“So, Lieutenant, your sister-in-law is singing in this opera thing?” Honister asked.
“Yep.”
“Why aren’t you at the opera house watching it, then?”
“She offered tickets. Not my cup of tea,” Byron snorted. “I’m not partial to plays or musicals, and especially not opera. My tastes run to Alan Jackson and Martina McBride, and fat chance of ever hearing them again.”
Honister turned a confused expression to him. Gotthilf slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”
* * *
The lights rose on the second scene. There was a chorus that revolved around a council to plan a battle with the invading Saxons. Arthur, Guinevere, and their captains were there, as was the bishop, who was revealed to be Merlin Ambrosius. The sound of the music was martial and stirring, with echoes of the grand march from the overture. It ended with a mass shouted “Death to the Saxons!” That got a roar of approval from one of the inhabitants of the imperial box. The emperor still remembered, it seemed, just who had betrayed him a couple of years ago.
After the applause, Merlin and Arthur moved downstage into a pool of light. The duet that followed would have been considered great, except that Amber knew what was coming next. Even so, Merlin (the tenor) and Arthur (the baritone) had a lengthy discussion about honor, sacrifice, and wisdom, and why they were all necessary characteristics of a good ruler. For all that the words sounded stuffy on paper, Amber thought to herself, Heinrich’s music made them sing. She squeezed his hand as the duet came to an end and Arthur left the stage, then settled down into her seat. She knew what was coming next, and that thought thrilled her.
* * *
Friedrich’s eyes were fixed on Merlin, who had remained at center front in a spotlight. The singer raised his eyes, and opened his mouth.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven…”
It was a beautiful melody that Schütz had crafted. But it was interrupted. Another voice was heard.
“Merlinus…”
It was a soprano, with a striking timbre and an intonation that projected cool as contrasted to the warmth of Marla’s voice earlier.
“Who’s there?” Merlin sang, looking around.
There was only silence, and he resumed his meditation, this time with the orchestra supporting him.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven…”
Again the second voice was heard:
“Merlinus…”
And again Merlin replied, “Who’s there?”
This time there was a response. A different spotlight picked up a figure that approached from stage right; tall, slender, flowing blonde hair, dressed in robes of teal and silver.
“One who brings a gift, Merlinus…”
And thus began the duet “Die Magie Der Nacht”—“The Magic of the Night.”
The sylph Nimue circled Merlin, offering him access to great magic; greater than any he had ever known; the magic of Solomon himself.
Merlin countered the temptations by continuing to sing the Pater Noster.
To Friedrich, the contrast between the texts and the contrast between the soaring melodies of the sylph and the quiet contemplative voice of the bishop almost wrenched at one’s heart. Almost, almost one could hear echoes of the temptations of Christ in the wilderness in it.
The temptations were varied, and subtle. The duet was obviously a trial to the heart of the bishop, yet he remained steadfast. It finally came to a conclusion.
Nimue sang one last time, “Will you take it?”
Friedrich rejoiced in his heart when Merlin sang, “No.” Then his heart sank, for as the sylph turned and exited the way it had come, Merlin’s head turned and followed it.
That did not bode well for the character, he thought, even as the lights blacked out for the scene change and applause erupted around him.
* * *
The body of Schardius landed on the pier with a thump. Gotthilf looked down at it in the moonlight. The open eyes staring sightlessly off into the night; water rivulets running from face and hair; soggy clothes bunched and twisted.
“Not very impressive now, is he?” Byron said, as Dr. Schlegel bent to examine the body.
“No,” Gotthilf agreed. “And for all that he was, or tried to be, in the end he is nothing more than cold clay, waiting to be put back in the earth.”
* * *
The third scene of Act One presented a series of arias and choruses that evoked the strains of battle, as the imminent battle was realized. Swords were heard clashing; horses were heard to neigh; hoof beats were heard thundering in the distance as Arthur led his knights in the final charge. Friedrich felt his pulse quickening through it all. He sat on the edge of his seat, almost visualizing in his head the ranks of the Saxon foe breaking under the charge of the British horsemen.
Guinevere stood on a hill and sang encouragement to Arthur and to her captains.
It was loud, it was brash, it was glorious to Friedrich, especially when Arthur strode onto the stage in full armor, splashed with blood. He sang one entire aria to explain that none of it was his.
The final victory chorus was built on a full statement of the march from the overture, with trumpets sounding calls over it all and drums rumbling beneath. It ended with Arthur and his knights lifting their swords in triumph.
The curtain dropped on the end of the first act to loud sustained applause.
* * *
The emperor accepted a glass of wine from Baldur, and looked over at Ulrik. “An interesting story so far. And I begin to see what you mean about the woman’s voice. Almost I would like to hear this song she sang.”
* * *
During the entr’acte, there was a bustle backstage as certain set elements were changed out by the crew and as the leading characters changed costumes. Marla made a fast change with Sophie’s help, and headed back to the wing she would enter from in Act Two.
Marla took her spot, and stood, eyes closed. Despite the crush of the activity, everyone gave her room. No one moved so close as to even brush her with the hem of a wide sleeve. Her face was still, but her hands made small movements.
Dieter walked up to the castrato Andrea Abati, who was resettling the blond wig he wore as Nimue. He nodded in Marla’s direction. “What is she doing?”
Abati glanced at his some-time pupil, and replied, “I think she’s doing what the up-timers would call ‘getting her game face on.’ She’s flowing through all her lines and songs in her mind, gestures and all.”
Dieter gave his head a little approving shake. “She is pure diamond tonight.”
“That she is,” Abati replied as he finished adjust the wig. He turned full-face to Dieter. “How do I look?”
“Very eerie, Your Nimueship,” Dieter said with a smile.
Abati bent down a bit to let one of the dressers touch up his pale makeup. Dieter began reviewing his own songs.
They were both looking at Marla when the orchestra began the entr’acte music. Even across the width of the stage, her eyes seemed to glitter.
Abati nudged Dieter. “Tighten your sword belt, lace up your boots, and stay on your toes. I’d say she’s ready for the fray.”
* * *
The second act began with a chorus that indicated that some time had passed since the end of the first act events. Things were not totally peaceful, but farmers could work the land and craftsmen build their tools without horrific danger. That was attributed to Good King Arthur, and the people sang his praises.
After that song, the upstage lights dimmed, and the figure of Nimue was seen to glide downstage in a spotlight out of the stage left wing. Friedrich sat up straight, as he had already decided that everything in this story was going to hinge on the sylph. He knew that the part was being played by the Italian castrato, Abati, but he could see and hear nothing manly in Nimue; and that made him chill just a bit.
Nimue paused at the front of the stage and lifted her hands together, freezing for a moment as the orchestra
held a dissonant chord, then opening them in a broadening gesture as the chord resolved into a motif that sounded ominous.
“Morrigan,” Nimue sang.
The orchestra paused for the barest moment, then repeated the ominous motif.
“Morrigan,” Nimue called again.
This time there was a response:
“Who calls the Morrigan?” sounded a strong contralto. Another spotlight picked up a striking figure who strode onto the stage from the stage right wing to confront Nimue. Dressed in dull red with a black cape that was flourished like wings, this figure was undeniably a woman; one with cruel lines on her face.
Friedrich hissed between his teeth. He knew that face was the product of skillful makeup, but at the distance he was removed from the characters, in the light that was there, this breathing image of the goddess of battle and discord looked like nothing less than a monster. So he could imagine Medea looking when she slew her children before Jason’s eyes.
He shivered as their duet began.
* * *
Amber watched the duet with a clinical eye. Margaret, the woman singing the Morrigan role, was perhaps the weakest singer of the major roles. Her voice was acceptable—indeed, she had an awesome lower register—but her pitch control was sometimes a bit erratic, and she had taken forever to learn her words. So if there was one song in the whole production where Amber crossed her fingers and prayed for a good outcome, it was this one.
Tonight, thankfully, it worked well. The Diabolical Duet, as Amber thought of it, soared and roared, Nimue at times leading the Morrigan, and at times the reverse being the case. The lines were all sung cleanly and clearly, and the plot of the opera advanced by means of the plot between the characters.
She sat back in satisfaction as the final notes were sounded by the orchestra.
* * *
Friedrich shook his head as the duet ended. It was now clear how at least part of the story was going to unfold. Poor Merlin.
And so it proved. In the following arias, plots were made with Medraut, who turned out to be Arthur’s illegitimate half-brother, to plot to overthrow Arthur and assume the throne. Even the Saxons were brought into this, which received a few catcalls from the imperial box.
The lights blacked out for the end of scene one to medium applause.
Friedrich turned to Gronow. “You wrote the libretto. This is not going to turn out well, is it?”
Gronow just smiled and said nothing.
“Pig,” Friedrich muttered. “Then at least give me another drink of your schnapps to bolster my courage.”
Gronow passed the flask over just as the lights came up for scene two. Friedrich took a hurried swig and passed it back, eyes on the solitary figure advancing from upstage.
Merlin, dressed in the finest of bishop’s garb and carrying a crozier, stood in the spotlight, and began again the beautiful melody Schütz had written for the Pater Noster.
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven…”
This time when Nimue advanced from the wings, the Morrigan came with her, shadowing her every step, halting at the edge of Merlin’s pool of light as Nimue glided to within a hand’s reach of the beleaguered bishop. Nimue’s spotlight was blue in this scene, and the Morrigan’s was red, as contrasted to the white light in which Merlin stood. The visual effect was quite striking.
Every word that Nimue sang, every note that she uttered, was supported, harmonized, and enhanced by the voice of the Morrigan. The effect was almost spellbinding, musically speaking, and Friedrich had to wrench himself from that enchantment repeatedly to pay attention to the story.
Merlin tried. He would battle back with the Pater Noster, force Nimue back a step, to circle a little wider. But the power shown by the sylph as bolstered by the goddess ultimately was more than he could resist, or endure, or defeat. The end came when Merlin dropped his crozier and fell to his knees, grasping at the hem of Nimue’s robe.
The music swirled into an air of triumph, as Nimue picked up the crozier and seemingly broke it and cast it aside, then grasped Merlin by the arm and chivvied him to the Dragon Tree at the rear of the set upstage. The Morrigan had already seemingly ascended to the branches of the tree, and the black cloak was spread out like wyvern’s wings. Nimue waved a hand, part of the tree’s trunk opened, and she thrust Merlin inside. The trunk closed with the sound of a thunder clap from the orchestra.
“This does not bode well,” Friedrich muttered. Gronow chuckled beside him, and he thumped Gronow’s thigh with his leg.
* * *
Amber smiled and nodded as Nimue began her victory aria. Abati’s silver voice was just superb for the role. This aria in particular demanded musical athletics that very few musicians she had known in the up-time could have done full justice to. Abati could, and his exultation—it still felt funny to think “his” when the sound she was hearing was high soprano—sounded eldritch, fey, beautiful, enticing; all of that. And to Abati’s credit in playing the role, Amber admitted, it also sounded evil.
The applause after the aria was quite loud, although not perhaps as extended as it could have been, Amber decided. Credit it to the fact that it was sung by one of the bad guys, she supposed.
The scene progressed after that aria. Nimue enlisted the aid of Arthur’s aunt Morgause, who in this story was only a few years older than Arthur himself. Then, bolstered by the Morrigan’s magic and music, and drawing on the magic of Merlin himself, the three women wove a web around Arthur. Without Merlin’s influence, counsel, and magic to help bolster and protect him, Arthur succumbed to the temptation, and the lights blacked out on the second scene as Morgause drew him through the curtains of her bed.
* * *
Friedrich looked over at Gronow during the few moments the curtain was down. “It does get better than this, doesn’t it? If all I wanted was tragedy, I could have stayed in my room and read Poe and Goethe.”
Gronow just chuckled.
The third scene of Act Two was short; only three songs in it. The scene opened the next morning after Arthur’s seduction with Arthur stumbling from stage left into the court before the Dragon Tree. He was disheveled, bleary-eyed, and unsure of what had happened. Nimue was waiting and musically pounced on him, delighting in informing him of what had occurred the previous night—the fact that not only had he committed adultery but he had also committed incest—and gleefully predicting his doom and the destruction of his kingdom. The Morrigan was standing in the branches of the Dragon Tree again, and her harmonies reinforced Nimue’s music.
The second song segued directly from the first, as Guinevere entered the court from stage right, asking one and all what was occurring. That was Nimue’s cue to sing yet another aria, exulting, telling Guinevere in no uncertain terms exactly what Arthur had done the night before. The sylph exited, up stage left, still exulting.
Friedrich decided that he could really come to hate Nimue, woman or no. But his eyes now fixed on Guinevere, standing alone, betrayed and scorned.
And thus began the third song of the scene, what was called “The Betrayal of Passion Duet” in the score.
Arthur began the duet by trying to apologize, but Guinevere rounded on him. The resulting duet was tempestuous and wracking, as Guinevere castigated him—no other term could express the depth of hurt and anger and even rancor that poured from her lips. Arthur had trouble singing a single sentence against the chastisement and reproach thrown at him like storm-waves from the sea.
He finally broke through long enough to sing one declamatory line, “But I love you, I need you!”
The music paused for a brief moment when the chord sustaining the last word finally ended. Friedrich noted in the corner of his mind that Schütz’s use of these breaks was inspired, but his attention still hung on Marla, waiting to see what she would do next.
What resumed was an echo of the ominous motif from Nimue and the Morrigan’s duet. It sounded, and sounded, and sounded, until Friedrich was ready to scream “Get on with it!”
 
; The kettle drums started a muted roll, rumbling underneath the building of a dissonant chord by the horns and the clarinets. Guinevere finally entered on yet another dissonant note, softly, sadly.
“You…
“You never loved me.”
The voice paused while the chord and the drums sustained their tones. Then it resumed, like a scalpel of ice.
“I was never more to you
“Than a prop for your throne!”
As soon as Guinevere bit off the final syllable, the strings entered, and the orchestra played a swirl of sound that cascaded upwards and ended like a shriek. There was a moment of pure silence. No one breathed, in th
e audience, the orchestra, or the stage. Then without another word, she turned and exited stage right, steps sounding loud in the silence.
Arthur stood alone in the spotlight after that excoriation. He dropped his outstretched arms; his head bowed. Slowly the spotlight narrowed, narrowed, narrowed, until it only lit his face. Then it cut to black, and the applause began.
Chapter 69
After Dr. Schlegel hauled Schardius’ corpse off, Gotthilf stared at Byron. Byron stared back at him. They both turned to look at Simon, sitting against a wall with his knees drawn up and his arm wrapped around them.
“We need to get back to the opera hall, but someone needs to get him back to your house,” Byron said.
“What time is it?” Gotthilf asked.
Byron looked at his watch by the light of the moon. “Not quite eight p.m.”
“You’re sure Honister said the performance had begun?”
“Yep. He backtracked to make sure that Schardius didn’t drop or throw anything away, and he said he could hear the orchestra from outside.”
“Well, then based on the program, the opera won’t be over for a while yet,” Gotthilf said. “I’ll run Simon home in the duty carriage, then meet you back at the opera house.”
“Right.”
Gotthilf walked over to the boy, bent down and held out his hand. “Come on, Simon, up with you. You need to tell Ursula what’s happened.”