Paradise, perhaps
…like gleaming gold, lies beyond this bank and stream…I dare not wade, the waters seem too deep. Yet I long to, more and more.
-Pearl, Gawain Poet, 14th century
Despite the admonitions of heads more level than theirs, Claude and Helena declared their intention to marry almost immediately. Why wait? They asked. Everyone of note was present. The High King could marry them. They would only allow a few days for Claude's immediate family to arrive and witness the ceremony.
Edmund was one of the few who had not protested their haste. Relationships were easily ended; the thread that bound two people together easily broken. Let them marry before another misunderstanding drove them apart.
Edmund was aware that he could have called Beatha back when she left the library the night before. She had left the door ajar and lingered for a moment in the corridor. He had still said nothing. In the same way, he had let the flames in the fireplace die down until they were no more than a few glowing coals hidden in the ashes. They would be cold by morning.
After breakfast, he took his book of Philosophy back into the library and settled himself to read the section on Metaphysics. Impulsively, he took up the fire poker and shoved it into the ashes of last night's fire. A split and blackened log crumbled under the onslaught, and he saw a dull red glow. It was a warm day, but he still knelt down and began to pile kindling, working painstakingly until pale flames began to lick at the wood again.
As he sat down once more with his book, he considered all that had passed. No, he was happy to be unmarried and unencumbered by love. It was a tedious waste of time. Lady Beatha could go drown in the castle pond for all he cared. He would not grieve for her.
He did grieve when Claude chose him, of all people, to listen while he unburdened his heart. The young love-struck nincompoop stumbled into the library on invisible waves of exhilaration. Edmund considered hiding behind a corner chair, but felt it was beneath his dignity.
"O! my lord, when we went onward on this ended action, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had a rougher task in hand than to drive liking to the name of love; but now I am returned, and war-thoughts have left their places vacant, in their rooms came thronging soft and delicate desires, all prompting me how fair young Helena was, saying, I liked her ere I went to wars."
"Pardon?" Edmund asked.
"I have been reading the poets," Claude replied.
"Then cease-and-desist for all our sakes."
"Is she not the only star in the Heavens? Is she not the fairest breeze of Spring? Is she not the blush upon the Rose?" Claude sighed. "Sweet Helena!"
"Deliver me," Edmund mumbled. "If this be love, then upon me proved… it's not worth it."
~o*o~
Lady Beatha's day progressed more cheerfully, so full of goings-on that she had no time to think of the past. If she couldn't convince her cousin to put off the wedding, she would at least see that she was properly dressed. She selected one of her own gowns, a cloud of white silk embroidered with silver and shining with seed pearls, to alter for her cousin. She and Helena, Ursula and Margaret began work on it at once.
The hours flew by far too quickly and soon the dinner bell rang, and they went down to join the assembly. A group of would-be dramatists had Rehearsed all day to present entertainment during dinner. They thought to bring a Tragedy, but it departed a Comedy.
They felt the need to explain in a prologue that the players once dead, were not really dead, the Lion (who had once had spectacles drawn on his face many years before) was not really a man-eater and the man holding the lamp was moonshine (at which everyone laughed).
"The whole story will be out before they have even begun it," Lady Beatha said.
"But it is about love! Undying love!" Helena sighed. "For that, anything can be forgiven."
"In stories, perhaps," Beatha replied, "But not in practice."
Melancholy came over Beatha more strongly as the evening progressed and the dancing began. Usually, as night fell and the sun withdrew, all the sorrows of the day faded in the flickering glow of the lamps. This night, the candles seemed to glow like hope… but not hers.
She told herself, "I do not love him," yet she found herself watching everything he did, listening to every word directed towards him, wondering every moment what he was doing or thinking. For three years she had treasured a fragile hope that he loved her still, and she kept it in a secret box like a tiny sun. He had never married, and any lady with whom the gossips attempted to pair him eventually wandered off and fell in love with someone else. Through it all, Beatha told herself, "Perhaps it is for me."
Now she opened the box and snuffed out the tiny spark of hope. No man in love could behave with such perfect indifference as he did. She was a stranger to him, and the realization tore at her like the claws of a Monster.
There were bright moments in life she clung to as the times when she could say, "I may have lost everything, but at least I have this." It seemed it was always those things that were lost, those things she considered most indispensable that were ripped away, and as the years passed the memories lingered like brilliant paintings, and a great Voice said, "Mark this. I took it from you."
But the same great Voice whispered in the darkest nights, "I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten." And she knew that even greater things had to be lost before that time came. She loved Edmund, perhaps too much, and she had lost him through her own contrivance. She had walked out of the library knowing that she was closing a door that would never open again.
Eros may have missed his mark, but she was still in possession of the greatest Love of all, the one that rose like pale pink dawn over a forest fire and made those flames seem garish in comparison with silvery cloud-dust and mist. It was the Love of self-sacrifice, a love that had only been fully realized once in a single Goodness.
She was still young enough to dream up all kinds of fantastical scenarios, imagine herself an old maid, still stately and beautiful, fifty years hence, meeting with King Edmund again, himself still unmarried. She would be gracious to him, and as they walked in the garden together, he would regret what had passed. All the various dreams ended with his apology, and his insistence that he had loved only her. These treasured dreams were snuffed out when she realized that the entire tragedy had been based upon the slenderest misunderstanding.
She was of the mind of the poet who remarked, "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'."
She was so lost in thought as she walked quietly at the edge of the room that she was hardly aware that she had come upon the High King's circle. He had looked at her with a sharp eye, and, as she curtseyed, plumbed her and found her countenance wanting.
"You are sad, lady," he said. "It does not become you to be sad."
She looked up at him and wished for a moment that Edmund was more like his brother, forgiving always, willing to look upon even the most scurrilous knave with a benevolent eye. She wondered if he was ever angry and remembered Edmund once saying that he had only seen him lose his temper on three occasions. Whatever lady won his heart would be fortunate indeed… though it occurred to Beatha that she could never be content with a husband who would not quarrel with her regularly.
"Not sad, my lord," she replied, "Only thoughtful."
"Then shine a sun on those gloomy thoughts," he replied. "They can keep until a rainy day. When you are cast down the whole room feels it."
"I will obey you," she said, smiling.
"You should dance, Lady," Peter replied, then his smile was teasing, "My brother is without a partner."
"What! Dance with a ghastly specimen like King Edmund?" She asked cheerfully, "The ladies only dance with him out of pity."
Peter laughed, but Eoin, who was standing a few paces away, was staring at her with such furious indignation she was almost frightened. Almost.
"In all seriousness, my lord," she said, turning again to Peter, "I think if he wished to dance with me, he would have asked by this time."
"Would you have him if he asked?" Peter inquired with a smile.
"I would," she replied directly, then her eyes twinkled, "But only out of pity."
~o*o~
Sometimes waiting is the greatest tragedy of all. So many things are lost when we hesitate; the leaves, bursting with green one moment, fade and blow away the next. We never see them go, and when we notice, it is too late. The great, grim hands of time move on, leaving us and our uncertainty behind.
Edmund had an epiphany that evening. He realized in a sudden flash that he was about to lose something forever, something that was worth far more than his pride. Up until that moment he had half thought that he and Beatha would be young forever, and would go on living in a constant present. He had assumed that she would always be a sparring partner, that, even if she did not love him, they would always exist in the same universe. Seeing her from a distance would be enough.
The epiphany came while he watched her drift around the room, her face clouded with thought. He had not believed her when she said she would never marry, and he began to wonder how he would feel if she vanished forever from his life. He understood then that no matter what lies he had told himself, he had always loved her, and would always love her. No matter where he went, the memory of her hovered on the edge of his consciousness like a little beam of summer light. Time could never snuff it out; the passing years seemed only to make it brighter.
If he let her go, that beam of light would become an arrow to pierce him. It would be a constant, merciless reminder of all that he had lost. It would never fade; it would only cast cold light on the weary years ahead and show him how empty they were, and how full of joy they might have been.
He had nursed resentment for so long that maintaining it had become more important to him than the incident that had caused it. Finally letting go of it showed him to be a fool. He knew now, just as he had known then, that he should have gone to her after his anger cooled and tried once more to explain. She said she would have listened.
He considered for a moment asking her to dance, but then Peter took her hand and led her out onto the floor. Her sadness seemed to have melted away and her face shone with exhilaration as she spun among the dancers. Edmund told himself that he would speak to her in the morning, lay it all before her and accept his fate, but even as he watched her, a tiny voice asked if it was not too late.
As it turned out, it was.
Author's Note: Now we make a full pivot into Chaucer-land. :D I hope it's enjoyable and unexpected. C. S. Lewis' The Four Loves will play a role going forward, and eventually, A Greif Observed, which I think was his best and most important book.
Also, Fanfiction has turned off email notifications for me once again. It's getting old. :P
