Cranky Ladies of History

by Tehani Wessely

  She realised that Blanche had followed her, and beckoned the girl over.

  “Have you seen anyone die before?” Eleanor asked.

  Blanche shook her head.

  Eleanor spoke to her quietly: “Don’t be afraid to look at them, the bodies. The men will not want you to, but being a woman will not protect you from violence or death. You will be a queen. You will have castles and armies and you must not flinch from doing what you must to protect your husband, or your children. Look. See what death is.”

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  As they made ready to leave, Sir William alerted her to the sound of horsemen approaching on a trail from the east. Moments later, a great black destrier burst into the forest clearing, followed by a dozen or more palfreys ridden by armoured men. The rider of the destrier lifted his helm and looked across the fortress remains, a hard scowl on his face.

  “What devilry is this?” His dark eyes turned to Sir William, but Eleanor stepped forward.

  “I am Eleanor, by the Wrath of God, Queen of England. Were these black-hearted creatures yours, sir?” She jerked her chin towards the ruins.

  He smiled thinly. “They were, your grace.” He dismounted and bowed. “Hugh Lusignan, Seigneur of Lusignan, Couhe and Chateau-Larcher. This is a great honour.”

  “Is it?” said Eleanor icily.

  “Of course,” said Hugh. “Why, it’s almost enough to make me forget that my men appear to have been slaughtered by yours.”

  “Your men, my lord, were kidnappers and traitors.”

  “Were they indeed?”

  “They stole my granddaughter. That is why they are dead.”

  His eyes fell on Blanche, flanked by two men-at-arms. “You have my deepest apologies, your grace. I gave no orders for my men to waylay a young girl.” His eyes flicked back to Eleanor. “I sent them to offer you my humble greetings and invite you for a brief stay at my castle.”

  Eleanor took two short steps forward. “I am on my way to Normandy to see my granddaughter wed.”

  “A great occasion. And a great journey. I’m sure you can spare a day or two, perhaps longer, to rest and recover your strength. I assure you I’m a most cordial host.”

  “As is my son, your king.”

  “Who is not here.”

  Eleanor had more men, but they were worn out with little sleep and a fight just behind him. Hugh le Brun’s were fresh, mounted, and would run them down easily, even on the uneven ground. Her gamble had been won; she would not risk more lives on another.

  Eleanor clasped her hands together and gave Hugh an even mask of a smile. “Very well, as you are so insistent—”

  “I am.”

  “We should be delighted to accept your hospitality. I look forward to sampling the food and wine at your table. Sir William, have a man show the good Seigneur’s men where our baggage is. I have no doubt he will wish to see it safely escorted to his castle. And I shall require a horse, my lord, as will my granddaughter. I’m sure that will be no trouble for you.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  “Is this wise, grandmother?” Blanche asked as they were escorted into the castle courtyard. Stable hands ran to take care of the horses as Eleanor ran a discerning eye over the castle battlements. They were in good order, and the keep had its own portcullis, but the outer walls lacked a moat.

  “Wiser than provoking a fight that we would have lost,” said Eleanor. “Much power is an illusion. Don’t ever give up even the pretence of being in control. Often that is more than enough.”

  As promised, Hugh offered Eleanor’s party a fine meal, and she made sure that all of her men-at-arms and servants ate well too. She could hardly eat the man out of house and home at one sitting, but she saw no harm in giving it her best shot.

  It didn’t take the Seigneur long to make clear what he wanted.

  “La Marche,” he told Eleanor. He took a mouthful of wine.

  Eleanor gave him a look of the blandest disinterest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your late husband stole the province of La Marche from my father, and your son refused to return it; now I ask you for justice. I would have been pleased to have brought this to your notice when you toured the Aquitaine last month, but you neglected to visit my lands.”

  “A most unfortunate oversight,” said Eleanor. The tour had raised much goodwill amongst the people, but her cheer had been drowned out by the long dead ghosts in the places she had visited, the fading memories, and the tombs of those she had loved.

  “Indeed. Of course, I am more than happy to host you and your party here for as long as you need to consider the matter.”

  “Very considerate.” She picked at her food, finding she had little appetite. There was a chicken bone on her trencher and she wondered what would happen if she were to choke on it. What an upset it would be for poor Hugh if she were to drop dead in the middle of his banquet.

  Hugh le Brun inclined his head. “I would never detain you any longer than necessary.”

  “No?” said Eleanor, raising an eyebrow.

  “Of course not. And you need have no fear while you tarry here; this castle is well provisioned and well defended.”

  “How gratifying to know you have such resources.” She glanced at Blanche, noting she was taking a great interest in their conversation.

  “I’m always ready to defend the interests of my king and country,” said Hugh.

  Eleanor held his eye, and waited until he looked away. “The county of La Marche, you say? Very well, it is yours. I give you my word.” She spoke carelessly, as though she’d given away no more than an enamel brooch. She stood, and Hugh quickly got to his feet. “Now I shall be on my way. Good day to you, my lord.”

  Eleanor savoured the seconds the man struggled for words at her abrupt acquiescence.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  By mid-afternoon, Eleanor was back on the road, the party pushing on towards Bordeaux, with extra provisions and horses supplied by Hugh le Brun.

  “Why did you give him La Marche?” asked Blanche. “Why did you not bargain with him?”

  “Did you want to spend any more time in the company of the slimy little man?” asked Eleanor. Blanche shook her head. “Neither did I. I’m old, I’m tired, and I’ve been caged by giants. I will not be held against my will by Hugh le Brun. He will find it more trouble than it’s worth in the end: John will not forget the insult, or the loss of taxes from the county.” She didn’t give voice to the other thought that gnawed at her: how much trouble would John bring upon himself responding to the slight?

  Once, she had overseen such grand schemes and designed the intricate plots of a consummate politician. Once, land and people had wrapped themselves around each other until she could not tell one from the other. “Besides,” she said, “land is dirt, and my time is precious.”

  “I heard a story once,” said Blanche, “about my great-grandmother, the Empress Maud.”

  “I wouldn’t trust any stories you hear about her, child. Men are minded to conjure the most extraordinary tales about women who would question their place in the world.”

  “It was about her escape from Oxford Castle.”

  “Ah,” said Eleanor approvingly, “well, that one is more or less true.”

  “When you were imprisoned by the king, why did you never try to escape?”

  “The Empress was besieged by a great army intent on doing her harm; I was in no danger.” She cast her mind back to those long sixteen years Henry had kept her captive. “Where would I have escaped to? I needed to be there, for my sons, for when they needed me. I loved Henry; I loved my sons more. My conscience doesn’t bother me on the matter, but I’ve often asked God to forgive me if it was indeed a sin for a wife to betray her husband for love of her sons.” She laughed, lightly. “My confessor certainly thinks so.” Her expression sobered as she looked at Blanche. “Best not to follow that path; not all kings are as kind as Henry.”

  “I hadn’t
planned to,” said Blanche, in such a way that she made her grandmother smile again.

  “Be vigilant, Blanche. Even when not locked in a tower a queen is bound: to her husband, her children, her country, past and present, and her people. It’s a tangled mess of loyalties that your enemies will seek to use against you, and you will have enemies. Armour yourself in charm, arm yourself with words. Cultivate patience, if you can.”

  “I can be patient.”

  “Then you’re wiser than I was at your age. I’m almost reassured.”

  Eleanor felt the ache of exhaustion in her bones. The energy reserves she had called upon during the last few days had ebbed away. God felt very close.

  “Grandmother?”

  Eleanor’s eyes snapped open. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back. Her hands still held her horse’s reins, but the cold had numbed her fingers. Above, the clouds were darker than ever. The storm had not yet broken, but it was close.

  Enough of this. She had done enough. Her thoughts turned to Fontevrault Abbey; the peace of its cloisters, and the kindness of its veiled nuns. Yes, she would go there soon, and she would rest. No one could deny her a little peace.

  How many more storms? Eleanor asked that night, in her prayers. How many more until you see fit to call me to you?

  “Little Battles” by L.M. Myles

  ANOTHER WEEK IN THE FUTURE, AN EXCERPT

  Kaaron Warren (writing in the style of Catherine Helen Spence)

  CONTENTS:

  I. Introductory.

  II. Monday: Nailsworth. Formerly Australia.

  III. Tuesday: Blake. Formerly New Zealand.

  IV. Wednesday: Brail. Formerly Fiji.

  V. Thursday: Campbell. Formerly United Kingdom.

  VI. Friday: Maxwell. Formerly Africa.

  VII. Saturday: Tientsin. Formerly Europe.

  VIII. Sunday: Diamantina. Formerly North America.

  IX. The return.

  In 1888, seven years before H.G. Wells published The Time Machine, Catherine Helen Spence published an SF novel called A Week in the Future. You can read the story online at Gutenberg .

  In all honesty, although well-meaning, it isn’t a very good novel. It is Catherine Spence’s idea of Utopia; equality, no crime, every child cared for, family a strong unit, no advertising, no gambling, no horse-racing.

  I wondered how she would imagine 2088, and have written the story with this in mind: she had not actually seen any of the developments of the 20th and 21st centuries. In the novel about 1988, for example, she couldn’t imagine a world without hats, aprons and slaves.

  I wondered, though, if she wrote this near the end of her life in 1910, when perhaps none of her dreams of Utopia seemed possible, would she see a darker future?

  1988 ends this way:

  My week has come to an end. Short though it has been, it has been full of interest, full of all that I have accounted life. A good exchange for a year or two of mere existence.

  “Now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace, now that I have seen the salvation wrought by brotherhood for the families of the earth.”

  I. Introductory.

  The idea of returning to 1888 filled me with dread. All that awaited me was a hospital bed with the sheets so tight and binding I could hardly breathe. And what good could I do then?

  So very, very little.

  With the tug of my true time pulling at me, the memory of the pain gnawing, I resolved that I would not go back.

  I would go forward.

  I would take another week in the future, whether or not it meant a lessening of my time on Earth. 1988 was so ordered, so well sorted, I could only imagine what 2088 would be like.

  If Doctor Brown were here, I’m sure he would have said my heart would not take it. That I was sixty-two and beyond adventure. He would sit me in his waiting room with the large piles of Scientific American and ask me to calm myself. Fortunately, he was not here.

  How to obtain the vehicle of my travel, a potion of mandragora, though? It did not seem possible that the plant still existed. I knew that the path in Doctor Brown’s back garden was lined with it, but I was far from there in time and space.

  Still, needs must, and as ever, anything needed can be found, this time at the hand of a young man I caught loitering. Will there ever be a time when young men are not useful? Perhaps the future will tell. I believe the world would end at such a time. Before he departed, I said to him, “I am Emily Bethel.” I felt he needed to know my name or, more truly, I needed him to know it. He nodded, the dear young man, and left me to my travels.

  I poured the contents into a wine glass (a little wine, a little water) and I drank, sinking into a sense of peace, so sweet. All illness gone, all weariness, dismay, tiredness. Such calm. I knew what was to come, though.

  A spasm, so great I thought my soul would shake loose, then darkness, then…

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  II. Monday: Nailsworth. Formerly Australia.

  (Excerpt)

  I hoped to arrive in Adelaide, South Australia. I had thought to visit my beloved home town and expected to find blue skies over our glorious buildings, with the voices of the familiar, and wide streets and a place to purchase a new hat.

  Instead, I awoke sitting in a stationary train. The carriage was filthy, the floor covered with I dare guess not. Across from me, I thought a child slept, from the size, but as she woke I saw she was a grown woman, but small.

  She stretched and yawned. “What is the time?” she asked me, as if I were a great clock. “Oh, no, we must rush.”

  She gathered me along, much strength in her arms.

  “Are we in Adelaide?” I asked.

  “Adelaide? Adelaide drowned ninety years ago, along with the rest of it.”

  “The rest of what?”

  “The coast,” she said, looking at me sidelong. “And most of the inland. All we have left is Central Australia. Why do you think we are so crowded?”

  As she spoke we stepped down into red dirt and I saw the truth. There was a mass of people thronging to and fro with purpose. The stench grew and I covered my nose.

  I was to discover that this smell was ‘petrol’ from one direction, ‘coal’ from another. And ‘beer’ from a third.

  Electric lights powered the streets and electric machines hummed to keep people moving.

  Our beautiful country Australia was now called Nailsworth, after the place where coal was found near Adelaide.

  I would find many name changes in this time.

  Were we still British-run, I wondered? Or had Asia come to the fore, or Russia? I thought perhaps the churches would tell me. Religion is a clear indicator of who rules. I hoped that perhaps religion was not sectarian and very much separate from state. I found instead there was no religion at all, unless you consider worship of the coin, and of alcohol, a religion.

  While 1988 had seemed almost familiar, 2088 was as strange to me as my world would seem to a creature from the beginning of time.

  In 1988, families had shared large homes.

  Now, families were so displaced by all the distillation factories for coal, petrol, and beer that they lived in enormous buildings, one family to a room. In 1988 such things existed but they were pleasantly communal. With a three-child limit then, there had been no chance of overcrowding.

  Here, the country half drowned by the surrounding oceans, with millions moved here to work in the mines and the distillation factories, they were literally on top of each other. The children were kept inside, I supposed, because I had not seen a single one, boy or girl.

  I travelled to the very edge of the remaining country only to find it edged in steel wire. “For Your Safety, signed the Examiner of Interferences”. In my day, this role considered inventions and their uses; I supposed this at least had not changed.

  I walked along the steel wire, hoping to find somebody real.

  I saw no one. I wondered where the children were. I saw none.r />
  I have some contempt for deserting fathers, but here, too, it seemed, were abandoning mothers. Children who become orphans no longer have protection; too many have died showing this.

  I came to a large railway station and asked to where they travelled.

  “New Zealand.”

  I must admit I laughed, thinking this a fine jest. New Zealand was many days by sea voyage! And yet they sold me a ticket (somehow I had money in my pocket) and I settled down for the journey.

  It seemed that differences amongst the nations had become so extreme that each island (because they were all such now) had its own purpose.

  Australia was a distillation plant.

  New Zealand, it seemed, a floating laboratory.

  What else would I discover?

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  III. Tuesday: Blake. Formerly New Zealand.

  (Excerpt)

  It was a long journey, but I spent the time talking to my fellow passengers to ascertain the nature of this world we now lived in. I found them, on the whole, uninformed dullards.

  They knew nothing of developments with the incandescent lamp, nor of the journey to the North Pole of Besancon and Hermitt. In the end, I allowed them to tell me odd little stories that amused them greatly, while we ate ever more curious and yet tasty foods.

  As we approached New Zealand, I saw massive metal cranes, dozens of them. “The anchors,” my companions told me. The North Island drowned and the South floats. So they keep it anchored, until they want to move it.”

  “Why would they want to move it?”

  “It is a laboratory. It travels the ocean making tests, seeking answers.”