bride. She looked smaller and paler as the day wore on but bravely let every man there step on her feet and call it dancing.
I was partnered for the feast with an ugly shaggy-bearded hulk from the north. My father sought to honor him because his manor lies next to my mother's, and my father lusts after it. I fail to see how sitting next to me and sharing my bowl and goblet honored him—and it certainly did me no good. The man was a pig, which dishonors pigs. He blew his red and shiny nose on the table linen, sneezed on the meat, picked his teeth with his knife, and left wet greasy marks where he drank from the cup we shared. I could not bring myself to put my lips to the slimy rim, so endured a dinner without wine.
Worse than this, he proved himself near a murderer. As the dogs burrowed under the rushes for bones and bits of the wedding meat, Rosemary (the smallest and my favorite but for Brutus) mistook his skinny foot for a bone and nipped it. The shaggy-bearded pig howled and kicked the dog, who, of course,
defended herself by biting. Then Shaggy Beard, pulling his knife from the table, tried to skewer the dog as if she were a joint of meat.
Robert left his wine cup long enough to knock the knife away with his. "The dog belongs to Lord Rollo," he growled, "and is not yours to kill."
The bearded pig sat down, shamed before our guests, and began to eat and drink again, smiling at me with meat stuck between his horrible brown broken teeth. I think he ate too much, for he made wind like a storm and sounded like a bladderpipe left out in the rain played by a goat.
The worst part is that now I must be beholden to the abominable Robert. As we passed later, I thanked him—prettily, I thought. He pinched my rump and grinned. "So I am none so bad as you thought me, little sister?"
I said, "Even the lowest of beasts is not vile all of the time."
I felt better. We are now back on the old footing—hate.
27 TH DAY OF F EBRUARY ,
Shrove Tuesday and the Feast of Saint Alnoth, serf and cowherd
Today my father questioned me about the bearded pig. I said he affected my stomach like maggoty meat and my father laughed and said, "Learn to like it."
It bodes not well. Shaggy Beard has a son, Stephen, whom he spoke of with loathing, calling him "Sir Priest," "the clerk," and "the girl," because the boy thinks and bathes and does not fart at Mass. I fear they are planning a match between me and Stephen. I will not. To be part of Shaggy Beard's family and have to eat with him every day! If my father does not drive him away, I will, as I have done the others.
28 TH DAY OF F EBRUARY ,
Ash Wednesday
First day of Lent. We are but dust and to dust shall return. I tried to be thoughtful and morbid on this day but spoiled it by skipping in the yard after dinner from pure joy. I am not dust yet!
Shaggy Beard is with us still. When I see him, I call "Hoy!" as if I were calling a pig. His face gets even redder. I am hoping he will burst and we can sweep him out with the soiled rushes.
March
1 ST DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Dewi of Wales, who drank no beer or wine hut only water
Robert is wedded and bedded—again—and he and his bride have left for her own manor at Ashton, not long ahead of her father, Robert fears. My mother and her women like it not that Robert's pale puny bride, so far gone with child, is jouncing and bouncing over the fens, but Robert thinks her father in his anger will try to keep the new-wed couple from the manor promised to the girl. So they race across Britain in the rain.
When I marry it will be no cheap rag-tag hurry-up affair as Robert's was. I will have silks and music and lights and important guests from foreign lands with musical names. I will braid my hair with silken threads and wear a gown of saffron silk with a red cloak and purple leather shoes embroidered with gold and silver threads. My belt will have bells on it and thin pieces of gold beaten into the shape of leaves and flowers. My betrothed,
I was partnered for the feast with an ugly shaggy-bearded hulk from the north. My father sought to honor him because his manor lies next to my mother's, and my father lusts after it. I fail to see how sitting next to me and sharing my bowl and goblet honored him—and it certainly did me no good. The man was a pig, which dishonors pigs. He blew his red and shiny nose on the table linen, sneezed on the meat, picked his teeth with his knife, and left wet greasy marks where he drank from the cup we shared. I could not bring myself to put my lips to the slimy rim, so endured a dinner without wine.
Worse than this, he proved himself near a murderer. As the dogs burrowed under the rushes for bones and bits of the wedding meat, Rosemary (the smallest and my favorite but for Brutus) mistook his skinny foot for a bone and nipped it. The shaggy-bearded pig howled and kicked the dog, who, of course,
defended herself by biting. Then Shaggy Beard, pulling his knife from the table, tried to skewer the dog as if she were a joint of meat.
Robert left his wine cup long enough to knock the knife away with his. "The dog belongs to Lord Rollo," he growled, "and is not yours to kill."
The bearded pig sat down, shamed before our guests, and began to eat and drink again, smiling at me with meat stuck between his horrible brown broken teeth. I think he ate too much, for he made wind like a storm and sounded like a bladderpipe left out in the rain played by a goat.
The worst part is that now I must be beholden to the abominable Robert. As we passed later, I thanked him—prettily, I thought. He pinched my rump and grinned. "So I am none so bad as you thought me, little sister?"
I said, "Even the lowest of beasts is not vile all of the time."
I felt better. We are now back on the old footing—hate.
27 TH DAY OF F EBRUARY ,
Shrove Tuesday and the Feast of Saint Alnoth, serf and cowherd
Today my father questioned me about the bearded pig. I said he affected my stomach like maggoty meat and my father laughed and said, "Learn to like it."
It bodes not well. Shaggy Beard has a son, Stephen, whom he spoke of with loathing, calling him "Sir Priest," "the clerk," and "the girl," because the boy thinks and bathes and does not fart at Mass. I fear they are planning a match between me and Stephen. I will not. To be part of Shaggy Beard's family and have to eat with him every day! If my father does not drive him away, I will, as I have done the others.
28 TH DAY OF F EBRUARY ,
Ash Wednesday
First day of Lent. We are but dust and to dust shall return. I tried to be thoughtful and morbid on this day but spoiled it by skipping in the yard after dinner from pure joy. I am not dust yet!
Shaggy Beard is with us still. When I see him, I call "Hoy!" as if I were calling a pig. His face gets even redder. I am hoping he will burst and we can sweep him out with the soiled rushes.
March
1 ST DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Dewi of Wales, who drank no beer or wine hut only water
Robert is wedded and bedded—again—and he and his bride have left for her own manor at Ashton, not long ahead of her father, Robert fears. My mother and her women like it not that Robert's pale puny bride, so far gone with child, is jouncing and bouncing over the fens, but Robert thinks her father in his anger will try to keep the new-wed couple from the manor promised to the girl. So they race across Britain in the rain.
When I marry it will be no cheap rag-tag hurry-up affair as Robert's was. I will have silks and music and lights and important guests from foreign lands with musical names. I will braid my hair with silken threads and wear a gown of saffron silk with a red cloak and purple leather shoes embroidered with gold and silver threads. My belt will have bells on it and thin pieces of gold beaten into the shape of leaves and flowers. My betrothed,
Similar Books
