The Widow Derbie’s cottage was damp and small. With seven women and three trunks there was not room to sneeze. The Widow Derbie herself sat upon a stool telling a tale that stilled the air. Blind as she was, she was fortunate in that she could move among the men as an invalid, hearing all. She had been in the Great Hall as the men lunched. She had drunk almond milk as the priest from afar told his tale. And most wondrous, she had heard the knight tell of a prophecy that curdled her blood in the thought of it. She now related all these things with good cheer. While they prepared themselves for the eventide’s Mass and feast, her audience of devout women listened intently as to her embellished description of the priest’s speech.
Lady Beasley slowly twined her favorite daughter’s hair into braids to prepare them for binding with the wire mesh of her prettiest crespine. Aethelinda smiled smugly at Philomena who awaited her turn under Lady Beasley’s dexterous fingers. Aethelinda was but eleven months younger and was considered the prettiest of the Beasley daughters. Their mother thought to set off her daughter’s charms to their fullest advantage. She would use all her wit this night to wed a noble knight to her dearest child. In her mind’s eye, she saw the good priest rebuilding the Church and bringing fame to her village while the Knight protected all and sundry from marauders and charlatans. It would please her much if this man stayed and she would do all in her power to make it so.
Ignoring her sister’s taunts, Philomena brushed her youngest sister’s hair with vigour. Hilde was always lice-infested for she took to napping in the dirt of the Oak Grove. She was always one for hiding from noise and bustle. The poor, shy girl had been much affected by the burning of the Church. The wooden pews had been her quiet sanctuary until that dreadful night. Now, not yet in her sixth year, she hid away from fire and smoke. Beside them Kellieth pulled louse after louse from Hilde’s curly hair. She would squeeze the life from them whereupon she dropped them in a cracked porridge bowl. She would use the vermin to feed her beloved chickens.
Besides these quiet sounds and the din from the road, there was no noise save Widow Derbie’s voice, “Aye, the tonsure on his head makes me think he may be more a Friar than a Monk but he claims he be a Monk from far north. Aye, the land of the Scots who fought our men at the wall these many year gone. I was not alive then but my granny was and she said they were fierce fighters. She told me they wore paint upon their bodies and wore dresses like women. But they proved their worth as men and we did fall back disarrayed.”
Philomena was sure her father had said London-town was to the south. She would ask him during the Evening Mass. Her mind raced onwards. If the knight was from the highlands, than tomorrow would be a high holy day for him being that it was the Saint Patrick’s nameday. But no, she remembered herself, he was the patron of Ireland and snakes. She must remember to ask Goody Faceby who the patron of Scotland be. Surely it was not England’s George.
Winifred, in her usual blunt manner, questioned the frail widow. “Why then does the Knight not wear paint or dress? I have seen him. He is dressed in armor with breeches.”
The Widow Derbie looked blindly across the room in the young girl’s direction. Before she could speak, Lady Beasley berated her rude daughter. “Speak not before your betters, Winifred. Do you wish to spend the feast tonight in the cleft praying to Blessed Dubricius for wisdom and a still tongue?”
Winifred crossly returned to her previous activity, petting the servant Anne’s calico cat. Anne looked on in dismay as the girl stroked the poor cat with much force. With a yowl, the calico rebelled, leapt out of her hands and streaked out the open door. This confusion led to the upsetting of the ribbon box and recriminations all around. Finally, Ermengarde with her good sense asked “Please, dear lady Derbie, tell us of the Knight’s prophecy.” Philomena leaned forward at these words.
The Widow Derbie settled her self once more upon her low stool. “Oooh, it is a dark tale. The town from which he comes, I forget the name, is mightily cursed.” Even the Lady Beasley’s fingers stopped at these words.
“A sickness lies over the town. Many have died. Aye, the day the young knight left, his name be James, that very day, he buried his father.” The women gasped at her words.
“He could not do the duty’s of a son, we were told, for he was sent by vote of the town to the Church of this Friar Tobias with whom he now travels. I forget myself, he calls him Brother, a Monk of a wondrous Church on a wee island. Yes. He is a monk there and has taken a vow of silence.”
Philomena’s hand snuck across to clamp across Winifred’s open mouth. Winifred looked at her sister in anger, but Philomena’s warning look reminded her of her mother’s threat. Later she might ask her sister why a man under such a vow had been heard speaking. The widow continued, “He is or was or may still be the Prior of this Church whose name I canna say for it is not an English name. Be that as it may, within the priory, a woman came to die of the sickness. But she dinna die. She healed and began to nurse others who came with the same sickness. Alas, they all died. All wondered why she still lived, blessings upon God, and they questioned her much. But they could find no cure in her appetite or prayers to explain. Oooh, I am parched from much talking.”
Aethelinda leaped up at these words and brought the blind woman a beaker of water. Lady Beasley, meanwhile, gestured to Philomena to take her place. Philomena was quick to go and was well seated before the Widow Derbie began again, “So. Still they know no cure. One night, the night before the Knight’s father died, the woman had a dream. She woke but dinna woke. She walked to the island’s edge and in the mist began to keen. The monks found her there and awoke her and she told of this dream.”
The blind woman took another sip from her cup. She looked all about her and in a dreadful whisper continued, “She did say that the Fallen Angel came to her.” All the women recoiled and many crossed themselves at these fearsome words. “He told her that he would take each of them good and bad for he was without companions as he walked the earth. Then she said that nothing could save them but the Cross of the Crimson Knight which could only be found in the Forest of Arden in the Church of Balsall!” The women gasped.
Lady Beasley was the first to find her wits. “But this dream is false. There is no Cross of a Crimson Knight in the Church of Balsall. Satan plays havoc with her dreams and brings further ruin to their town.”
The Widow Derbie nodded, “Aye, that is what your Lord and Master told the young Scotsmen. They have traveled far for a fool’s errand.”
“But mayhap,” Philomena spoke cautiously, “Mayhap the Crimson Knight has not yet reached the Church of Balsall. For the feast of St. Joseph fast approaches and a tournament is to be held. Father says knights of Coventry and further afield will list. Perhaps…” With a jerk, Lady Beasely pulled her daughter’s braid.
Lady Beasely had developed a plan, “Ah, but what if the dream was misunderstood. I see another solution. Perchance the Crimson Knight is the Scotsman himself? If he did marry into the line of Beasely he would take on our shield which is crimson. And what if the Cross that he is to bear is the cross that he carries from the Knights Templar to affix to the spire of our new Church!”
This new interpretation brought all into an uproar. The servant Anne began to cry as she imagined the blessed day their Church was rebuilt. Philomena’s other sisters excitedly discussed which of them should marry the Knight although all knew it would probably be Aethelinda. Meanwhile, Hilde hid neath the cot of the Widow Derbie and curled up betwixt Anne’s other cats.
Only Philomena was unmoved by this new development. She did not like this interpretation. If true, it would mean no chance for her to see the tournament in the Scottish knight’s retinue. Instead she would watch one of her sisters married while she stood behind her new husband and lord, Roy of Nuneaton. She looked with downcast eyes at the skirt of her best kirtle. It was still dyed red for Christ’s Day and there had not yet been time to color it purple for Eastertide. She looked with envy at Aethelinda’s flowing mustard chemise. Her kirtle of a deep pumpkin was still drying in the weak, spring sun. All eyes would be upon Aethel’s fair face that night.
She nursed her last spark of hope, what if, as last sevenday, Roy looked more upon Aethelinda than on her? Would her father bow to his desires? Together Lord Beasely and Roger Roy might suade the Earl to transfer this marriage troth. Philomena was decided, she would allow Aethel to wear her best slippers.
