Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  A couple knights in chainmail hustled to the walls. She craned her neck—the drawbridge was up.

  Dread coated her mind and slithered through her blood to pool in her belly. Oh God, they expected an attack? Whoa, scary knight guy had been rescuing her. And the villagers were refugees.

  Great. What luck. She wouldn’t be looking for her case any time soon. And if it rained? Or one of the attackers found it? Panic again tumbled in her stomach. She tamped it down. She would not get discouraged. Not yet.

  But chaos could be helpful—something, as a chaos-avoider, Katy never thought she’d say. But in this case? Yeah. It might provide the cover she needed while she assembled a passable outfit. She rubbed the back of her neck. And posing as a man would be safer.

  A cluster of villagers waited to be blessed by two black-robed monks. That could be the perfect camouflage—body shape disguising, the excuse for being a stranger, the means to—one of the monks’ hoods fell back—uh, shave the top of her head? Yikes, no.

  She dropped her forehead to the straw, a stray piece poking her chin and nose. Buck up, kiddo, Dad would say, the only phrase of wisdom that ever sputtered past his I-can’t-stick-around-in-your-life lips. She breathed in and forced a calm exhale. There had to be a way to use this chaos.

  Robert strode through the middle tower, across the bridge over the ravine, and into the south tower, the memory of the mysterious wench still an irritating itch along his back. He sought Staundon, the royal castle’s constable since the departure of Baron Fitzwalter a year hence. Robert nodded to several crossbowmen hunched over their weapons, lubricating the gears and joints, their voices low, subdued. A fellow knight ceased contemplating a flagon of ale at the hearth and angled his head to a screen cutting off the far corner, obviously aware of Robert’s mission.

  He followed the knight’s direction and found Staundon with two other castle knights engaged in a heated debate, ranged around a trestle table. Staundon’s mangy greyhound gnawed on a bone beneath the table. Robert caught the gaze of the acting commander, who held up his hand to the others. All talk ceased.

  Staundon motioned Robert forward, the sweaty disarray of his commander’s dark hair attesting to the recent removal of his helm and arming cap. “Tell me, what did you discover on your scouting mission?” His voice held the tired resignation of the little-thanked official constantly wielding the responsibility of the long-absent superior.

  Robert braced his legs apart. “The Welsh, under Madog ap Llywelyn, are indeed rebelling. Already have they razed the new royal settlements nearby and now march on ours. I ushered the town folk to safety within the walls. However, rumors abound the rebels sacked Caernarfon, but I have been unable to confirm. Could merely be Welsh boasts.”

  Although his fellow knights had listened in silence, the air thickened with anger and aggression as Robert’s final words fell into the space between them. One of the king’s most prized castles, Caernarfon was a vital linchpin in Edward’s plan to subdue the Welsh.

  “If Caernarfon could fall…” Staundon raked his hands through his dark hair, frustration evident in his tired gaze.

  A knight banged his fist against the wall, startling the greyhound. “Those Welsh savages. The Devil only knows what’s on their pagan minds. We subdue them in one area, and they spring up elsewhere. Don’t know how to stay civilized.”

  Robert stiffened but kept his features neutral. Long ago, had he learned to keep his face free of telltale emotions. Only Staundon noticed his change in posture and shot a look laced with warning. Soon enough would the rest learn. No sense in exposing his origins in an atmosphere so charged. So new was his posting at Castell y Bere, he’d yet to fully befriend the other men.

  Robert gripped his wrist behind his back and widened his stance. “The approaching number is at least two hundred strong, with one quarter mounted. An equal number of siege ladders, but no other siege weapons I could discern, though some of the men-at-arms could be sappers. Their forces are most likely a mixture of northern and southern Welshmen, for they had both spear and longbow.” He threw his parchment tallying the forces onto the table. He did not relish what he had to say next. “I estimate they will reach our valley by night fall, with a likely attack on the morrow.”

  “We’ve begun siege preparations.” Staundon leaned into the table, arms spread wide, palms flat, head dipped. “The villagers. Did they come willingly?”

  “Yes, though some of the leading merchants were loath to leave their new homes undefended.” He omitted mentioning the wench dressed as a lad. He’d gotten her inside the wall, had he not?

  “How many are able-bodied men?”

  “I daresay no more than sixteen, mostly English, and that’s stretching it.”

  Staundon dipped down, elbows bent, then pushed away from the table. “Christ on a cross are we outnumbered and ill-prepared for a siege. Fitzwalter, damn his hide, left this castle in a shambles. With the villagers here, we have grain for a week at the most. One milk cow, a half dozen sheep, and two pigs.” Staundon cursed and poured a flagon of wine. He took a healthy swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a garnet-red droplet clinging to his mustache.

  Another knight leaned forward, fists on the table. “We must alert Fitzwalter of our plight. He may not have left for Gascony. With your permission, I will depart through the sally port and ride for Harlech Castle.”

  “Is this wise, Commander?” Robert asked. “That will leave us with only four knights.”

  “You haven’t heard. Make that six. Whilst you were without, your former liege lord arrived with one of his knights and four crossbowmen. Combined with ours, that makes an even dozen.”

  “A slim force, nevertheless, you must agree,” Robert said. Though Sir Hugh de Lacy’s arrival was welcome news indeed.

  “ ’Tis, but mayhap Fitzwalter can send reinforcements. After all, this is a royal castle, ill-provisioned though it is.” He placed a hand on the volunteering knight’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “Go now and God speed.”

  The knight nodded and marched out of the hall.

  “Locate Sir Hugh in the round tower,” Staundon said to Robert, “and assist with the defense. He coordinates the village’s refugees, and you will be familiar to them.” He glanced over Robert’s shoulder and beckoned. “And here’s Sir Hugh’s vassal knight. Perchance you are acquainted?”

  Robert locked down all emotion. One knight served under Sir Hugh whom he’d gladly beggar his soul to never see again. However, he knew with a sense of inevitability whom he’d behold—Sir Ralph de Buche. His childhood friend. His childhood confidant. His childhood nemesis.

  The passing years had added bulk to de Buche’s lanky frame and a hardness to his angular features. Robert returned his attention to Staundon. “Commander.” The greyhound’s ears lay flat, hair raised along his spine, wary eyes fixed on de Buche.

  Robert bowed and strode by de Buche, sparing only a curt nod. The sooner Robert checked in with Sir Hugh, the sooner could he see to the castle’s defenses.

  “Naught to say for yourself, Beucol?” came de Buche’s familiar, reedy voice.

  Robert faced the blackguard straight on. “I was unaware aught was needed.” He kept his gaze locked with de Buche’s until the latter’s jaws bunched. Robert stepped forward, and de Buche straightened, but backed away not. “Oh, I’m sorry. Welcome to Castell y Bere.” Robert gave a mock bow, complete with hand flourish.

  “You’ll never win your suit.”

  Robert clenched his fists, a desperate need coursing through him to smash that blade-thin nose, just as he’d once done gleefully as a youth. Not a noble sentiment, but then again, Robert had no illusions he possessed a noble soul. What honor had been left to him? None, thanks to his treasonous father. Impotent anger surged through the familiar hollowness within, a sentiment that arose whenever thoughts turned to his father’s selfish actions.

  Not breaking eye contact with de Buche, Robert replied, voice cold, measured. “I shall prevail. T
he honor of Llangollen has been in my family since we Normans first settled the Marches, indeed before William the Bastard ever set foot on these shores. The title and castle will be mine. The king shall settle the matter thusly, of that I have no doubt.” Prevailing in this was all that was left for him. All that was missing to make him feel whole. Feel honorable. Feel like he had a purpose. Attaining it was his purpose.

  “I wouldn’t be so certain, old friend. My father has the ear of Lancaster.” He glanced at the assembled knights, his features smug. “Have you informed them of your family’s stain? Or do you still befriend others under false pretenses?”

  Shame, hot and sharp, punched Robert with the power only reminders of childhood hurts could inflict. But he let it curdle and drew strength from the hardened shell, like he’d learned to do so long ago. “Bitter, de Buche? My affairs are mine own. In case you’ve forgotten, this castle will soon be under siege. You may wish to look to your own affairs.” With that, Robert pivoted and strode from the hall, de Buche no doubt glaring at his retreating back.

  No matter how hardened Robert had become, no matter how accustomed to the opinion of his peers, no matter how much he averred that he cared not, de Buche had the unerring ability to burrow under his guard and rile him like some untried squire. Ridiculous.

  He unclenched his fists. He would not allow that scoundrel to unnerve him. The stain on his family’s honor, Robert could not avoid. It would come out eventually, his father’s treason. But on one point, de Buche was wrong. Robert would regain his family’s land and title. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  Pointy bits of straw dug into Katy’s stomach. She had to admit a thatched roof wasn’t her first choice for a perch. And she’d ignore the spot by her thigh where things moved.

  Below, a makeshift washing area had been rigged, with an array of colorful clothes—in earth-tone shades from dark green to a muted red--stretched to dry across poles. She gripped a stick she’d found in the alley in her sweaty palm and eyed the tunics and cloaks worn by the village men. If she had time, she’d snag the colorful hose they wore as well.

  As far as she could tell, the dead-end corner received little traffic. Even so, no way would she risk jumping down, since she’d have no easy access back to the roof.

  She shifted to the opposite side. Anyone returning? Villagers and soldiers alike seemed focused on the gatehouse and the well. This was her chance.

  Having mentally worked out the best angle to grab the clothes, she crawled back and slipped the forked stick under the cloak, the highest priority, and lifted. When close enough, she grabbed the cloak and flipped it onto the roof.

  She paused. No approaching footsteps. Maneuvering the stick, she pulled the other cloaks across the pole and eliminated the incriminating gap.

  Now, the tunic.

  Feminine voices floated up from around the corner—they were coming back. Katy thrust back from the edge, dragging with her the tunic, plus straw dust. She sneezed. At the wall, heart pounding, hands shaking, mind screaming this-is-so-so-so-crazy, she spread the clothes on the sunniest part of the roof. The women had wrung them out, but they were still damp.

  What time was it? Instinctively, she reached for her phone. Hand poised in the air, she let it drop. Talk about quitting cold turkey.

  Overhead, the sun peeked from the scattered clouds dotting the slate-gray sky. Late afternoon sometime then? Shit. She had to get outside the castle walls before the sun set. But how soon were they expecting an attack? Not knowing all the details caused a flutter in her chest, fueling her sense of helplessness, her sense of loss of control.

  And her phone and mini-planner were no shield against that chaos here.

  No. She had to risk it and find that silver case, period. Before someone else found it.

  She held the woolen cloak to the wind, while below, the women chattered, the rhythm and pattern familiar, but the meaning still not gelling. Maybe Middle English?

  Oh God. Could she do this? Dread coiled in her stomach, but she curled a hand against her belly and pulled in a strained breath.

  She had no choice.

  Her arm ached from holding up the cloak. Too risky to wait longer. Lying prone on the roof, she stripped down to her My Lover’s Secret panties, threw on the rectangle-shaped, knee-length green tunic, and topped her outfit with the dark brown cloak. Probably needed some type of shirt under the tunic, but she hoped no one would notice. The bare legs could be a problem, but screw it—the jeans would stick out more.

  She stuffed her clothes into the crevice next to her purse.

  What next? Her socks. Barefoot would be safest.

  Just…ignore what you step in.

  She sighed and pulled off her socks, tucking them into the crevice. She crawled over the roof, the straw scratching her skin and its dust irritating her nose.

  Drat. The gate? Still closed.

  She repeated the Latin she’d dredged up earlier: ego externus. Not a complete sentence, but who cared, if it got the point across. If that failed? She’d try modern French in case it was after 1066: Je veux aller à l’extérieur. I want to go outside.

  Okay. This was it. Time to skedaddle. Not that they’d likely let her outside, but she shoved that possible outcome away. She had to get outside. She had to find her case. She had to return home. Home where she had a planned role. Home where she wasn’t subject to the whims of medieval life like rape, pillaging, famine, antiquated diseases, arrows to the knee. Home where women had agency.

  Hands shaking, Katy gripped tufts of straw, pressed herself flat, and eased one leg, two, over the roof’s edge. With her pointed toe, the rough straw rasping against her stomach, breaths straining through her nose, she felt around until she touched the barrel and lowered herself into the alley. Hood over her head, she brushed off bits of straw, exited by the stables, and walked on jelly legs toward the gate, feeling as if a big-ass sign was taped to her back saying, “Chick from the future—nab her!” Or maybe, “Ye olde maiden from the future—to the dungeons with her!”

  In the blue-gray shadows of the walls, the cold of the stone cobbles seeped into her bare feet. Head lowered, she sidestepped puddles and questionable substances, blood pounding in her ears, and skirted between the well and the steps leading up to a round tower.

  This had to work. Get out, find case, back in for her purse, then poof. No proof she’d ever been here. No evidence to mess up the timeline.

  Yes, leave. If she wanted. Or take a moment to sightsee. But the lack of choice shook her. She needed that case, needed the security of being able to leave whenever she wanted. That inability rattled so much, she couldn’t even begin to take in the surrounding sights. Step One: the case. Step Two: assess.

  As long as she didn’t run into that knight again. With each passing moment, the energy of the place seemed to vibrate more and more at her frequency, with the center being Sir Chainmail. She rubbed her arms. If she stayed too long—she could just feel that his presence, his eerie similarity to her dream knight, was a threat to her well-laid plans.

  At the gate, Katy took a fortifying breath and—oh man, bad idea. The stench. She coughed, eyes watering, and stepped up to one of the guards, a beast of a man. His chainmail glittered in the sun, his lethalness written in the bulky muscles, wicked battle axe, fierce expression.

  She bowed. Was that normal? Oh well—her clothes wouldn’t rank her high, and politeness never hurt.

  She pointed at herself and to the gate, deepening her voice as much as she could muster. “Ego externus?”

  The guard’s eyebrows arrowed down.

  “Je veux aller à l’extérieur?” Again, she made hand motions indicating her wish.

  He widened his stance, crossed his arms, and said something unintelligible. But the head shake? Pretty clear.

  She swallowed the panic and frustration threatening to burst up her throat. This had to work. In case the denial meant he didn’t understand, she asked in English, “Can I go outside?”

  The guard ste
pped back.

  What the—?

  Then, from over her shoulder, a forceful voice she recognized, but didn’t understand, washed over her—a threat, a promise, a mystery.

  Chapter Five

  So the maiden stopped, and she threw back that part of her head dress which covered her face. And she fixed her eyes upon him, and began to talk with him.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  “What is the trouble, guard?” Robert asked. A hooded villein was obviously causing trouble, and trouble from a peasant was not what they needed at this moment. Especially, one dressed so oddly with a short tunic and no hose.

  At his query, the peasant stiffened. Well he should fear the consequences. A siege was imminent, and no time had they to waste. Everyone, every one, must pitch in.

  The guard maintained his proper mien, but relief flashed across his eyes. “He’s not making any sense.”

  Robert snapped a finger at a squire running past, carrying a barrel loaded with crossbow bolts. Tips freshly minted from the blacksmith, no doubt. “After you deliver those, locate Sir Hugh in the round tower. Tell him I shall be there momentarily.”

  The squire nodded and took off, bolts rattling with his steps. Robert returned his attention to the guard and the troublesome peasant. “What’s he saying?”

  “That’s just it. He’s speaking in a tongue that’s beyond my ken. One sounded like Latin, but I know it not.”

  Latin? How would a peasant know Latin? He faced the cur, displeasure and impatience coloring his tone. “Quid vis?”

  The peasant shifted toward him, his head low. “Ego externus.”

  He frowned. So, not fluent. He opened his mouth to question what he meant, because of course the poor devil was outside. The peasant’s hand lifted and pointed toward the gate.

  Oh. So he had a death wish. Mayhap he was simple. Again, Robert took a breath to answer when the peasant spoke further words, which were not Latin, but were indeed unfamiliar tongues--a pause and a different cadence, signaling a different tongue.