Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  She’d exhausted at least an hour finding out the villagers’ location. Turned out there were only two inns in the village anyway. As a well-dressed squire, she garnered more respect than she’d seen others given, so at least there was that.

  She pushed open the heavy oak door of the inn and approached the woman behind the bar, whose strong jaw rivaled her large, but all-wise eyes.

  “I’m looking for the villagers who came from Castell y Bere. I understand they are here?”

  The woman frowned and said something that sounded like, “I don’t speak French.”

  Ah, yes. Katy closed her eyes and mentally recalled her conversations with Alfred, got her mind grinding along in Middle English again.

  She repeated her question, this time her English inflected the way she’d spoken with Alfred. But that still wasn’t clear enough, apparently. Frustration and panic threatened to overtake her, but she pushed it down and spoke slower. Robert needed her. Needed her calm.

  “Yes, there are some of them at that table by the window, near the corner.” She flicked a linen towel in that direction.

  “Thank you.”

  At the table, Katy introduced herself and described the woman she looked for. As she spoke, more and more of her lessons learned while speaking with Alfred rose to the surface, and her Middle English conformed better.

  “Aye, I remember you,” said an older woman with graying blonde hair and flushed red cheeks.

  The guy in the bunch, young but stoop-shouldered, crossed his bony arms. “What do you want with her, anyway?”

  “She has something…” she stopped from saying ‘of mine.’ Not the time to quibble about ownership and easier to avoid antagonizing them. “…I’d like to buy.”

  “Aye, she was here,” the older lady replied, “but she and her family are hitching up a wagon they bought and moving to Shrewsbury. They might still be in the stable yard.”

  Katy hurried outside and around back to the stables. A short man in his early thirties was hitching a wagon to a horse, three kids were climbing in and jumping down, while several adults were loading their belongings and tying them down.

  There she is. Katy ran up to the lady she remembered, out of breath, startling everyone. “Hello. I was at Castell y Bere also, and you had an object I…I fancied, and I wondered if I could purchase it? A little silver case, about so big.” She held out her hands. “With a chain loop?”

  The woman smiled. “That was a pretty thing, wasn’t it?”

  Dread settled like a dead weight in Katy’s stomach. She didn’t like the use of past tense.

  “I would so like to have kept it,” the woman continued, “but with the loss of our home and business, and no surety that the town will be rebuilt, we needed the money.”

  “You sold it?”

  “Aye, for the silver. Fetched a fair price. Enough to buy this horse and wagon and still set us up nice and proper in Shrewsbury. No more of this colonizing business. The king can find some other fools.”

  “Who did you sell it to?”

  “Gilbert the Goldsmith.”

  “Where is he?”

  The lady gave directions. “You’ll see his sign once you’re there.”

  “What does his sign say?”

  The lady shot her a quizzical look. “Say? No signs that talk around here. Look for the gold coin. You’re a daft one, aren’t ye?”

  Katy raced back through the yard, palms sweating, heart pretty much stuck on the fast tempo now. Across the way, a blacksmith worked a bellows, and Katy clutched her money sack. The coins Robert had given her might not be enough, and she needed more to pay the guide. A blacksmith could melt down her engagement ring, which would be simpler to pay with. She fetched the ring from her sack and fingered it. Any regrets?

  No.

  Well, then.

  She couldn’t believe she was about to do this, but she didn’t have a choice.

  The blacksmith, a burly guy with a huge upper torso glistening with sweat and sporting a leather apron, stood over an anvil and banged on a long piece of steel. She waited until he paused.

  “Excuse me.”

  He straightened, his brows lifting. “How can I help you, young sir?”

  She handed over her ring. “Can you melt this into a nugget, with the diamond separate?”

  He frowned. “Why would you wish this done? Appears to be a finely crafted ring.”

  “It, uh, has too many memories.” More like she didn’t want to confuse the heck out of future archaeologists with its dated inscription.

  “Stole it, huh?”

  “What? No!”

  “Only jesting, noble sir. Allow me a few minutes, and I’ll have it ready.” He stoked the fire in his forge higher, snipped off her diamond, pulled out a glowing, ruby red beaker, and dropped her ring inside. With tongs held in gloved hands, he gripped the container and held it over the hottest part of the fire.

  “Kay, you’re alive.”

  Katy didn’t register that the voice was addressing her until she felt a tug on her tunic. “Alfred! You made it. How are you?”

  Alfred puffed up his chest. “We had a merry time of it, for certes. Where is Sir Robert?”

  Katy swallowed a hard lump. “He’s momentarily in Flint, and I’ll be returning there shortly.”

  “Alfred, come here, you rascal,” called a young woman who could either be an older sister or his mother.

  Alfred bowed quickly. “See you anon!”

  Ten agonizing minutes later, the blacksmith poured the molten gold into a small mold. Seconds later, he removed the gold and dropped it into a bucket of water. Steam flashed high, tshhhhh, obscuring his hand momentarily.

  Shortly, he handed Katy a piece of wool with a lump of gold no bigger than a green pea on steroids and her diamond on top. “I’ve never seen such a curiously cut stone. Where did you acquire it?”

  “Er. In France.” She tied the cloth into a knot and put the bundle into her money pouch. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Worry not. It was but the work of a moment.”

  She smiled at him. “I thank you. If you don’t mind me asking, how much is the gold worth?”

  He scratched his ample beard. “A pound of gold should fetch you ten pounds silver, though that doesn’t weigh a pound. Three or four grams would be my guess. I don’t know about the gem.”

  “How many grams in a pound?”

  “It doesn’t divide evenly, but 453 grams to a pound should get you close.”

  “That helps though, gives me an idea. Thank ye.” She hustled through the nearby lanes, her nerves on edge, her stomach in knots. If her lump of gold weighed four grams…and there were 453 grams in a pound… Dammit. There was a reason she sucked at math. She edged to the side of the lane, pulled the knife from her belt, and hashed out the calculations in the dirt.

  Okay. Her lump was worth roughly seventeen shillings, or 211 silver pennies. Robert had given her a shilling’s worth in pennies.

  She turned onto the street the woman said held the goldsmith, and sure enough, a hundred yards ahead the wooden sign with the golden coin creaked lazily in the stilted air. A well-maintained wooden structure, it kind of looked like an outdoor bar, with its wooden countertop running the length of the front, revealing the interior. Was only missing the bar stools and beer taps. She approached and knocked on the counter. There was no door.

  A well-dressed man in his late fifties sat up where he’d been reclining on a bench. “Good afternoon. How may I assist you?” His Middle English accent was pretty similar to Alfred’s, thank God.

  What a weird shop. She didn’t see a lot of merchandise, but the space had a variety of tools, weights, and scales, all neatly arranged.

  “Yes. A friend sold her silver trinket here today? Do you still have it?”

  “Aye, I do.” He swung his legs around and stood.

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “An unusual item, to be sure.” He rubbed his stomach.

  Great. He
was going to up the price. She kept her stare cool and tried to look like she didn’t care. She didn’t, except if he hiked the price higher than she could afford. “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” He disappeared behind a partition and returned with a trunk, whistling a soft tune. With a key, he opened the immense iron lock and pulled out a fist-sized bundle of rough cloth. He untied it and laid it out on the counter.

  Her heart thumped double-time. It was her case. “May I look inside?”

  He opened it, his big thumbs fumbling with the catch. “Clever little thing it is. Took me a king’s age to realize it opened, but it was lighter than it should be if ’twere solid.” He got it open but didn’t hand it to her, just held it up. Inside were nestled Podbury’s cards. “Unusual bits of parchment too, but I’ve ceased attempting to figure the ways of the fancy.” He studied her, his eyes narrowed. “I could part with it for ten shillings.”

  “Ten shillings?” She had no idea if that was overpriced, but relief swept through her—she could afford it.

  “For the silver alone, melted down, I could get five. Calculate the craftsmanship, its uniqueness. Did you see that it opens? A bargain at ten shillings.”

  “Deal.”

  “Eight shillings, six pence and that’s… Wait. What? You will not haggle?”

  “No time.” She dug out her tightly wrapped little bundle. She’d have laughed at his stunned-plus-disappointed expression if the situation were different. “Can you weigh this and take my payment out of it, and give me the change in coin?”

  His eyebrows shot upwards. “No.” Now he looked at her like she’d offered to pay with Monopoly money.

  “No? But this is real gold. You’re a goldsmith.”

  “Oh, you’ll be able to pay for this, fear not, but I cannot exchange this for coin. Even if I had that much, how would you carry over a hundred and forty silver pennies? No. Here is what we will do.” He brought the gold lump to a scale and weighed it. He then cut off a little less than half, and weighed that. He shaved it down and handed her back the larger lump and smaller pieces.

  “Oh, thank you.” She looked at the pieces in her hand. “Do you have enough to convert these tiny pieces into coin?”

  “That I can do, lad.”

  He weighed them and counted silver coins into a bag. Seemed like a lot. “Sorry I do not have any groats. All I have are pennies, but this will do you.” He handed her the bag.

  “No, this is wonderful, thank you.” She tied it by the strings to the belt at her waist.

  “Where are you from? We’re seeing all sorts now that the king is pushing settlers to move here. Your speech is unusual.”

  “From far away,” she muttered.

  He tapped his chin and narrowed an eye. “Yorkshire?”

  “Er, yes, from York.”

  He beamed. “Never met anyone from York. Wait until I tell m’ woman. She loves to hear me tell of the folks who travel through here.” He shook his head, smiling. “From York. Isn’t that something. Here, you’ll be wanting this, I expect.” He folded her case up in the cloth and handed it over the counter.

  He pointed a finger at her. “You be careful out there. Wouldn’t want an urchin to cut those strings on your purse.”

  Her hand flew to her waist. “No. I wouldn’t.” She stuffed her case in her larger money pouch and arranged them on her belt so her mantle hid them in its folds.

  He nodded. “That’s better. Best of luck to you, lad.”

  “You too. Thank you.” She waved and stepped away, trying not to run. She scooted around the corner, bumping into a man who headed for the goldsmith. She mumbled a quick apology and pressed herself flat against the shop wall, the timber framing pressing into her back. She’d done it. She could rescue Robert and go home!

  Robert.

  Please be still alive.

  She pushed away from the wall to start back for Flint, when she heard the goldsmith’s new customer say, “I understand you have a silver case here? It used to belong to me. My name’s inside.”

  Katy’s breath hitched.

  Mr. Podbury.

  Again, she pressed herself flat against the wall and edged to the end of the alley. Once on the next lane, she sprinted for the stables, glancing once behind her.

  Gasping for breath, Katy skidded in the straw outside the stables and wrenched open the main door.

  “Saddle my horse, good sir,” she shouted to a stable hand, kinda amazed with how she took on this role so well. Her guide from Flint lay snoozing in a pile of hay, and she shook him awake. “We’re leaving. Get ready.”

  “Aye, sir.” The kid jerked awake, alert.

  They lost a few minutes getting onto their horses, but soon they were cantering down the main road for Flint.

  Later that afternoon, Katy jumped off her horse as soon as she reached the gate leading from the town of Flint into the castle’s outer bailey. She couldn’t ride straight through to Robert like she’d wanted, for a thick crowd blocked the gate and drawbridge. She didn’t dare trust her minimal equestrian skills navigating that mess. Getting thrown by a spooked horse was not a risk she could take.

  “Return my mount to the stables, thank you,” she said to her guide, giving him his payment in coin.

  She jostled through the milling crowd across the drawbridge and through the second gate. Finally the crowd thinned. To the left, the gallows cast a pall shadow over her steps, spurring her on in her determination. A knot twisted her insides. She had to look. Please God that she wasn’t too late. Quick glance.

  No one on the gallows at all.

  Relief animated her steps. Okay. Through the next gate into the castle’s inner bailey, then left, then five minutes later, she’d be in his cell, and this nightmare would be over. Now her only worry was whether her case could transport them both. Or that he wouldn’t agree. In the privacy of his cell, she planned to confess her origins and convince him to return with her to her own time.

  He’d be shocked, but he simply had to agree. Then she’d wrap her arms around him and make her wish.

  And poof, they’d be gone.

  Leaving a puzzle for the jailers. Hee.

  She wormed through the thicker crowd at the inner gate, unease trickling in as she noted the avid looks in the passersby leaving through the gate. Avid looks that felt…off. Twisted. Then, the pattern of the milling crowd sank in. They weren’t milling at all, they were heading for the gallows.

  Shit.

  She broke into a run, not caring whom she elbowed, and turned onto the lane that would bring her to the tower housing Robert. And all of her insides turned into a solid chunk of ice and then flash-heated, dropping right through her, rooting her to a stop, arms windmilling for balance.

  “Robert!”

  Her voice came out in a squeak, all the horror and helplessness choking it in her throat.

  He marched down the lane, still stripped down to his braies, his arms tied behind his back, accentuating the muscles of his chest and biceps. Proud, he walked. Determined.

  The crowd lining the lane pelted him with rotten garbage. He never flinched. Others shoved her to the side to get closer. For a moment, all she could hear was her breath wheezing in and out of her lungs as her panic and terror narrowed her focus to the two of them.

  Then, as if the mute button was switched off, the jeers and taunts filled the air, deafening. She shrieked his name into the din, just one voice of many, despite her fear finally giving her voice volume. She shoved and pushed her way forward, screaming his name, but he didn’t see her as he passed.

  Oh God. She was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  …“and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with thee.”

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  As they prodded Robert through the raucous crowd, he fixed his gaze before him but held the memory of Kaytee’s face. He shrugged off the jeers and the rotten cabbages and eggs that pelted him.

  By every damn saint in all of Chr
istendom, he prayed she’d done as he’d bade—fled to Wrexham, her token, and to her own land. Naught was here for her now.

  He sucked in a fortifying breath. A traitorous hope snaked through him that she’d disobeyed, and he’d catch one final glimpse. A glimpse for his selfish soul, yes, but also for assurance that she was safe. He scanned the crowd of eager spectators, but was denied her lovely visage.

  They swept through the gate, and soon the worn wooden steps of the gallows were before him. He stumbled on purpose to slip his father’s memento into his palm and clasped it tight. He would not give them the satisfaction of showing fear, but blood pounded in his ears as he took each step. Black crows scattered as their small party gained the platform. High above the crowd he was now, and watching him with a grim face was a priest, hands folded before him.

  At least he’d be shriven.

  Breaths even, Robert pivoted, and Lord Powys approached. “Any last words before you confess to the priest? Will you confess to the crowd?”

  Confess? What? Why bother? Robert gazed out at the men, women, and children jostling in front of the gallows, easily a hundred. Then he saw her.

  His sweet angel.

  Fear and anguish twisted her face, and he cursed his selfish wish to see her once more. The mere sight of her strengthened him, yes, but at what cost to her? Too much.

  He nodded to Lord Powys, kept his gaze on his beloved, and his grip on his father’s memento, and took a deep breath. With a loud voice he said, “I have committed no crime but that of compassion and honor. I stand accused of being a Welsh spy.” Several rotten eggs hit him, but he continued. “On the surety of my everlasting soul, I avow I am not. Honor and compassion dictated my actions, for how can we face Our Lord God on Judgment Day if we have treated fellow Christians in a reprehensible manner? How high a price will we pay to subjugate the Welsh? Will we pay it with our honor? How can we feel honor in our achievements if earned through broken oaths, hurting innocent women and children, and running men of God through with a sword?”