Keturah and Lord Death Read Online Free PDF

how old or young, how poor, how fat or thin,” I would reply.
    “Ah, Keturah, you are as beautiful as the women who populate your tales,” Beatrice would say. “You shall perhaps marry a knight or a duke.”
    “Only if he is good enough for her,” Gretta would say.
    “I would marry Hermit Gregor if he was my true love,” I would answer stoutly, and we would dissolve into giggles.
    Though I was very young, I meant what I said, and it was as true today as it had been then.
    Yes, we had all then dreamed of true love. Repenting of traveling musicians—perhaps because none came to Tide-by-Rood—Beatrice had determined to marry a man of God. She would sing in heaven’s choir, she vowed, and she embroidered crosses on all her underthings. Gretta, finding fault with the most faultless of men, declared there was no man fit to be her husband. Still, she had always admired Tailor, and in her effort to emulate him she had obtained a certain fame in Tide-by-Rood. In a day she could stitch a cap, in two days a dress. Everyone said a stitch sewn by Gretta did not loosen, and a gown stitched by her felt like heaven’s robes. Gretta was not beautiful, but she was perfect in her plainness as she was perfect in everything. Her teeth were perfectly whole and white, her hair curled perfectly around her face, and she had a perfectly trim figure. God had probably feared to make her any other way.
    Grandmother awoke, but I stayed still, in my bed, pondering my faceless true love. She added kindling to the banked embers and knelt to pray.
    “God, I thank thee for the trial of the lass, and pray for strength to live to see her wed. And if it be not greedy to ask, I pray she be happily wed. Thy will. Further, watch over the old parson, and tell him that Dan Fieldbottom is stealing the holy water to sprinkle his cows. Thy will. And wilt thou thicken the frumenty, that I may lay more by for the winter. Thy will. Amen.” I added my own silent amen, and my own prayer for my village, my friends, and my dear grandmother.
    If my first breaths were of mourning, it was tempered by the blessing of being weaned on love. Grandfather and Grandmother Reeve raised me with all the tenderness of true parents and all the patience of grandparents. It was not just their kindness to me that I remarked, even at a young age—for I compared my own upbringing with that of others—but also their love for each other.
    When Grandfather died, Lord Temsland, who was known for his frugality, gave Grandmother a small pension for the remainder of her days. I would be left alone, without protection, after she died. She wished to see me wed so she could die in peace, she said, knowing that then I would not have to hire myself out a spinster for my share of flour and pork.
    We were not starving on Lord Temsland’s pension, but neither was there any danger of our ever being fat. Grandfather had died without leaving a dowry for me, but Grandmother expressed great hopes that my beauty might dazzle a man enough to take me as I was.
    I had no desire to marry a man who wanted me only for my beauty, if it was true I had it, and so I had not cooperated with my grandmother’s aspirations. I covered my hair with a brown scarf, spent little attention on my dress, and refused to learn the subtle feminine arts. My stubbornness served me well. So far no one had declared any love for me. Today, I decided, I would not wear a scarf.
    The wheat berries that had been soaking in the pot all night began to simmer over the small fire. Grandmother gave it a quick stir, and came to rouse me. When she bent over my bed to prod me, I clasped her round the neck, drew her to me, and kissed her hard and full upon the cheek.
    She smiled at me. “Up, then, Keturah,” she said tenderly.
    “Yes, Grandmother.” I leapt from my bed.
    Grandmother milked and I made biscuits, though I was slow with fatigue, and so there was hot bread and butter with our porridge, and warm milk and stewed plums also.
    When