A glowworm crawls across my knee as I make a posy for the prioress, of rosemary and elderflower. I like the combination of their different shapes, both of their leaves and of their scents, the piney midnight blue of rosemary and the brick-red circles of the elder.
I approach the two women and bow. “Mother,” says Agnes, “this is my new assistant, Edyth le Sherman. She’s from Saint Gabriel’s Abbey, which donated for the chapel restoration.”
“Thank you, daughter,” says Prioress Margaret, taking the posy and smelling it. “This is lovely.”
“Venerable Mother,” I say, “this is to say thank you for taking me in after my parents died.”
“Well, Edyth,” she says, smiling. “I hope you feel at home here at Saint Christopher’s.”
“Thank you very much.” I bow to them both and stroll along the gravel paths of the priory grounds. Over the wall in Thornchester, the hollers of the locals go up as they light their own bonfires. I wonder about Henry; he’s probably doing the same thing in Hartley Cross right now. In the square, the boys’ll be taking off their shirts and showing off their acrobatic leaps over the flames as the girls cheer them on. I remember the deep laughter of those nights. Now it seems like another life.
Mason’s probably down in Thornchester, too. The priory has ale and bread at the gatehouse, for pilgrims or drunkards. Better to have the sinners within these gates than out wandering the streets. But Mason wouldn’t stay here to fete with a bunch of nuns. I picture him, under the May sky in Hartley Cross, on a night just like this, only last year.
* * *
—
After a bitter and lengthy winter, Hartley Cross needed warmth and color, and as the new reeve, Da proposed that the town throw a riotous May Day celebration, damn the expense. Lord Geoffrey happily handed over the money. Every household did an extra brewing, and on May Eve, Lord Caxton’s servants brought two cartloads of wood and built them up into an enormous pyre near the market cross.
“If the weather won’t heat up, Hartley Cross will heat up the weather!” Da proclaimed.
Before dawn, the whole town gathered at Saint Andrew’s. There were pork pies and candied fruits, spiced ale and cider, and even a great pig being put on a spit to roast all day.
Fathers held their little children on their shoulders, and families huddled together against the chill as the prime bell rang. The stars began to fade as the sky turned dark blue, the clouds becoming the color of salmon against a backdrop like a robin’s egg. The town was washed in rosy light.
The girls gathered at the steps of the market cross, all of us dressed in our undergowns, with woolens underneath to keep out the chill. Mam waddled over, hugely pregnant. My hair was everywhere. She smoothed it and straightened my flower crown, taking in how I’d changed since the last year.
“Bite your lips a bit and get some color in them,” she said. “My beautiful girl. Where have the years gone!”
“Mam, stop,” I said, nudging my mother’s hands away. Only she would call this mess beautiful. “Enough fussing!”
She patted my shoulders and retreated into the crowd to watch with Da.
The Other Girls bickered and teased and laughed to see each other in their chemises. The younger boys sneaked pinches and taps and tugs on unveiled braids. I stood alone on the edge, exposed and dizzy, overwhelmed at the multitude of people and sounds. I inhaled and exhaled slowly to calm myself. Then the older boys emerged.
And there was Mason, with new green oak leaves in his hair like Oberon, like the wild Merlin. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I hoped he’d look my way, but all the boys in town had eyes only for Methilde, who was obviously going to be chosen as May queen.
I resigned myself to the truth: Edyth Round and Red could never be May queen.
Brother Robert wound the hurdy-gurdy, the rough, oaky shawm and pipes started up, making me see all shimmers and little silver spikes, and the people began to hum along as we processed to the market cross—
Tempus adest floridum, surgunt namque flores
Vernales in omnibus, imitantur mores
Hoc quod frigus laeserat, reparant calores
Cernimus hoc fieri, per multos labores.
Spring has now unwrapped the flowers, day is fast reviving
Life in all her growing powers toward the light is striving
Gone the iron touch of cold, winter time and frost time
Seedlings, working through the mould, now make up for lost time.
We took our places around the tall birch maypole, picked up our long ribbons of dyed cloth and turned to face our partners. The crowd sang along softly, the ode to spring, to heavenly love.
In toward the pole we girls stepped, the boys weaving around us. The dance was slow at first, with courteous bows, partners constantly changing, long looks and blushing smiles. The ribbons wove and unwove; the circles splitting into inner and outer rings. Then the musicians picked up the tempo, and the dancers twirled, trying to keep the steps in order, breaking into smiles, then laughter. Around and around the maypole we ran, until all of a sudden the musicians stopped the song—
—and Mason and I were face to face. Out of breath, red-cheeked, smiling first at the mayhem, and then a different kind of smile, something like knowing.
* * *
—
The day progressed, with its games and drinks, the first true feast of the year. Mothers and fathers pretended not to notice their sons and daughters going off in pairs. There might, after all, be favorable matches made on May Day. Today, every answer was Yes.
I took a pork pie from the table and filled my cup with Mam’s gruit ale. Behind me, I could feel someone standing a bit too close inside the boundary of my own space. I turned my head slowly, hoping it was him, sure it couldn’t be.
It was.
“Mary atte Brook’s pork pies are good,” said Mason, “but try the egg-and-onion kind instead. Here, I’ll take one, and we can share.” He was next to me. His shaggy, ash-blond hair was tucked behind his ear.
I started to sweat and get dizzy. He was talking. To me.
The thought of eating in front of him was mortifying—so visible. In my mind I nodded, but really I just stared. Mason smiled at me, and I could see how vivid his eyes were. The only time people looked at me was when they were making fun of me.
But he wasn’t.
Suddenly he turned and started walking away toward the churchyard. He looked back at me and jerked his head. “Aren’t you coming?”
So I followed behind him like a clumsy little newborn lamb.