Read Online The Burning Time by Robin Morgan - Free Book Online

about
sleeves
—wing, laced, slashed, funneled, hanging, and dagged. As for me, I have never been interested in the latest fashion, and I could focus for just so long on his codpiece—so
that
infatuation soon ended. He barely missed my company; he spent his hours with tailors, cobblers, hairdressers—yes, that casual curl was planned. He would do anything to enhance his appearance. Unfortunately, he discovered that stealing sips of belladonna from my herbal cabinet would make his eyes shine more luminously. I warned him that belladonna is a form of nightshade and can kill when too much is ingested. I even
hid
that flask. But Adam ransacked my rooms and found it. He drank too much of the drug, of course—to be more comely at the Seneschal’s ball he was attending that night in town—and he collapsed while dancing. He certainly was the center of everyone’s attention, though not quite as he had planned.His eyes shone brilliantly before they closed forever. So I was told. I was not there. I was helping a mare foal.
    “I did mourn Adam—but in truth not for long. That is when gossip about my so-called eccentricities began. I came to know my peasants better during this time, which is when I first thought of teaching their children letters and numbers. But my father was not done marrying me off, no matter how I appealed to him for mercy from wedlock. Number three—another widower—was Richard de Valle. This ‘gentleman’ fancied himself a hero of the hunt. He thought that the greatest pleasure in life was to gallop about with other armed men, shooting arrows and spears into animals. These were not forays for food, I assure you, but blood-sport. Sometimes Richard and his friends wantonly butchered so much game that they left the carcasses to rot because the pack horses were already too laden with trophies and meat. Wild boar was their favorite target. They would mimic the animal’s squeals of pain as they closed round it and speared it to death, laughing as they did so. I imagine you do not know our Irish legends, Bishop—like the tale of the wild sow, sacred to The Cailleach, The Old One, She who in one of Her many guises is also Goddess of the Wood. She brings justice. Once, when Diarmid, the Sun God, offended Her, she sent Her great sow to kill him. Well, I believe that Richard de Valle offended Her so many times by slaughtering Her creatures that the only wonder was why She waited so long to set revenge on him.For that is how he died. The hunted turned hunter—and one day my third husband was borne home by his servants on a litter, blood streaming from two deep wounds where he had been severely gored. Not all my medical arts could save him. Justly,
he
had become a trophy—for a wild sow fiercely defending her piglets.”
    The Bishop of Ossory cleared his throat as if to speak.
    “Oh, I would advise against it,” said Alyce politely. “I will inform you when I am done. This is
my
sermon, remember? You have met Sir John, so I need not describe him. Suffice it to say that he became unbearable, with his multiple imaginary illnesses—which he would never let me properly examine, diagnose, or treat—and his prejudices and his whining about all the things serfs
must
do and all the things women must
not
do. Then one day I found myself thinking, ‘This is intolerable. I am not a girl any longer. My father is dead. I can read and write. I can heal. I am perfectly capable of managing my own lands and inheritance; indeed, I do so more effectively than any of my husbands ever did. I really need not put up with such foolishness one hour longer.’ So I asked John to leave my estate—and remember, it is
my
estate, Bishop, and always has been. He laughed. I repeated my request. He ignored me. When it became clear that he would not go with gallantry, I threw him out. Well, not
him
. I had his clothing packed up and placed, along with his armor and collection of weapons and favorite bench and other goods—out into the