Langue[dot]doc 1305

by Gillian Polack

  “Good,” said Tony.

  “I really didn’t want to know about that,” said Sylvia.

  “Me neither,” agreed Artemisia. Her feet wanted to dance jigs of excitement. They, her feet, knew where she was, even if the rest of her was repressing the understanding.

  “You’re both wusses. It’s very cool and we leave nothing behind us except a fertilised garden bed,” Cormac Smith was irrepressible.

  Bathrooms were each side of the kitchen. The kitchen/dining area - with a little room off the side for medical procedures - was Pauline’s domain. The caverns weren’t the right shape for the use being made of them, unlike the wide tunnel that had been transformed into the dormitory. If she looked at the whole, Artemisia saw a sad case of Gaudi gone wrong: graceful rockflows and astonishingly gentle colour schemes interrupted by mesh walkways and inserts and dividers.

  The others were looking at the walls.

  “It’s melted,” Ben Konig commented.

  “Very artistic,” Geoff Murray agreed.

  Artemisia tried to discover which of them was serious. She suspected that they were joking and that the jokes were their way of hiding their fizzle of excitement. She took a look at Sylvia Smith’s body language and shut herself up small - there was something about that woman that just did that to her. Made her not belong. Like when she visited Lucia, and Mum was there.

  The main office had that giant triangular opening. Outside was warmer and brighter. Outside was where the Middle Ages began.

  “In our time this was partly bricked up - someone lived here in the nineteenth century.”

  “So we’re not the first.”

  “We’re the first, not the only.”

  It was the work area and the office area and the area with natural light. “Don’t move the tables - we need to be stingy with energy. We want to supplement light in this area, not depend on the artificial stuff.”

  “Unlike that bank of fridges in the storeroom.”

  “They’re different. They’ve got our frozen comestibles now and will go back with our samples. And they’re low energy. Deep cold in the bottom section. They can maintain their temperature for a very long time if the power fails.”

  Artemisia suddenly realised how much money had gone into this expedition. It made her feel very small, to be the tail end, the afterthought, in something so very big.

  They had seen the little indoor waterfall and the twisty tunnels that were too small for habitation. They had seen holes and dips and the never-ending well that was their source of water. The only thing the group hadn’t seen was Cormac’s toolroom.

  “Mine,” he said, proprietarily. “Keep out.”

  Then they returned to the common room yet again for still more briefing, while Pauline got their first main meal together. Every now and then she would pop into the lounge area and ask Cormac for something; apart from that, she seemed already settled.

  Artemisia felt even smaller.

  Chapter Five

  Where Nobody Talks

  The space was too small and the outside world too unknown. Above their hilltop, Orion shone, and Canis Minor. There was no Southern Cross.

  Each member of the time team did what they could to make things comfortable. This included using the computer to converse. It also included exploring Mac’s medieval reproductions. He and Geoff called them ‘toys’. Artemisia retaliated by calling him ‘Big Mac’. Geoff laughed, Ben looked at her consideringly.

  Artemisia ignored them, for she had noticed an odd detail about the equipment. All the girdles being handed out for their outdoors costume had the same clasp. “Outdoors is all Medieval, all the time,” noted Mac, as he distributed them.

  “Copper alloy,” observed the geologist.

  “Looks like it was copied from that Museum of London book,” said Artemisia. She noted that the cloak pins, likewise, were all the same: large and circular with a horizontal pin. Whoever commissioned the clothing was short on inventiveness. One day I’ll find out who made these things, Artemisia thought, and if they used London models.

  The belts came in two kinds, leather and linen. “Don’t make them too tight,” said Artemisia. “They go over several layers and you need to hang things from them.”

  “Things?” Ben Konig was curious.

  “Beltknives and stuff. I always think of the belt as the Batman aspect of the Middle Ages. Tighten it with the buckle and let that metal strap end work with gravity to hold the hanging bit straight.”

  “That’s not a useful system,” said Luke.

  “Well, it is. If you want to take small stuff with you and want your hands free and you’re not carrying a bag, then you tie it to your belt,” Artemisia said, helpfully.

  “That’s why they’re so tough,” said Cormac.

  “Yep. Utility-belt tough.” Geoff Murray laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was strange coming out of such a bald head.

  Cormac then hauled out shoes for everyone. Most people had been pre-measured, but none fitted Artemisia.

  “You’ll have to go barefoot,” Luke said.

  * * *

  Father Peire’s hand was raised in blessing. He held himself formally, straight, head slightly bowed. It was a declarative statement. What the declarative statement said was that he was not a part of the mess that was still happening on the steps of his church. You could fortify a building against invaders, but you could not fortify it against stupid parishioners. All you could do was bless them and hope that the blessing stuck.

  Fiz and his two best friends were the cause of the pile of people who were just now disentangling themselves, with much noise and acrimony. The boys had needled Sibilla about her reluctance to let a pawned brooch return to its owner. Sibilla had pushed Fiz. Fiz had fallen down the steep stairs and had made a great cry. Sibilla had secrets, everyone knew. One didn’t jostle in and out of the crowd to tell her those secrets in loud whispers. Not that Sibilla was right to push the boy: he might have broken his neck.

  Bona and her small brother stood hand in hand on the street below, watching in wide-eyed astonishment. Peire found it hard to believe that Bona was only a year younger than Fiz. Bona was like her family, quirky, but a good member of the community. Fiz was Fiz and a law unto himself. Peire prayed that the children had not heard what Fiz had whispered so loudly. He suspected they knew. The town was so small that everyone must know, but he could dream of innocence, and hope that theirs would last a little longer.

  Father Peire was above, while Berta was below comforting Sibilla. Berta had a self-satisfied look on her face. One reason she was Sibilla’s close friend was because Sibilla made her feel superior. Peire thought of a very good sermon that would address Berta’s pride and resolved to deliver it, soon. But Berta wouldn’t listen. That was the trouble with the seven deadly sins. They took over lives.

  Pride was Berta, lust was obviously Sibilla, but what of the others? SALIGIA, he thought, and used the mnemonic to call up the seven: superbia, avaritia, luxuria, invidia, gula, ira, acedia. If superbia was Berta and luxuria was Sibilla then gula was Fiz. He would eat anything, that boy. Invidia was himself. He was a rampaging mess of envy. He rather suspected that avarice might be the new knight, Guilhem, who hid his greed behind gift-giving. Or Sibilla again, with her collection of objects that had touched relics. She held onto them all as if they would save her soul. If Guilhem wasn’t avarice, then he was wrath. Such an angry young man. That left only sloth. Acedia. He wanted to think that the abbot was guilty of that, but, really, he was not. Berta’s husband, then, who no-one ever saw and no-one ever saw working. Berta claimed that he sold her cloth at the fairs, but Pézenas and Montpellier were not here.

  Peire’s hand, he realised, was still raised. He decided it meant admonition, not blessing. And no-one had noticed. Fiz’s outcry and Sibilla’s wails absorbed everything. He gave up and went inside, to the cool and dark safety of his big stone church.

  A little later and the town was still not dignified.

  Berta sat ou
tside her house, right beside the double door, her legs lolling apart as if it were one of those sultry days where dignity was irrelevant. She was fully aware that she looked like a peasant: she was making a point. She could have been inside, working, the big door flung open to drag in the light. She could have been chasing her always-errant husband. Instead she sat in the cold, wind blowing up her skirts, pretending it was a summer day and that she had all the time in the world and that reputation was not worth a candle.

  Guilhem-the-smith passed her and sighed. He didn’t say anything, simply nodded politely and doffed his cap. This was not the first time Berta had expressed herself thus. It would not be the last. It would take one of the priests to get her to behave with dignity and proper modesty. He sighed again, and walked on by.

  His sighs were all Berta had needed. Her face expressionless, she stood up, brushed her skirts down, smoothed them, and straightened her back. Within moments she was her proper self, all restrictions and decorum. She dragged the bench indoors and used the last of the light to finish her weaving.

  Berta’s timing was perfect. As the smith walked down the street he fell over an argument. That’s the trouble with bent streets, he thought, as he disentangled himself, you can’t see, and the stone muffles sound.

  He could walk down to check his land in Aniane and there would be no Berta and no messes such as the one that had just given him a bruised left shin. He contemplated moving to their neighbouring town for good, as he mechanically separated the two young men. It was not the first time that the big smith had sorted out a fight, and it would not be the last. He acted without thinking, from separating to scolding to sending the boys on their ways. The inhabitants of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert may live in the shadow of the holy abbey, he thought, but that doesn’t make us holy. Perhaps all the sin the monks vanquish with their prayers creeps out through the garden gate and into us. Especially into the young ones and the women of a certain age.

  Friendly, the folks of his hometown were, and kind, but unruly. Self-willed. Impossible.

  * * *

  “Technically,” Artemisia interrupted, “we’re not even speaking Old French yet. This is the start of the glorious period of Middle French.” She was trying hard to find a polite way to express her complete dismay. While the theory was that no-one would meet locals, the reality was that someone could run into one at any time. Until this moment, she had not realised that none of the team had language training. None. It was inconceivable.

  “Frenchly, my dear,” said Luke, jovial but not pleased, “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Except that it’s a good idea that people learn. Unless language training was one of the things I missed?”

  “It’s not necessary. We won’t be mixing with the natives. It’ll interfere with the research.” The superiority of the scientist at work.

  Artemisia argued, but Luke refused to change his mind. She wasn’t to know that he had never successfully learned a foreign language in his life. It was an area of vulnerability and he would not admit it. The decision about languages had been his, from the start, and he was sticking to it.

  * * *

  Guilhem met Guilhem. Guilhem-the-smith felt that it was necessary. So many people had said, “There’s a new knight with your name. Here in the town. Not one of the abbot’s boys. You should speak with him.” So he did.

  This disconcerted Guilhem. He had accepted that his name was common down south, just as Guillaume was up north, but being Guilhem-the-knight made him uncomfortable. His name should stand alone, a touch exotic, referring to himself.

  He was also disconcerted to discover the importance of a blacksmith. Guilhem-the-smith was the person who others thought should meet the newcomer and serve as a conduit between himself and them; he was someone around whom things revolved. In short, he was of rank. This explained perhaps the coldness at the castle and the disdain at the abbey. It explained how the world operated in this little valley. His contact point was Guilhem-the-smith, since he himself had not made the proper approaches to one of the priests.

  Guilhem didn’t like it. He showed his dislike by thinking of himself as himself - he would always be Guilhem and never Guilhem-the-knight.

  * * *

  Artemisia needed a role; tasks that were hers; legitimate work she could do during normal working hours. At the first briefing, Luke had given her one; at the second, he had taken it away. Damn it, she thought rebelliously, I shall make my own. Carefully, following official guidelines. I shall analyse everyone and everything. And I shall educate.

  She set up a little pro-forma, and she set up a place on the intrawebbed bulletin board and from then on each and every saint’s day (which was most days, in 1305) it was ornamented with the details of that saint’s life. It was like her favourite email list. The re-enactment of those saints’ days made her less homesick.

  She read Cormac’s policy regarding found objects and the logging system he’d set up. She footnoted his note saying that prayer times would be the best times to be out and about. Konig added a curt comment to her footnote, Dr Wormwood, please provide schedule.

  “It’s not that simple,” she turned to the next desk and told Konig, to his face. “Prayer times aren’t that simple at all. Can I be given a few minutes next meeting to explain time measurement?”

  Sylvia Smith leaned over from two desks down. She snapped, “This is your job. Just do it. And email it. We don’t need chapter and verse - only data.”

  Ben corrected her, his voice black velvet and convincing. “It’s her job,” he said, slowly, “And I do realise you’re second-in-command, but you might wish to take changes in work through me. It affects everyone, each decision like this.” He was very polite, almost diffident, but also firm.

  Artemisia suspected that Konig didn’t give a damn about prayer times. Sylvia Smith threatened Konig. What use was Artemisia, if her work was to be disregarded? Why did they bother bringing an historian if they assumed that historian’s stupidity? Besides, data was never, ever only data. It had contexts. It didn’t select itself. Artemisia talked herself into a giant sulk. It was the easiest way of handling it.

  * * *

  There was a christening at Saint-Barthelmy’s. The most notable thing about it was that everyone was there. For a wonder, the two halves of the town had come together. It happens, thought Peire, who was setting an example by bringing his priestly self into the other church. It doesn’t happen very often, but it happens.

  Saint-Barthelmy had a superior font, he had to admit, even though in every other respect Saint-Laurent was the better church. Saint-Barthelmy wasn’t fortified, and one couldn’t stand tall on the high steps and watch congregants walking up those steps and symbolically attain the heights. The font, however, he had to admit, was special. Red stone on top and dark stone underneath - even in the black church (for it stood in shadow at this hour - not, perhaps, the most auspicious time of day to celebrate the sacrament) it was visible.

  Peire noticed Fiz and his friends giggling, and frowned. What were they up to this time? They were looking at the font. If this were his church, he would investigate, but all he could do was wait for events to unfurl. He hated helplessness.

  All went well, until the baptised baby was brought into a ray of sunlight. At this moment it became obvious that Fiz and his friends had taken dye from Berta’s cloth workshop and had added enough to the holy water to turn the baby’s face undeniably green. A particularly vile yellowish-green. Peire wished he could have that pilgrim back who had told the story of green children and could give him a penance worth remembering.

  Father Louis didn’t identify the culprits. He’s sometimes blessed, and sometimes blessed with stupidity, reflected Peire. In the end, both priests and two townsfolk bailed the water from the font and washed the red stone thoroughly. It wasn’t easy, in the shadow, to see if the dark red was clean, so they scrubbed everything twice.

  While they did that, the whole town watched, amused. While they watched, they gossiped
. It was noted by several that Father Louis had been sleeping with Sibilla again, and that the public embarrassment of a green baby was suitable recompense.

  Guilhem noticed the fuss and the time and the entire boring length of it all, and made up his mind that the other church would be his spiritual home while he was in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. It was a walk, but it was properly run. There was no-one who would tell him that he should go somewhere else: he was his own man in unexpected ways.

  After the water was blessed, the whole christening started over. The child would remain green, but at least it would be green and properly Christian.

  * * *

  “Don’t spoil the sediment,” Mac worried. Sylvia was prodding the bottom edge of a cork board into the dirt floor.

  “The bulletin board will fall over,” she pointed out, “if I don’t stabilise it.”

  “We were given warnings,” Mac said. “Don’t dig unless it’s essential. And even then, don’t dig much. You’re about to dig a swimming pool.”

  “I’m not digging. Just needling around a little.”

  “Lots of people won’t speak to you if you needle, ever again.”

  “Oh,” scoffed Sylvia. “Who are these lots of people?”

  “Palaeontologists, archaeologists, cavologists, good looking male scientists...”

  Sylvia laughed, but she balanced the bulletin board with rockfall. As Mac helped her, Tony walked past, looking for the wide outdoors.

  Cormac Smith had given Tony a map. He wanted to go straight to his garden plot and check it out and start work. He walked towards the big triangular opening that led to sunlight and 1305, but he was stopped by Konig.

  “Tomorrow is soon enough, Tony. We need to finish here before we can start work off-base.” Tony was silently unhappy, obedient in a sad-puppy fashion.

  * * *

  Fiz was bored beyond anything he would ever, ever remember. The flatness of the pale pilgrim path bored him. The steepness of the cliffs past the vineyards bored him. The little lizard he couldn’t catch even though he tried and tried and tried bored him. He was bored right until he could see the castle, looming over the path into the town. The men in the castle couldn’t see his face. Not from here. Fiz amused himself by pulling faces at the man whose torso half-showed through the crenellations.