There was a warm zephyr coming through the window at that early hour.  Alaires leaned on the stone window edge and felt the chill in the rock on her skin.  She watched the slow rising sun. If she desired, she could have jumped out of the window and ran into the field, but instead she secured the shutters to stop them from flapping and making that irritating clatter that would awake others.  Alaires took a deep breath taking in the fragrance in the air before securing her short lived peace.   

Living at the nunnery was at her father’s command.  Her father wanted to do the same as the Count of Barcelona, a man he admired, to bequeath a chunk of land to the nunnery, to the Holy Roman Catholic Church, but at this point all he could do was place his one and only child in their care, to be guided in proper ways during his absence. The Comte de Die planned to eventually give a large gift to the Holy Roman Church, but he hadn’t settled on what it was to be yet.  A gold statue, an annual monetary gift, a chunk of land, he was still deciding on his ability and need for social and spiritual inclusion.  At this point he was paying a large monthly monetary gift to assure that his daughter was tended.  As much as Alaires begged to be left in charge of the manor home, her father would not leave a fourteen year old girl, his only child and only kin, alone to manage the household no matter how formidable she was.  She sat at the end of her bed and wondered if she were the gift her father intended.  She dismissed that thought quickly as she did not feel that worthy nor did she believe her father would give her away that easily, being the last and only line of their family.  Her father was a bit of a braggart but giving her away would not fit his pattern, thought Alaires, he had plans for her he once glibly commented. 

Today was her day to collect mushrooms, according to the schedule for the girls and the weather the last few days determined a switch in duties.  It had been rather wet the past two weeks and there would be a deluge of mushrooms in the upper glen.  After washing, dressing, then praying with the other girls in her wing under the eyes of the abbess, the daughter of Comte Guillaume de Die was to don a large basket on her arm and collect mushrooms before they broke their fast.   Alaires was exasperated before she began. She never saw herself as a servant, so this work was all demeaning to her. This would never be a chore to complete when she was at home.  While seeking the basket in the kitchen, Alaires rolled her eyes as she heard the instructions as to how to choose the right mushrooms from the cook.  The words rolled over Alaires.  She knew exactly what a mushroom looked like and so with intolerance on her face, she turned away from the cook.

“Now don’t go and poison us, or yourself!”  These were the final instructions from the ornery kitchen nun. 

Alaires stomped her feet as she begrudgingly went down the hall towards the large wooden doors. “To have me do many menial jobs is beneath me,” she grumbled to  herself.  The other girls shuffled past her, each to their chores and usually not a word spoken as it was an ‘ungodly’ early hour according to Alaires.  Alaires, a young woman with an explosive temper, proud social standing, some education, and passion for freedom, was not like the other girls in her cadre and she never did nestle into the routine although the total number of days present now added up to 30.  She was sheltered with a group of girls who were given to the church as they were their family’s tenth child as was the custom by the poorer families.  Alaires was sent to be cared for in this particular abbey and she felt she was treated no better than those who were dumped at the nunnery like orphans.  She meandered outside towards the mushrooms in the shadow of the trees and shivered in the brisk breeze. She mocked her father as she bent down to pluck the fungus, “It will be good for you, he said, you will learn grace, he said, you will be educated beyond what your foster mother could provide, he said.”  She did not notice that when she stopped talking her lower lip curled like a pouting two year old. 

She much preferred her foster-mother and her previous life than the cloister she now lived within. Her foster mother was a large and kind grandmother.  She had passed away recently and her father immediately placed her in the closest nunnery.  Alaires had overheard her father talk about his concerns with her foster mother before her passing, about his daughter marrying, her age, her status, who expressed interest, who planned to make arrangements for the courtship.  But, alas, no matter how Alaires tried to twist her ear around the door, she could never hear the full details that would pave her future. She knew that the beginning of her father’s plan began with her placement at the abbey.

“Does my father think I can be lured by the male sex?”  She began to talk to a rather large mushroom that actually looked like it had a small baby’s head, tossed it into her basket and continued her picking.  She shared a full confession with one of the other girls at the end of her first week, the other girl, she later found out, was known to sneak out at night and meet a certain boy who was an apprentice tanner.  Tanners were not well respected, smelled of rancid dead animals, and were considered the lower class of the craftsmen.  Once Alaires made the discovery of that particular girl’s taste in young men, she distanced herself from any opportunity to gossip again.  Alaires found herself mostly alone in that cloister, because she was not – in fact – like the other girls whose aspirations were to marry and have many children with a rich, romantic and handsome man if they were not intended to marry the church themselves.  In fact, there were no boys, nor young men, who took her fancy, neither in the village, at her manor home, nor with any man who her father brought home.  Alaires did, although, watch the Abbess with interest as she thought that if she stayed in the abbey, she could become in charge of such a cloister of women.  If her father would not allow her to manage the manor house, she would work her way up and manage the abbey.  In the meanwhile, today it was her duty to gather mushrooms, pick the local berries, and weed the garden – a humbling duty she huffed in thought as she continued to talk to the next mushroom.

As Alaires stood before the cook she was humiliated.  The cook growled at her, “When I cut these in half, you can see the worms actually fall out.  Look!”  The cook took her largest knife and slashed through the mushroom. Alaires watched half of it roll onto the floor and pointed at the inside as large white rice like creatures rolled out.  It was one large woody mushroom and it was obvious that small maggots were nestled inside.  Alaires was astonished and revolted at her ignorance and worse feared the cook would add this horrific mistake to her dinner.  Her palms began to sweat.  Alaires knew gathering food was not her calling in life.  She could neither pick raspberries without complaints of too many being squashed or with bugs nor could she collect mushrooms without complaints of them being too woody or infested, or worse poisonous.  She was bored to tears when pulling weeds from the garden and was often reprimanded when she pulled the vegetable instead of the weed.  She stomped her small foot and slammed her hand on the wooden table, tumbling the smaller mushrooms, and with a loud scoff she marched out of the kitchen to her little drafty room.   She was not meant for picking and plucking.  

Privacy was a rare privilege in the year 984.  Only in monasteries and nunneries did people have the luxury of being alone, with a pillow on their bed, and even a private candle for their solitaire nighttime prayers, the privilege of solitude was a liberty known to few.   Her room was one place she relished, she could be by herself after her embarrassments. On her bedside table was a glass of water, always filled, always present. She took a sip from her metal mug and spit through the window cursing the cook before she ventured out again, knowing she was late for yet another daily chore.

On her way to her room she passed the abbess’ office where the she was talking to a man named Gerbert, a Benedictine monk. When Alaires cocked an ear she heard both the abbess and Gerbert often say each other’s name as if to remind themselves who they were speaking with.  Alaires heard a few interesting keywords enough to linger at the side of the open door.  She overheard the abbess and Gerbert exchanging titles of books they had read.  Alaires knew that even her little abbey had a couple of books and guessed they would be offered to this gentleman to read while he stayed.  She listened like a mouse in the elbow of the door.  

The man jumped the conversation from what he had read to where he had read the books, then he spoke of his journeys and needed a place to stay for a couple of nights and was requesting hospitality at their abbey.  The abbess fully acknowledged his superior position on their holy grounds because he was male within the church hierarchy, even a male monk out ranked an abbess, but this was only a waylay on his route and it was apparent he had no intention to remain long.  Alaires peeked through the crack in the door being ever so curious as to his looks and saw what an uncommonly handsome man he was.  His voice was like deep velvet which matched his gentlemanly ways, he was enchanting. Alaires was captivated by his chiseled looks, his dark mysterious eyes, his slight accent from a far off region, and his voice – oh so deep and smooth. 

Although Alaires could only pinch an angle through the door, she could see enough to gather more of this man.  Gerbert was tall, thin, and his face was angled in such a manner that if he was a knight, he would have been the most handsome knight, like her father, similar in build.  As she watched him further, she noted that he was rather awkward in his physical manner, he could not look the abbess in the eye when he spoke, he looked down at the ground.  He kept putting his hand upward like he was holding off, or pressing the air, when he spoke.  He gave the impression he was asking for too much and yet, he was in full rights to ask for a place to stay before he carried on – being of the same church.  The abbess was conceding and welcoming, yet also shared that they had so little and lived on the donations of others plus what they gathered or grew.  Alaires blushed at that comment knowing she just abandoned her fellow sisters and worse (or better), the cook.  Tonight’s offerings may very well be lean to say the least without all the girls contributing their fair share. 

Alaires continued to her room, tip toeing, believing not to have been noticed.  She began to think about how much better this tiny abbey could function.  She thought of her father who was away on a pilgrimage.  She thought of others who sought refuge here and were always welcome.  She thought of the desire of the village to come to mass every Sunday and more if they could in this tiny abbey.  She recognized that this little place was a crossroads for so many people, something she noticed since arriving.

Alaires skipped back outside to finish her chores quickly and then in the afternoon glare of the sun she saw the Abbess walking to the village on the small footpath.  Each side of the woman’s hips would lift and fall with each step accompanied by a small huffing of exertion.  Alaires gave a short low giggle watching her walk. How was it that there was such little food for the rest of those in the abbey but this woman was so large?  Alaires dropped her basket and scooted beside the rather rotund woman who took up most of the path with her girth. She brushed off the amusing thought and tried to walk beside the woman on what thin path ledge was available for her to place her feet and avoid rolling her ankle on the curved edge. 

“Mother, Mother Xaveria, please a moment.  Please mother, I have an idea.”

“Idea, when did this idea come to you, in prayer? Or while you were at my door listening to my private conversation with Brother Gerbert?”  Mother Xaveria did not even bestow a side look upon the exerberant girl. 

Alaires was astonished but was confident that her great idea would result in forgiveness, combined with some fast thinking regarding the eavesdropping.  “I only paused for a moment to see if you were all right, you were alone with a man. Once I saw you were well, I carried on.”

“He is not just any man, but Brother Gerbert, a man of science.  He said to know science is to know the mind of God. We can learn such things from our blessed brothers.”  The abbess picked up her pace and then shared a flashing momentary smile.  Obviously the monk had tickled her interest, and the abbess knew he would be seen by her side often during his stay, a feather in her cap by the look on her face and the fact it was noticed by Alaires pleased her, nonetheless.

“Mother, please, I have a brilliant idea.  Why don’t we start a reading room, where the people can come and read or be read to. We can promote it, and have them pay to read or be read to.  I can read Mother Xaveria.  I can read the bible and I can read out loud, and I can monitor the books.”  Which in Alaires’ mind would be so much better than suffering the rain or heat or cold in the winter when gathering wood with the wretched snow blasting in her face, the insufferable cold and damp weather was her bane.  Being with books would be so much better.  She looked into Mother Xaveria’s face with such hope as she bopped along beside her not knowing the purpose of their journey except for the direction of the village.  

“My dear, we appreciate the monies that your father pays to keep you here.  We appreciate your ideas, and your hard work.  But what you must realize is that we have a total of six books and they will rest in my office for my reference.  We are not the theatre for the village, we do not provide entertainment.”  She paused for a second expressing her personal view on the notion, “What a silly idea, people sitting around listening or reading stories.”  Then she returned to her rant,  “We are a place for God to be worshiped not a place of entertainment.  We are preparing for the after life, not entertaining ourselves while we walk the earth.  Besides, dear girl, our villagers cannot read, these books were written in Latin and furthermore, they are dirty people who care little as to where their hands were.  Do you think I want a handprint of some dirty little shepard on my books?” She stopped to talk a breath and continued her admonishment. “Do not brag that you can read. It is unbecoming.  Your father is hoping you will learn your place in the world, and this book building, or reading room, or whatever you call it, your desire, your ideas, are not welcome in my abbey, if I wanted ideas I would have asked.  I have not asked.  Imagine, a girl in charge of books, let alone reading aloud.  Not a word that you can read child, not to anyone.  Pride goeth before a fall.”

“Ok, then we could be scribes.  We could make our own copies of books.  We could rewrite the books and lend them out.”

“And where do we get the papyrus, which is so expensive, or the parchment?  That takes a lot of goat or sheep skin to make one book. And how many people can read?”

Quick on her feet, Alaires was able to put together an idea. “Simple, we rent out our fields to goat herders and shepherds, with the provision that when their animals go to slaughter, we take the skins.  We make parchment from those skins.  We make our own ink, we make our own books.  Instead of people going to pilgrimages, they come here to our growing book collection, or even our regular reading times.”

The abbess stopped and turned to Alaires.  “You mean well girl, but the skills required to make this adventure happen are beyond our abilities. Do you think the villagers have the money to pay rent for goats to eat grass?  Of course not when they can get free grass in their own fields, pay the local landlord whom they are entangled with, or freely in the forest – although dangerous it may be.  Go back and pray, then do your duties.”  She paused and watched Alaires open her mouth to protest and the abbess quickly added, “Be gone!” She waved her hands as if shoving off a foul smell.

Alaires walked back to the abbey and kicked the odd stone on the side of the road with her built up frustration.  ‘People don’t read,’ she thought, ‘because people aren’t taught to read.  People are told what to think instead of taught how to think.  Maybe Mother Xaviera is beholden to a higher authority, someone else must be telling her what she too must do.  Maybe she knows no better..  Maybe she is truly a sheep of Christ.’  Alaires shook her head and dismissed her silly thoughts, the abbess knew how to read and write, but why were ideas to help the abbey so discouraged?  She went back to her basket to gather kindling. ‘My thinking gets me in trouble.’  She began to sing a favourite little tune she once heard from a traveling troubadour for a pleasurable distraction from her frustration with the abbess. She changed the words and made fun of the abbess instead.

Later that afternoon she saw the abbess returning along the same road.  With another burst of enthusiasm she inflicted her next idea upon Mother Xaveria, just as she passed her in the courtyard.  One would think it was planned, and once again, Alaires’ musings overflowed in words without a second thought as to timing.

“I have been thinking, again, Mother.”  She ran up to the abbess, her face lighting up with hope.  “I will volunteer to teach little ones how to read, they can read to their parents, who are obviously far too busy working to learn themselves, and the children will grow up to be able to read and we can start tutoring here, and we could charge or ask for a donation, such a small amount, and the girls, like myself, could teach.  We need only one room and a few chairs, or the ground, and maybe chalk and a writing place.  I was fortunate enough to learn to read and I can teach others.”

First there was a pause in the air.  Then the abbess closed her eyes before she spoke.  “Little Alaires, it is quite impossible. First a book building, now you want to teach people to read.  Do you know who you are talking about?  You are dreaming about how to teach the unteachable.  These people want to sit and listen to the word of God, these are simple people, God’s sheep, this is not a university. God appointed these people as his labourers not his scientists.  These are working people whose duty it is to work and praise God only, nor do they aspire to anything higher.  And you, dear girl, should have no further…thoughts. Know your place as God intended.”  The abbess carried on into the rectory and left Alaires behind, dumped in her ideas.

Alaires stood there, slumped in her posture.  The cook came out, with her hands on her broad hips and began to yell across the yard to Alaires.  “Wood girl! Wood!  Or no one will have food tonight and we have a visitor.”  Alaires certainly was reminded of her place by the cook on a regular basis. 

Alaires spun on her heels mostly to hide her brimming tears of rejection and went to fetch the wood leaving both the cook and the Abbess behind her.  Meanwhile, a visitor was being whispered about as if he was the most intelligent man in the world staying at their abbey.  Alaires could hear the muffled chatter as she plucked the wood from the wood pile.  Every girl had made a comment about him behind their hand-covered mouth, they had seen his face and caught a bit of his conversations.  This man, Brother Gerbert, could not stop talking about science, the mind of God, about the Muslims and their dedication to science and math, and he went on and on about his travels.  The other girls had heard his dialogues because once he had your eyes, his mouth would not hesitate and he had the attention of everyone and the abbess was keeping him as occupied as possible to steer him away from the others. It was as if he needn’t ever inhale, and this worried the abbess as she guided him into a private room away from the young women. 

Alaires looked up, blinking away her tears to catch a glimpse of this visitor over her shoulder.  Gerbert was on his way to Rome and this was only a short stop, she heard.  The man paused in his step and kept pontificating about his adventures and the outside influences he experienced, and shared most freely, which made Alaires wonder if such positive influence was possible for her people in the village, although she wondered if with experience the villagers too would become breathless with discourse.  Most of the people in this village of de Die, in her little county of Dome, never went anywhere.  The furthest most went was to the next village and back again.  Coincidently this man, and separately her father and her father’s friends, were on their way to Jerusalem.  These travelling people were learned people with adventures to share for the benefit of others, Alaires mused.  Surely the abbess could see the enchantment in people’s eyes when Gerbert, or others like him, talked of their adventures, surely there would be a way to share this with others. It was a humorous situation watching the abbess point to the inside but he insisted on standing on the steps, on the outside, not quite going in but he insisted on staying outside and continued to talk.  Finally the abbess took his elbow and gave a wee push – and pull – to encourage him to go inside.  The man obviously loved an audience whereas the abbess did not.  Those who had to attend to Gerbert repeated his stories in whispers to others.  Surely with this ever ongoing pontification, he could share his stories with the villagers, should such an invitation be extended.  This visitor ignited Alaires, again, with ideas to enhance the abbey.

As she returned with a basket full of kindling she asked the cook her opinion on a few things. “Do you think that more people are going on pilgrimages?”

“Oh yes, every day I hear about more and more people going.  They want to touch the place where Jesus was born or stand where the cross stood, to be in that glory.  Some say that miracles happen there.  Oh, I would love to go, but I am resigned that my place is here forever.”

“Miracles happen with saint’s relics,” said another nun walking past.  This was both a statement and a question in her tone.  She recalled hearing stories of the deaf hearing, the lame walking, and blind seeing again.

“Aye, my own brother said he touched a relic, the hair of John the Baptist’s head and his pox was cured.”

“What do you think would happen if we had a relic here?”  Alaires looked into the cook’s puffy eyes to see the excitement build as the image of glorious recovery tumbled through her mind.

“Oh girl, the place would be brimming with people.  I would have to cook for an army!”  The cook laughed and wiped her greasy hands on her thighs and poked the fire in her cooking pit.

“Just what I thought!”  And off she dashed again to see the abbess leaving the cook in a quandary.

Banging on her door in excitement, Alaires could barely contain herself.  The abbess opened the office door, as another knock was almost rapped, and saw the breathless girl with such a look of zeal.

“Mother, please, let me share my idea!”

“Idea, again, from prayer I hope?”  She pressed her lips together. The abbess reminded herself of the few pieces of gold her abbey received from this one’s father that was the only ongoing money they received and so toleration was required. “Pray tell in six words or less if you please.”

“No, from the cook!”  She caught herself only after the words fell out of her mouth.  She did not want the cook in trouble.  “If we get a relic, something like a piece of the cross that Jesus hung from, or the bones of a saint, or a piece of hair from John the Baptist, we could have thousands of people seek out our little abbey, our tiny nunnery, and they would go to mass and give donations during the service, and they would seek us out on their journey to Jerusalem, or maybe not even go so far, because not everyone can go that far, but they can go as far as our little corner of the world.  We would be a much wealthier abbey and be so well known for our relic!  What do you think?”  Just at that moment she noticed Brother Gerbert sitting in the visitor’s chair at the desk.  She feared she had interrupted another meeting, this time without taking note of what was happening in the room before she threw her idea out.

“Definitely it would bring a lot of attention to your corner of the world.” Brother Gerbert added.

“And where would we get this relic?”  Mother Xaveria asked, looking squarely at Alaires.

‘My father would bring it back, he is a Comte, “ she added proudly those last two words for the benefit of the guest. “He goes to Jerusalem all the time.  Surely on his journeys he would have run across a relic or would be in the position to get one.  Instead of paying you coins for my keep, why would he not pay you with a relic? A coin is only so good, but a relic would bring so much more opportunity.”

“I think you have a girl who thinks like an enterprising man.”  Brother Gerbert was stroking his bare chin.  Alaires recognized this signal, it was the sign language that monks who were not permitted to talk used to communicate.  This was the gesture for ‘good idea’, but Alaires was not supposed to know this either.  It was another one of her tidbits gathered at her father’s knee.  She wondered if the abbess knew at that moment that Gerbert agreed with her idea.  

“No. I will not have our little corner of the world become so popular.  We would lose our place here, it would be taken over by an abbot and we would be asked to assimilate into another abbey.  It will not happen.  I do not wish it to be here.  Now, begone.”  She was about to push the door closed behind the very young woman but having been supported by Gerbert, it seemed the abbess could not close the door as once again he was giving that odd pushing gesture with his hand, as if to beg to give the girl another moment, or was it the gesture for pushing away, or did he mean to hesitate or speak.  No one knew for sure but the abbess took it as a gesture of waiting. 

Alaires, noting the hesitation took the opportunity.  “Mother, please, then allow me one more idea. We all have single rooms.  We have enough room to double up.  Why don’t we offer a bed, prayer, and breakfast for those travelling to the relics and on their pilgrimages.  And my father has often told me there is a new type of men called merchants who travel very far, our little abbey is on the way to the shipping ports, we could rent out our rooms, with the insistence of prayers and a donation for staying here.  We would not be the centre of attention but doing God’s good will by sharing with the needy.  Even brother Gerbert here, needed a place to stay.  And I could be in charge of organizing which room each guest is given. I could be a helper.”

“You have a clever girl on your hands Mother Xaveria.”  Brother Gilbert actually looked at her, Alaires, in the eyes and smiled. Furthermore, he was listening and agreeing with her intention – if not the idea. 

“Go to prayer and I will think about it.”  The abbess was caught between a zealous child and a loquacious visitor but protocol demanded she tend to her visitor. Her look alone, privately directed towards Alaires, could have frozen a blazing fire. 

“Yes Mother.”  Alaires bowed quickly and rushed out.  Alaires believed this could be the ticket to getting out of the bushes and the woods and all the other outdoor responsibilities she loathed.  This could also be the ticket to prove to her father she was able to handle their home affairs when he returned.  If she could be in charge of something at the abbey, surely she could be in charge of their humble manor.  He would be returning soon, any day now, but Alaires did not know if it would be before or after Sun’s day mass.  Today was Woden’s day.  

“Go to the chapel and pray.  No other distraction, to the chapel.”  Mother Xaveria stepped into the hallway and said this as a command, not a suggestion, then closed the door behind her.  With a sigh of resignation, Alaires obeyed. 

There was a reason the abbess wanted Alaires to go to the chapel, there was another visitor that had also come but the distraction of Brother Gilbert took away the fanfare from this particular gentleman who had arrived at the same time, most likely with the same caravan of travellers. This man took refuge in his home to freshen up before arriving at the abbey.  

Alaires’s father waited in prayer for his daughter in the chapel.  He slipped into the abbey to surprise his daughter and the abbess was more than eager to have her father take charge again of this enthusiastic young woman.  If the father did not take her back this time, the abbess planned to adjust her duties to sewing, mending, or weaving, it was far more focusing and constricting in movement and contact.   

Alaires walked in, intending on kneeling to beg God for control of her mind and mouth.  She was looking down at her feet. That was when she  saw the glittering chain link on her father’s shoulder piece in prayer.  Alaires held her breath and took a second to assure herself that the man in front of her was her father.  His hair had greyed and lengthened. He was thin, or rather thinner.  He had the same chiselled chin with the half smirk on his lips.  That was her father!  Her heart leapt and she rushed to embrace him while he was still in smiling prayer having sensed her behind him.

“Papa!  You have returned!” Her arms wrapped around his strong shoulders as he struggled to turn around and face her while being crushed in her hug from behind.  

“My sweet, my flower, let your father stand.”  He laughed and tried to hold her back, barely being able to pluck her away for a better look at her.  “You have grown taller!  Do they water you every night here?”

“Oh papa!  Did you bring me anything?  I have so much to tell you!  Did you know there is a man here called Gerbert?”

“Yes, I know about Gerbert, we travelled together.  I would love to hear your news, and I have news for you.”

“Let us eat papa, the cook will allow us to refresh.”  She took her father’s hand and led him to the kitchen, all the while chattering like a squirrel.  She shared her ideas to financially stabilize their little abbey, her friends and their antics, and most of all, her idea that if the abbey did not take her up on her ideas, she proposed them to her father.  Surely he would be interested and she could run this through their home, which of course, would become richer.

“My darling, wait, I have questions.  Have you practised your Anglo?”

“Yes papa.”

“And your Arabic and Saxon?” 

“Yes, papa.”

“Have you practised writing? 

“No, papa, if anything they teach Latin here.  But there was a girl here who spoke Arabic, and she and I spoke a little, another girl, well I hardly speak to her because she is so mean papa, she speaks Spanish so I tried.  I am weak in Spanish.  No one else speaks that language here.  It is Latin, all day long, well, between gathering wood and foraging for berries and mushrooms.  Please papa, let me go home and run our home when you are away.  I am tired of being told to find my place, not to let anyone know I can read or write outside of these walls.  I am your daughter!  If maman was here, it would be so different, I know it.”

With beer and bread on a cloth supplied by the cook, they settled against a tree to discuss what would happen next with Alaires’ life.  Her father tried to bring his plans for his daughter up gently, but as every girl knows, there comes a time where a choice has to be made.  She must either join the nunnery or marry, and the Comte knew it was time to marry his daughter before she had a reputation of being undesirable or overvalued.  He did not want a daughter who was ‘on the self’, as the villagers would say.  She knew her value as a wife was greater than her value in a nunnery, Alaires knew one day her father would come home with such news.  Regardless, she was not ready for the news today.  Her father’s news was shocking but he was firm, as he had given his word.  Alaires would be fourteen soon and ready for marriage in his eyes. 

“I have never met him!”  She was shocked to learn that after her fourteenth birthday she was to marry a man she had never met, never heard of, and worse, in the next country further south. That was at least two days’ travel away.

“I gave my word and you are my daughter.  Do you think it would be wise to have you grow into spinsterhood in my household?  Do you not think it would be wise for me to carry on, remarry myself, and with hopes, be a grandparent should the good lord allow me to live that long?  Do you not think about anything else other than your own wants and needs, do you think of others?  Has Mother Xaviera not taught you the virtue of selfless duty?”  He began to emotionally push against his daughter, knowing women a little, he knew this side of the argument was a better strategy than one would give a son.  With sons, he had seen his friend’s in parental action just say ‘because I said so’ or ‘you’ll enjoy your wife and her money.’  Somehow with girls and women, that argument of power versus power never won in his household.  He had to use emotional sway.

He continued, “And, my darling, you can bring your wonderful ideas to your husband.  I am sure he would be most gratified with your business notions.”  He pulled away and held her hands, “You will make a lovely bride.  Let me buy you a marriage dress that would be the best in the land!”

“You think you can buy my compliance with a dress?” Alaires took a deep breath knowing full well it would only place a wedge between them and she needed him as an ally if anything went astray.  She knew full well she was his chattel, Comte’s daughter or not.  At least her value was high because she knew how to speak several languages, at least a smattering of them, and could write in Latin. Furthermore she knew to keep these skills in a modest fashion so as not to draw attention to herself.  She had not grown attached to the girls in her cloister, although she was fond of the cook.  Alaires could do without the abbess who continually denied her ideas.  If she could not be the lady of her own home, nor her father’s, she could be the lady of someone else’s.  

‘Papa, I agree,  I will marry this man – whoever he is, a goat herder, a thane, or knight or prince, but I hope a prince.  I do it because it will show my love for you.”  She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, just as she did when she was six years old and gave into her father’s requests.  Alaires saw her father sigh with deep relief and relax against the tree. The tree swayed in the breeze and little leaves fluttered down into their laps.

“You are as wise as a tree, my darling, know when to bend, stay rooted, and allow your nuts to gather at your feet.”  They both laughed. 

By the end of the day, she was packed and the room and board and tutoring was paid up.  The abbess gave her a warm hug and privately spoke to her father.  Likely to inform him of the progress – or lack thereof – she had made in her care and for hope for another girl from one of his friends to replace the loss of income.  Meanwhile the cook wrapped a whole warm loaf in a cloth and gave it to her as a travelling gift, along with a chunk of cheese for their travels to their own manor house.  The next day she was in her own home, it pelted rain and not a soul would venture outside.  She spent the day repacking with the help of a maid and the next morning she was on a horse and heading south with her father in somewhat better, albeit in soppy weather.  Never before had Alaires gone so far from home and now she was experiencing the adventures she had overheard Gerbert speak of to the abbess.  She would be the one warmly greeted as she would be the one with great stories and adventures.  She was giddy with excitement.

The two horses waddled their fat ends back and forth at a slow pace, another following with loaded bags, and one middle aged servant to accompany them both, and to return with her father back to their home in de Die.  

The servant was a greasy haired man who was a rather dim peasant.  He spoke when spoken to, he complied to every request, and he had no interest in his own hygiene nor did he express any interest in any topic of conversation.  He was tall, thin, pockmarked and subservient and answered any commands with a goofy laugh.  Surprisingly, when he smiled, he had all of his teeth. When Alaires observed him, she concluded that maybe Mother Xavier was right, there were people born to work and praise God as that was as much as their lives could handle. 

Alaires’s horse walked very slowly and the dullard spoke when their horses were side by side, “I knew your mother,” he said with a lisp.  She looked at him with suspicion.  “Poor thing, tho thorry she died.  Such a bad fall,” he continued.  Alaires thought the man a fool, as she was told her mother died during her own birth and so she turned her nose away from the man and trotted faster. She did not wish to discuss her mother’s death, especially with this man.  Alaires sought connection with her father so with a small squeeze her horse pushed up beside the Comte. 

“Papa, tell me about my mother’s family.  I know mother was pretty and smart, and you loved her, and she died when I was an infant, but I know nothing of her family.”  Alaires was seeking to fill time as they trailed along south for a duration.

“Your mother was the most beautiful woman in the country.”  He glanced at his daughter and smiled, “That is why you are beautiful, you look so much like her.  Sometimes I think I see her through your light blue eyes.  And your skin is as smooth and clear as a baby’s. But you have my hair, dark curls that try to escape any plan. I can see them peeking out from under your cap.”  He motioned to her to tuck them back in.   “You are just like your mother when you smile.”  He paused another moment, “You know, whatever she wished for came true.  She told me she had to make a deep wish, but somehow it always happened.  She told me once, ‘be careful what you wish for, it might come true.’  And low and behold, she could wish for just about anything and it would happen.”  He took a deep breath, “I am not sure that was because she was one of God’s favourites or as she told me, a privilege of being a descendent of the people who make goblets.  They had..shall I say…their ways of making things happen.  So beware your wishes my poppet.” 

Alaires looked at her fatherly quizzically. 

He continued, “Did you not wish to be in control of family business affairs, to manage a household?  And here we are on our way to marry you off where you become the head of your household.” 

Alaires looked at him again with furrowed brows believing he was trying to swerve the topic off her mother.   “Where are my grandparents?  I know your parents are dead, but her’s papa, did they die too?  Are they far away?  Does her village still exist?”

“What can I remember?”  He stroked his chin.  “Her parents died shortly after we were married.  There were viking raids and her parents were killed, along with her four little brothers.  Between the muslims to the south and the vikings from the North, I swear, there was no peace for as long as I can remember.”  He swung around to look at his daughter sitting side saddle on her horse and then he checked the following serf on his donkey behind them both.  The serf’s head was nodding in pace with his donkey.

“But her people, papa, who were her people?  You never talk to me about them.”  Alaires was insistent that her father keep talking and wanted her questions answered exactly as she had proposed them.

“Her people, her people…” He delayed hoping to get a rise out of his daughter, but he saw that she was only scrunching her face in anticipation.  After his pause, he continued, “Her people, as she told me, were people who made the most marvellous pottery, drinking goblets that looked like upside down bells, so I called her people the ‘bell people’, your mother would give me a tolerating look when I would say that so I would tell her what a good pair we made, my people made great wine and her people made great goblets – when I was younger I thought myself so clever.  And her people loved to travel.  Your mother told so many stories of people who had left and set up their homes elsewhere, but they sent word back though other travellers who passed her village.  Some went as far as to cross the sea and land on a very large island west of here, far west where they said they met people with tattoos on their body and women fought alongside their men in battle.  A very strange place indeed.”  He paused a moment and looked at his daughter. “That always amazed me and I wondered if it was a truth or an exaggeration.  Apparently Caesar of Rome also talked of these people so it might be true that such people exist.”    

“So some of her people went west to Albia. I know about the tattooed people and the warrior women from there.  What else papa, about her people, her family?”  She was eager to hear.

“I remember her family, and in fact her whole village, all had the same look.  They were dark haired people with large eyes, some had blue eyes, like you and your mother.  At one time the muslims controlled her village. But your mother said there was no muslim blood in her veins.  I remember her saying that.”

“Good God No!”  Alaires, being raised a devout Roman Catholic was astonished to think that there might even be a hint of possibility that any member of her family might be anything but Christian. 

“No, she said something about how devout many in her village were to Mary, mother of God.  I cannot remember her words, but she said something about how the people of her village had always stayed spiritually close to, what were her words….divine mother.  They had always praised the divine mother of God.  Your mother was a dedicated and pious Roman Catholic, fear not on that account.”

“You said they looked like something, in the village, like how?”  Her curiosity getting the better of her and the lazy walk lulled her further into the pleasant conversation.

“Oh yes, dark eyes, long dark wavy hair, fair skin, although I have to say in the summer, your mother certainly tanned well whereas I, on the other hand, would burn and peel like a snake.  Your mother would slowly tease the skin off my back when I worked in the fields with your grandfather, her father.  Everyone had the same nose in her village.  You could fit their face into a corner in a room.  I do remember that in every home the women were the masters of the hearth.”  He chuckled and turned to his daughter, “Much like you are struggling to be, so Mother Xavieria tells me.”

“Mother Xavieria knows nothing on how to make her abbey stronger, richer, well known.  I know ways to make it a destination point and she wants to keep it as a secret location that only other wandering monks and our local villagers know about.”

“And you know nothing of politics my little one,” her comment reminded him that even though she was a tiny woman in a svelte body, she was a child in her mind.   

“I heard Mother Xaveria say the end of the world is coming in the year 1,000.  Is this true?”

“And they will think it will be the end of the world in the year 2,000 as well!”

“Can you imagine someone living in the year 2,000 father?”  She asked.

“There is no end to the world.  I see the world as a child, exploring, young and eager, wanting, with every stage the world grows it is akin to the growth of a person.”

“Then what age are we at now if the world was a child?”

“We, our civilization, we are two.  We are taking what we think is ours, we are not thinking about the consequences, it is hard for us to share, and we have not separated ourselves from God to be independent.”

“And may we never separate ourselves from God, father.”  She gave herself the sign of the cross.

“So is the world going to end?”

“No child.”

“Gerbert does not believe it either, he says he has math to prove it.  There is where I find it difficult to believe that math could prove an event. I even heard Mother Xaveria say she was praying twice as hard as she does believe it is coming.”

“Do you?”  He asked his daughter?

“Well, it is – there is no harm in doing what you ask for if it will make me look better in front of God.  Whatever I have to endure will be short compared to the afterlife.  If it is not, then I trust you are making a decision that is best for me and, as you said, your grandchildren.”  Now she began to drift in thought.  “Do you think we will have many grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren?”  

“If we are blessed we will have as many sons as we can!”  said her father.

“Or maybe as many daughters as we can to carry on the line!” retorted his daughter snorting.

They both looked behind and found the donkey following with the nave asleep on his donkey’s back, his head wavering back and forth with the pace of the animal.  Her father gave a wink at his daughter and kicked his horse to trot on, as did Alaires.  The donkey, of course, picked up his trot and the dullard fell off his mount with a heavy thud and an embarrassed look.  Alaires and her father stopped and laughed and waited for him to remount.  Aragon was now in sight.

After three days in Aragon, the Comte Guillaume de Die and his daughter Alaires, although welcomed warmly enough by the manor staff, were yet to meet up with the groom himself or the rest of his family for that matter.  Guillaume de Forcalquier, was Alaires’ betrothed, so she discovered on her ride to Aragon. For three days in the manor, the two were pampered with food, entertainment once a day from local people were sent to occupy them, and servants took turns showing them around the countryside or providing occupying activity within their estate, but mainly table games were offered.  Some of the staff were amusing and some were diligently following their orders at a dull pace. It was obvious this was not how the Comte was expecting to be received.

“And on your rrrright you will find one of our most unusual tenants, he lllives in a cave like hole, in the side of the hill.  There is only one road able to reach his home.  The cliff’s of the steep hhhhills on either side are so steep that even wild mountain goats are not seen there, except for on top.  Hhhhe lives in the crevice of the hills, a crevice that stretches out for miles.”  Guillaume de Forcalquier’s personal servant was giving a short tour of their little village and the more interesting points.  He had an occasional stutter which made Alaires giggle but was quickly stifled as her father gave her a stern look stifling her opinion of the handicapped man.  “Over to the rrrright again, at the bottom you will fffind on every day before Sunday, all our craftsmen come out to selllll their wares.  Mistress Alaires, you will lllllove the glllloves.  We are known for our finnnest gloves.”

“Monsieur LePage, when did you say your master would return?”  The Comte was now not impressed with the delay tactics he had to endure, the tour of what would interest his daughter was the last straw.  The day before it was the tour of the winery and the efforts they made in animal husbandry, a sight his daughter need not see; he snarled privately, and before that a clandestine appointment with the local bishop and her father, privately.  But today, after a jesting juggler was sent in to occupy them for a couple of hours and now a tour of the town including the recluse hermit in the hill, this was too much and intolerable for the Comte. At dinner as the Comte was making plans to leave with his daughter, a note arrived and whatever was written on it convinced the Comte to stay one more day.

On the fourth day they called in the one servant they thought was somewhat in charge, LePage. As they stood facing each other in the hallway, LePage with his head lowered, the man servant took the barrage of frustration thrown at him as the Comte did not believe this was any way to treat a guest.  Everyone could hear the rant with the one question loudest and most repeated, when was the De Forcalquier family returning? When he was done stripping the servant who acted on behalf of the groom and his family,  they were asked to prepare themselves for their introduction to the father, de Forcalquier senior. It was now that evening that plans had to be confirmed or the Comte and his daughter were leaving in the morning.

“Sir, I humbly understand and I have conveyed by letter my concern which was the same, to the family.  It was so unfortunate they were detained and I am to assure you it was beyond their capability to arrive any sooner.”

“Was?”  The Comte raised an eyebrow.

“They are arriving one at a time.  De Forcalquier senior, the lord of this manor, arrived late this afternoon with his wife.  His eldest son will arrive soon I am told.  He gives his deepest apology for not arriving sooner.  He would be most pleased if you would allow him some time in the garden, to talk.  Your daughter was sent a personal maid who will tend to her every single need and it was hoped she would be entertained by the same maid.  May I show you the way to the garden?”  He hardly lifted his eyes, it was obvious that he felt the family’s embarrassment as he alone had to uphold the reputation of the De Forcalquiers while they were waylaid.  

“Show me the way.”  Admittedly he had been to the garden a few times, he still was confused in this home as it was slightly bigger than his own and they had several gardens, one enclosed, and hallways that went in circles.  It would be best that he be shown which garden.  This late afternoon was going to start a little differently.  The Comte was assured that Alaires would be tended to immediately and not need fear leaving her unattended. The Comte was off to see his host, finally.

Alaires was in her room, gazing out of her window. The Pyrenees Mountains in the background changed their silhouetting colours from varying pastels to solid colours throughout the day.  Alaires was entranced by a maiden in a far field, barely recognizable with the outline of her dress visibly flapping in the breeze.  In the distance the shepherdess was walking on the top side of a small crest. The maiden began to sing and Alaires could faintly hear her, the sweet lilt of her voice lifted by the wind into her window.  Alaires watched more closely, and like every morning, the sheep rushed towards the shepherdess and the sheep meandered to another hill out of sight as they were swallowed by a thin wood of poplars.  Now in the early evening dusk they were being settled in a safe paddock.   Alaires loved to hear the singing of the shepherdess who guided her sheep by song.  She loved the stripe colours of the slow setting sun, the gentle breeze, and the cooling temperatures.  Alaires remembered when she was younger and connected with the animals, the earth, the beat of her people, the woodsman, the neighbouring dairy maid, the cattleman, and more. After that, she was sent to the abbey but even that had soft memories.  But her childhood was gone, Alaires was now in Aragon, and her people, were a great distance away.  

Her maid came in to aid in the early evening rituals.  Alaires did not move knowing full well the maid would set down her drink, begin to prepare her bed, lay out her evening clothes, and whatever else was her duty to do.  This had happened three days in a row. The same maid came in every day.

“Sill watching the shepherdess?” The maid brightly commented in Arabic.

“Eh.”  Alaires answered back in Arabic as she knew it meant yes, she wanted to see if this particular evening the shepherdess would swerve her path allowing Alaires to continue to watch her.  Alaires’s new maid distracted her from the window. 

The maid was instructed to keep Alaires occupied and so while placing the tray on the table she tried to strike up a conversation after observing Alaires’ focus, “I have seen her in the market place. There is one sheep that follows her everywhere the rest stay in their pen when she comes to town.  I would say not as worthy as a dog, but maybe more loyal.  The sheep allows no one else to touch it.”  The maid pulled out dresses from a trunk and placed them over an old beaten chair in the room.  “If she is not careful she will be pulled before the Catholic priest and charged with being a sorceress.  That young woman comes from a place beside the western side of our world.  It is one thing to enchant animals to follow you, but if one is your devoted servant, such as that sheep, she will be watched.  If she enchants men to do the same, she will surely be burned.  And if any man wishes her harm, all he has to do is mention her actions with the animals to remind all the people of her abilities.  The people here call her Gwrach.  I don’t know why, what an odd name.”  

Alaires ate alone in her room that night.  Yusrah gave her a note, which Alaries read to Yusrah’s surprise.  Alaires was advised that she would see her father the next day and to stay within the castle until the morrow.  Alaires was now aware her future in-laws had arrived and there was personal business being undertaken.  She was to remain cloistered.  Alaires asked if Yusrah would come again the next morning, and with a polite nod, the maid said she was at her disposal would be pleased to return.  With that Alaires began to fill her day with self desires. 

The next morning over breakfast in her room, Alaires asked many questions while Yusrah tended to the room, the food, the fireplace, and answered the rushing questions.  Yusrah, the maid, was also foreign to this place.  When she discovered that Alaires spoke Arabic, she gushed with enjoyment to speak her first language. Yusrah still wore her clothes from her homeland, covering her body and her face, and at times was more pious than the Christian women around her.  She did not know her age and Alaires guessed she was not more than seventeen years and lived here since she was around 14. Yusrah confessed she rarely went outside for fear of the men.  She was a very plain looking dark haired girl with the largest dark eyes.  Her eyes were the most fetching part of her, but once her veil fell, her plainness was evident and the reason for her continued spinsterhood was made obvious.  Her face was filled with pock marks, her arms were scarred with evidence of a ravaging illness and hard work, and most of the time she smelled of musk, she rarely bathed.  When her veil fell, it was obvious that she was once hung, burned, and choked until the skin and muscles around her neck which became deformed – ripped, like the hanging skin of an elephant, outlined in a permanent red rash like mark.  Yusrah usually kept her hijab on but when it slipped one could see her past on her neck.

“Well, then we shan’t call any attention to my morning entertainment to have the shepherdess arrested.”  Alaires replied and pulled back to the ongoing conversation, ignoring the young maid who was scrambling to cover her own neck.  As well, Alaires dared not share that she too could call sheep and goat herds, that she too could calm horses with her gentle voice, and command dogs, and gather cats to sleep on her lap. When she had to gather berries she cringed, but when she had to tend to the sheep or goats, Alaires always had a delightful time playing with the creatures at the abbey.  Where she came from, such talents were to be admired, not criticized.  So Alaires continued to watch the shepherdess though the window.  Alaires turned to face Yusrah to dress, but facing her rancid breath, she turned her back to Yusrah to indicate she was ready for her chemise and raised her hand to make it easier to slip over her head.  What she really wanted was to talk about what tour they would take today. 

“This morning you are to attend with the Bishop.  He wishes to measure your faith, as you are new and have not shown one hint as to your devout nature, so is the gossip.”  Yusrah pulled on the strings to tighten her cote, an under dress that would make her figure more shapely.  “You needn’t worry, women are valuable here, as they are needed, and as you can see they have not burned me at the stake for being a muslim – but they believe I have turned Christian.  They continue to preach to me, I continue to go to church, and in private I continue my prayers and fasting as a good muslim.  So, if I may recommend, tell them you are Christian, of their kind of Christian, and that you were not taught well before you arrived here.  They will forgive you, and then you can continue with being a muslim.”  Yusrah now adjusted the food on the tray on the table next to the fireplace.  “You speak Arabic, you are Muslim?  Are you practising taqiyy like myself?”

“No, I am not muslim. What you say sounds hypocritical.”  Alaires responded while she slowly sat at the edge of her bed.  Her voice was calm, although her words felt sharp as she heard them.

“I do not know your faith, my lady, and I share as much as I do to keep you alive.  I beg you to keep me alive and not share my faith.  Forgive me.  My brother always says my tongue speaks faster than my brain.  I only thought..because you spoke Arabic…”  She faded off, counselling herself to be quiet and not place herself in any further jeopardy.  She knew she trusted too soon. 

“And for you to keep employment within a safe place I venture.  And it is your job to keep my virtue too?”  Alaires raised an eyebrow, “Especially when they are not sure of my ways.”  She did note that Yusrah was more forthcoming than Alaires believed she should be when they had only met a couple of days ago.  She also noted that her maid was not well educated in social manners, but at least she was observant of the mood of the people, as she commented so often on what the people on the outside were doing and talking about. Yusrah was a gossip, she noted.  Those who gossip about others are known to gossip about those they just left.

“You come from the east?  You speak Arabic.”  Yusrah rushed to change the subject from herself.

“No, further north actually, I know some Arabic, enough to hold a simple conversation.  I lived in a convent.”  She looked at this maid and wondered how much she understood of her Frankish culture, “I lived in a place where religious women live together.”  She looked to see if there was a glimmer of understanding of the concept she was trying to get across. Yusrah mixed the milk into her grain and encouraged her to break her fast. 

When fed, hair brushed, and gathered in good time, Alaires was ushered off to see the priest guided by Yusrah.  This was not her plan, she wanted to go on another tour, but since Alaires was unable to meet up with her father, this was a duty she could not deter from.  The door slid open and they entered the castle’s hallway, Alaires noticed a chair was placed beside her chambers.  It was not there earlier and she thought it odd that a chair was there now.  She brushed it off as a lax uncompleted duty by one of the servants who had left the chair in mid journey.  Still, she almost tripped on it when she made a sharp turn to follow Yusrah.

Alaires still did not know the entire castle, albeit not a very complicated building, still she noted doors, hallways, windows, tables, and any other points of reference as she was led to Bishop Raymond.  He was praying at the altar when they pushed open two heavy plank doors and walked into the family chapel with the lingering noise of squeaky hinges. “And where is my father?”  she whispered to Yusrah before she stepped into the room.  In fact, she expected to meet him at the chapel. 

“He is with your future father-in-law.”  And with that she silently bowed and with a cavalier salut she slipped into the shadows of the hallway and disappeared.    

Alaires brushed one eyebrow down, giving a hint of both vanity and humility by dropping her chin, but in reality she was dropping her head to appear to behave in a submissive manner while curiosity was allowing her to look through her fingers at the priest.  Alaires had no idea what her station was here, and so she had no idea to bow, curtsey, command, to act submissively or rise above.  This is where her maid failed her over the last couple of days, not appraising her of her status nor expectations in certain circumstances.  Alaires was not sure if she should, or could, venture from her room without her father present, Yusrah said she never left the castle out of fear.  Alaires understood that fear as her last instruction from her father was not to leave his side, now not to leave the castle itself.  Alaires knew to keep a distance from any spit, cough, sneeze, or even touch from the hand of a stranger, except to show them your back if close enough to touch.  She was told of how many people had died recently in this village, and most of them were women, according to her appointed maid.  There was a shortage of women in this village, so she was told. So Alaires made sure not to extend her hand, she dipped her knee and curtsied but would not allow any man to touch her.  In this case, the priest had his back to the door, his face to the altar and his face buried within his hands while he rested upon his knees and the scrapped baldness of the top of his head bobbed a wee bit while whispering words into his hands.  He never saw her entrance courtesy.  

Alaires was alone with Priest Raymond.  A few candles flickered in the shadows of the filtered morning light.  The priest did not get up immediately, as if he was in mid conversation which had to be finished.  She looked around the room and saw the candle light bending in the draft, how odd she thought when the sun was so bright, that they would need candles in this room.  She noticed how cold the room was, so entrenched with stone and not a single wooden bench to be seen so she could choose to sit and wait comfortably.  How unwelcoming she scoffed to herself.  The man was on his knees before a slab of marble which rested on a large square made of wooden timbers.  On that table was a cloth and a silver cross with a sculpted figure of a man hanging on a crucifix.  The man finished, placed his fingers touching his forehead, chest, and both shoulders, then stood up to face her.

‘I am Father Raymond.”  He spread his arms out as if displaying himself while walking towards her. 

“I am Alaires, the daughter of….”

Father Raymond cut her off.  “My daughter, it matters not of where and who you are  beyond your first name.  Your last name will change soon enough.”  He tried to smile consolingly but it came across with smugness instead. A duplicitous man she thought.

Alaires stood there.  Silence hidden by a false veil of humility.  Her eyes began to pierce into this man, she did not want to give this man the satisfaction or any appearance that his manner was crumbling her confidence . She decided after an impressive pause to speak and secure her status. “My family consists of my father, he is the Comte de Die.”

“I know.”  He wanted to continue the silence a wee bit longer. “So you are Alaires, shall I call you Senorita Alaires de Die?”  He did not mention that he had met her father earlier. 

Alaires did not answer.  It was her turn to control the silence and to echo the stare.  She let the comment hang in the air as a light torture.  Within seconds, she determined that she did not like him, but knew she had to tolerate him.

“Ok, then, tell me of your people, since your family consists only of your father.  Tell me where you come from.”

She stared at him not knowing his intentions.  What knowledge could he possibly desire from their conversation.  What control did this man have over her future husband, and what should she be aware of if this is the case?  Alaires was smart enough to know that in-laws often ruled their son’s marriage, but she was puzzled in regards to this religious relationship. 

“Alaires, it is my responsibility to discover more about you,” he cleared his throat as if to accent his own statement with importance.  The bishop gestured for her to follow him to the other side of the chamber, behind the tall altar where the tallest cross she had ever seen hung, there was an entryway into a small room around the back of the hanging sculpture.  Inside that small room were two chairs and tiny table, hidden behind in this secret room, with one small unlit candle unneeded while light from above streamed in from the vaulted ceiling.  He sat down on one side and motioned for her to sit as well.  

“I am your future husband’s confessor.  He shares everything with me, and now I offer the same service to you.  Now that we have established your name, your father, and I know your village, please tell me more.”

Alaires thought quickly, she was told she was to marry a young man who came from here and he was to inherit his father’s land and more titles.  Her own father was not near to provide guidance in this conversation and something about this Bishop did not settle well with Alaires.  She was sought after for her language skills and social status and possibly her dowry and inheritance she was presuming.  How was she presented by her father, she wondered.  Her values were based on what she presented to this man, and if she copied what her father said, she would have confirmed her father as a man of veracity. How much, or how little, did her father say?  Should she confess she knows many languages and can read at least two of them?  This man before her was to relay the value of her skills to someone of a greater authority, that was easy to figure out.  She decided to give the man enough to present some value and the rest she decided to present herself with great humility, in case she missed some skills her father had mentioned, and more so it would make her appear submissive, something her father said would make her acceptable.

“I asked how many languages you speak?”  The priest seemed frustrated with her drift off into thought.

“Several.”  She missed that question refocusing on his face with her quick answer.

“Name them.”  He demanded.

“Arabic, Frankish, and of course Spanish.”  She decided to keep Latin her private language knowing full well it was the language of the church and she could use her knowledge of this when anyone from the church wanted to communicate, usually, in a way that excluded most others. 

“How is it that a girl of your age can speak so many different languages?”  His tone sharp with disbelief.  His eyes darted to the door thinking of the maid that he knew spoke Arabic and their private conversations. 

“My father would host many merchants in our household.  They stayed and in order to pay for their keep during their stay, they would teach me.  I may not know each language enough to read or write, but I know enough to understand and be understood.”  She recalled how often she was reprimanded for being too clever, for reading, for writing, or even being interested in business.  She opted for the humble persona – a mere student.

The priest, knowing Spanish, spoke to her in those two languages something inconsequential and Alaires spoke in return, flawless in her reply.  Arabic was beyond his scope and he decided to accept her word on it.  They continued in Frankish.  

“Tell me of your religion, Alaires de Die.”

She paused to hear her maiden name.  “I am Roman Catholic, as is my father, my mother, and generations before them.”  She was irritated by his abrasive manner and wanted to send the shuttlecock of the conversation back to him with a swiping comment.  “Tell me if you have a book building, a place to read and think.  Tell me of the books you have.”  Right after words came out of her mouth she realized her humble persona had now dissipated. 

He looked at her squinting his eyes wondering if this young woman had a behavior problem, or was she possessed by a demon, one minute sweet and obliging, the next demanding.

Alaires continued, “I found it very odd that although it is demanded that our religion be observed, followed, and rules wrapped around the bible like skin to the man, that no man is allowed to have a bible, to interpret this word on their own.  So how can people understand and follow and spread the word when that very book of knowledge is not allowed to be shared, copied, and read by its own people?” 

“That is a priest’s job, not the common folk. You are an impertinent young woman, aren’t you!”  He scoffed at her.  “Tell me, do you talk in your sleep?”  He said it as almost a throw away question.  He looked away, in a very casual manner, as if caught by a more interesting subject on the other side of the room.  He focused on a small mouse that poked its head through a hole in the wall, then it disappeared again.

Alaires, paused, and took a beat before she answered.   He was pushing for something but she knew not what.   “Now, how would I know that?  I am asleep when and if I talk.”  He is stalling for time for some reason, these questions seemed odd.

“Do you walk in your sleep?  Have you ever woken up in a different place than where you fell asleep?”  His eyes turned back to focus upon her again.

“I am not possessed by demons if that is your question.  I do my prayers, I do my confessions, I tend to my duties within the church, I have been raised with the assistance of the church, there is no need to suggest anything untoward.”  She felt strong in her answer.  How dare he seek demons within her. 

She was now tired of the interrogation and wished to be released.  She wriggled in her seat and began to look for distractions.  Short though their time together, she knew this was heading in a bad direction.  

“Good, because I would not like to spend another night sitting outside your chamber door.”

Alaires froze her face so as not to give the satisfaction of a response.  How dare this man sit outside her door, she thought.  How dare he invade her privacy, but if nothing else she could prove her chastity. The mystery of the chair outside her door was now solved.  So it was him, he sat outside waiting for something, but was not given any evidence of nighttime activity.  They both heard the squeak of the large chapel door and a weak thick accented voice call out, “M’lady?”

The priest looked down at the floor and noticed a small ordinary spider scamper across a tile close to the table leg. Without standing, he reached out a foot and stepped on it deliberately, then stood up and gave that queer smile and gestured with his hand that Alaires should leave with the beckoning maid.  

Alaires gave a cold look to the priest.  She closed her eyes for a second and gave a prayer for the spider, but not for the priest.  After a deep exhale taking the second to show she would leave when she was ready, then stood, and walked out of the chapel with her maid.  She had met her husband’s confessor who would also be hers.  She walked out, with a polite bow at the last minute before she walked through the door, and bid adieu.  This would not be a comfortable relationship if her future marriage was more than could fit in the marriage bed. 

Back to her room she went, her fate yet to be determined.  She wondered if this interview could have erased the possibility of the future wedding to the mysterious man and his family who to her knowledge had never appeared.  Her deduction at this point was a rude bishop, an invisible future husband, a missing future family, and now a father who only sent notes, and that left her with a foreign maid who was more afraid and slippery than a fish.  Alaires was advised, and so was her father, that the groom would arrive in two days time.  And so it was agreed by the Comte that yes, two more days and then if no meeting or wedding was to be arranged, the three would return home, said another note passed to Alaires from her maid.  Where had her father gone she wondered.

Two more days passed, the Comte had dinner with the master of the household, Alaires still ate with her maid, with the expectation that she was encouraged to eat with the priest, but she fained illness at each request.  Those two extra days of waiting were filled with wet storms, the days were miserable and Alaires had to keep her shutters closed to keep the pelting rain out of her room unlike the first two sunny days when they arrived.  Yusrah did come three times a day with food, news, and to fulfill her duties.  Both she and her father were no longer given tours or entertainment, they were sequestered to their rooms.  Alaires longed for either her father or her maid or at least something to break the boredom of time dragging on.  Yusrah came with a table game, backgammon and she was about to teach Alaires the rules.  

“Yusrah, you have been to the village?”

“Oh yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Yusrah began to describe a village, from her point of view.  Alaires began to see a lot of similarities between the two cultures – her own and her maid’s who came from the middle east, hopes of healthy children within a family, a prosperous life, a sense of community, safety, community, really not that different.  

“So, if I wanted to go for a walk on my own, what would happen?”  She began to think that maybe her interpretation of being kept a prisoner in a room with no lock was only as imprisoning as what she imagined.  She began to think that maybe it was Yusrah that kept her in the room.  Something did not seem comfortable to Alaires, as the days passed, she was kept from her father.

“M’lady, you are welcome to leave, you are welcome to search for your father, but I caution you.  You should cover yourself far more than you do in your room, such as your head.  Never leave for long periods of time.  You should not go far.  You are welcome to go out but not to be out for long as terrible things happen the longer you stay outside this room without a family chaperone.  When I was outside this castle, I was touched by unclean hands, robbed, captured, and I lost my family.”  The maid looked so ashamed for something that was not her fault, but in her mind it was her fault for enticing such thoughts in a man for just being visible. 

“Well now let’s see, I have been transported a great distance so I cannot even go back to a neighbouring village, so I don’t think I have much to lose.  As for being touched by unclean hands, I think if you stay with me, all should be well.  Do not women walk alone here – ever?”

“Not virtuous women, It is not recommended unless they are inviting trouble.”  Yusrah appeared to be nervous with this conversation.  She now hesitated with the setup of the game. 

“Is there a trustworthy male servant anywhere that can accompany us – since father is not around.”  

“You want I should call Priest Raymond?”  Yusrah commented, a bit relieved.

“May God forgive me, no!”  Alaires thought she made it quite clear that that particular man was not favoured.

“I can ask my brother who works with the horses to join us.  His name is Ali.”  The two girls raised their eyebrows in a mischievous manner, giggled, and Yusurah left the room with a promise to return shortly.  The game was abandoned for an adventure. 

Two hours later Yusrah returned with Ali who stood in the hallway never daring to take a step closer to the chamber.  He was a tall thin teenager, curly black hair, he had very soft deep eyes, pimple faced and shy.  He watched more than he spoke, until he discovered that Alaires spoke enough Arabic for a light conversation.  Alaires stretched out her hand to place on his shoulder to show she was trusting of this younger man but he jumped back to avoid her hand.  

“You must not touch me.”  He said plainly.  “No woman must touch me.”

“Stay beside me, keep your arm linked with mine and Ali will walk in front, tell us where you want to go and Ali will guide.”  Yusrah was rather presumptive sometimes, asking a young woman where she wanted to go in a place she had never been.

“I want to go to the place where the other women are now.  I think I was shown the best of the village, I want to see where the women are.”

Ali put his hands on hips, and began to lead the two out of the castle and into the streets yet still within the castle walls.  As they exited the great doors, Alaires looked back at where she was kept.  It was known as the Castillo de Loarre, Ali had said.   Once through the tall doors, she saw the main path out of the castle lined with huts, their doors opened and families streaming in and out.  She saw animals, sheep, goats, dogs, being pushed to the side, in the way of walkers.  She saw fires smoking inside the homes, the smells of cooking gruel and wood ash, the floating cinders as they made their lazy way up into the sky.  She saw only a few children, dirty, running wild in the muddy streets now that the rain had temporarily halted.  She saw beggars, she saw merchants, and she saw a large hut at the end, near the door, where men came and went dragging their feet and bragging of their exploits.  That must be the place where the drink was served. The people spoke Frankish.  Alaires walked arm in arm with Yusrah and a step behind Ali as recommended.  There was much to see, to smell, to hear.  With these people living so close together, with their animals and their army, they were irritable and reeked of bile.

Ali went to a hut, off to the side, behind the main path.  There was a sound of hammering on metal.  He stood outside the eves of the building and called out to the young man.  “Faro, we seek your wife.”  He turned to Alaires and said the wife came from the same village as herself.

Faro stopped hammering.  He was unusually tall, and when he turned it was obvious he was injured in the past.  He had an eye missing and cared not to wear a patch.  The scar went from the top of his head, through his eye, to the middle of his cheek. Then Alaires noticed he walked unusually, he had a clubfoot and wore a  special shoe to even out his pace as one leg was slightly longer than the other. Otherwise his health looked good.  His muscles were glistening in the firelight, and he spoke in a kind but firm voice.

“Why Ali?”  The blacksmith was curt, burly, and uninterested in stopping his work.

“Her sister wishes to know she is well.” Faro knowing full well that his wife had no sister twisted his head in disbelief but seeing the two women behind and no evident threat, he saw no harm and gave the definition of sister one of religious intent rather than family, in his mind.  He raised his hand and with a quick gesture and he motioned for a young woman to step into the more public area of their residence, his work area.  Emma, the blacksmith’s wife, stepped forward from behind a ragged curtain.  

Yusrah opened her arms and ran to her.  “Emma, are you well?”

Emma spoke in calm words, quiet enough to be respectable yet loud enough for Faro to hear.  “I am well.  You are welcome to come inside, have tea with me.  Share your adventures.”

Alaires was aware immediately by her accent alone, this woman came from the same place as herself but she did not recognize the young wife.  “You speak my language.”  She was surprised but outwardly calm. 

Faro looked up and mentally measured the connection the two began to have.  He appeared suspicious but not alarmed. 

Emma, in a surprise move, spoke in an old French dialect, “I am well.  I am treated well.  I am given much freedom. This is a good life.”

Alaires replied,  “I can see we are from the same village but I do not recognize you.  Who is your father?”

Faro yelled, “Frankish!”  He could not understand, but Alaires could.

Emma continued in Frankish, “I was raised in a convent, actually a small abbess as an orphan.  Although my family had money, land, and even a lovely home, as their only child, when they died, I was placed with the abbess and the church then was paid to tend to my needs and the land, and everything else, became the payment to tend to me.  They arranged my marriage as well, and so you see, all is well.”

“May I ask, do you know Mother Xaveria?”  Alaires leaned into Emma for her answer.

“Yes, she is the one.  I have not seen her for over 10 years.  Tell me, is she well?”   Emma continued in Frankish, in case her husband wanted in on the conversation.

“Quite well.  Eating well.  Still the woman in charge.”  Alaires raised her eyebrows and smiled, obviously too polite to add too much but enough to encourage a wandering thought. 

Faro smiled at his wife.  Emma continued, ”I think I remember you, your mother died of poisoning, no wait, not poisoning, she fell to her death – that was it, she did, yes?  And you father placed you in the abbess with us?  You were but a small child, and he went on a pilgrimage.  Yes, I remember now.  I was ten years old and you were but a lamb.”

Alaires replied quickly, “You must have me mistaken with another, my mother passed in childbirth.”

Emma tried to correct herself, “Alaires, your father is Comte De Die, is he not?”

“Yes, he is, but you must have me mistaken with someone else.  But yes, I was at the same abbey.”  Alaires was now feeling uncomfortable and gave Yusrah and Ali a look that she wanted to return to the castle.  This was not the first time that someone referred to her mother’s death in a conflicting way that she had known. 

When Emma’s husband heard that Alaires was from the castle and about to be married, he stopped his work and bowed in her direction as the three, Ali, Yursah, and Alaires, left.  Emma gave her husband an odd look when their backs were turned.  As the three were just around the corner, a mere few feet away, Alaires could hear Emma’s last comments.

“No one told her of her mother’s death?  Poor child, never to know the truth.”

When the evening meal was ready, Alaires was advised she would be eating with her future in-laws and her father.  She had not been able to meet up with her father for the entire day.  She wanted so badly to discuss the comment that Emma made, but the timing had to be just right.  

While the wine was being passed and poured from glass to glass by a servant, Alaires noted the deeper observance she was given when offered the chance to add to the topic.  They spoke of minstrels they had enjoyed, of good paintings, even of Bernard, a man that Alaires had just met before her arrival at the castle. She paced her responses, neither wanting to be too over enthusiastic, but then again also wanting to appear highly engaged in any topic that shuttle cocked across the table.  For all the delay, it appeared her father had forgiven all and so with his lead, Alaires too forgave even the point that her groom was still not present.  Again they were assured he would be present the next day.

Alaires looked carefully at her in-laws to be.  The mother was thin, she had a whine to her voice and it seemed she had no hair, not even eyebrows.  Alaires wondered if it was fashion or an unfortunate condition but good manners made her hold her tongue.  She heard her say often that something, anything, and everything, was not up to her standard of acceptance.  Alaires decided to nod her head in agreement with each complaint.  It would be best to keep on the better side of her future mother-in-law.

Her future father-in-law was a dear man, much shorter than his wife, a dark man with unruly curly hair and the thickest eyebrows and hair that sprouted out of his ears like wild wisps of dark spider thread.  His nose was bulbous, red, with map-like veins spread over the end.  HIs eyelashes were long and dark and had unusually large eyes.  He peppered his talk with smiles and continuously looked for approval with every comment swinging his head back and forth between his guests and his wife.  One could tell he was trying to make the meeting more positive by over talking his wife’s complaints, each one trying to over step in their conversation with the other.  

Alaires decided to jump a question into the quagmire between her two hosts.  “I was given a tour outside in the marketplace today, and I happened to notice there were hardly any women.  Are the women here not allowed outside or are there few women?”

“It is God’s will.”  Bishop Raymond who was also at the dinner table, smiled like a snake and ended that topic.  It appeared that anything that would introduce a negative angle would be deflected by the Bishop.  It was obvious that he had a vested interest in this marriage, but Alaires could not figure that one out yet. 

The next morning, as the morning ritual began, this time her curiosity peaked.  When Yusrah walked into her room, she had questions for her.  “Tell me, if you are my maid, and women are valuable in this kingdom, why are you not married off?”  

Yusrah stopped laying out her clothes and stood quietly, thinking, not speaking for a while.  She put together her explanation.  “When my village was raided, I was axed and thought myself to be dying as I was raped.  The man put his hands around my neck while he plowed me.  My brother, Ali, saw this, he was younger and unable to stop the man, but he also told my father.  When my father discovered my fate, he put a rope around my neck and threw me down a well so I would die an honour death and not bring shame upon my family.  But, the rope was too long and I lived in the bottom of the well for two days.  My brother brought me up. He knew we could not return so he and I travelled far, together, leaving my family.  And you see,” She lifted her top to show her stomach, “My scars show that I cannot bare children.  Although I survived the raid, I survived the rape, I survived the honour killing, Allah has taken from me any chance to have a child in this world.  Then we were kidnapped and sold as slaves into this village.  Ali has bought his freedom, where I am safer in the service of this family and so this is my fate, to serve.  I wish to be your personal maid if you marry into this family and I promise to be the most faithful.”  She knelt on her knees before Alaires, a woman slightly older than herself begging to be her servant.  

What a horrible story.  Alaires felt compassion for the poor maid.  She was taken, believed to be valuable and her greatest value was taken from her.  Her fear of men, covering up, not only entrenched in her faith as expected, but her fate made her believe she was deserving of such treatment because of her rape.  Somehow Yusrah placed herself as the blame for the rape.  It was inconceivable to Alaires that women could blame themselves for a man’s choices, but it was Yusrah’s faith that kept her strong yet tethered to the idea that she was to blame for any man’s wrongdoing against herself.  Alaires decided it was not her place to pull her away from her faith, no matter how adverse Alaires was towards the Islamic religion. 

“I will do my best.  Yes, I can see it would be beneficial to us both.”  She paused and decided to use the moment to her benefit.  “Yusrah, why does the bishop sit outside my door at night?”

“M’lady, he is listening for the demons he believes you may carry within you.  He wishes to hear you talk in your sleep.”

“Ridiculous!”  She threw her arms in the air and rolled her eyes.

“And more m’lady,”  Yusrah wanted to be trusted and so shared more. “And he wants to know if you are possessed by demons at night, and because of this fear they have, the family has stayed away to hear reports of your night time activities.  They heard that you may carry the same demons as your mother.”

“Same demons?  At night?  My mother?  What nonsense!”  Her eyes got bigger as her face became distorted with horror at such gossip.

“Yes, and so they will not let you meet your future husband until they are satisfied by the bishop that you will not meet the same fate as your mother.”

“My mother died in childbirth.  God determined that, not demons.  Who gives this information to this family?  Does my father know?”

“Your father knows now.  He met with the bishop and your future father-in-law.”  Yusrah would not raise her head to look Alaires in the eyes.  She just stood still with her hands wringing in her apron. 

“Why has my mother’s death come into question here?”  Alaires demanded to know.

“Because we know, we know because the bishop used to live in your village when he was a parish priest, we know because the blacksmith’s wife came from your village with the same story, we know because the surf that travelled with you confirmed the story to the bishop that you are the one and the same family, although I think the bishop called for you anyhow and knew you and your father before.”

“Know what?!”  Alaires knew that she was being pulled into a tragic story with one key point missing.

“You mother was possessed by the demons, she walked at night, she went through a window and died shortly after you were born.  She fell to her death.  To commit suicide is a sin.”

“She did not commit suicide!  Bring me to my father.”

Within minutes Alaires was banging on the door of her father’s chambers. Yusrah left Alaires once at her father’s chambers, herself running back to the kitchen so as to remove herself from whatever disaster she felt she began.  Yusrah left the yelling in the distance and did not want to return.  When the door swung fully open he stood there aware that his daughter discovered the secret of her mother’s death.  Nothing else could have had such a reaction. 

Alaires stormed in, her dress flowing behind her like dragon wings and her legs pushing the bulk of the skirt ahead.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?”  He wanted to be sure they were on the same topic.

“That mother did not die in childbirth, rather she died walking in her sleep?”

“To what end?  To make you live in fear of your own life, to copy your mother?”

“You treated me that way anyhow!”  She retorted.  “The water by my bed in the nunnery, put there by God knows who every night, now I know that water was supplied to balance my humours, sleep walkers are thought to have unbalanced waters in the brain.  And the fact that my room was always on the ground floor no matter where I lived.  And bars on my windows, and locks on my doors, and people sitting outside my room at night, listening, or watching, or knowing my sleep.  Do I sleep walk father?  Do I?”

“No, you do not.”

“Do I sleep talk?”

“No, you do not.”

“So what happened to mother?  I deserve the truth.”  With hands on her hips, she fought to keep our mouth closed and listen to the story of her mother’s death.

“Your mother, she, we, lived in the manor that we have now.  A week after you were born, your mother, she rose in the night and went to your room, the first time you had slept in a room by yourself.  It disturbed your mother, and I insisted that you sleep in the nursery.  I blame myself for causing your mother distress. She feared you would stop breathing.  We found her in the morning under your window with the shutters in your nursery open and she had plunged to her death.”  His words were whispered in a low baritone voice, barely audible.

He stopped and looked to see his daughter’s reaction.  She was still, so he continued.  “The sheriff came and I was accused of pushing her out the window until they discovered there was no reason for me to do so and no evidence and the fact that your mother came from a family of night walkers. The doctor said your mother’s humours were not balanced and suggested her brain was dry and she sought water.  Then the local church became involved, and yes, the same Bishop Raymond, who was then a parish priest, came to the house.  He suspected she was possessed by demons, maybe even committed suicide, and therefore she could not be buried with due prayers and consecration. I was beside myself and had to have her buried in the right way.  So, I pledged to have my one and only daughter raised by the church to assure him that the demons he suspected were not living within you.  When you turned six, you were given to the church, with only summers back in the manor, until which time both myself and Bishop Raymond decided it was time to marry or have you become a nun.  And, I had to pay the church a yearly fee to keep you in a… safe room, and prove you did not carry any demons.”

“So you two decided it was time for me to marry?  You and this stranger?”

“He is not a stranger, he knows your mother’s family.  They were walkers too, he said when your mother passed.  But he also has a stake in this household and so with limited choice he approached me to arrange the marriage.  And I would prefer you marry, even if it were someone from his choice and not mine.  I would prefer you marry and not become a nun.  You would dry up inside if you became a nun.  It is not the life for you.  I would also like to have grandchildren and know that you are happy.  It is only you and me – we are the end of the line and I had to protect you.  I have to protect,” he wondered how to say this,  “our family.”

Alaires took a deep breath and realized that she only had her father.  To deny her only father would leave her destitute.  

Her father opened a large bag and pulled out a magnificent dress.  “Tomorrow you marry because you passed their test. They believe you are not a walker.  They believe you do not carry the sins of your mother.  There are no demons and you are pure because you were raised in the house of God.  We can have a reading of the bans this Sunday.”  

Alaires pulled at the stiff skirt of her new sky blue dress embroidered with magnificent pink thread.  A dress so delicate, so pure and regal. The Comte then brought out a beautiful small, delicate tiara and placed it on the bed beside the dress. It was made of silver, with tiny leaves and tiny slivers of diamonds and other coloured jewels sparkling within the folds of the decorations.  With every pilgrimage, her father was praying for his wife and preparing his daughter for her wedding day, stashing away a little treasure each time he came and went until he had everything ready for her.  She knew her mother would want her to marry.  She then realized how much her father had sacrificed to keep her protected, to keep her mother in heaven’s reach, and to ensure a family line.  She sighed at her revelation as she touched her tiara.

The Comte sat down beside the dress.  Alaires sat beside her father with her head on his shoulder.  In a whisper she gave him his wish.   “I will marry him, father.”  

“You are your future husband’s good luck talisman, just by being with him, you shall make him successful. I hope he recognises this.” Alaires’ father remembered his darling wife saying just this, in her line of women – they always brought their loved ones success. He tapped his chin and smiled at his daughter, she was so like her mother.

_______Notes for author________

Word count as of July 4, 2020 17,663

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=79&v=PwAKPIUKAyM –Carmina qui quondam (excerpt) – Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy I:1 Music

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNW0js0qFec – 1 Hour of Early Middle Ages Music YouTube 360p

Herbs from the Marseille area:  Pissentant (can make people wet the bed) Yarrow, wound wort, colts foot (good for coughs ads sore throats, bilberry (tea), Plaintain (very bitter), goats cheese ate when snowbound – has a floral aroma due to what the goats eat, higher up, more ibex (wild goat – you can tell how old they are by how many ribs their horn has. So light footed they can scamper on inches of cliff.  Can jump 1.8 klm from a standing start. Hunted for meat and small bone in their heart for a talisman.  Easy prey for hunters as they stand still on the side of a mountain.)  Mountains 26 summer -26C winter.  Newts in the upper mountains swimming in cold ponds.Littered with rocks upper mountains.  Marmots in upper mountains.  Playful, rub the rocks with their cheeks, Air thins, you can feel it.  Bearded vulture – legend of the griffin (underneath is red people thought it bathed in blood, rather it bathes in water with iron).   Thyme – antiseptic, kills fungus on the foot, frogs everywhere (edible) – viperine snake – has no vennum she eats frogs and fish (can play with it as it is not harmful – has round eye safe not slit eye dangerous)  Horses have very flat hooves  humidity can reach over 80%.  Horses coats turn white as they age.  Insects attracted to darker colours.  Long horned bulls.  Neck reined.  Farmers but their carts in circle, in 15 minutes, the eventers have to take the rings off the bulls horns and not get jabbed or killed. Salt production, wind and evaporation and sun. Flamingos in France in salty lagoons.  

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