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From the anthology
For youth is youth, and time will have it so, And though thy lips are pale, and thine eyes wet Farewell, thou must forget.“Good-Bye” by Anonymous, 15
th
Century France
Painful sunlight, cold air blasting between my raw lips. My head lollsforward wearily, the bells of Prime clanging faintly from the Abbey. Men inivory belts and mail coats
shing
shing
shing
from horse to chateau, squiresscuttling like brown spiders behind their dirty gold spurs. Gripping the prayerbook tucked in my muff, I am wondering which horse’s back holds my dowry.My thousands, our salvation. My life is not where I stand but strapped to abeast in a precious coffer I have never seen... Three days ago my virginity was but a shadow that would darken
1M. Alexander/Though Thy Lips Are Pale
Dark Delicacies III: Haunted
another cloister wall. How swiftly this change of fortune visited me. I neverdreamed I would be betrothed but assumed I would remain a wilting maid my whole life. My sisters were married but I was told there was nothing left for me.Perhaps I misunderstood. I sift through every handful of spilt words these lastmonths but I remember nothing except the endless procession of ministers,priests and manor lords come to council my father on the spoiled crops,uprisings and political strife as he remains loyal to Paris. I do not recall hearing of a marriage contract, nor what might have been the visitors who would bring the bride price. Then three nights ago, Mother’s proclamation of betrothalcame to me in my bed chambers like the Angel’s annunciation to the Virgin. Iam to wed the son of a Duke in the Duchy of Normandy.I have only thirteen Yuletides. As Mother and I walk into the weak light of morning, my companions weep piteously from the chateau gate. One secrets a small bottle of rose,cardamom and cumin in a silk handkerchief as a parting gift. We had whisperedexcitedly about the marriage: Would I run a big household? Would I have lotsof children? Is my betrothed handsome? My friends assured me that with my flaxen hair and azure eyes I was pretty enough to love. And I believed them.For a moment, at least.Mother sees my distress as I leave my companions and places a hand onmy cheek, withering resignation in her touch. “Worry not,” she says. “In yourtrousseau are great swaths of Italian damask that are blue as robin’s eggs, linenfair as fresh cream, velvet black as a murder’s wings and fine woolens to fendoff the damp chill of Normandy.”I do not recall seeing these fabrics in my trousseau much less thearmoire that holds them. Only the carefully wrapped packs of heavily saltedfish and pork, the bulky sacks of
trancheor
loaves, jugs of cider, dried cheese
2M. Alexander/Though Thy Lips Are Pale
rinds and other rations. Far more than four day’s travel. I suppose one cannotunderestimate the appetites of men. Wrinkled red faces peer from the kitchen. Breezes nuzzle the beechleaves overhead as I am lifted into the gaily colored cart and seated amongstplentiful furs, which I gather around me. I find some toiletries and a few smallbundles of rations buried in the furs. It is eerily quiet. No saltarellos, singers ornoisemakers to celebrate my fortune and wish me well.“Where are the men who serve my betrothed?” I ask Mother. “Why dothey not retrieve me as they did my sisters?”“We must hurry,” she says and withdraws her regard. I fall voiceless.Leaves crackling beneath their knees, the men in ivory belts brandishtheir swords, swear oaths to great angels and troth fealty to my mother’samaranthine beauty. My heart floats like cobwebs on a breeze when I hear such words. I sit motionless, suspended in the rapture of their praise for Mother’sspiritual and physical perfections. Then, they mount their horses with a shout,heraldry held aloft. The horses
clop
clop
clop
and we move away from thechateau.I brush away the silt of confusion. I am excited to one day soon have theservice of such fine warriors who speak words of admiration, to one day inspirethe good deeds and thoughts of a man who fights for both me and mildmother Mary. One day soon, I will be the one protected and honored. (Thenagain, the wedding might be some years from now. No one can say.) In themeantime, I can write letters to my mother and sisters, and I love my books.Surely I can have more of those, too. After some distance, I gather my courage and skirts to crawl forward tothe curtains. I part them on the far left side to reveal the patchwork
bocage
of Bretagne passing behind us. The black hedges of oak quilt the borders between
3M. Alexander/Though Thy Lips Are Pale
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