Spring

St. Guier of Cornwall, the eighth year of the reign of King Richard

It is spring. It is not a season I favor. Oh, I suppose I did at one time, but I am long past country rituals and the playing of fawning games. It is the season of planting, and there are many folk, even in London, that see to their lands. There is still a frost in the mornings, but a hoe and a strong back can do much to encourage a hard ground to yield itself.

It is also the time of good weather and the thought of pilgrimage wafts in the air. I have done it myself, many a time. A good excuse to see a bit of England. I have seen my share of French fields and dusty roads in the Holy Land. My pilgramages have been far afield indeed in the day when I accompanied Lancaster. Saracens, Jews, Moors–I have seen them all. I have seen strange sights, eaten strange food, and worshipped in strange churches. But I always returned home to the green hills of England. To Sheen, where my Manor lay. Where it still lies, under the auspices of some other worthy gentleman.

Spring is also a time for wooing. For letters of love and for flushed bosoms and moist lips in the privacy of a shadowed garden where no words are needed. It is a different London, where men lose their heads and maidens their good sense.

I can observe it somewhat detached, for I no longer play these coy games. There is little need and fewer opportunities.

Jack, on the other hand, seems intrigued by the plump, pink maidens he sees crossing our London streets. But he is still a pup, barely on the cusp of manhood and I’ve no doubt he would not know the first thing to do with one of these brazen wenches even if they did look his way.

Ah, spring.