SIMONA’S FRAGRANCE MADE ME ACHE. SO COOL AND clean. Like an early morning pool of creamy rose petals, just fallen. It reminded me of dawn at Caldicot, dew on the grass, muzzy patches of gossamer, the first beech leaves still soft…
Here, everything is sticky and salty. Saint Nicholas reeks of sweat and rot and manure, and we scarcely notice it.
“Where have you come from?” I asked.
Simona stuck her thumb over her right shoulder. “That galley.”
“From the Rialto?”
“Si.”
“Who said you could?”
Simona looked at me as if I were an idiot. “My father.”
“Your father?”
“Silvano,” Simona said. “The Master Shipwright.”
“I didn’t know that,” I exclaimed. “Silvano’s your father?”
Simona smiled. A dawdling smile. “What are you doing?” she asked me.
“Oiling Bonamy’s saddle. These flaps should be supple and soft.”
“Supple and soft,” Simona murmured. “I like these words.”
“And they’re sodden and sour,” I said.
Simona sat down beside me.
“Sir Arthur!” she said.
“I call you Arthur?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you love?”
“What do you mean?”
“A girl.”
I’m not sure why, maybe it was the way she asked, maybe because I haven’t talked about them for so long, except to myself, but I began to tell Simona about Grace and Gatty and then about Winnie and our betrothal.
“Her father’s a Marcher knight,” I said.
“Marcher?”
“From the borderland,” I said. “Between England and Wales.”
“What is she like?”
“Herself!” I exclaimed. “Her hair’s red-gold. Burning. And her eyes are tawny. She’s very bold and always laughing, and she has a hot temper. On our betrothal day she was wearing a white silk dress and opal ear-jewels, and they flashed and swung on their stalks each time she moved.”
“My dress was green,” Simona said.
“My father only agreed to our betrothal,” I told Simona, “because I was leaving on this crusade, and he warned me that he and Winnie’s father haven’t settled all the terms yet. I remember exactly what he said: ‘Young women are ten a penny. There are plenty more Little Miss Winifreds, believe you me.’”
“No!” exclaimed Simona. “You love Winnie; she loves you.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Did you swear?”
“Both our families joined hands around us,” I said. “Everyone! Simona, what’s wrong?”
“We couldn’t do that,” she said, “not when I was betrothed.”
“To an Englishman.”
“Yes, and his family was all in England.” Simona shook her head. “But my family is big. Six brothers. Many, many cousins and nephews and nieces. They all joined hands around us.”
“You exchanged gold rings,” I said.
Simona held up her left hand.
“Yours is like a gold knot,” I said. “Look at mine!”
“Bello!” said Simona.
“Winnie complained hers was too tight,” I said, “and her mother told her young women always say that, and she’d get used to it.”
Simona reached over and touched the cord around my neck.
“My half of our pledge-penny,” I said. “I pledged to protect Winnie according to God’s law, and pay for the rearing of our children, and share my property with her. Then I broke the coin and gave her one half.”
“Same,” said Simona.
“And Sian made everyone laugh,” I said. “My foster sister. She’s eleven, and she called out, ‘I love you, Arthur. I wish I could marry you!’”
Then I remembered Tom saying that if I didn’t come home from the crusade, he’d gladly marry Winnie for me, and Serle saying in that case he stood a very good chance; but I didn’t tell Simona that.
“I knew,” she said. “Women know.”
“You, and love. Love and a cough cannot be hidden! I think you love to be in love.”
“And you love to talk about it,” I replied.
Simona closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “He was called Aylmer,” she said. “Aylmer de Burnham.”
“Tell me about him.”
Simona looked up. “Here’s Lord Stephen.”
I jumped up and gave Simona my hand.
“Simona!” said Lord Stephen, smiling, and he gave her a small bow.
“You both,” said Simona, “I’ve brought you a sailing gift!” She slipped her fingers into the bag tied to her belt.
“A gift!” said Lord Stephen, smiling sardonically. “From a Venetian?”
Simona frowned at him, then gave him a playful push. She pulled out of the bag two small flasks.
“What are they?” I asked.
Simona drew out one of the stoppers. “Hair soap,” she said.
I sniffed it. Cool and clean and sharp.
“Lemon with curds,” Simona told us. “Wash your hair with it. It will dissolve the salt. All the stickiness.”
I stooped and picked a pretty violet periwinkle. “Here’s a present for you too,” I said.
Simona smiled. She fixed the flower in her hair.