“She p-pulled my hair!” wailed the little one, pointing a pudgy finger at the silky, strawberry-blond waves above her ears.
“Did not!” snapped the elder.
“Girls, girls!” their mother addressed them in the calm voice of adult admonition. “Quarreling and lying, and in front of visitors, as well! Aren’t you ashamed?” They turned and stared at Brother Gregory, clearly not only unashamed, but sizing him up as a potential ally.
“Sisters must love each other! They should help and share, not fight!” The older girl clutched the doll tighter and gave a righteous smirk to the younger. The nurse, plainly disgusted by this performance, let them go and begged to be excused.
“Yes, but stay near, for you must take them back when this is settled.” The nurse unobtrusively rolled her eyes heavenward, as if she considered it might never be settled.
“Now, whose doll is it?” asked Margaret, in an even voice.
“Mine!” snapped the older girl.
“B-but the dwess is mine!” sobbed the younger. “Sh-she said I could play if I lent it!”
“Cecily, did you say that Alison could play with your doll if she lent you her dress?”
“Yes, and I did let her play,” the righteous one pronounced.
“For one little tiny bit, and then she grabbed it!”
“And then what did you do, Alison?” the mother questioned gently.
“I kicked her.”
“And so, Cecily, you pulled her hair?”
“Well, it doesn’t count, because she kicked me first!”
“Girls who fight disappoint their mama.” The girls looked unrepentant. “Girls who fight make their papa sad.” The girls looked at each other with alarm. This might be serious. “So to keep sisters from fighting, I shall take the doll, and put her in the chest, here, until the sisters kiss each other and apologize, and promise to play together nicely.” With a swift gesture Margaret detached the doll and placed it in the chest in the corner. “And if you fight again today, she’ll stay there a whole week,” said Margaret firmly.
With a horrified gesture the sisters clutched each other.
“But, mama, we need her!” they protested.
“If you need her, you’ll kiss and make up.” With grumpy distaste the sisters embraced each other and exchanged pecks. The doll was removed from the chest and the nurse called. The last words that Brother Gregory, somewhat appalled, heard floating back through the half-opened door were “Well, if you must play with her more, then you will be the nurse, and I will be the mama….”
“Well,” said Margaret, “you were telling me about the Ancients.”
“If you will permit me to offer a suggestion, whether you write in the worthy style of the Ancients or not, you will never finish any book if you permit such trivia and everyday matters to interfere.”
“That is what you have said already.”
“About your writing, madame, but not about your life,” responded Brother Gregory, somewhat tartly.
“It is good you are honest,” said Margaret, trying to mollify her crusty amanuensis. “But I have never been able to avoid doing what was necessary at the moment, and so I will have to keep on doing my best in that way, since I know no other.” Brother Gregory shook his head. Length, he supposed, would increase his fee, but this was all going to be a more complex project than he had imagined.
CHAPTER TWO
I HOPE YOU HAVE KEPT IN MIND MY WORDS about the Ancients,” said Brother Gregory as he looked reprovingly at Margaret. A worldly man might have found little to reproach in the simple dress and mannerisms of the woman who stood before him, but Brother Gregory had stricter standards than most in these matters.
Before Brother Gregory’s unusual height Margaret seemed short, rather than of medium height. She was clad in a dress of plain gray wool, without adornment or tight lacing; over this was a surcoat in deep sky blue, lined with gray squirrel fur and decorated with a single band of embroidery around the central panel and the hem. A pale, slender leather belt held the ring of keys and purse at her waist; her hair was neatly braided and coiled into two brightly colored silk hairnets beside her ears. Over her braids she wore a fresh white linen veil and wimple, as is proper for married women.
Margaret had an erect posture and moved with natural grace. But what one noticed in particular were her hands, which were unadorned by the many rings usually worn by women in her position. Slender and tapered, they moved in simple, graceful gestures that seemed to convey an air of repose. Yet they were rarely unoccupied: Margaret seemed always to have a distaff, a needle, or some other bit of work in them. And if one looked closely, one saw that they were not frail, in spite of their grace, but well muscled and capable of any exertion. Margaret’s sole concession to her husband’s fortune was the gold cross and chain at her neck. It, too, was plain and unjeweled, but of an antique design of great rarity and taste.
Most odd about Margaret was something that cannot be clearly described: people around her felt a sense of calm but were not sure why. She had a way of moving into a room that imparted serenity to the most frantic situations, but no one ever quite knew how it had come about—least of all Margaret herself. Since she usually did this without words, it often took several repetitions of events for people to associate the change with Margaret’s presence. But nervous, sensitive people often understood right away that they felt “better” near Margaret, and as a result she was never without friends.
It took a harsh soul, indeed, to be impervious to Margaret’s charm, but Brother Gregory prided himself on withstanding the blandishments of vain, worldly people. And despite Margaret’s external lack of display, Brother Gregory knew that the inside of her mind was gilded and ornamented with an extraordinary set of vanities. Why, the woman was impossible, and only a fool would have taken her commission. But now only pride in his honor kept him at work—and who knew how long that could last? If, perhaps, he could guide her into a more edifying style—possibly a more elevated subject matter—then this would not be time wasted.
“Brother Gregory, I have not forgotten the Ancients, and I have given it thought.” A wiser man might have been warned by the excessive sweetness of Margaret’s voice. Brother Gregory looked down at her with an austere and disapproving gaze.
“Did the Ancients write much about women? I want to write about the things that I know, and I am a woman. So tell me how the women of the Ancients wrote, and I shall model myself on that.”
“The women of the Ancients did not write, and in that they were wiser and more discreet than certain women now.” Brother Gregory looked warningly at Margaret.
“But the Ancients were not Christian and were therefore less enlightened than we are. And in our enlightened times women are much improved, and write most feelingly of profound matters. Bridgit of Sweden, for example—”
“That lady is, first of all, a blessed and holy abbess and, secondly, writes of profound matters dealing with the soul, not with worldly frivolities. You should take that to heart for your own improvement.”
There was something—something odd about Margaret that he had seen somewhere before, but couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was that something, so tiny as to be almost invisible, that had overbalanced his calculation in favor of taking up this writing project. It was on the first day he’d seen her, when the light had caught her eyes for a moment. Even in the dim shadows of the cathedral, as she stared at him, her eyes had shone for a moment all golden, like a falcon’s. It was a very strange look indeed. Where had he seen that glance before? Not on a woman, surely. But where? The thing puzzled him. But now that he had ceased having unpleasant night visions of mutton chops, he blamed himself for having an insufficiency of pride. There should be standards in the world of writing, and he’d failed to uphold them. There was no excuse. He sighed. It was all the fault of Curiosity.
And that, too, is a vanity, observed Brother Gregory to himself morosely. He carefully sharpened a row of quills in advance, for his experi
ence of the first week had made it clear that Margaret talked far too much for his taste, and seemed to pause very rarely, once she had started.
THE WINTER OF MY thirteenth year was very hard. First the damp rotted the rye, and then the ground froze. A coughing sickness swept through the village and took away the babies and the weak ones, including Granny Agnes. By Shrovetide there was not a soul in the village whose gums did not bleed, and my teeth felt loose in my head.
But the hardest thing was not the weather. At night I’d lie awake in the loft, listening to the heavy breathing beside me and the sound the oxen made as they shifted in the straw below and wonder, What’s to become of me? Everything was changing and moving in ways I did not understand. Sometimes I was frightened for no reason.
Then, one icy day, Mother Anne set down her spinning suddenly and got up from the fire. Alone, she walked out beyond the village to the frosty summit of the low hill beyond it, where she stood for a long time, silently, the wind whipping her shabby cloak around her. I followed her from curiosity, and when I approached, she did not curse as usual and send me away, but stood instead, unseeing and unmoving. As I looked at her, I realized that she was weeping silently. The tears seemed to turn to frost on her face, as she wept on and on, without speaking.
“Mother Anne, Mother Anne, what is wrong?” I caught up with her and questioned her.
“You don’t care, so why ask?”
“I do care. Do not weep so, you’ll be sick.”
“Who cares if I am sick?”
“Why, everyone cares—we all care.”
“No one cares. I’m old, and it doesn’t matter.”
“But you’re no older than you were,” I protested.
“The last of my teeth has fallen out this winter. All my beauty is gone, and I’m old forever until I die.” I looked at her, not understanding.
“You don’t understand, do you?” She turned on me fiercely. “You’ve always thought of me as old Mother Anne, the Ugly One. But I was beautiful once. I had pearly teeth and skin as fine and smooth as the petals of a flower, just as you have now. And I had hair like spun gold, too, such as none has ever seen. ‘A river of gold,’ they called it.” The icy wind cut me to the bone. “Now my teeth are all, all gone. ‘One for each child,’ they say. One and many more than that! But I have given them for dead ones. Where is the fairness in that? To give up beauty and love for dead things? Had I ten children living, I would be honored, honored, I say!” The tears had ceased, but her frozen, ice-blue stare looked even more inhuman without them.
“Oh, someday you’ll understand. Your mother was the lucky one! She died in the glory of her beauty. Her shining hair wrapped her like a great cloak within her shroud. Even dead her face was more lovely than the carving of the Blessed Madonna. ‘Oh, look at her, the beauty, the poor, lovely creature! A saint, a poor saint, who left behind two poor, wee little motherless mites.’ Two hard-hearted, shrewd little mites, I say, for poor ugly Anne to raise and make the best of. And when they do well, who gets the credit? The dead saint, of course! That’s who! Why should it be otherwise? Tell me, tell me, what will you do when you are old and ugly, and no one wants you, not even your children?”
“But Rob and Will—”
She turned, interrupting me in a bitter voice, “Rob and Will? They’re the Devil’s own, and someday he’ll come and fetch them. And I, I’ll be always alone until I die.”
I had never suspected that, simple as she was, she could think this way, that she had seen so many secret thoughts so clearly and yet gone on. I was seized by a sudden sympathy, so deep I could not imagine where it came from.
“Just come down from this cold place, Mother Anne, and I’ll try to be a good daughter to you. A real daughter.” She nodded blindly and, consumed by her own thoughts, let herself be led down and home again.
Everything was still when we returned, for father and the boys were out taking counsel with the older men of the village about the first day of planting. The ground was too hard, and it must be postponed. I put Mother Anne to bed, and wrapped her heavily, for she had begun to shake, and the death wish was in her eyes. When father and my brothers burst in to inspect the contents of the kettle, I tried to distract them, so they would leave Mother Anne to herself. But it was a useless effort, for father saw her in bed at midday, her lips blue and the covers heaped around her, and sauntered over.
“So, old sow, in bed at midday? Wielding a broomstick must have worn you out early!” The men laughed, even her sons. The death wish in her eye was replaced by rage: she glared at him ferociously.
“Ha! When you grow weaker, I grow stronger,” he mocked her. “We’ll see who rules, now!” He strutted in front of the bed.
She sat bolt upright in bed.
“You old he-goat!” she shouted. “You’re no stronger than a parson’s fart! I’ll show you how I wield a broomstick!”—and she jumped out of bed.
Father leapt nimbly away, cocking his finger in a sarcastic manner. “One more swing, Mother Lazarus, and I won’t tell you the news.”
“News? News? What news is that?” she asked anxiously.
“The kind of news old women like to hear. Priest’s news,” mocked father.
“Tell me now, or your head will need mending,” said mother, reaching menacingly for her griddle.
Rob and Will were laughing at father now; things were back the old way.
“Well, Sir Ambrose says we need pay no more tuition.”
“Holy Mother, they’ve thrown him out.” Mother’s face fell, and she sat down.
“Thrown him elsewhere, is more like it,” teased father cruelly.
“Oh, God, not in jail! What could he have done?” she wept.
“Nah, mother, it’s not that,” said brother Rob. Will poked him and chuckled.
“You tell, you tell now, or I’ll march straight to Sir Ambrose,” mother cried.
“Put your feathers back on, woman. It’s another one of those ‘honors’ of Sir Ambrose.” Father looked at her in a superior manner. “It seems there is this place of higher learning. Higher, higher learning. Highest higher, higher learning. So high that simpering priest has to roll his eyes heavenward to speak of it. Each year the abbot sends two boys, and pays their fees, but some years, no boy is holy enough, or high enough”—and here he held his nose, as if smelling rancid meat—“to go. This year there’s only one. It’s David, of course. Little Master Goodbody himself.”
“Has Sir Ambrose seen David?” I interrupted eagerly. “Is he well, is he happy there?”
“He’s seen him, and he’s fine. He grows apace! The monks eat better than we do, the bloodsuckers.”
“This place he’s to go, is it very splendid?” I asked. Mother was silent, thinking.
“From how Sir Ambrose tells it, it’s only short of heaven itself. It’s at Oxford town, and it’s called the university, and a man who studies there, he says, has an unlimited future. David might be something great someday. A great scholar, or a prince of the Church. Or, at least, so says that cozening priest.”
A prince! Nothing, nothing, was too fine for a boy like David! Mother looked paralyzed. Then she suddenly spoke.
“If any part of this is true, old man, then we are made. For princes look after their own.” Father nodded assent.
“But—but the trip. It’s long and dangerous. How will he go? Where will he stay?” The thought that she might lose such a treasure, after such a great imagined gain, was terrifying.
“All is arranged. We do nothing. In October the university sends the ‘fetchers,’ all well armed, to take the boys back from all parts of England. The abbot pays for the trip. Then they live in a house with a master to look after them. The abbot pays for that too. They read large books and learn large things. The abbot pays for all. It’s simple. Then when he’s done, he comes back a prince.”
“Well, then, hold my hand, for we are people of good fortune.” For a whole fortnight after that father and mother were reconciled.
&nb
sp; “I ALWAYS WANTED TO study at Oxford myself,” remarked Brother Gregory placidly, placing the last period.
“Have you seen it, then?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, I have traveled there, and once bought a very fine book, but fate denied me the chance to study there.”
“You own books?”
“Only one for myself just now. The book I bought then was a gift I’d been sent to buy for someone. But the university’s a wonderful place. Even in the alehouses there is high disputation.” Brother Gregory had begun to feel that he might owe Margaret slightly more serious consideration. After all, not every woman—even one who talks too much—has a brother who is an authentic scholar. Well, he’d doubtless have to trek through many a weary page before he found out where the brother was now.
“My husband owns books,” said Margaret.
“Oh?” replied Brother Gregory politely, counting through the pages he had written and numbering them carefully. “Who’d have thought it of this money-sucking tradesman?” he thought to himself.
“He owns nineteen. They are locked in this big chest.” She tapped the closed, ironbound lid of the chest near where Brother Gregory was sitting. “Some are Latin, some are French. There is one in German, all about God, and even one in Arabic.”
Oho! Here was something out of the ordinary! Brother Gregory looked up and raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Arabic,” said Margaret calmly, conscious of the sensation she had made. “My husband has traveled all over the world and says that a great merchant must know many languages.”
“And what about you?” asked Brother Gregory. He thought he could detect a hint of the north in her accent still, even after years in the south. Margaret’s face fell.
“I don’t know anything but English.” Then she brightened a little. “But my husband has got a Frenchwoman to teach me and the girls. He says everyone must know French, for it is the language of the court. He says he imagines I will speak French very nicely one of these days.”
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