Beauty Read Free

by so much as a word, done anything improper toward me. Sometimes, after a lengthy rain, I will find my bench in the garden carefully dried off and a rose laid upon it. I'm sure it is Giles who does it, but he doesn't say anything, nor do I. Still, he is my friend. He would not act so otherwise.
    My other friend is Beloved.
    Her mother calls her Beloved, though her name is actually Mary Blossom. She is the daughter of Dame Blossom, an artisan freeholder, a weaver, in the village. Dame Blossom is very much respected by everyone because she is a midwife and can heal wounds and set bones. If there is trouble, better get Dame Blossom and stay away from doctors, everyone says. It's true. From time to time one or the other of the aunts has consulted a physician, and all the great scholars ever did was sniff at their piss, bleed them dry, and give them some dreadful mixture that-so says Martin-would kill the old ladies off a few years before their time. Beloved is my personal maid. She is also my friend and almost certainly my half sister, almost my half-twin.
    Not that Beloved is the only young one running about the castle who looks a lot like me. Everyone pretends not to notice, but I would have to be blind not to see. When two mares who do not look alike throw foals that look exactly alike, you know the same stallion has been at them, so it's clear my Papa has been at Dame Blossom. That was sixteen or more years ago, of course, when she was younger and prettier. I remember her when I was a little girl. She was quite slender and gay then. She has put on weight since, and become very grave, which is a suitable style for a respected matron.
    So, Beloved is my half sister, born on the same day I was, and she looks enough like me to be my twin. Sometimes I love her and sometimes I hate her because she has a mother and I don't. We sometimes dress up as each other and Beloved will take my place in the castle, in the dining hall or sewing with the aunts, and they never know the difference. She can spend all day in the castle without anyone guessing that she isn't me. But, if I go down to the village pretending to be the weaver-woman's daughter, Dame Blossom takes one look at me and says, "Beauty, it isn't nice of you to tease me this way. Go tell my silly daughter to come home."
    That always makes me feel like crying for some reason. Maybe because she always knows right away I'm not Beloved. You have to notice people to be that sure about them. Though I have thought that maybe it is because she can see the burning thing in me. I know Beloved doesn't have one of those, because I asked her. She wondered if it was like dyspepsia, and I told her it was not.
    3
    DAY OF STS. PETER AND JAMES, MAY, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1347
    Yesterday my father, who is thirty-seven years of age, returned from pilgrimage to Canterbury-he has already made pilgrimages to the tombs of St. Francis of Assisi, St. Martin of Tours, St. Boniface at Fulda, and St. James at Compostela, as well as to Glastonbury, Lindisfarne, Walsingham, Westminster, St. Albans, and all places else where there are relics of note. Immediately upon his arrival, he told us he intends to marry again. He told us his intended wife will arrive shortly with a small retinue, and that they will all stay for the betrothal ceremonies. Her name is Sibylla de Vinciennes d'Argent. I detested her from the moment I saw the miniature of her that Papa insisted we all admire.
    You must not think this rejection of a stepmama is provoked by hostility toward another woman who will take a beloved mama's place. I have heard tales like that, but I don't know whether I would have loved Mama or not; she has given me no opportunity to find out. As for Sibylla's taking my place in my father's affections, she can't take what I have never had. Though I am almost sixteen, he has done none of the things one expects of a loving papa. He made no provision for my education, merely leaving me to the mercies of the aunts. If Father