Preface
In 1911, in Wollaton Hall in Nottingham, in a crate marked Old papers – no value, rested a manuscript. The manuscript, likely copied for Lady Beatrice de Gavre on the occasion of her marriage in 1286, contains eighteen stories. One of these was Silence – a previously undiscovered poem over seven hundred years old.
Written in Old French, a mixture of Francien and Picard, the poem is an unusual one. It tells the story of a girl raised as a boy – a motif somewhat familiar from the tales of warrior maidens and women musicians that circulated in the same time period. But it also contains completely novel elements, such as spirited debates between personified figures of Nature and Nurture, who argue over Silence’s true self.
In places, this 13th-century poem treats gender in a way that seems post-modern. The purported author, one Heldris of Cornwall (otherwise unknown), puns with the gendered endings of words and deliberately undermines the ‘reliability’ of language to reveal gender. To give one example, from Sarah Roche-Mahdi’s excellent translation:
‘He [Silence] was so used to men’s usage
and had so rejected women’s ways
that little was lacking for him to be a man
Whatever one could see was certainly male!’
This is a writer who understands that a major aspect of gender is what’s visible in public life (what we would now call gender expression). The ‘little that is lacking’ (that is, genitalia) doesn’t matter at all when it comes to lived experience and others’ perceptions.
When I read these lines, and others like them, I knew I had found a text that I had to explore more fully. What follows, is an expansion, a reimagining, a riff, on Silence. The major plot points are the same, many of the characters are as well. I wanted to be true to the struggle between Nature and Nurture, but represent it more organically. I wanted to keep the troubled (and troubling) depiction of (most) women being evil and inferior, while (noble) men are greedy and glorious. I added a bit more of Merlin because – well, because it’s Merlin. I added more to the story of Silence’s time with the minstrels and his time outside of England, which the original hurries through. And I changed the telling of Silence’s re-entry to England in order to further explore how this bittersweet homecoming feels to Silence and also to simplify some of the interactions between him and Queen Eufeme, which are quite drawn out and convoluted in the original. But on the whole, the changes I made were in the service of writing a tale full of fantasy and narrative tension; I tried to be faithful to my reading of the original in spirit even when I was not faithful in precise detail.
For those who are curious and want further reading, I highly recommend Sarah Roche-Mahdi’s English translation of the original; this volume will point you to other wonderful scholarship in the field as well.
PROLOGUE
On the far side of the inn, the flames guttered in the hearth, dancing in answer to some gust outside. Shadows gathered and fled across the floor, leaping as quickly as my fingers did along the strings of my harp. A cry went up from the crowd standing near the fire, answered by laughter, and into this cacophony I sent my voice, baritone, still pleasant, though it had seen better days. ‘There stands upon a plain … a great circle of stone. The Giant’s Ring.’ Oh, this story. I had always loved it. The tale of Merlin, that great wizard, moving the stone circle from Mount Killaraus to Salisbury. One day, I would see those stones, feel them beneath my fingers.
But for now, I was in the corner, the one furthest from the fire, while two of the locals vied at arm-wrestling. Others surrounded them, lifting tankards and sloshing ale and calling out in the growly accent of Cornwall. The fishmonger’s jerkin bore stains of guts and slime, letting off a rotten stink as he leaned in close to my ear. ‘Play “My Lord’s Gone A-Hunting”,’ he slurred. ‘No one wants to listen to this dung.’ I almost warned the man that he’d risk a curse from Merlin himself if he didn’t mind his tongue, but he’d already lurched back to the wrestling, and a cheer went up as someone’s arm was pinned, drowning out my perfect recounting of how the wizard had lifted the massive stones from the top of Mount Killaraus and …
From the door to the kitchen, Isolde caught my eye. She stood there, wooden spoon in one hand. (Don’t be fooled – she hasn’t stirred a pot in years. That spoon has other uses.) With her empty hand, she made a hook of her first finger and held it near her ear: our signal. She had sensed something in the room and so I put down my harp and took up my lute and began ‘Maeve’s Friendly Thighs’. Merlin could wait for another night.
The men roared as they heard the song and the attention shifted from the two wrestlers (who had pushed back their stools to square off – how did Isolde know?) to me, and I was forced to stamp my feet and wiggle my eyebrows and insinuate all manner of stupidity, and just as I was silently bemoaning what exactly had landed me – me! – here at the end of the world, the door of the inn broke open.
A rush of damp air swept across me. But instead of the briny sea, it carried the scent of fresh-turned fields, the sweetness of new grass.
A tall figure wrapped in a simple brown cloak strode through then pulled the door shut, and Mary, the serving-girl, stepped forward. As she took the cloak, firelight picked up hints of gold in hair the colour of winnowed wheat, gold also glinting in eyes grey as a stormy ocean. For an instant, the fire seemed to swell, the flames fanning to a rich gold, making the whole inn glow. One of the wrestlers, who a moment ago had reached out to grab his opponent’s shirt, now clapped him gruffly on the shoulder.
And myself? My lute seemed to play on its own, a little ripple of notes that made me laugh as I sang, ‘And Maeve did coo …’, the words coming out by rote despite all my attention being focused on this … figure. I could not yet tell if this was man or woman who had just entered. The side-slit doublet and leggings suggested man, but there were curves beneath the fabric, or a certain slenderness, like a boy on the verge of manhood. So, not a man. Well, probably not.
I tried not to stare at it, but stared nonetheless.
The men around me settled at their tables, taking up the chorus. Isolde ushered the new arrival to a stool near the fire and sat down next to the person, whoever and whatever it may be. I played through song after song, until my voice grew hoarse, and then I plucked a wordless melody, listening as two men with straw in their hair talked of sheep, and three men with silver buttons on their coats talked of the king. ‘They say he’s going to sail against Norway … stop the raids up north.’
‘Raids? He doesn’t care about those. He’s after more land, or more gold.’
‘Maybe if he takes theirs, he’ll leave us alone.’
‘I’ll pay my share, if he keeps our shores quiet …’
I listened, but only just. My eyes, my ears, my every sense was keyed to the person by the fire. Broad, high cheekbones, eyebrows – the dark umber of ale – two perfect arches above those grey-ocean eyes. Oh, beauty. A man could write songs about such a face. What was it? I had to know, for it felt wrong, even in my own mind, designating, as it does, plants and low things, while this being stood and sat and nodded and spoke with shoulders back, head up, moving with dignity but not arrogance. With presence. So, not it. They.