viii.
Feast of St Fridolin
6 March Year of Our Lord 1190
Theodosia,
Do you not think I should come to you? You ask for counsel about the itching on the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. None of the women at Knighton had itching such as this when they were with child, but do not let that alarm you. If your midwife says all women itch in childbirth, then perhaps you should interpret her more philosophically—she means you not to fret. At the same time, she could have said so in a way less demeaning to your intelligence.
You were eager to hear more of Sir Guy of Gisborne. My father has done him the great honor—much greater than he deserves—of holding a celebration feast of welcome at Knighton, and I must write quickly—and smudge these pages, I am so sorry—if I am to finish preparing in time for the guests' arrival. I admit, dear heart, my father's actions took me by surprise. This Gisborne, who stamped and glared across the council chamber without a forward-thinking remark of any kind, is a minor lord without lands. (If you have any gossip from Old Melisende, do share it. And don't think me prurient and don't compare me to Sarah the innkeeper's wife. I ask on behalf of my father, who should know of any potential threat.) Yet my father thinks he is young and easily led. He wants to preempt his loyalties before anyone else can. Which is wise, of course. But is he worth it? I think a tourney would have been a better suggestion than a party, given then we could at least see Gisborne fight.
And no more of this foolish matchmaking! They say that when a woman is married she has nothing better to do with her time; I thought better of you!
Give my love to your father. We have missed seeing him, and my father—though he does not say as much—longs for the company of his kin. Though I hope tonight's festivities ease some of his burden, I think he took my warnings about "evil from the north" and the pedlar more seriously than I imagined at the time. He is fretful. I do not mind when he is occupied; as much as I dearly love him, when his mind is on matters of government, I am free to do as I wish instead of being caught by the cook—who is still going on about the privy door—whenever I wish to go riding or when I want to read in the solar instead of darning another set of hose. But when he is fretful . . . I can only hope I am not the cause.
I would send you a knitted cap for Baby William, but you know anything I knit turns into one interconnected knot. Please know that I pray for you nightly and think of you daily.
Marian