listen to the ladies in the solar.
15 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Off a, king of the Fast Saxons, who left his wife, his lands, his family, and his country to become a monk in Rome and die
I was seated at dinner this day with a visitor from Kent, another clodpole in search of a wife. This one was friendly and good-tempered, and had all his teeth and hair. But he did not compare with George or Perkin, so I would have none of him. Our talk at dinner went like this:
"Do you enjoy riding, Lady Catherine?"
"Mmph."
"Could we perhaps ride together while I am here?"
"Pfgh."
"I understand you read Latin. I admire learned women when they are also beautiful."
"Urgh."
"Mayhap you could show me about the manor after dinner."
"Grmph."
So it went until I conceived my plan, after realizing that the only thing my father would want more than a rich son-in-law is not to part with one of his pennies or acres or bushels of onions. So I grew quite lively and talkative, bubbling with praise for our chests of treasure and untold acres and countless tenants and hoards of silver and for the modesty that prompted my father to hide his wealth and appear as a mere
country knight. My suitor's eyes, which had already rested kindly on me, caught fire, and he fairly flew over the rushes to talk with my father in the solar.
The storm I expected was not long in coming. Poor Fire Eyes tumbled down the stairs from the solar, hands over his head, and rolled across the hall floor to the door and out while my father bellowed from above, "Dowry! Manors! Treasure! You want me to pay you to take the girl? Dowry? I'll give you her dowry!"
And as the comely young man ran across the yard on his way to the stable and freedom, a brimming chamber pot came flying from the solar window and landed on his head. Farewell, suitor.
Benedicite.
Even now as I pity the young man in his spoiled tunic, I must smile to think of my dowry. No other maiden in England has one like it.
16 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Bean, lakeside hermit of Ireland
My breath stinks, my gut grumbles, and my liver is oppilated. It must be all this fish. Would that Christmas come soon and bring an end to fasting. I am turning into a herring.
A FTER VESPERS, LATER THIS DAY: My uncle George is leaving Stonebridge. He does not eat but only drinks his meals. His cheeks are dusky with unshaved whiskers. He has no stories or winks or grins for me anymore. Is it the curse? Do I have powers?
17 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Lazarus, who was raised from the dead by Jesus and later went to France
George has gone to York. He did not say goodbye, so I do
not know if he will be back for Christmas. I do not know if the curse worked. I will miss him but I liked him better before he loved Aelis. I think love is like mildew, growing gray and musty on things, spoiling them, and smelling bad.
18 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Mawnan, an Irish bishop who kept a pet ram
The cold has trapped us inside again and I am grown full restless. This is how I have spent my day: I was awakened at dawn by Wat dropping the wood as he lit my fire. I put on my undertunic and stockings while still under the covers for warmth and then, breaking the ice in the bowl, splashed water on my face and hands. I dressed in my yellow gown with the blue kirtle over, my red shoes, and my cloak, even though I was not going outside. Morwenna helped me plait my hair, which we trimmed with silver pins.
We could not hear Mass for we could not get through the snow to the church, so I breakfasted with bread and ale. The next two hours I hemmed sheets in the solar while I listened to my mother's ladies chatter about the Christmas feast. We ate dinner very quickly, for the snow falling through the smoke-hole in the hall kept dousing the fire. I then hurried back to the solar where it was noisy but warm, and here I am now, writing and wishing I were outside on the meadow and Perkin was playing the pipes and the
15 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Off a, king of the Fast Saxons, who left his wife, his lands, his family, and his country to become a monk in Rome and die
I was seated at dinner this day with a visitor from Kent, another clodpole in search of a wife. This one was friendly and good-tempered, and had all his teeth and hair. But he did not compare with George or Perkin, so I would have none of him. Our talk at dinner went like this:
"Do you enjoy riding, Lady Catherine?"
"Mmph."
"Could we perhaps ride together while I am here?"
"Pfgh."
"I understand you read Latin. I admire learned women when they are also beautiful."
"Urgh."
"Mayhap you could show me about the manor after dinner."
"Grmph."
So it went until I conceived my plan, after realizing that the only thing my father would want more than a rich son-in-law is not to part with one of his pennies or acres or bushels of onions. So I grew quite lively and talkative, bubbling with praise for our chests of treasure and untold acres and countless tenants and hoards of silver and for the modesty that prompted my father to hide his wealth and appear as a mere
country knight. My suitor's eyes, which had already rested kindly on me, caught fire, and he fairly flew over the rushes to talk with my father in the solar.
The storm I expected was not long in coming. Poor Fire Eyes tumbled down the stairs from the solar, hands over his head, and rolled across the hall floor to the door and out while my father bellowed from above, "Dowry! Manors! Treasure! You want me to pay you to take the girl? Dowry? I'll give you her dowry!"
And as the comely young man ran across the yard on his way to the stable and freedom, a brimming chamber pot came flying from the solar window and landed on his head. Farewell, suitor.
Benedicite.
Even now as I pity the young man in his spoiled tunic, I must smile to think of my dowry. No other maiden in England has one like it.
16 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Bean, lakeside hermit of Ireland
My breath stinks, my gut grumbles, and my liver is oppilated. It must be all this fish. Would that Christmas come soon and bring an end to fasting. I am turning into a herring.
A FTER VESPERS, LATER THIS DAY: My uncle George is leaving Stonebridge. He does not eat but only drinks his meals. His cheeks are dusky with unshaved whiskers. He has no stories or winks or grins for me anymore. Is it the curse? Do I have powers?
17 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Lazarus, who was raised from the dead by Jesus and later went to France
George has gone to York. He did not say goodbye, so I do
not know if he will be back for Christmas. I do not know if the curse worked. I will miss him but I liked him better before he loved Aelis. I think love is like mildew, growing gray and musty on things, spoiling them, and smelling bad.
18 TH DAY OF D ECEMBER ,
Feast of Saint Mawnan, an Irish bishop who kept a pet ram
The cold has trapped us inside again and I am grown full restless. This is how I have spent my day: I was awakened at dawn by Wat dropping the wood as he lit my fire. I put on my undertunic and stockings while still under the covers for warmth and then, breaking the ice in the bowl, splashed water on my face and hands. I dressed in my yellow gown with the blue kirtle over, my red shoes, and my cloak, even though I was not going outside. Morwenna helped me plait my hair, which we trimmed with silver pins.
We could not hear Mass for we could not get through the snow to the church, so I breakfasted with bread and ale. The next two hours I hemmed sheets in the solar while I listened to my mother's ladies chatter about the Christmas feast. We ate dinner very quickly, for the snow falling through the smoke-hole in the hall kept dousing the fire. I then hurried back to the solar where it was noisy but warm, and here I am now, writing and wishing I were outside on the meadow and Perkin was playing the pipes and the
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