callused hands, or those heavy brows more like a boy’s. They were clever with words and currying, these women, not like her blunt assessments. They smelt of perfume, not of barnyard.
In my desperation to deny it, to compare her to worthier women, my own logic faltered on something so very simple, so obvious that it never before occurred to me. My heart was jealous. Past the callow depths of me was a better Thomas Giffard, the one seen through Isabella’s eyes. The Thomas Giffard I could be, if I had heeded her years of advice.
The Thomas Giffard who realized at last—and very much too late—that he was dreadfully in love with her!
I felt a painful hemorrhage in my chest.
So simple. I loved her. I loved her plain language and the sardonic tilt of her head. I loved how much she cared for that damned garden and those roses of hers. I loved that she was not disposed to poetry or philosophy, and had no clue how to debate the finer points of faith. She knew neither politics nor schemes, and for that I loved her, too. “Dear God in Heaven…” Worse. Did she love me, in all my ineloquence? In all the years of knowing one another? “Oh Jesu !”
The tingle of a shadow crossed over me and I slowly raised my head. A servant. “Sir John awaits, my lord,” he said.
“He awaits,” I mumbled with ill humor. “He can wait till the Devil comes!” I pushed the servant aside, sprinted down a flight of steps, and ran out to the stable’s courtyard.
ISABELLA LAUNDER
Autumn, 1515
Blackladies
IX
“Hark! My lover—here he comes
Springing across the mountains, leaping across the hills…”
–Song of Songs 2:8
The bells jangled in the back of my thoughts until Dame Elizabeth gently touched my shoulder. “Is it not your day to act as porter, Mistress Isabella?”
“Bless me,” I sighed. “It is indeed. Little wonder the prioress has me attend the gate so often. Perhaps it is to instill remembrance of that duty for which I oft forget.” I rose and left the pleasant room for the late afternoon light of the cloister. A breeze came up, and with it the aroma of autumn, of country bonfires and musty damp. It put me in a charitable mood of my present life at Blackladies. Three months had passed since I entered the gate, and I was beginning to feel at home here, and reconciled to tutoring myself to a different kind of devotion: that of God, not of Thomas. Cristabell’s words still rang in my head, and I was determined to make this not a sanctuary from the world but my true place in the world. I was satisfied to call Blackladies home. As a cloistered nun, I would never leave its grounds, using my time to till the soil or work in the many places required of me. I was pleased to do so, for though Dame Cristabell still insisted on indifference toward me, I did not miss my father’s grange as I thought I might, nor did I miss my father, nor Agnes, nor even Robert. Nor could I muster guilt at this confession. There was no wall or arch on Rafe Launder’s farm that I longed to see again. No family member I pined for. I conformed to this place, the flavor of the Rule and its discipline. Despite Cristabell, I made good acquaintance of Meg and Dame Elizabeth, and I began to find my satisfaction within prayer and the little cloister garden.
My mind was emptied of all as I made my way through the cloister. I was even cheered as I turned the corner, anxious to give a pleasant countenance to the tradesman or farmer who rang the bell so impatiently.
When I raised my eyes, my amiable greeting caught on a gasp. The face I could not excise from my mind, the body that haunted my dreams, paced before the iron grate, sword slapping his thigh with each impatient whirl on his heel. He wore no hat and his collar was left untied, exposing dots of sweat at the base of his throat.
He heard my step and jerked his head, careering toward the grate, curling whitening fingers around the protecting grille. “Isabella! God’s body! Look at
In my desperation to deny it, to compare her to worthier women, my own logic faltered on something so very simple, so obvious that it never before occurred to me. My heart was jealous. Past the callow depths of me was a better Thomas Giffard, the one seen through Isabella’s eyes. The Thomas Giffard I could be, if I had heeded her years of advice.
The Thomas Giffard who realized at last—and very much too late—that he was dreadfully in love with her!
I felt a painful hemorrhage in my chest.
So simple. I loved her. I loved her plain language and the sardonic tilt of her head. I loved how much she cared for that damned garden and those roses of hers. I loved that she was not disposed to poetry or philosophy, and had no clue how to debate the finer points of faith. She knew neither politics nor schemes, and for that I loved her, too. “Dear God in Heaven…” Worse. Did she love me, in all my ineloquence? In all the years of knowing one another? “Oh Jesu !”
The tingle of a shadow crossed over me and I slowly raised my head. A servant. “Sir John awaits, my lord,” he said.
“He awaits,” I mumbled with ill humor. “He can wait till the Devil comes!” I pushed the servant aside, sprinted down a flight of steps, and ran out to the stable’s courtyard.
ISABELLA LAUNDER
Autumn, 1515
Blackladies
IX
“Hark! My lover—here he comes
Springing across the mountains, leaping across the hills…”
–Song of Songs 2:8
The bells jangled in the back of my thoughts until Dame Elizabeth gently touched my shoulder. “Is it not your day to act as porter, Mistress Isabella?”
“Bless me,” I sighed. “It is indeed. Little wonder the prioress has me attend the gate so often. Perhaps it is to instill remembrance of that duty for which I oft forget.” I rose and left the pleasant room for the late afternoon light of the cloister. A breeze came up, and with it the aroma of autumn, of country bonfires and musty damp. It put me in a charitable mood of my present life at Blackladies. Three months had passed since I entered the gate, and I was beginning to feel at home here, and reconciled to tutoring myself to a different kind of devotion: that of God, not of Thomas. Cristabell’s words still rang in my head, and I was determined to make this not a sanctuary from the world but my true place in the world. I was satisfied to call Blackladies home. As a cloistered nun, I would never leave its grounds, using my time to till the soil or work in the many places required of me. I was pleased to do so, for though Dame Cristabell still insisted on indifference toward me, I did not miss my father’s grange as I thought I might, nor did I miss my father, nor Agnes, nor even Robert. Nor could I muster guilt at this confession. There was no wall or arch on Rafe Launder’s farm that I longed to see again. No family member I pined for. I conformed to this place, the flavor of the Rule and its discipline. Despite Cristabell, I made good acquaintance of Meg and Dame Elizabeth, and I began to find my satisfaction within prayer and the little cloister garden.
My mind was emptied of all as I made my way through the cloister. I was even cheered as I turned the corner, anxious to give a pleasant countenance to the tradesman or farmer who rang the bell so impatiently.
When I raised my eyes, my amiable greeting caught on a gasp. The face I could not excise from my mind, the body that haunted my dreams, paced before the iron grate, sword slapping his thigh with each impatient whirl on his heel. He wore no hat and his collar was left untied, exposing dots of sweat at the base of his throat.
He heard my step and jerked his head, careering toward the grate, curling whitening fingers around the protecting grille. “Isabella! God’s body! Look at
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