Mason wove through the graves under the gigantic yew tree and hopped up onto the stone wall without even putting down his cup and pie. I put my things on the ledge and hoisted myself up, praying that my round head wouldn’t topple me over onto the other side.
“Did you like the dance?” asked Mason.
“It was fun.” Suddenly I hated the way my mouth formed words. I stuffed in a piece of pork pie. It was intolerably dry. I swigged some gruit and almost choked.
“My favorite part is seeing everyone out there in their skivvies.” Mason laughed, tugging on his woolen braies.
I smiled and looked at my chemise. “Good thing the dancing sped up—I was freezing!”
“Me too! It felt like the sun would never come up.”
“Longest winter ever,” I mused.
“I didn’t mind it so much,” said Mason. “With Henry and me trading work for our fathers, I got to see you every Sunday.”
I whipped a look of shock at Mason.
“What?” He shrugged. “I looked forward to it.”
“But we’ve never talked or anything.”
“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” He tugged at my sleeve.
“Y-you’re not playing a trick on me, right?” I leaned back and looked over the wall to be sure no one was lying in wait. I sat up quickly and brushed his arm—he seemed closer than before.
“A trick?” He looked confused.
Between us was the spring air, the fading perfume of my flower crown and the gruit, and I let myself look at him, like we did at the dance—like I was supposed to be there, like I was meant to memorize the deep blue of his eyes.
Mason broke his egg-and-onion pie in half and handed me the larger piece, and I did the same with mine. We talked, and joked, way into the night by the bonfire, and every scrap of my awkwardness blew away in the fresh air.
I wasn’t sure what was happening, only that things were different, and that all things were possible.
— 17 —
“I was hoping you’d be out here.” A voice shakes me back into the present. I look over my shoulder—Mason is walking toward me. The Saint John bonfires throw gold all over his skin, the flames wavering in his eyes as he looks at me.
“I thought you’d be in town, Mason. Decided to celebrate with the frozen chosen instead?”
“Nice dress,” he chuckles. “Is that new?”
“I got dressed up in cloth of gold for the event,” I say, mocking the gray habit I have to wear now.
“Come with me,” he says. I eye him nervously. “Don’t worry. They won’t see us.” We keep to the perimeter of the walls until we get to the field gate and push through into the free dark.
The midsummer fires are burning in the fields, kindled from hay stubble and great logs donated to the priory. The farmworkers wave torches above the grainfields to dispel any bad air. The bonfires build up until the whole field is under a glowing, smoking tent of protection. We lean against the outside of the wall and watch the smoke rise. Things feel clean and changing.
“You sure you don’t want to be down in Thornchester with the town girls?” I ask.
“Never thought about it,” he says. “In fact, I made you something.”
“Really?” I smile.
He removes my veil pin and lets the linen fall into his hand. From under his tunic, Mason produces a crown of Saint John flowers. He lifts it and places it on my head.
“A diadem for the queen,” he says, doffing his cap, bowing ridiculously. I know how to laugh along with a joke at my own expense. But Mason has another kind of smile playing on his lips. “Different flowers than you had on at that maypole, but the face makes the flowers, not the other way around.”
“This face?” I point. “Don’t you know what they called me back home? Edyth, Edyth, Round and Red?”
“Pig muckers and leech collectors, all of ’em,” he says, plopping down next to me. “To me, you’re Lady Edyth of Flower and Fire.”
And his fingers brush mine, there in the shadow where no one can see. He softly pinches my thumb and lets his fingers wander to my wrist, stroking its thin bones. A petal of my flowery crown is falling; he reaches up with his other hand and plucks it, and the rest of the petals fall away in a shower around my face. We laugh a little, just to see each other smile.
Mason begins to sing softly—
Douce dame jolie
Pour Dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement.
Sweet, lovely lady
For God’s sake do not think
That anyone has power
Over me but you alone.
I’m surprised—I’ve never heard him sing before. His voice is beautiful, blue like his eyes. It reminds me so much of Da’s, lilting and sweet. I know the language is French.
“Where did you learn that?” I ask, enchanted.
“At Christchurch. You meet people from all over the world when you’re on a job site like that.”
“I’m jealous. I’d love to travel somewhere else—outside of England, I mean.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Like you said once, it’s not that simple,” I respond wistfully.
We haven’t talked about the idea of leaving together since that one night by the chapel. I don’t want to press him, and I don’t want to know if he’s changed his mind, but the prospect is so tempting. And yet, the thought of leaving the scriptorium makes my heart sink.
“Can you see it?” he asks abruptly.
“What?”
“A thousand nights like this, looking at you in the firelight.” He still has a gentle grip on my fingers. My heart is in a whirlpool, but I can’t let it lead me. I can’t follow a fantasy, no matter how enticing.
“Do you mean that, John Mason?” I say seriously. “Don’t say it unless you do.”
His smile grows wider and his grin turns into words playing at the edge of his mouth. There’s something he wants to say, and I wish he would—but instead he grabs both of my hands and pulls me to stand. We run hand in hand, through the field, around the fires. He plays at thrusting me toward the fire, pulling me back just in time. Our bellies hurt with laughter.