on the SEVENTH OF FIACRE, yvon seeks out the chevalier MATTHIEU SAMUEL among the STABLES prior to his entrance into the sporting arena. ╱ @chevalicr
somewhere, there is an old woman laughing alone, barking to her own amusement — though that says little, as somewhere there is always a thing left unobserved: a boat overturning into the great mouth of the celestinian sea, the bow made by a gambler’s crossed fingers under his betting table — but as yvon traverses the manure of the stables, she feels with an embittered kind of certainty there sits a hag in the gold quarter cackling over bleached ox bones. a witch dropping vertebra and dried chicken livers from her unironed hands, lining in a way that reads: she goes to see him.
and all the more a fool i am for it, yvon answers back to the harridan at the stagedoor of her mind, trudging among the muck, picking up my skirt for a man who will not be lifting it.
a fool undoubtedly and resolutely, she swears, oath-like promise-like tugging-at-the-string-like, as she spots him among the stalls and begins to advance, hands fisted to lift her hem. for being so fond. “you’ve no idea,” yvon leases it in way of greeting, pointed in the way her intent is. “the dor this fabric cost alone. if i did not know you were in need of your arms’ strength in an hours time,” though her gate is hindered by the sidestepping of dung and soil, she arrives at the chevalier’s side in good form — tidy and timely. “i’d insist you carry me over this shit on the way out.” lips cant in the way of her head: rolling to one side, marble in a slanted room. “as it is, i’m far too aware of what you require for today, matthieu.”
there it is: the use of his name among the curvature of her smile, a casual and incongruous phrase used instead of that which was universal and meaningless, such as hello, how are you, and be well. how droll it would be to speak in such patterns, to address him as all others. “and i know what it is you lack, too—” from within her sleeve a stretch of white is drawn, the watery silk reminiscent of the shucking of milky, pale meat from a sea creature’s gold shell. yvon extends the square in pinched fingers, pearlescent and thin as it hangs in the air between them. here, a thing from within my husk. “every chevalier requires if not cause, than a maiden to bestow upon them favour — so you shall have mine.”
there is the sensation of being the raven who makes its nest in early fall, unknowing of the way winter strips leaves and buds among the progression of season, leaving the location of its nest exposed to all who pass by. and yet this is the wrong winged creature, ne’er the comparison given to the duval girl — given butterflies make but brief landings, never roosts. with a lift of brows her gaze turns down to the extended gossamer piece, chin tilting to one side emphatically:
“which, as i’ll have you know, was a thing highly requested by an array of your competitors, all sorrowfully denied that it might be housed in the breast of your own armour. so,” how trite are the poets that liken red lips to rose petals — how truthful is the comparison, to witness yvon’s mouth split open like an early bloom. “you had best take it quickly, messere.”