one knight in plain black armour acquit himself superbly, unseat his opponent and then make his horse dance skilfully backwards while he acknowledged the cheers and the shouting in which we women were joining, waving our scarves and tossing our flowers.
In the midst of the excitement I felt a pull at my sleeve and heard Berengaria saying, ‘Anna, who is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, and went on with my cheering. Then two young squires came forward and assisted the knight to doff his helm and without turning my head I said:
‘Oh yes! I recognise him. He is Richard Plantagenet and reputed to be the best knight in the world.’
Bareheaded now, the man rode towards us, his horse mincing and curvetting. We screamed our acclamations and threw down the last of our flowers. He lifted a hand and moved his head in salutation and acknowledgment and then rode away.
Berengaria made one of her obvious, flat little remarks.
‘What very red hair he has,’ she said. She spoke casually, and the words might have been taken as an expression of disapproval.
That evening when it was time to retire Berengaria surprised me by asking me to perform the offices of waiting woman. Usually the four of us took turns at this duty and adhered strictly to the rule because Catherine, Maria, and Pila were all inclined to be jealous about it. They regarded that hour or so of intimacy as a privilege. I, to be honest, did not. By the end of the day I was often more tired than I would admit and it bored me to stand brushing and brushing Berengaria’s hair and gently reviewing the day’s events, which were seldom very exciting, when I could have been reading by the last light of the guttering candles in the bower. Sometimes I renounced the “privilege” to one of the others, though that was a bother, too, because I had to rotate the favour and often there were arguments and squabbles.
This evening wasn’t even my ritual turn and I said so. However, Berengaria said, ‘But I want to talk to you, Anna.’ So I repressed a sigh of weariness and, when old Mathilde, Berengaria’s woman, arrived with the fresh candles and led the way into the sleeping chamber, I rose and followed. As we helped Berengaria out of her long linen undergown and her shift she reached down, bundled them together and held them out to Mathilde.
‘Wash these,’ she said.
‘Tonight?’ Mathilde asked, astonished ‘Why; my lady dear, they were fresh only last week.’
‘Wash them,’ Berengaria repeated simply. Mathilde, wooden-faced, took them. I knew what was in her mind. She had been waiting woman to Berengaria’s mother who, towards the end of her life, had been raving mad and Mathilde was always on the watch for what she called “signs.” Berengaria, who was extremely lovely to look at and Father’s favourite child, was completely spoiled and given to whims and fancies; and whenever she expressed one or fell into a temper or suffered from a headache or a mild fit of low spirits, Mathilde said, ‘Ah, poor dear, that’s a sign.’ Now she blundered away with the linen which had been worn for a week only and must be washed overnight; and I knew that she would weep into her washtub because such an unreasonable demand was “a sign.”
‘That’s got rid of her,’ Berengaria said. ‘No, Anna, leave my hair for a moment.’ I had taken brush in hand, prepared to get through my duties as expeditiously as possible. ‘Sit down.’
I sat down on the foot of her bed and she seated herself on the stood near the shelf which bore her silver mirror, part of the loot which our grandfather had brought back from his crusade. Mathilde had already loosened her hair and it now fell over her shoulders, a dark, rippling, silken cloak which ended well below the edge of the stool. She pushed it back from her face with her hands which she then cupped around her chin, resting her elbows on her knees.
‘Now, Anna, you know everything. Tell me everything you know about that
In the midst of the excitement I felt a pull at my sleeve and heard Berengaria saying, ‘Anna, who is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, and went on with my cheering. Then two young squires came forward and assisted the knight to doff his helm and without turning my head I said:
‘Oh yes! I recognise him. He is Richard Plantagenet and reputed to be the best knight in the world.’
Bareheaded now, the man rode towards us, his horse mincing and curvetting. We screamed our acclamations and threw down the last of our flowers. He lifted a hand and moved his head in salutation and acknowledgment and then rode away.
Berengaria made one of her obvious, flat little remarks.
‘What very red hair he has,’ she said. She spoke casually, and the words might have been taken as an expression of disapproval.
That evening when it was time to retire Berengaria surprised me by asking me to perform the offices of waiting woman. Usually the four of us took turns at this duty and adhered strictly to the rule because Catherine, Maria, and Pila were all inclined to be jealous about it. They regarded that hour or so of intimacy as a privilege. I, to be honest, did not. By the end of the day I was often more tired than I would admit and it bored me to stand brushing and brushing Berengaria’s hair and gently reviewing the day’s events, which were seldom very exciting, when I could have been reading by the last light of the guttering candles in the bower. Sometimes I renounced the “privilege” to one of the others, though that was a bother, too, because I had to rotate the favour and often there were arguments and squabbles.
This evening wasn’t even my ritual turn and I said so. However, Berengaria said, ‘But I want to talk to you, Anna.’ So I repressed a sigh of weariness and, when old Mathilde, Berengaria’s woman, arrived with the fresh candles and led the way into the sleeping chamber, I rose and followed. As we helped Berengaria out of her long linen undergown and her shift she reached down, bundled them together and held them out to Mathilde.
‘Wash these,’ she said.
‘Tonight?’ Mathilde asked, astonished ‘Why; my lady dear, they were fresh only last week.’
‘Wash them,’ Berengaria repeated simply. Mathilde, wooden-faced, took them. I knew what was in her mind. She had been waiting woman to Berengaria’s mother who, towards the end of her life, had been raving mad and Mathilde was always on the watch for what she called “signs.” Berengaria, who was extremely lovely to look at and Father’s favourite child, was completely spoiled and given to whims and fancies; and whenever she expressed one or fell into a temper or suffered from a headache or a mild fit of low spirits, Mathilde said, ‘Ah, poor dear, that’s a sign.’ Now she blundered away with the linen which had been worn for a week only and must be washed overnight; and I knew that she would weep into her washtub because such an unreasonable demand was “a sign.”
‘That’s got rid of her,’ Berengaria said. ‘No, Anna, leave my hair for a moment.’ I had taken brush in hand, prepared to get through my duties as expeditiously as possible. ‘Sit down.’
I sat down on the foot of her bed and she seated herself on the stood near the shelf which bore her silver mirror, part of the loot which our grandfather had brought back from his crusade. Mathilde had already loosened her hair and it now fell over her shoulders, a dark, rippling, silken cloak which ended well below the edge of the stool. She pushed it back from her face with her hands which she then cupped around her chin, resting her elbows on her knees.
‘Now, Anna, you know everything. Tell me everything you know about that
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