Monday, July 12, 2010


My mother and sister are both quite beautiful; I am the ugly duckling of the family; a throw-back to my Irish ancestors, which rankles my Norman mother. I have red-gold hair in a family of pale-haired beauties with alabaster skin. Only my father has black hair and a light complexion with red cheeks. I am merely pale with a tendency to turn red at every opportunity, whether it is due to weather, physical exertion, or emotion. My one saving grace is that I don’t have freckles. I have given up on perfect skin, and am often scolded for letting the sun on my face.


My hair is very thick and heavy, and has deep waves in it. It refuses to stay under a cap, which torments me constantly by compressing my hair until it feels like some live creature against my head, and makes me want to scream like a banshee. Whenever I think I can get away with it, I remove my coif and veil. I detest head coverings most of the time. The exception being very hot weather (a straw hat) or very cold weather (a lined hood). In between extremes of weather, I feel I should be allowed to wear my hair free, but of course, I cannot. It is unseemly.


Oddly, though, I do like wearing a nice gown with embroidery-work, and new, soft leather shoes which match. I like my little comforts and luxuries. I’m not sure I deserve them. It’s not the trapping I dislike; it’s the conventions. I love to sing, and I have a good voice, though untrained. However, I am more likely to sing a bawdy song under my breath, than a proper lay in a lady-like strain. What I especially like is to sing the songs of the monks and nuns. My Latin is not especially good, so I don’t always know what it is I’m singing, but I do know that the songs praise the Lord, and they sound beautiful, so I sing them when I can manage to be alone. I have been told it is unseemly for me to sing them outside of the church, but I don’t see why.


But, what matter. No one will have me now, anyway. I have been sent home by my husband, and cannot remarry in the eyes of the church. So, I shall be something of a spinster. Perhaps, that is best. I am not proper wife material, in any case. I’m not sure I mind.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

I am a thorn in my mother’s side. I am unwomanly, she says. So say many, actually. My mother raised me to behave as a young woman ought, but somehow I resisted the lessons. I like my freedom, physically, and intellectually. I sometimes wish I had been born a man; it would make things easier. I am oft at odds with family, whose reputation and honor I ought to place above my own desires. I cannot seem to comport myself with the proper degree of modesty and humility.

Once, I thought I might be a free spirit. I asked Blind Meg, our local healing woman, if she thought it might be so. I received a curious answer.

“No, my dear,” she said. “You are not a free spirit. You are not free from your perceptions of right and wrong, and you need to try to see things as they are. Most of all, you are not free of your desire to make others see what you see. I do not say this is an error on your part, but it is a trait that will always cause you difficulty. You must resign yourself to that, if you do not change your ways.

“You are more like a questing knight, Rowena, seeking evil to thwart and wrongs to right. This is a perilous path, especially for a woman.”

That is the most I had ever heard at one time from Blind Meg. I liked the idea of a questing knight even better than that of a free spirit. No doubt it will get me into even more trouble.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

When I was younger, I was sent for fostering. This was not the success it should have been, due to my headstrong and unwomanly ways. Oh, I learned singing, French, dancing, embroidering, and I could mimic the way of high-born ladies, though I never took it seriously, as some did. That was not the problem; the problem was that I also wanted to ride, shoot, curse and tell ribald jokes, like the boys and men. I would often finish my sewing projects early, then slip out to the stables to have my horse saddled and talk one of the grooms in to riding with me. This would get us both into trouble, and soon I would be banned from the stables. The same with watching the boys practice wrestling or swordplay. I longed to join them, for it seemed so much more interesting than needlework and gossip.

Many were horrified at my behavior, and I was sent home from more than one foster home, though I had a grand time. It is only now, when I look back on things, that I realize the embarrassment I must have caused my family. It did not endear them to those higher born families they (or rather, my mother) aspired to. Mostly, this was the case with women, who feared I would somehow contaminate their other fosterlings with my antics. The men seemed to be more amused than outraged, although I’m certain that they did not regard me as suitable marriage material for their sons and nephews.

I still don’t mind, but I understand it better. I have toned down some of my practices. However, the problem remains that I cannot seem to conform, even when I try. My mind simply does not have a place for obedience. I have prayed for guidance, for forgiveness, for repentance, but in my heart I know that I cannot change. I am too independent in my thinking, therefore, I will always chafe at the bit of proper behavior.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Stephan loved me once, I know. But once we were married he, along with my mother, expected me to become a proper goodwife, behave with the utmost propriety (he, of all people, should have known better), and above all bear him an heir.

After the first few years of marriage the bloom was off the rose, and Stephan became indifferent to me as the the childless years went by. This cut me deeply, for I still loved him. After many rebuffed attempts at reconciliation I, too, gave up the hope of a happy conjugality. But, it was not until this past year that Stephan became mean-spirited. I feel I am being doubly punished, first by god with my barrenness, and then by Stephan for his cold-heartedness. He even accused me of using spells and herbs to prevent a child. I was shocked. Not that I didn't know of such things, but I wanted a child as much as he did.

Then, suddenly, the marriage was over. Stephan could not get an annulment or divorce based on my barrenness, or due to consanguinity (we were only commoners, after all), but he could appeal to the church for an annulment due to my frigidity. That has never been my problem! How dare he? But the church would listen to him before me, and the annulment was granted. Now he could remarry, but I could not. Not that anyone would have me at this point. Even if the would, the church would not recognize the union. So, I will be neither maid (old or otherwise) nor widow, but some unpleasant reminder of something that is neither true, nor my fault.

On the other hand, perhaps this is a new beginning. I cannot yet say.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Greetings. My name is Rowena Woolrich, formerly Rowena Merchant. My husband, Stephan, has cast me aside, and I am to be sent home to my father's house in Chipping Sodbury. It is because I am barren. My father has yet to appear to escort me home, yet Stephan insists I leave with only his armed escort. Stephan will not let me take my most prized possession, my half-Spanish mare, Maeve. Maeve is a woman's ride. I cannot image what he wants with her, except to make me miserable.


My father is a wool merchant, and quite wealthy, but he is traveling at the moment, somewhere in London (or so I've been told. Stephan reads my letters for me, even though I'm perfectly capable of reading them, myself). We are a few days' ride from there, weather permitting, in a small part of Oxford.


I will miss Oxford, and my brother as well, who is there at the University reading for the law. But, I must confess to being just a little excited to be going home. I have been but twice since my marriage to Stephan, and I am given to understand that there have been many changes.


I must go now. Perhaps I shall write again.


Rowena