Next morning one of the pilgrims advised Margery to find the others and behave meekly. They took her with them, following the Rhine valley across Europe, but they cut her white gown so short it hung only a little below her knees, made her wear a white canvas apron like a fool, and sat her at the bottom of the table, below everyone.

•

In Constance, the pilgrims washed their hands of her. They returned her money, about twenty pounds—sixteen pounds were wrongfully withheld—and they kept her maid, who had promised never to abandon her.

18

In the square in Constance an old man from Devonshire approached Margery with a grin. “Will you ask me to be your guide?”

She returned his smile. “What is your name?”

“My name is Willyam Wever.” He had a white beard and heavy gray pouches under muddy hazel eyes. His coat was thick as a board. Margery’s expression faltered as she realized he always smiled.

She said good-bye to the pilgrims who had abandoned her and set off into the Alps with a long face; she didn’t know her guide and he didn’t know Italian. Murder, violation, nightfall, strange men: her chance to live forever heightened her fear of death. They both felt anxious. Willyam Wever’s persistent grin was a structural cruelty, like the genial expression a frog must wear even as it disappears down the gullet of a snake. Between smiles he said, “You’ll be taken from me—you’ll be raped—they’ll beat me up—steal my coat—”

•

It was mid-February. Willyam wound his tippet around his neck and sheltered his hands in his armpits; his empty sleeves swung woodenly. Larch and fir grew below snowy peaks. The travelers were flushed with expanding harmonies of wind, space, drizzle, clouds, and thick greens; her words were lost in the wind; snipes zigzagged crying chip-per, chip-per. The road skirted the steepest rocks and in places was hewn out of them. Margery climbed with amazing stamina; Willyam smiled and wheezed. The bottom of his right foot was so sore he cringed when he stepped. They ate boar sausage and stuffed gooseneck. She was traveling; every bowel movement was a triumph. Watermills turned above foaming rivers.

They climbed up to Resia and over the pass. Snow lay thick and abundant, massed on branches, glittering wealth that could not be acquired. Wolves had crossed leaving delicate prints. Stars swarmed upwards, then the moon held the white peaks in a trance. Pale mountains grew smaller in the radiant sunrise. Melting snow water coursed downhill in rills that wagon wheels pressed in the mud. The foothills were covered by sloping vineyards and dotted by whitewashed houses. Almond trees bloomed palest pink. Cowherds tended white cattle splattered with black spots and gave the travelers food and drink; their wives put Margery in their own beds.