At this, he replied to me that some elements in stories must never change. And Guenievre must always be fair. That beauty like hers and like mine is an idee fixe that must remain no matter who will tell the story.
day of Noel
We went to mass this night. Anne had fear on the way and says me that she did not leave the door open.
I explained to her that this does nothing. It is superstition. As well, the ghosts, the beasts that talk, and the trees which flower at midnight.
I could see she believed me not, but kept her fear.
day of the new year
Save Noel, this month has passed in mist. I must have taken food, for I am not faint; and I must have taken sleep, for I do not have sleepiness, but I remember having done nothing but write. I have finished this day the mystery. I think there are some verses which are very beautiful. I think there are other verses which are quite dull. And I think that were St. Ivo to hear it, he would not even guess the subject of this mystery. I will give this to my lord and he will decide whether it must be given to the priest.
one day after Epiphanie
My lord has rendered me a visit this night. And with him, the mystery. He recounted to me the story of I-do- not-recall-whom who did I-do-nor-recall-what. I had no concentration for the words or the story. I only wished to know what my lord has thought of the mystery.
And then he demanded of me what I must reply to his story.
And I tell him that, as I know now his secret, which must be to lie at every instance, that I cannot reply to him since I know not that it even is the real story. This story might, when told in truth be a different one altogether.
At this, he made to leave the bed, with my mystery in his hand, but I ran to his side and begged him to stay and to tell me what he has thought of the mystery.
He says me that he found it very nicely done and that I might make of myself a Breton after all.
And I demanded of him will he show it to the priest.
And he replied to me that he will. If I will come with him.
And we agreed to do this tomorrow.
two days after Epiphanie
This day I went with my lord to give the mystery to the priest.
My lord explained to him that I had it written with hopes that it might be performed at services of Easter.
The priest has agreed to read the mystery.
four days before Sainte Agnes
This day I went with my lord to demand of the priest what he has thought of the mystery.
It lay in disarray upon his desk, the pages spotted with candle wax and marked with grease.
He first disparaged the verses as being too full of fancy, the life of St. Ivo portrayed as though a romance.
My lord remembered to him that a mystery is performed as a drama and to convey the emotions, they must by times be overwrought.
The priest then replied to him that the length is too long, that the peasants would find sleep before they found the end of the mystery.
My lord replied to him that many villages enact the entire life of Christ, which must take more than one day, and no one ever has complaints.
Finally, the priest replied to him that he cannot accept a work written by a woman. That mysteries of the spirit are better worked out by men.
I could see the jaw of my lord clench and I had fear for what words he might speak, but then he spoke no words at all, only held out his hands for the pages.
The priest these gathered and placed in the hands of my lord.
And on leaving, my lord told him that sorry he was the mystery was not received, for it was he, my lord, who had it written. And that he had feared the verses were not well made, and so I had agreed to claim them as my own.
On hearing this, the priest took the pages from my lord and clutched them to his chest and made much over their loveliness. Their perfectness. Their form.
My lord placed a hand on my arm to keep me from leaving until the priest had agreed to choose fifty persons to enact the mystery on Easter Day.
On the return, my lord demanded my pardon for claiming the mystery for his own.
I replied to him that I understood the why of what he had done and I thanked him. For had he not claimed it, the mystery would never have been heard. By any.
And he recalled to me that in all cases, it is for God the glory of such a work and not man.
And this I know, and this I had intended, but it does not make the offense seem any less.
19
“Not abused.” Cranwell put down his fork of
I fixed the appropriate shocked look on my face that Cranwell seemed to expect. Personally, I was all for Alix’s husband. They married when she was thirteen and he was thirty.
Trying to focus on what Cranwell was saying, I tore my thoughts from the barbarity of the Middle Ages. I found myself looking at the slight wave in his hair, wondering if Severine liked to push her fingers through it. My eyes strayed to the top button of his navy cashmere polo. I could just imagine Severine undoing that button, and the next, and pushing the sweater up over his shoulders…
“And then she grew up.”
Men! It all had to do with looks. Of course Alix’s husband hadn’t been interested in her. At least not until she grew breasts and hips and obtained the allure of an adult. Men are pigs. I glanced down at the low square neckline of my hyacinth blue jersey shirt, making certain it hadn’t slid too far down my chest.
When I looked back up at Cranwell, I discovered that he’d been doing the same.
He had the grace to look guilty, and he took another swallow of wine.
Refusing to be embarrassed by his transgression, I considered his words. “So she grew up. Most girls do. What was it that caused him to notice?”
“She was mistaken for his cousin. An older man, a count, made a pass at her. And later in the evening, her husband realized that none of the guests was treating her as if she were his wife; they were treating his cousin, Anne, that way. He got angry, and he reminded the guests that Alix was his wife. His lady.”
“Why would that have made him angry? If he wasn’t paying attention to her, why should he care that anyone else wasn’t? That seems completely out of character. You could hardly portray him as a jealous husband.”
“He wasn’t jealous. He was making Alix a player. There were very different ideas of love in the Middle Ages. And strange rules governing how people should act when they were in love.” He reeled off a score of them. Cranwell had a phenomenal memory. “Rules like, he who is not jealous is not in love. One cannot give one’s heart to two women at the same time. No one may be deprived of a loved one without reason. Love is not miserly. A new love chases away the old one. Once love has diminished, then disappeared, it cannot come back. Jealousy makes love grow. Tormented by love, the lover sleeps and eats little. The lover must act while thinking of his beloved. The perfect lover likes only that which pleases his love. The smallest suspicion incites the lover to suspect the worst in his beloved., Nothing stops a woman from being loved by two men or a man from being loved by two women. Love is necessarily adultery. And most of all, the lady of the castle is to be adored by the knights as the perfect woman.”
“So by naming her his lady, he was, by definition, turning his knights’ attention from Anne to Alix.”
“That’s right.”
