November

Issue 50

He arrived in spring. It was three years since my hope had ended and, for the first time, I did not regret it.

All women are sinful and caused the Fall; this is common knowledge. At least it is since the new priest arrived to teach us correctly. Father Bartholomew only knew three tales: our Lord walking on the water, Jonah in the belly of the whale, and the resurrection (and he confused those), and spent most of his time caring for the infirm and tilling God's Acre, since he could not read. I think it was because of him that I decided to take the veil, even though I now know he was a pathetic, ill-educated excuse for a priest, unworthy to shepherd a flock. Now even the unlettered must learn their scripture and we must all confess our sins regularly. But I have never confessed the Visions. That, I suppose, is the sin that caused Roger's fall, and led the family into greater wrongdoing.

In our small manor there is little to cause them. Father Antony's masses all look like brown sludge. But Father once took me to the great Cathedral, years ago when Roger was still with us. The Kyrie Eleison was like gold rain and the Gloria was hundreds of pale blue triangles rising up to the beams. I thought at the time that they were pointing up to heaven. But the next Christmas, the songs of the wassailers became fiery darts. There is nothing heavenly about that. I do not even like to think the word witchcraft. I dread to think that I might be evil when all my desire is towards holiness, so I keep my mouth shut. I know what Father Antony would say.

Before Roger's misfortune, I think I had almost convinced Mother and Father to accept my vocation, even though it would have meant going right out to the coast to join the nearest abbey. Now new religious houses spring up like mushrooms. The new one beyond the wood lot will be finished before harvest; I see men going past to work on it. I expect it will not be long before the sisters arrive and a new cycle of work and prayer begins. That was the life I hoped for. I could not see myself happy as an ornament to a knight, supervising his kitchen and bearing his heirs. I wanted to educate myself beyond what I received at home—and certainly beyond my priest's three tales, which I had surpassed in the cradle! I wanted to learn to write. I wanted to sing Psalms and (yes, I cannot deny the sinful desire) to see what new forms and colors they would take when raised by the voices of the nuns throughout the changing seasons. But Roger's accident changed that and I knew the inevitable would arrive. That spring it did, in the form of Sir Rowland.

The manor was in uproar that morning. Mother was all fuss and flap. "Stand up straight, Eleanor. Remember what I taught you. Are you wearing the amber beads?" The household was assembled in the courtyard at the risk of ruining the dinner, and my back was itching where one awkward beam of sunlight shone straight at the seam of my woolen dress. Sir Rowland owned three hundred acres and was a favorite of the Baron. He was thirty years old (positively ancient to my eyes), rode a black horse, and I had not seen him for five years.

At first I thought he had brought a squire with him. But a squire better dressed than his master would be an unusual thing indeed. The cut of his tunic alone, the quality of the cloth, suggested a level of wealth that surpassed even what I remembered from Grandfather's castle in distant childhood, when Mother's family had been one of the first in the county. And such a squire! Father Antony had preached on the lusts of the flesh, but I had never imagined such a pleasant feeling as I got looking into those black eyes. Perhaps Mother had been mistaken about the arrangement? No, one with such fine features, such a lithe athletic form, would wed a princess at the very least.

"Courtesy, Eleanor!"

My mother's hissing command brought me to my knees in a deep curtsey. Father and Sir Rowland were bowing low to each other. I heard the knight murmur something about "escort," and then I felt his cold blue eyes boring into me. I hoped he would find my hips too slender, but even that thought could not hold me for long. The squire was dismounting. He leapt from the saddle with the lightness and grace of an angel, his hair blowing about his face in the breeze. He wore no mail of any kind; that was an unusual risk in these parts.

"Griffin, the steward will direct you!" boomed Sir Rowland from the entrance porch.

He silently assented and turned to hand the reins to the stable boy. I saw it then, the velvet bag on his back with drawstrings tightly closed, the sweep of the harmonic curve within quite evident. But by then I already knew who he was. And I could count the sins of the last five minutes on my fingers.

If a woman is sinful, a minstrel is doubly so. He cannot even correctly be called a Christian. But that does not mean a man cannot make use of him. Even in our quiet corner, we had heard tell of the Baron's minstrel. It was said he spent as much time in the saddle on his master's missions as he did at his harp strings in his master's hall. It was also said that he was sullen and secretive, but that could have been jealousy. Everybody likes to gain a great man's favor. He was certainly well out of the marriage market as far as any respectable person was concerned, especially the daughter of a pious knight. My heart sank. I had felt a forbidden desire in the presence of my future betrothed and I had rejoiced in it because, for the first time, I did not regret the cloister.