court Jester helped the student to his feet. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“An invitation, Court Jester. Atymos has had a fabulous idea to liven up his executions.”

“Sounds jolly.”

“Music, merriment, the full show. He wants you there at an execution on Monument Hill. Four fifteen this afternoon.”

“I see.” Court Jester waited for his student to stop rubbing his elbow. “Anyone we know?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Yes. Oh, and by the way. He doesn’t like Miserere any more. He thinks it goes on a bit. He has a new favourite, subject to the usual prohibitions.”

“Do we know what his new favourite is?”

“Yes.” She whispered to avoid the student hearing. “It’s called Seus Diabolem. Thing is, he doesn’t know who composed it. Atymos is going to shower the composer with gifts if he finds out. I think that might be a mistake.”

“How so?”

“Another piece of music no one can speak about. Anyone can come along and claim to be the composer. How would anyone else contradict them. Let’s say for example, you claimed to have written it, without hearing it how can your student say, no it wasn’t you. It was such and such. Risky, if you ask me. I think Atymos should keep his gifts to himself. Anyway, I can’t stay here chatting to you, I’m being executed.”

“Well, er, good luck, I suppose.”

“Four fifteen,” she reminded him.

Time passed very quickly and four o’clock arrived before Sizma could find out what Atymos had planned for her. On Monument Hill a gibbet waited, a thick loop of rope ready for her neck, but in the haste of a speedy execution Atymos had asked for several long swords and lances to be positioned beneath a tall, rickety wooden stool. The same courtiers were there as the ones in the royal marquee, which seemed a lifetime ago. The snow remained thick, breath evaporated with every word and when Atymos saw Sizma greeted her with great enthusiasm.

“Chamberlain, jolly decent of you to show up without me sending for the guards to bring you.”

“I didn’t want to let anyone down, Majesty. Is that it? A gibbet?”

“Yes, not bad eh? Only took them twenty minutes to build. Amazing what people can do when they put their minds to it.”

“Yes. And what are all those swords and lances for?”

“To finish you off. Add a bit of the old crimson, go off with a splash, if you get my meaning.”

“Very imaginative, Majesty.”

A small troupe of pipers started playing a jig and within minutes the smell of roasted meat began to waft across the execution site. Children frolicked between the legs of adults drinking and eating, joining in with the tunes they recognised. The hangman explained to Sizma where the rope came from and how it was made.

“I’m sorry, it’s very interesting, but there’s something I forget to say to His Majesty.” She found Atymos tucking into a large pork pie. “I forgot to give you this, Majesty.”

“What is it? Bit of parchment. Some music on it.”

“On the back, Majesty. I found out the name of the composer of the new song you like.”

He turned the parchment over. “Who’s this? Hildegard von Bingen? Who’s she? Never heard of her.”

“The Royal Choirmaster told me.”

“Does she live in this realm? This Hildegard person.”

“I don’t know, Majesty, and it’s almost four o’clock. Time for me to endure my horrible, agonising execution.”

“Yes, Yes. That’s a pity. Still.” The Royal Choir were gathering around the gibbet. At the foot of the hill, Court Jester checked his timepiece and waited. “What’s he doing there?”

“I don’t know, Majesty. Perhaps he doesn’t like the sight of blood.”

“No.” Atymos turned the parchment in his hand. “What is this music, Chamberlain?”

“Oh, the opening and closing bars of Miserere. I asked Court Jester if he recognised them. And he didn’t.”

“I see.”

“It’s four o’clock, Majesty. I have a stool to clamber onto.” She left him with the parchment and with the help of the hangman climbed onto the stool and waited for him to place the noose around her neck.

“Personally, I think Irish hemp is stronger than this stuff, but you’re not very big. Some of the big lads I’ve hung wouldn’t have dangled off a bit of rope like this.” The swords and lances were placed around the stool where Sizma stood erect, arms held casually behind her back. She watched Court Jester trudge up the slope, a lute on his back, cloak buffeted by a strengthening breeze.

The hangman waited for Atymos’s signal. Atymos hesitated and used Court Jester’s arrival as an excuse to delay the drop.

“Court Jester. What brings you here? Can’t you see we’re busy?” He looked around him for laughter, but no one gathered thought it was very funny.

“Well, Majesty, at the risk of being a little presumptious I had some news for you, but please don’t let me interrupt your execution. Well, not your execution, obviously, Majesty. I meant-“

“What do you want?”

Court Jester had an audience for his announcement. “The song, Majesty. I believe you have a favourite song and the composer’s name momentarily eludes you.”

“What if it does?”

“Majesty, I am a humble man and what I have to say I say with great humility, but it is I. I am the composer of the song.” He bowed like an exhausted ballet dancer.

“No, you’re not.”

“Majesty?”

“What’s your name?”

“Wilfred, Majesty. Wilfred Clamthorne.”

Atymos breathed in and smiled. “Hangman! Take her down.”

“Very good, Majesty. Wrong rope, Majesty?”

“No. The rope is fine. Put this fellow up there instead.”

“Very good, Majesty.”

“What?” Court Jester gripped his lute.

“You didn’t compose this song. You’re name isn’t . . . what was her name, Chamberlain? Oh, it’s on this piece of parchment here. Hildegard von Bingen. You don’t look like a Hildegard to me. And this bit of music on the back. Did you write that?”

“Not, no, Majesty, I don’t think I did.”

“No, you didn’t. She did. She probably came up with the solution in the first place. Is that so, Chamberlain?”

“Yes, Majesty. And as I told you, I never lie to you.”

“No, you don’t. Which can be a bit embarrassing, so you must stop from now on. But you, with your lute and rubbish magic tricks, get up there and give us a song.”

Court Jester was carried aloft, dragged onto the stool and with one final check of the rope he sang his tune until the swords and lances did their job, the crowd cheered, the Royal Choir belted out a raucous hornpipe, which was probably unsuitable for the occasion, and Sizma returned to the palace with her neck intact, her bowels in place and her status resumed.

But it was close. Before she left Atymos with his nightcap she asked him. “Were you prepared to execute me, Majesty?”

“Perhaps not, Chamberlain.”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

“But . . . then again. Good night, Chamberlain.”