Lionheart by Martha Rofheart

Author:Martha Rofheart [Rofheart, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-05-21T04:00:00+00:00

BOOK V - THE BRIDE

Told by Berengaria, Princess of Navarre, later wife to Richard

CHAPTER 1

When I was twelve a Catalan witch-woman cursed me; the “cold curse,” she called it. I have never forgotten the words.

It was my birthday, and I had been given my first full-grown palfrey to ride. A mare she was, and gentle enough, except she did not yet know my touch on the bridle. Snow-white, with a golden mane, pink nostrils, and large golden-brown eyes, she was Arab-blooded; I called her Fatima, the only Arab name I knew.

Spring had come early that year, with much flooding from all the little mountain streams; the roads were mired and muddy as we rode back from morning Mass. I was happy, for, as well as the new mount, I had received a casket of gold coins and a pearl necklet, the match to the one worn in the portrait of Our Lady Mary that hung in the chapel. I pursed my lips to look more like the portrait as I rode, the necklet bobbing on my bony little chest

Fatima stepped delicately, lifting her white legs high in the muddy way and a snuffling lightly in the golden, rain-washed air. I saw it before she did, a dark form crouched at the side of the road and rising up suddenly, but I was not quick enough; the horse shied, rearing high, so that I had to cling to the pommel, letting go the reins. Her hooves, coming down, struck the woman who stood there, knocking her to the ground and trampling her, before Father caught the bridle and pulled the mare aside.

I truly think the woman was not much hurt, for she got up slowly onto her feet and did not sway, but stood, staring at me with great black eyes like hard stones, her gaudy skirts all muddy and two dark hoof imprints on the front of her bodice where the horse’s shoes had caught her. She was some sort of joglar-woman, her gown scarlet and trimmed with dirty, tarnished silver braid, and her lips and cheeks boldly painted. Lent had not yet started, and these folk had come in to the village for the fair-days that go before. They come every year to dance and tumble for pennies, carrying the round tambourines hung with bells that mark their trade; I had heard it jangle when she fell. Bells must have been sewn onto her skirt too, for, as she toned away, clutching the coin Father had flung her, her foot slipped, and a great tinkling sound went up in the air. I was startled, and nervous, and young, and the sound made me giggle, foolishly. She spun around, spitting the words at me.

“Curses on you, cold laughing maiden! I curse you! The cold curse it is I put on you!” And then she chanted the little verse that has sounded cruelly in my ears ever since. It was a Spanish dialect she spoke, but I understood it; we have varlets in the castle from all the Spanish provinces, and I know the tongue as well as my own.

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