Blondel was a minstrel – and he meant to be a great minstrel. Someday. But for now it was the road and the rain, singing for his supper from town to town.

He had the tools. He had a voice that could fill the greatest hall, yet do it so gently as to fill the maidens with tears. And he loved music. Even now, in this dirty little inn, his eyes were closed, glorying in the sounds alone, oblivious to everything else. And this was why he didn’t notice.  He just kept on singing until the piece was done, and then found that instead of a clamor of approval and maybe a coin or two, there was an utter silence and the sound of one set of clapping hands. He opened his eyes and saw a very young knight flanked by two older, larger and very grim-looking men. The younger man’s eyes were glowing.

“That was really good!”

And that was how Blondel first met with Richard, Prince of England. Soon he was a fixture of Richard’s House; and more than that, the two became friends. Despite their difference of birth, Richard loved talent above all else – and Blondel had it.  So did Richard for that matter. He was a fine musician in his own right. He might have been a minstrel too, had he been born to a different state. The hours they spent together couldn’t be counted; writing songs; crafting poems; and even dressing in common clothes, going down to the town, and singing for their supper, which Richard, at least, greatly enjoyed.

But Richard, of course, was more than just a minstrel. He was a knight, a great knight who earned his fame on the tourney field. And he was a general, famous for his triumphs throughout the fields of France. And eventually he became a King, a King who went on crusade and earned such glory as to shame even the greatest among his peers.

Back in England Blondel and others had been waiting for years to hear of the day their King would return. When word arrived that he was underway, they went by the scores to wait by the docks.  As time went on, their numbers grew into the hundreds.  But then came word of the shipwreck; of the king’s ship crushed on a faraway shore; and the numbers dwindled away.  After a week Blondel was waiting alone. But he could not believe that Richard was dead! It was impossible. Surely the heavens would have given some sign – a falling star to mark the angels’ tears! And at the same time, he began to hear whispers; laughs in the court among the cronies of, the Regent, Prince John. “I hear the wind is cold off the Rhine [snicker, snicker] . . . They say the Germans have awful food [heh-heh-heh].”

Blondel still had his place in court; his comfortable seat by the fire; but he found that he had to know. He gave it all up and set forth alone – with a harp, a horse, and a lute – to travel the roads of the Rhine.

His plan was simple enough. He went from town to town, singing for his supper. Then, the next day, he would climb to the castles above and walk about the walls, singing in that voice that could fill the greatest of halls. And always he sang a verse from the same particular song – a song that no one else could know, save for a single man. He would sing and then pause, waiting . . . and hearing no reply would move on. Like as not, he would be asked to come inside and sing that night for the Lord and Lady or Castellan.  But never from more than one. Then it was back to the road.

For months he journeyed in this manner, until at last it happened. He sang out, and from the top of the loneliest tower a well-known voice answered back.