Lady in Red - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 8)

by Shea,Lisa

  Muriel cleared her throat. “Well, it is my older sister, Linota. She is twenty now – two years older than I. She was always a take-charge person, even as a child. Had to be, I suppose. The fever took our parents and our two brothers when she was barely thirteen. She kept the farm going, took care of me, and somehow we hung on.”

  Norman nodded encouragingly. “Do go on.”

  Muriel looked around the table. “She married about a year ago, and I thought that fate had finally eased for us. Robin was a good man. Gentle, kind, all one could have hoped for. He and his sister, Beatrice, came to live with us.” Her eyes misted. “It was just about perfect.” She shook her head. “And then, a few weeks ago, Linota wanted some mushrooms.”

  Ymbert’s thin face wrinkled in confusion. “Mushrooms?”

  Muriel nodded. “Beatrice went down to the stone bridge by Kirklington to pick them. She never came back.”

  Hugh looked up, taking interest for the first time. “The tinker’s bridge. Robin went to look for her? And was found drowned?”

  Muriel instantly shook her head. “He did not drown,” she insisted. “Robin could swim like a fish. There was a lump on the back of his head, but the sheriff dismissed our concerns. He said Robin must have fallen in somehow. Linota was furious, and said she would take matters into her own hand.”

  Hugh held her gaze. “What did she do?”

  Muriel twined her fingers together, the knuckles turning white. “She made me promise not to send anyone in after her until Wednesday – so five days from now. She figured whoever took Beatrice would take her as well, and that way Linota could help her and any other captives escape.”

  Sybil’s thin lips turned down. “Elias,” she murmured.

  Muriel’s eyes grew wide. “Sheriff Elias?” she asked hoarsely.

  Hugh shot a warning glance at Sybil, then turned back to Muriel. “Do not worry; we will be the assistance Linota needs. We will get Linota, Beatrice, and any other innocents out of their bondage.”

  Muriel brought a worn leather pouch up onto the table. Pulling open the mouth, she counted out twenty silver pennies.

  Hugh’s brow creased in confusion. “The cost for our help is only ten pennies,” he gently corrected her.

  From her position on the wall, Joan held her breath, fighting the urge to look up. Her heart caught in her throat. This was the first hurdle. True, it was minor in comparison with what was to come. Still, a challenge here could derail the entire plan. She prayed with all her heart that Muriel could see it through.

  Muriel’s voice was resolute. She looked up at Hugh. “I want my friend here to go with you to rescue my sister and sister-in-law.”

  Four pairs of eyes instantly swiveled to look at Joan, assessing her form with sharp attention. Joan did not move a muscle. She kept her gaze lowered, her cloak hanging loosely around her, shielding herself from their view.

  Hugh’s voice was a low rumble. “Our group works alone,” he informed Muriel.

  Muriel’s voice was reasonable but firm. “Linota and Beatrice are all the family I have left. While you were warmly recommended, I neither know nor have a history with any of you.” She glanced for a moment at Joan, then back at the group before her. “My friend does not need to have a voice in the planning or a role of any importance. But I insist she be there when you find my two relatives.”

  Muriel looked down, pressing the coins into the center of the table. “I am willing to pay extra for this accommodation.”

  Ymbert’s thin fingers twitched with nervous anticipation, but Hugh gave another long look at the figure standing quietly by the door. “You there, what is your name?”

  Joan pitched her voice low. She had worked hard to perfect her English accent since arriving; she now could pass in most situations. But Hugh was focused on her, attentive. Nothing could interfere with this first part of the plan.

  “Joan,” she murmured.

  He frowned, looking down her length. “And you will stay out of the way?”

  She nodded mutely.

  Hugh looked back to the rest of the group. “We have several days to equip ourselves for the task, and for Ymbert to research the situation, before we set into motion on Wednesday. We can see then how we want to involve Joan in our plans, if at all.”

  He glanced toward the shuttered window where the light was now easing through in crimson streams. “But I am late as it is; I promised to be at Lord Weston’s before sunset.”

  The door was pushed open and Ada bustled in, a large, wooden platter cradled in her arms. “Oh, I meant to tell you, Hugh,” she apologized, laying a bowl of stew down in front of Norman. “My stableboy says your saddle is not back from the leatherworker’s. It will be another day at least.”

  Hugh rounded on her in surprise. “What? Nobody should have touched my saddle!”

  She shrugged, placing a bowl in front of Ymbert, giving the thin man a wink. “I only know what I have been told,” she offered sweetly.

  “God’s teeth,” swore Hugh, running a hand through his short hair.

  Joan’s heart pounded in her chest. And here came the second obstacle, so crucial.

  Would Hugh follow along the path she created for him?

  Muriel’s voice held just the right balance of reluctance and resignation, and Joan could have kissed her for it. “I was planning on staying with Father Picot to help with his patients through Tuesday afternoon,” she offered. “Joan is going near to Lord Weston’s keep. It was one of Joan’s horses I rode here on. If she is willing, you can have the use of that steed to get to your appointment.”

  Hugh’s eyes turned back to Joan’s and she warmed in the subtle shift in dynamics. Now she was the one who had something he wanted. She could feel it in his gaze, in the subtle dropping of his shoulders.

  His voice was tight when he spoke. “I would be grateful if you would lend me the use of your steed.”

  She nodded in agreement.

  Hugh sighed, easing back into his chair for a moment, then scanned the rest of his group. “We regroup at the bridge on Wednesday at noon,” he informed them. “Ymbert, you do your usual magic to gather the background we need.”

  Ymbert was busy shoveling stew into his mouth; he nodded. “Of course,” he mumbled between bites.

  Hugh stood. “Then we are settled.” He glanced at Joan. “Give me five minutes to collect my things from the stables, then we can leave.” He was out the door at a steady stride.

  Muriel stood, nodding to the group. “Thank you,” she offered them. She turned to Joan, her eyes warm. “And thank you,” she whispered.

  Joan smiled back, tenderly clasping her friend’s arm. “We will get both women back safely,” she promised in a low voice.

  Muriel nodded, then she headed out into the main room of the inn, Ada right on her heels.

  The door settled closed again and Joan looked at the three remaining people at the table. They were ignoring her now, a fixed dismissiveness which drew a smile to her lips. The coins on the table were gone, undoubtedly swept up by Ymbert the moment Muriel’s back had turned.

  Her eyes went to the wiry man. “You seem the betting type,” she murmured.

  His eyes flashed with interest and he put down his spoon. “I admit I like a good wager,” he agreed. “What are we betting on?”

  The corners of Joan’s mouth turned up. “I bet you do not want me to come along with you on your adventure.”

  He chuckled at that, his eyes gaining a sparkle. “You hardly need a bag of bones to divine that one.”

  She took a step toward the table. “Well then,” she smiled, “here is my bet. I bet you, if you leave me completely alone with Hugh for the weekend, that by Wednesday he will insist you take me along with you.”

  Sybil burst out laughing. “Hugh? Want you as part of our crew?” She shook her head. “That man is not interested in women. If he had his way, I would not be here – but he needs my particular abilities to open certain doors.” She scoffed, looking down the folds of Joan’
s cloak. “He will never want you.”

  Joan spread her arms wide. “So you accept my bet?”

  Sybil leant forward with sharp interest. “What are your terms?”

  Joan looked across the three. “If I win, and Hugh wants me with you, then you accept me without argument. I will not interfere, but I will be there when you seek out the two women.”

  Norman’s brow wrinkled in thought. “And if you lose?”

  She shrugged. “If Hugh does not want me, then I will not go with you. You can travel unimpeded.”

  Ymbert glanced down at the pouch at his side. “And the money?”

  “I will tell Muriel that my role is separate from yours. Her terms will be satisfied and you can keep your extra money.”

  Ymbert’s eyes lit up. “Done!” He held a hand out to Joan.

  Joan ran her eyes across all three. “But you cannot say a word to Hugh, nor bother us in any way. Otherwise all bets are off.”

  Sybil grinned widely. “Oh, absolutely,” she agreed. “We would not dream of doing anything but watching your hopeless plan unravel into frail little threads.”

  Joan nodded. In a moment she had clasped three hands.

  Joan’s eyes sparkled. “In fact,” she advised the group, “I will even give you a head start and annoy him a bit before we leave.”

  Sybil laughed out loud. “You are already playing a weak hand and you want to make it worse? By all means, this I want to see.”

  The door was pushed open and Hugh strode in, a pack over his shoulder. “I am ready. We should head out – I will miss half of the ceremony as it is.”

  Joan slouched her shoulders, bringing a regretful droop to her eyes. “I am sorry, but I am afraid I need to use the privy before we leave. Could you please let me know where it is?”

  The string of curses which followed her path out back were all she could have hoped to achieve.

  http://www.amazon.com/Glance-Medieval-Romance-Sword-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00GCE9W0W/

  Medieval Dialogue

  I’ve been fascinated by medieval languages since I was quite young. I grew up studying Spanish, English, and Latin, and loved the sound of reading Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales in their original languages. I adore the richness of medieval languages. How did medieval English people speak?

  There are three aspects to this. The first is the difference between written records and spoken language. The second is the rich, multi-cultural aspect of medieval life. And the third is how to convey this to a modern-language audience.

  Let’s take the first. Sometimes modern people equate the way medieval folk would talk, hanging around a rustic tavern, with the way Chaucer wrote his famous Canterbury Tales. Something along the lines of this (note this is a modern translation, not the original Middle English version):

  “Of weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow

  I know enough, at eventide and morrow,”

  The merchant said, “and so do many more

  Of married folk, I think, who this deplore,

  For well I know that it is so with me.

  I have a wife, the worst one that can be;

  For though the foul Fiend to her wedded were,

  She’d overmatch him, this I dare to swear.”

  Sure, it seems elegant and rich. But did worn-down farmers sitting around a fireplace with mugs of ale really talk like this?

  Do we think the London street-dwellers in the 1600s skulked down the dark alleys emoting like Shakespeare –

  Two households, both alike in dignity

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  And, in the 1920s in Vermont, did farmers really wander down their snowy lanes murmuring to their farming friends, a la Robert Frost:

  Whose woods these are I think I know.

  His house is in the village though;

  He will not see me stopping here

  To watch his woods fill up with snow.

  As someone who lives in New England, I can pretty resolutely say “no” to that last one. And, given my research, I’m equally content saying “no” to the previous two. There is a big difference between poetry written with deliberate effort and the way “normal people” talked, flirted, cajoled, and laughed day in and day out. People simply did not talk in iambic pentameter. I’m a poet and even I don’t talk in iambic pentameter :).

  Modern people sometimes think of the medieval period in terms of the plays we see. We imagine actors on a stage, speaking in formal, stilted language, carefully moving from scene to scene. But medieval life wasn’t like that. It was a rich cacophony of people struggling hard to survive amongst plagues and crusades, with strong pagan influences and the church trying to instill order. People fought off robbers and drove away wolves. They laughed and loved in multi-generational homes. It was a time of great flux.

  England - A Melting Pot

  England wasn’t an isolated, walled-off island. It was continually experiencing influxes of new words and sounds. The Romans came and went. The Vikings came and went. The French invaded. Nearly all of the English men headed off to the Crusades, leaving behind women to gain strength and position. The men returned with even more languages. Pilgrims went to Jerusalem. Merchants arrived from all over. This was a true melting pot.

  So, in part because of this, Middle English was a rich, fascinating language. People in this time period had a wealth of contractions, nicknames, abbreviations, and combinations of words they used. Often people could speak multiple languages - their old English, the incoming Norman language, Latin from church, and random other words from tinkers, merchants, and pilgrims they encountered. Medieval people had all sorts of words for drinking, for fighting, for prostitutes, you name it. They had slang and shortcuts just like any other language does. After all, these are the people who turned “forecastle” (on a ship) to “foc’s’le” and who pronounce the word “Worcester” as “Woostah.”

  But, here’s the trick. With the medieval language being so rich, varied, intricate, and full of fascinating words, how can we bring that to life for a modern audience?

  Centuries of Change

  Let’s start with a basic issue - most modern readers simply cannot understand authentic medieval dialogue. They don’t have the grounding in Middle English, French, and Latin that would be required. Even the fairly straightforward, basic Chaucer works look like this:

  And Saluces this noble contree highte.

  Modern readers generally wouldn’t know that “highte” meant “was called” as in “And Saluces this noble country was called.”

  This happens over and over again. Words change meaning. In the Middle Ages, if you abandoned your wife it means you subjugated her. You got her under your thumb. It didn’t mean you left her - quite the opposite. Awful meant awe-ful - as in stunning and wonderful. It had a positive connotation. Fantastic wasn’t great - it was a fantasy; something that didn’t exist. Nervous didn’t mean worried or agitated - it meant strong and full of energy. Nice meant silly, and so on.

  If a book was written with proper medieval words and meanings, first, even if the words are reasonably close to what we use now, modern readers would have to struggle with the spelling -

  By that the Maunciple hadde his tale al ended,

  The sonne fro the south lyne was descended

  So lowe, that he nas nat to my sighte

  Degrees nyne and twenty as in highte.

  But, again, that is just the tip of the issue with medieval language. The word “bracelet” didn’t exist until the 1400s. Necklace wasn’t a word until 1590. The word “hug” wasn’t around until the mid-1500s. We also didn’t have the words tragedy, crisis, area, explain, fact, illicit, rogue, or even disagree! Shakespeare invented the words “baseless” and “dwindle” in the 1600s. Staircase is from 1620. A story written solely with words that existed in the year 1200 - and that still retain their modern meaning so modern
readers could understand them - would be fairly basic.

  (Speaking of which, the word “basic” didn’t exist until the mid 1800s.)

  Conversely, some words we might think of as thoroughly modern, like “puke”, were also used in Shakespeare’s time. “Booze” traces back to the 1500s. And these are just the proofs we have. While “shiner” for a black eye can be traced definitively to the 1700s, it could easily have been used for centuries before then and we just don’t happen to have a letter or newspaper article which mentions it.

  It’s fair to say that people in medieval days did get black eyes and had a wealth of interesting terms for that situation. After all, it could be a rough life back then. Was one of the terms used “shiner”? Maybe, maybe not. Out of the ten fun phrases they used, probably nine of them would make zero sense to a modern reading audience. So authors strive to find phrases that provide meaning to a modern audience without being too l33t and techno-speak. It doesn’t make sense to completely avoid the word “bracelet” simply because it technically didn’t exist in the 1200s. Surely people in the 1200s had several words for “bracelet” and we are simply using the word modern readers understand. Similarly, people in medieval times hugged! They just called that action something else.

  Medieval people loved playing with words. They called their kids “dillydowns” and “mitings” (little mites). They called sweethearts “my sweeting” and “my honey. They loved snapping out insults, from “dunce” to “idiot” to “pig filth” and “maggot pie.” And, again, these are just the ones that happened to get recorded.

  Medieval people loved contractions. There’s a phrase “ne woot,” meaning knows not. They’d simply say “noot”. They did this with all sorts of words.

  So writing in modern English should have this same sort of loose, fun sense to the writing. It’s important to remember that even the kings, in this era, were rough fighters. They were out with soldiers, crossing multiple countries, and experiencing a range of languages. They weren’t necessarily concerned about speaking in iambic pentameter. They were more concerned about breaking down their enemy’s walls to plunder what lay within and then drinking themselves under the table to celebrate.