A dingy and cracked page of musical notations was recently found tucked between the pages of a book that was part of the estate of a man who shall remain nameless. What was on the page electrified certain musical scholars. Investigation dated the page to the fifteenth century. The results of further investigation, long and arduous, have revealed startling information that has answered many questions. The story of that simple page, with it's musical notes and lyrics, is documented as follows:

Once upon a time there was a young princess named Merilee, whose father arranged a marriage for her with a prince, named Rupert, in another land. She was unhappy about this to begin with, but even more so when she saw her betrothed for the first time. She looked with horror upon his buck teeth, his pimples, and the wandering eye that always seemed to draw her attention, even though it was looking off at something else. He was also somewhat dimwitted, as became clear in a very short while. His attempt at wooing his betrothed consisted of telling her off color jokes, at which he tittered like a girl. At merely sixteen years of age, she felt like her life was already over.

But politics is politics, and the results of inbreeding in the groom-to-be were the whole point of getting fresh blood into the royal bloodline. It would also secure the peace between the kingdoms for a while longer as well. So, no matter how she wailed and moaned, her father's resolve never wavered and she was told to wed the young man chosen for her. As it turned out, her father was even happier with the arrangement when Rupert's father was thrown from a horse and killed, catapulting the prince, and soon to be son-in-law, into the throne years before anyone thought it would happen.

There was a huge wedding, with thousands of people in attendance, and much pomp and ceremony. The groom, fortified with much wine, stood weaving at the altar, as his young bride marched reluctantly down the aisle. The ceremony droned on and on, until it got to the point where the abbot pronounced them married and told the king he could now kiss his queen.

This was the point the poor princess had been dreading.

It turned out to be the least of her discomforts, for shortly after her new husband bruised her lips with his buck teeth, he took her away to their bedchamber, to make a woman of her.

King Rupert, as it turned out, was as inept in bed as he was in the rest of his life. He seemed to know what to do, but too much wine had robbed him of full manhood ... if he had it at all. He managed to divest her of her virginity, as he lay moaning and grunting atop her, but fell into a stupor before he could do much else.

Merilee, now queen of the realm, a position thousands of young women coveted, was thoroughly miserable. She pushed her snoring husband off of her and rose. Donning the nightgown her grandmother had lovingly made for her, she decided to explore her new home.

Merilee's wanderings brought her, eventually, to a door of age-darkened wood that was carved with mystical symbols. There was a crescent moon and foliage of some kind carved into the wood, along with other things that seemed to squirm and wiggle, such that her eyes could not determine their true shape. She was standing there, trying to focus, when the door opened and an old woman suddenly faced her.

"My queen," said the crone, bowing slightly.

"Who are you?" asked Merilee. She might be the queen, but she didn't feel like one yet.

"Most call me witch," said the old woman with a small smile. "I prefer Mora, though."

"Well then," said Merilee, who had been brought up to be polite. "I shall call you Mora. Are you really a witch?"

"Some would argue about that," said the woman. "But I sense you are in pain. May I be of service to my queen?"

"Pain?" Merilee blinked. "I feel no pain."

"Some pain is felt in the body," said Mora, "such as the pain between your legs, which is easily dealt with. Other pain is suffered by the spirit. That kind is more hurtful and harder to assuage."

Merilee was astonished. How could this woman know of the soreness where Rupert had thrust ruthlessly into her? And how could this woman, a stranger until now, possibly know of the new queen's unhappiness? Merilee was intrigued.

"I can make the physical pain go away," said Mora, "if you desire it." She smiled a toothless grin. "As for the other ... well it may take more time, but perhaps I can help with that too."

Merilee stepped through the door into Mora's room.

The old woman chatted disarmingly, as she went to a shelf and got down a jar filled with a dark paste. She opened it and a pungent odor filled Merilee's nostrils.

"Raise your nightgown and spread your legs," said Mora casually, as she stepped in front of the queen.

Merilee blanched. "I couldn't possibly!" she objected.

"This will take away the pain," said the witch, holding out two fingers smeared with the dark stuff.

Blushing, Merilee did as the woman asked. She felt the witch's fingers touch her gently and the soothing was immediate. In fact, it felt distinctly good!

"Oh my," sighed the girl.

"You shan't feel that kind of pain again," said Mora, rubbing gently.

"I hope not," sighed Merilee. "Twas distinctly unpleasant."

"Our king leaves somewhat to be desired, eh?" The old woman didn't seem to think she'd said anything subversive, though heads had rolled in the kingdom for saying such as that.

"It would be rude to agree," said Merilee, enjoying the massage she was getting.

"This is just chatter between friends, I dare to hope," said Mora.

"Can you be my friend?" asked Merilee, who felt desperately in need of a friend.

"You're the queen," said the old woman simply. "What you say is true ... is true."

"That's silly," said Merilee. "I'm just a girl who had to marry a man I don't care for."

"You are much more than that," said Mora, removing her fingers from the soft pussy lips of the new queen. "Or at least you can be."

"Not in this world," sighed Merilee.

"We shall see about that," said the witch, smiling gently.

"Well, be that as it may, I can at least decree that you ARE my friend."

The hag bowed stiffly again.

"I am honored," she said. "I will attempt to serve your interests as such."

Mora was a fixture in the castle and had been so for as long as even the oldest courtier could remember. No one knew from whence she came, or why she was brought to the kingdom in the first place. No one still living knew that her quiet whispers in the ears of earlier kings had been responsible, in large part, for the success of their rule. She'd been beautiful, back then, and strong in magic. Then there was a new king, with a new queen, who was jealous of Mora's beauty and relegated her to being nothing more than the fixture she'd become. She'd kept a low profile for the past half century, while her counsel was not sought.

Now it appeared she might be able to wield influence again. Her magic was still strong, but she didn't think much would be needed in this situation. She remembered being young and what young women wanted ... and needed.

A tiny spell, cast across a great distance, created a border dispute. Foreign troops came to the kingdom's border. A response was required and the new king's advisors spoke of glory to be achieved.

Rupert prepared to ride off with his army. Grooms stood by with ropes to tie him to the saddle, so he wouldn't fall off his horse like his father had. He was giving final instructions when another tiny spell, cast across only the castle grounds, made Rupert fear for the safety of his young wife. That fear struck him at just the moment when a young nobleman was next in line to receive orders for his men.

"You shall protect the queen while I am away!" lisped Rupert, his wandering eye rolling in its socket. "I'll hold you personally responsible for her safety!"

Randall Pennington was, at the tender age of seventeen, still trying to learn to behave like a nobleman. He didn't have much experience at that, because he hadn't been much interested in acting like a nobleman when he was growing up. When he'd hit puberty, his only real interest was in serving girls and ladies in waiting. He was a handsome youth with a ready smile. He'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as they say, and that silver had coated his tongue. He had a way of saying the most outrageous things to women and getting a smile rather than a slap in the face. His aging father had conferred upon him the title of Duke, in a last ditch effort to make him grow up. The prospect of marching off to war had been exciting, even though his men were less than thrilled with the idea. Some of them were veterans of prior conflicts and understood what war is all about. That's why they weren't excited to go off to war again.

Now Duke Randall was stuck babysitting the new queen, whom he had never seen, not having been interested in the wedding. Part of that was because Emily, one of his favorite serving wenches, was being punished for some thing or another and had been told she had to stay at the manor during the wedding. Some might think it ironic that, while Merilee was having her maidenhead removed, Duke Randall was mimicking his king, with Emily. He had done a much better job and Emily was much happier about it than her queen was.

So Duke Randall was in a sour mood as he marched stiffly to his new post, where he would miss out on the thrill and glory of battle.

His attitude underwent a significant change when he laid eyes upon Merilee.

"My queen!" he gasped, bowing low.

"And who are you?" asked Merilee.

"I am your protector!" brayed Randall, puffing out his chest. "I have been charged by the king himself to ensure your complete safety."

"How nice," said Merilee politely. She looked the young soldier over. He was handsome in his uniform. She sighed. She had been secretly happy that Rupert had to go off and fight the war. Now it appeared she might get to spend some time with a nice looking boy her own age.

Duke Randall of Earl, as she was to find out his title was, became the queen's constant companion. No one noticed the old witch, who seemed to wander by the couple frequently. Even if they had, they would have seen no twitching of fingers or runes written in the air. Mora was pleased to see that they were not, as she had thought, needed.

Merilee's attitude improved and she smiled almost constantly. The young duke was a rascal. She knew that within a day of him taking charge of her well being. He was what would have been called an insufferable flirt, except that she had never been flirted with and loved the attention. He held her hand when they walked in the gardens, saying it was only to ensure she didn't turn an ankle. He found ways to casually compare her beauty (which astonished him, so he said several times) with the flowers in the garden, and the mares and colts frisking in the meadow. When she asked what the people of this kingdom were like he took her to the town market, where she wandered among the stalls like a commoner, chatting with vendor and customer alike.

She was different from any girl he'd met before. She was the essence of sweetness, kind to everyone she spoke with, and he felt stirrings in his heart. There had been many stirrings in his groin as well, but he knew to suppress them. This was no serving girl and, as delightful as it was to tease her, he was too fond of his head to risk her anger, or that of the king.

She asked his opinion about this or that thing that drew her attention and, for once, he was honest with a woman, telling her which materials set off her eyes and which colors went poorly with her hair. She asked him to fasten a necklace, then shivered as his fingertips drifted across her skin.

Twice she saw something that displeased her. Once was when a man began beating his wife with a stick for having dropped an apple on the cobblestones. The woman cowered under the vicious blows.

"Punish that man!" she said to Randall.

The duke took the stick from the man. But rather than beating him, as the man had done to his wife, he commented on how hungry the man must be, if one bruised apple should upset him so. Then he made the man eat apples until he puked.

The second time was when a minor noble, barely older than the duke and queen themselves, took a beggar's cup from a legless man, pocketed the money in it, and then kicked the beggar for blocking his way.

"Punish him severely," said the queen, to her escort.

The duke chose fisticuffs, but the older noble sneered and drew his rapier. Faster than the eye could see, Duke Randall, his face stiff, whipped out his own weapon, which was suddenly connected to the chest of the bully. The nobleman looked down in disbelief at the sword piercing his chest, as his rapier dropped from already lifeless fingers.

There was no more trouble after that. When the queen strolled through the market, people were on their best behavior.

This was a change for the people of the kingdom. Generally, the king took no notice of the common people or their troubles. The nobility came and went as they pleased, and did as they pleased as well. It had been that way for decades. For THIS queen to have taken an interest in the lowly, struck deep into the hearts of the people.

To be sure, not all of her attention was in their favor. At least that's how those who ran afoul of her felt. If, as she walked, she smelled a foul odor, she discovered its source and ordered it cleaned up. Heaps of trash and garbage caught her attention, and she lectured those responsible for it, telling them such eyesores would not be tolerated. A man selling tainted meat was made to eat some of it and almost died.

The people loved her.

Well ... most of the people.

The father of the of the young nobleman Randall had slain plotted revenge. It was common knowledge that the queen was responsible for his son's death. Was it not common knowledge she had ordered her bodyguard to slay him?

The man set his plot in motion.

But there was a lesson in that too. The assassin who climbed the castle wall in the dark of night, and who wore the full black bodysuit of the assassin's guild, though it was banned, was found dead inside the castle. All of his weapons were still in their sheaths. His face was disfigured with the agony of his death, and so blue that it appeared black. Even the tongue protruding from his lifeless mouth was dark.

Duke Randall was pale at the news. He'd stood outside the queen's chambers himself that night, taking his guard rotation with his men, and hadn't heard a sound.

The queen seemed unconcerned, almost as if she'd known what happened before she was told.

"Have the guardsmen take a wagon and go to Count Arbormorl's estate," she said. "Have them bring his body back here."

The captain of the guard expected a fight at the estate, but they found the count already dead, and in the same unexplained way as the assassin he had sent to the castle.

There wasn't a mark on either man, as everyone who cared to could see, when their bodies were put on display outside the castle walls.

Mora watched from her tower window, as people filed by and learned that plotting against the queen was answered with magic.

After that, Randall assigned two men to guard her door each night - one to stand there, alert, and the other to make periodic inspections of the halls leading to the queen's bedchamber.

Weeks passed and there was no more trouble. The young duke suffered, because he was now hopelessly in love with his queen. Never had he felt this way about a woman.

Merilee frowned.

"He's so handsome!" she sighed.

She and Mora were sitting in her room. They'd gotten into the habit of chatting before bed. There were two entrances into the bedchamber. One led to Mora's tower chamber, and had been covered over by a thick tapestry for years, until Merilee found out about it and had it screened with hanging drapes. Mora could come and go now, and no one was the wiser.

"Of course he is," said Mora. "So much the better."

"But I have naughty thoughts about him," moaned the queen.

"Thoughts may be put into actions," Mora cackled.

"For shame!" said Merilee, blushing.

"There's no shame in taking pleasure where one may find it," said the witch. "You've told me how you came to be queen and how you would have avoided it, had you been able."

"But I AM queen now," sighed Merilee.

"Queen to a buffoon with less sense than a rabbit," said Mora. "I know you loathe his touch."

"I could have you flogged for saying that," said Merilee, but there was no heat in her voice.