Chapter 8
I sat in the corner of the women’s salon wrapping bandages and pounding medicinal herbs since I could do that and fit in. My sewing was getting better and better, but it still looked awkward enough I couldn’t do it without bringing attention to myself. Conversation swirled around me. I would have thought working at the valetudinaria would have helped make me feel more at home, but it only served to heighten the difference between the time I had left and where I was now. It was like trying to find comfort in picking your nose, only to find out you now had to pick your nose with your toe.
“...did you?”
I looked up to see six pairs of expectant eyes looking at me. Crap, I didn’t realize they were talking to me.
“In Lille, did you suffer much from the drought last Summer.”
I was supposed to be from Lille, which was a whole other thing I couldn’t figure out. Johanne, Aimee, Henry...they all constantly asked questions about “how do they hoe in Lille….do they keep the finest fabrics in Lille… are the swords as good as this in Lille?”. To the best of my reading-between-the-lines ability, it seemed like Lille was where all the flax was grown and linen came from, but that they weren’t exactly known for their ferocity?
Matilda and her father also talked about my arrival as if it were totally expected. The Baron of Lille had died and left his slightly insane daughter in the care and keeping of his liege the Count of Flanders. They’d been expecting her arrival, so when I showed up half dressed and wandering around on the side of the road, they logically assumed I had to be the eccentric noblessé. Of course.
They were so convinced, they almost had me convinced.
“Uh...I don’t know really.” I said apologetically. It really was quite fortunate I was demens. It was the only way to explain everything I didn’t know.
“Sir Nicolas said it was so bad they had to dig two field lengths down to find water.” A girl called Charlotte blushed as she said this. Matilda looked at her friend sharply, but said nothing. I was sure Sir Nicolas loved to tell girls harrowing tales of his adventures. I wondered how his stitches were doing. I needed to take them out soon, but locating him proved to be problematic. I saw his men everywhere, and Henry had taken to following me around like a loyal puppy. Was Nicolas a lesser lord from some nearby manor or something? I’d learned the hard way, you could only call a lord “sir”. I’d about given the poor cordwainer a heart attack when I’d absentmindedly called him sir (what can I say, my mother raised me to be polite).
Alard chose this moment to saunter in looking like he’d taken four pieces of bacon when there was only enough for two. I’d tried to avoid the young lord, but had attended one bloody nose he’d gotten while sword fighting. I was thus regaled with fifty three reasons it was the swords fault (it was new Italian medal), the floors fault (a ignoramus maid had waxed it with the wrong wax), and how it he really could have laid out his opponent any time he wanted to, but he didn’t think it was in good taste for the Comte’s son to show off his raw, powerful, masculine, authority. Mmhmm.
“Father wants you in the west courtyard” He plopped down on a stuffed tapestry and grabbed our chunk of cheese as if he hadn’t at all noticed he was in the woman’s side of the castle.
Matilda chose to overlook this uncouth behavior, but I got the impression she was going to give her couch a thorough cleaning when he left. “Do you know perchance what he wants?”
“It’s the envoy from Lille”. He grinned and winked at me.
She looked puzzled. We had envoys coming in from everywhere these days. You couldn’t pee without tripping over some new princess or baron. Surely this one wasn’t important. If I was going to be found out, it would have happened long before now. A small shiver insisted on running down my spine though, despite my stern attempt to get a grip.
I tried to spend more time worrying about it (when you inherit a cover story you have to dedicate a fair bit of time lying about stuff you're totally ignorant of), but Aimee made me help her weave snowdrops in her braid. She talked endlessly. Apparently a trouvére had come in for the wedding and not unlike the 21st century, we were to test his wares tonight to see if they were as good as advertised. Together we winded through the chilly stone passageways, I wondered if Nicolas would be there. In light of his recent injuries, if I did see him, I was likely to sweep my hand across a table, force him to lay down while I took his stitches out one-by-one right there in front of God and everyone. An impromptu post surgery follow-up with a poet crooning in the background about St Wiro giving his shoes to a demon. I’m sure he’d love that.
Gravensteen was big. I’d like to say too big, but truth be told everyone was kind of busting at the seams and work had already been begun on a new wing. The Great Hall and the Grand Corridor were the only rooms big enough to fit everyone. But tonight was just for a small group. Officially the Comte had declared the acoustics to be best in the round stark walls of the Retainer’s Hall, but the bright eyes and rosy cheeks of the less prestigious inhabitants of the castle made me realize he’d done it so they could enjoy some entertainment too.
The Retainer’s Hall looked totally different with all of the workbenches arranged in rows like a church and no tools in sight. The giant fireplace had been stoked like a sleeping monster for the evening. The whole air thrummed with excitement. The trouvére was tuning his harp, he had the slight shoulders I now recognized as artisan shoulders. He wouldn’t have lasted a second in the field… hot new plow technology or not. He had soulful eyes though, and row of kids trying to see who could scooch up closer. Honestly the whole thing looked so picturesque it felt like a painted postcard at a christian bookstore. All it needed was angels in the corners holding candles.
I saw Nicolas. I made my way towards him half praying he wasn’t an infected mess and half girding my loins for battle. He had gotten a new shirt I could see (no small feat). I next registered the purple tunic. Wait...purple? Purple cloth cost more than a new mercedes benz. It had to be made from the slobber of a thousand sea snails and shipped from the far ends of the earth..or so Aimee said. The purple clothes through me off so thoroughly it took me a pathetically long time to realize where he was sitting.
On the right side of the Count.
Next to him sat Arand, and next to Arand sat Matilda. I plopped down on the closest bench. It was too much to take in. The plain leather clad soldier from my first day was the son of the Comte? ...scratch that. The firstborn son?
Oy vey.
Next to him sat Arand, and next to Arand sat Matilda. I plopped down on the closest bench. It was too much to take in. The plain leather clad soldier from my first day was the son of the Comte? ...scratch that. The firstborn son?
Horror of horrors, Nicolas saw me and beckoned me over. Of course he did it with such command and pose I wondered how I could have been so blind as to think he was just cocky. I’d be bossy too if literally everyone I saw would someday depend on me to be in charge. Bah.
“We’re pleased you’ve joined us tonight Lady Durand” he said. Was it just my imagination or were both he and his father looking at me with a strange expression? I swallowed and gave the appropriate level of head nod (which I now knew how to do properly so at least there was that?). He gestured to a seat nearby. I plopped down like I had iron weights in my bottom. It was all very ladylike.
Somebody offered me a wooden goblet that was thick and had leaves floating in it. Deeply suspicious. I plugged my nose and drank a sip. Half the time I wasn’t sure anyone ever knew what they were drinking around here. Thankfully this evening’s concoction was spicy and fruity. Like pears and hibiscus...alcoholic of course. I was pretty positive I saw someone this morning trying to ferment old shoes.
The poet finished his first recitation. Something about a baker and the son of a whore. Humor was definitely a lot different than what I was used to. Nothing against the man, but he wouldn’t be winning any reality TV shows for his talent. Maybe that was unfair. It was just that his voice sounded so much like my physics professor, my eyes started droop with sheer muscle memory. I was yanked back to the present though when I heard…
“...Her crimson kirtle, that conceal’d
Just half the leg, whilst it reveal’d
The foot, and ankle--all betray’d
A young and lovely Norman maid…”
...wait, what? Maybe not me exactly obviously, but maybe someone like me? Were there others? Questions tumbled around in my brain faster than I could mull through them.
But tho’ she felt both hope and fear
She strove the rising blush to hide--
A horseman came in full career
And soon was standing by her side.
11th century France was good with meandering romances. I’d give them that. They’d put Taylor Swift to shame. The song was so long I had time to freak out, calm myself down and freak out all over again. Women appearing from nowhere wearing a red kirtle? Being picked up by strange men? I guess I should be grateful William the Conqueror had been after a different woman.
I almost missed the next part...
A twist of fate-- a sudden pain
Shot rapidly across her brain
She slep and disappeared
He looked around-- the room was light.
He looked abroad--the sky was red
She'd disappeared?
There were another two refrains about her red kirtle. It seemed too pointed to be a coincidence, Had the fair heroine been out of her own time too? The song seemed to imply she’d gone back. Around me, everyone sat with rapt attention. I even saw the staid Johannes quickly wipe away a threatening show of emotion. Apparently I was the only one who was thrilled the half dressed girl in a red kirtle had disappeared leaving her lover wandering the world destitute and forever crushed.
Of course I was probably projecting. Cognitive bias and all that. I was seeing what i wanted to see. Although...Matilda had been very inquisitive about the dress. Oh and Madame Gilfre too, seemed to have hinted at knowledge.
Well that settled it, even if I was being delusional, I had to take the dress to Madame Gilfre and question her about it when she got back. A shock of excitement ran through me...or maybe it was more like hope. I tried to warn myself I was grasping at straws, but the human brain is incapable of thinking rationally under such circumstances. ...or maybe it was just my brain that was particularly prone to flights of woolgathering.
In my turmoil I’d evidently been pushing my seat further and further back without realizing it. In my defense, my seat was more like a three legged stool (seating being at max capacity), and I didn’t realize what I was doing until the back leg snagged in a particularly deep crack in the floor and I went tumbling backwards while everyone else was clapping, stamping and shouting for the next song.
“Woah cheré!”
I found myself staring up into the face of the newly categorized (in my mind) heir of Flanders. My head in his very prestigious purple clad lap.
“Your stitches!” Was all I could think to gasp out.
In my flurry to remove myself from my ill fated landing spot, my foot caught on my hem and I fell backwards again. Matilda was looking daggers at me. The Comte frowned at me, the demented floozy in his eldest son’s arms. Now would have been a really great time to disappear like the maiden in the song. But that of course would have been too merciful.
Nicolas raised an eyebrow as he stood and lifted me graciously to my feet, setting me down as if I was a small doll...or a delicate decanter of wine (would probably be more accurate). Everyone was craning their necks to see what the fuss was...
I’d made such a scene, I needed to make an escape so as not to interrupt everyone’s evening any further.
“It’s the sweet flag meade.” Matilda said by way of explanation to her brother, and I sank deeply in the half bow half curtsy thing they did here. Maybe I could just keep sinking further and further down until I was gone entirely.
“I’ll take her to her chambers” Alard had been watching with a nasty grin on his stained teeth, and I panicked at the idea of being alone anywhere in a dark castle with extremely thick walls.
“I’m fine. Mi’Lords.. Mi’lady” I murmured. “We never had such fine trouveres in Lille.”
At the mention of Lille, Matilda and her father exchanged looks.
“Go son, you may escort la Mademoiselle to her quarters.” He said this though to Nicolas, I was sure whether to be relieved or more concerned. Nicolas was somehow stronger and more threatening than his younger brother and there was clearly something going on.
An opening glissandre from the harp, settled everyone back down and turned their attention back to the next song. Nicolas steered me towards the side passage that went to the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty The thick wooden tables all scraped and seasoned with oil. Breakfast stew was simmering in two large pots in the coals of the cavernous fireplace. It was just enough light to cast an overly intimate glow on everything. To my surprise, Nicolas sat down and pulled me towards him. I pushed back.
“Ouf, did you want to take out your embroidery or not?”
Oh right. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten I wanted to take out his stitches!
“I’m surprised you didn’t rip them out yourself” I said as I rummaged around and found a sharp paring knife. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of small surgical scissors and tweezers.
It wasn’t too chilly I thought, but the poor man had taken off his tunic and shirt, and there were goose bumps covering his chest. I carefully broke each stitch and pulled it out delicately. His lips were right next to my ear, which meant I could hear the change in his breathing every time I touched him. This was definitely nine shades of inappropriate, but I guess I should have been grateful he chose the kitchen and didn’t whip his shirt off in my private quarters otherwise I would have sunk even lower in the castle hierarchy from the demens girl, to crazy and a shameless puterelle.
“Eh...they could rot off for all I care.” He said. Somehow he managed to still look in charge even though I was standing over him working away. “I needed to talk to you.”
Now it was my turn to suck in a breath too quickly.
“..or rather, my father has asked me to handle this.”
“This?” I tried to keep my hand steady as I sliced the next stitch and took it out. I was halfway done. He had about three more minutes and then I was beating a hasty retreat.
“Well...you.”
“Well then..” I kept my voice light hearted. “...you can start with why you didn’t tell me you who you were.”
He appeared surprised. “You didn’t know?”
“Of course I didn’t know” It came out a trifle more sharp than I intended.”You showed up with your troop of mesnie...there were people everywhere...you certainly weren’t dressed like any nobleman I'd ever met, and…”
He shook his head, “I’m the eldest son, who do you think does all of the hard work? Strutting around in fancy des costumés is Arands job.”
Well, I couldn’t exactly tell him I had no earthly idea what wealthy guys did in 1049.
“But I yelled at you...you didn’t say anything!” I had been here long enough to know mouthing off to a high lord usually meant you’d end up hanging by your wrists for a few hours while a goat licked your feet. I swallowed...on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t have re-brought it up.
“Eh, ye could have clubbed me over the head with a branding iron and I wouldn’t have likely paid mind to it...” He rubbed his chin “...yeh were touching me with fingers like a new piglet and your breasts were in my face.”
This pragmatic description wasn’t anything I knew how to respond to… no one had ever bragged about skin being as soft as a baby pig.
I harrumphed in the most stern matronly way possible. Good gracious, seven more stitches to go.
“Mi charmanté, who are you?”
I looked up quickly. The tone of his voice had changed. There was a seriousness in his eyes that made him look older than he was.
I'd practiced this. “La Mademoiselle Emilie de Durand dame d’honneur le Matilda de Fland..”
“Nay...who are you really?”
I wildly considered stabbing him with a syringe of Ativan and making my escape, but besides being insanely unethical, I of course didn’t have modern sedatives at my fingertips. Still, what was there to say?
“I know you’re not from Lille.”
I nodded to this, afraid to do anything else. Even though I wasn’t the injured one… and I was the one brandishing a knife, I was still the one at a disadvantage. If he wanted to have me hung or drowned tomorrow, he could. I couldn’t tell the truth or explain because there was literally no answer to give that wouldn’t instantly result in hanging or drowning (if I was lucky).
“You might be interested to know a Lady Emilie Durand De Lille arrived today with a letter explaining how she’d been delayed by flooding.” He waited.
“I don’t know who I am.” It came out as a half whisper, half sob. I plucked the last stitch out and wiped the blade of the little kitchen knife on a sack of flour. This kitchen really was abominably hot, even empty.
He stood up, pulling his shirt back on but draping the purple tunic over his arm. “I once was hunting through Bruges...we’d just had a time of it at the coast with bordel thieves and I had naught I wanted to do but kick back some pretty ducks in solitude. I found a bit of moving mud, all caked and matted. I couldn’t tell what it was at first, but a few swipes and I could see it was a wounded merlin…” He stretched his shoulders out gingerly, testing his flexibility without the stitches. “...Now if thee find a muddy injured animal even if was made out of gold, yeh best leave it alone or put it out of its misry. But I’m not known for making easy decisions.” He laughed ruefully “I took the bird here-- which I know was a foolish thing, probably doesn’t make since to a lady-- or whatever ye are.”
I thought of the way he’d carried young Josef...I could definitely see him tending an injured bird.I could also see him ruthlessly wielding a sword and getting sliced across the chest.
“Did the bird live?” I asked.
“She did, she turned out to be a trained hunter from Italy...so tame she’ll eat right out of your hand--After realizing how valuable she was, I spent not a little time searching for her owners--”
He rested his hands on my shoulders, searching for something in my eyes. His hands were scarred and callous and his thumb twisted in a way that meant it’d been broken more than once.
““I’m not a bird.”
He nodded. “Oui...and do ye know the punishment for impersonating a noble is death by hot stones?”
No, I didn’t know that...not that I was terribly surprised. My breath hitched in my chest for a second and I wondered for the thousandth time what had possessed me to put on that dress and walk outside to rescue the neighbor’s cat. I could see the headline now “Search called off for missing St Hope intern,..” when really it should read “California resident executed with hot stones for wearing a red dress.”
“If I could just explain myself to your father…” I said.
“My father has asked me to deal with this--unfortunately. Your trial is three days hence.”
He seemed be waiting for me to say something. Deny everything maybe, or tell him the motivation behind my crimes.
When I didn’t offer some plausible explanation he dismissed me with a troubled nod. “I will not be let this go until I have figured it out.” He lifted his hand ”Now go.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
Chapter 9
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