in a cloak of scarlet silk, will meet me at my father's house. His horses will have flowers and ribbons woven into their manes and their saddles draped with silk. Musicians, sober and well shod, will lead us to the church playing on silver
flutes and gitterns, on timbrels and cymbals and lyres. It will sound like angels laughing and spring rain.
2 ND DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Chad, whose dust taken in water cures men and cows of their infirmities and restores them to health
The weather has warmed and the fleas have come to visit. This morning I gathered alder leaves with dew on them and strewed them about my chamber to discourage the black soldiers. I have forty-three bites, only twenty-seven of them in places I can easily scratch.
3 RD DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Cunegund, wife to the emperor Henry. The little hook of saints says that Cunegund once slapped her niece for frivolity and the finger-marks remained on her face until death. I am fortunate that no one in this household is a saint or I would he marked like a spotted horse, especially my cheeks and my rump
No further words from my father about Shaggy Beard, so mayhap the trouble has passed and these plans, too, come to nothing.
4 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Adrian (the Irish one, not the African)
We heard Mass this morning, or rather did not hear it, for the raindrops pounding on the church roof made a noise like drummers in a funeral procession and I heard nothing else. The church seems strange, undressed as it is for Lent. Father Huw wears plain robes with no silver gilt threads. The cross and statues are covered with veils. There are no flowers and no music. It is meant to make us feel sad, but mostly just makes me bored.
Edward has sent to us three holy books from which he says we must read each night during Lent to put us in the proper
morose and holy mood. I was excited to have them, thinking they must be like the lively colorful little book of saints from the abbot. But then William Steward began to read, droning and stumbling over the Latin. Tonight's book is Saint Jerome. It is not lively or colorful. I hope it is short.
6 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Conon, martyr and maintainer of irrigation canals
I have been gathering violets to make oil of violets against attacks of melancholy. Since I turned thirteen last year I have used a great amount of oil of violets.
7 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Perpetua, who turned into a man and trod on the Devil's head
I hate Lent already and it has only been a seven-night.
8 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Duthac, who had miraculous powers to cure ale head
Thomas of Wallingham and his family are stopping here on their way to London for Easter. His daughter is dull and proper and I would ordinarily shun her, but Lent is so dreary, I welcome even Agnes as an amusement.
Perched on the edge of my bed, Agnes, with her little black eyes and pointed nose, looked like a weasel in blue silk. But remembering the boredom that is Lent, I tried nicely to engage her.
Gossip she would not. Too hurtful.
Tell stories she would not. Too fanciful.
Dance she would not. Too frivolous.
"Let us then," I said, "go watch John Swann unload kegs at the alehouse."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because he is beautiful as summer and his arms ripple like the muscles on a horse's back and the rain plasters his shirt against his chest."
"The beauty of men and women is but the devil's work," she said, pinching her mouth like a fish. "A snare and a delusion. A trap for the innocent."
Innocent? Me? I was insulted by the thought. I who have seen a hanging, chased young Fulk from the privy, seen my birds in mating season and Perkin's goats!
When I got to the goats, Agnes covered her ears and ran squealing from my chamber. I miss Aelis.
9 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Bosa, monk of Whitby, bishop of York, and great-great-great-grandfather of Elfa the laundress
Like a weasel, Agnes of Wallingham snorts in her
flutes and gitterns, on timbrels and cymbals and lyres. It will sound like angels laughing and spring rain.
2 ND DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Chad, whose dust taken in water cures men and cows of their infirmities and restores them to health
The weather has warmed and the fleas have come to visit. This morning I gathered alder leaves with dew on them and strewed them about my chamber to discourage the black soldiers. I have forty-three bites, only twenty-seven of them in places I can easily scratch.
3 RD DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Cunegund, wife to the emperor Henry. The little hook of saints says that Cunegund once slapped her niece for frivolity and the finger-marks remained on her face until death. I am fortunate that no one in this household is a saint or I would he marked like a spotted horse, especially my cheeks and my rump
No further words from my father about Shaggy Beard, so mayhap the trouble has passed and these plans, too, come to nothing.
4 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Adrian (the Irish one, not the African)
We heard Mass this morning, or rather did not hear it, for the raindrops pounding on the church roof made a noise like drummers in a funeral procession and I heard nothing else. The church seems strange, undressed as it is for Lent. Father Huw wears plain robes with no silver gilt threads. The cross and statues are covered with veils. There are no flowers and no music. It is meant to make us feel sad, but mostly just makes me bored.
Edward has sent to us three holy books from which he says we must read each night during Lent to put us in the proper
morose and holy mood. I was excited to have them, thinking they must be like the lively colorful little book of saints from the abbot. But then William Steward began to read, droning and stumbling over the Latin. Tonight's book is Saint Jerome. It is not lively or colorful. I hope it is short.
6 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Conon, martyr and maintainer of irrigation canals
I have been gathering violets to make oil of violets against attacks of melancholy. Since I turned thirteen last year I have used a great amount of oil of violets.
7 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Perpetua, who turned into a man and trod on the Devil's head
I hate Lent already and it has only been a seven-night.
8 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Duthac, who had miraculous powers to cure ale head
Thomas of Wallingham and his family are stopping here on their way to London for Easter. His daughter is dull and proper and I would ordinarily shun her, but Lent is so dreary, I welcome even Agnes as an amusement.
Perched on the edge of my bed, Agnes, with her little black eyes and pointed nose, looked like a weasel in blue silk. But remembering the boredom that is Lent, I tried nicely to engage her.
Gossip she would not. Too hurtful.
Tell stories she would not. Too fanciful.
Dance she would not. Too frivolous.
"Let us then," I said, "go watch John Swann unload kegs at the alehouse."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because he is beautiful as summer and his arms ripple like the muscles on a horse's back and the rain plasters his shirt against his chest."
"The beauty of men and women is but the devil's work," she said, pinching her mouth like a fish. "A snare and a delusion. A trap for the innocent."
Innocent? Me? I was insulted by the thought. I who have seen a hanging, chased young Fulk from the privy, seen my birds in mating season and Perkin's goats!
When I got to the goats, Agnes covered her ears and ran squealing from my chamber. I miss Aelis.
9 TH DAY OF M ARCH ,
Feast of Saint Bosa, monk of Whitby, bishop of York, and great-great-great-grandfather of Elfa the laundress
Like a weasel, Agnes of Wallingham snorts in her
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