In Pursuit of the Green Lion Read Online Free PDF Page A

as if to punish himself for having returned home.
    Sometimes I wished so hard things were back the way they were: that I was his student and he was Brother Gregory again. It was easier when I thought of him only as a mind, and not a man. I know people say that there was something nasty going on between us, but that really wasn’t true at all. That’s why it was such a good thing. I loved Master Kendall best, and I loved learning next best. And Brother Gregory, even if he was a trial, was my gate to learning, and helped me open my mind to the sunshine. How could I not admire him for that? It was all an innocent distraction, watching his moods, fits and fancies, like watching cloud pictures form and re-form in the sky.
    To this day I remember how his long, muscular hands looked, so curiously delicate as they held the stylus, elegantly tracing letters in wax for me to copy, and his sour face when he saw the first letter I spelled all by myself. Then there was the disgusted look he’d get when my old mongrel dog would lie on his feet under the writing table, falling asleep with loud snores just as he was trying to explain what Aristotle said about aesthetics. Or his standing quarrel with Cook’s bird, who chattered rudely at him when he entered the kitchen unannounced. And when Master Kendall, with gracious good humor, would offer Gregory a dinner or a new gown, the whole household would crowd around to watch with amusement the conflicting emotions on the tutor’s face as he tried to decide whether he could accept such an offer from a man who made his living in trade. Brother Gregory was the only man I had ever seen who could accept his wages as if he were doing you a favor.
    So of course I couldn’t have been more surprised—or more grateful—than that day after the funeral when he turned up, sword in hand, to rescue me from my murderous grown stepsons. But after that it was only bitter gall. He wasn’t made to be married, nor I to marry again.
    Now, without even looking at me, he laid the hair shirt on the bed beside me and fumbled for his discipline in the bundle he had taken from the chest. The more I saw of that nasty little stick with the sharp leather thongs, the more I hated it. Maybe I’m simple, but I don’t see what beating yourself has to do with pleasing God. And every night, the same. Didn’t he think I was even worth a courteous “good night”? Was I too ill-favored, or too ill-born, to deserve a look or a decent word, now that we were wed?
    As I watched Gregory set up once again for his devotions, I got angrier and angrier—so angry, my face felt hot and my heart beat harder and harder. Was I so old, so plain, that I deserved this? He had faced the wall, now, kneeling silently before the crucifix that hung beside the bed. I looked at my shift, which hung nearly to my bare feet. It had a nice embroidered hem. It’s not a hag’s garment, I thought, and there’s no old woman underneath it. I picked up one of the long, pale ash-brown locks that lay in waves all the way down to my waist. What’s wrong with this? It’s still pretty, even if it’s not blond. I put down the comb. He paused, and as the blood dripped down his back, I could hear him say, “Blessed be God …” God indeed! Doesn’t God say that men who marry have an obligation to their wives? What was so wrong with me that he should act as if I were invisible?
    I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I’ve had two babies, strong ones that still live, and only one little stretch mark that hardly even shows. Some people would count themselves fortunate to have a wife like that. And I’ve brought him money, too, so he can do anything he likes—even feed his stuck-up, greedy family. And he never says a kind word to me, even though I’m all alone here among strangers. What would God say to that?
    The anger came and stuck like a knot in my throat. I was so very angry, I didn’t even think. My eyes felt all bloody inside.