Fear Not, Alice

Dearest Alice:

Harold assures me that he will reach London in a fortnight. He will come bearing a myriad of foodstuffs and drink enough to drown half the city and this, my letter for you. Do not fret about my welfare, kind Alice. There is no question that the pestilence is in our midst here in Lincolnshire, but we have endured far worse by God's grace and mercy. I will wager that this, the year of Our Lord 1348, will not be the last that our fair county will endure. I will confess that Lincolnshire dimmed when you departed for the imperious shadows of London, but there is light here, still.

I wish to assure you that I have not suffered the febrile touch of the pestilence myself, though I have felt a bit poorly of late. When the ugly muttering of a plague is in the air, my sweet Alice, the other mortals act most queerly, especially if one exhibits the slightest sign of any ailment whatsoever. I am merely suffering some mild disturbance of the humors, but to sneeze or cough is practically to declare that one is the gleeful puppet of Beelzebub, intent upon befouling one and all! I have also found it to be most vexing when, if another party makes it out that one is unwell, invariably the dowser of distress will address one as one might a fool or a child. You know how often I am a damnable idiot, Alice, but I am neither a fool nor a child.

If we insult and scorn the ill, we insult and scorn ourselves, or those mortals we will be soon enough. Why so many fail to see that we are all one body, and will all suffer the ills of of that body by and by, I cannot tell. A finger that mistreats a thumb mistakes itself for a stranger. How grateful I am to God and the smiling saints that your soul will never be further from mine than the breadth of a palm, darling Alice. Marriage has made us one flesh, and though I have added no beauty to the mixture, know that I have happiness enough for us both! I am mad with love for you, and there seems to be no cure for my affliction. I am relieved. I want no poultice or potion.

I am sure that you have grown even more beautiful since your departure, Alice, as is your wont. Many have asked after you with customary, bland solicitousness. A few genuinely care to hear some report of your adventures, though. Matilda and I talk of you often. When we do, I envy both of you. I do not think that men know a thing about friendship, as compared to women, especially women like you and Matilda. When I report that you have suffered any small mishap, Matilda's face contorts with misery, and she doubles over as though struck. When glad tidings about you reach her, it is as if she grows younger and stronger before my eyes, and a smile gently touches the edges of her wide mouth that would suit a cat after a drink of milk.

She will never get over the loss of her daughter, Alice. Little Edith had the sort of laugh that made one wonder if an old woman was hiding within her and thoroughly amused by her own mischief at that! She made William feel clever, which is as cunning a trick as I have ever seen. Just handing her a bit of cheese was enough to make her smile at him as if he had bested an army or built a castle. I miss her, but Matilda will never be sound again. I wonder if she cherishes your good company because Edith loved you so, and would play your sunny tresses like the strings of a harp.

William is little comfort to her, as you know. A taciturn oaf as a lad, he has not changed. I sometimes wonder if the grey hairs in his beard have told the rest of him the truth: his youth has fled! Edith kept age from their hearth for a while, but they have both grown dry and brittle without her, and your absence parches all of our throats.

Do you remember, Alice, talking with me and the stars, just after St. Barnabas' feast? We were silly and supine in the grass, together. What a marvel it was, Alice, to hear all of the things you thought and felt, in the dark. Never had I heard anyone wonder what the stars must think, looking at our folly. Never had I heard anyone ask the inky heavens, and my small ear, if all that we suffer might not be forgotten, looking at the patterns light makes in the night.

I can remember what it was like to learn to read, Alice--or perhaps I think I can. It is more likely that, having watched Edith make her way like a nervous faun across the thin ice of a spring sentence, I have mixed her present and my past. But coming to know and understand a language, and coming to know and understand you, are very much alike, sweet Alice. Not only that, but you have taught me to read the world, and my own heart, much differently. I know the Latin of the Mass thanks to routine repetition, but the meaning of each word I can seldom tell. I make the sacred sounds, but their spirit is hidden from me. You have translated the whole book of life for me, Alice. What used to be dull and ugly is baptized and sanctified. Fetching a loaf of bread, or drawing water--forgive me, sweet Alice, but even making water--makes me glad as it never did before, for I know that I will tell you a tale about the smallest things, and you will laugh and let me see them as you do, and I will have lived twice while few live very well even once.

Let me not forget to tell you about Brother Faramond, who asks after you every time I happen upon him. He has been illuminating a manuscript and is not sure of his choice of colors without your sage counsel. We talk of the mysteries of the faith, and he has told me more than once that you have allowed him to see secrets in scripture that even the Abbot would be sore amazed to fathom. I think your cleverness will soon be known to everyone, Alice. Do not be surprised if your advice is sought by many a mortal upon your return.

Brother Faramond told me in hushed tones but days ago that the Bishop has advised the whole of the diocese to confess to anyone who has the charity to listen, should the pestilence bring them low, for priests are in such short supply. I wonder if this means that you are right when you whisper that all are made of the same flesh that Our Lord and Savior put on for our sake, and perhaps there is no need for abbots and bishops and popes. I will confess that a cloud of fear passes over my heart when you whisper these sparkling, dangerous thoughts to me, when our limbs are tangled and your hair has been confused by our bed. How your thoughts became so free I cannot say, but it is exciting to watch them run hither and thither, where mine would never trespass.

Alice, my darling, I am grateful that you were born, and grew wise, and waited patiently for me to do so too. I am sure I will catch you eventually. You know, I often wake up next to you and cannot believe my good fortune. I look about the room for some sign that I have been deceived, and sigh contentedly when you are still beside me, your warm dreaming proof that, sinner that I am, God has seen fit to give me joy I do not merit.

I envy London the gift of your smile, and hope very soon to enjoy it once more myself. I will remember you to Matilda and Brother Faramond. I may have to remind William of who you are, but having done so, I will offer him your blessings and good wishes also.

Fear not, Alice. I will wait patiently for your return, and ought to be hale and fit to find out everything you have learned in London when we are reunited. I do hope that the city does not smell like a charnel house any longer. Your old uncle has profited from your ministrations and recovered his strength, I trust? Falling from a roof is no small matter. I wonder if all of the ale kept him from dying?

I believe you will mend him like a torn garment. You put everything right, Alice. Watching you read or walk or slice a turnip makes me wish I could remember everything forever.

Yours,

Gilbert