by Lisa Shea
Understanding her need, Stephen turned the horse to face into the clearing and reined in to a stop. She raised her head and looked evenly out over the bodies, to the now dark cairn. She pulled the left side of her cloak back, revealing a long leather scabbard at her hip. It was made with high quality leather, but was simple in design - meant to last rather than impress. Down the center were stamped the letters ‘Lucia’.
The woman took a deep breath, then drew her sword. It matched the scabbard - it was sturdy and well-made without being flashy. The sword bore the hundred small marks of frequent use. She solemnly saluted the cairn with her sword, paused for a wordless prayer, then kissed the hilt before resheathing it. Stephen watched the tears slide down her cheeks as she looked up at him and nodded. She was done.
“Thank you,” she rasped softly, pulling her cloak around her body. Then she closed her eyes and slumped back against him.
Stephen wrapped her within his own cloak and moved off again at a quicker pace. They were still a half hour at least from the keep, and the temperature was dropping quickly.
Shivers racked her body, and he drew her even closer. His mind sorted through the possibilities as they rode. What woman would be traveling in the winter with the bandit attacks coming so hot and heavy? Where had she trained with a sword? He rode the remaining miles as quickly as he dared, pushing to get her to safety.
It seemed too long a time before the town’s outer stone walls and main gate loomed ahead darkly, somber against the storm clouds. Stephen rode hard across the open meadow to the sturdy doors, pulling to a stop beneath the walls.
Ian’s voice rang out in order. “Open the gates,” he cried. “We’ve a wounded girl! Open up!”
Torches could be seen moving around in the windows by the stout wooden gate as the soldiers recognized the two men. The logs holding the doors secure made a low grating noise as they slowly slid free. The heavy doors were pulled open, and the three horses galloped inside.
Stephen led the way through the wide dirt streets of the town, galloping past the lights from windows and torches to the main building atop the hill. A few sleepy heads poked out of stone-lined windows to see who was racing through in the dense darkness. The streets were clean and the buildings well-kept; garden plots scattered in open areas were tended and neat.
Soon they had arrived at the main keep’s gates, which stood open. Stable boys hurried with torches in hand to take the horses and guide the two companions inside. Stephen put his injured charge over his shoulder and hurried up the main stairs, taking a right in the great hall, down a narrow, twisting flight of steps to the healer’s room. He grabbed a torch from the wall as he passed.
“It makes no sense to me why they heal down here in the dark,” he muttered, balancing Lucia on his shoulder while carefully lowering the torch toward the bronze oil lamp on the side table. The wick caught, and suddenly the room flickered with light and shadow.
Ian came in behind him and lit the other candles while Stephen placed Lucia on the low central oak table, draping his own cloak over her for warmth. She lay curled up and motionless while Stephen moved to a cluttered bench beneath a tall set of shelves. Stephen reached for a pottery bowl holding a scant amount of yellow powder, a glass vial of water, and a marble mortar and pestle. All four stone walls were lined with shelves full of odd-smelling potions, drying herbs, and musty parchments.
Ian finished with the candles and stood by the wood table, apparently unsure of what to do next. Stephen let him be, carefully mixing the ingredients together, then adding in a pale yellow liquid from another glass vial.
A raspy voice called from the top of the stairs. “I am coming, I am coming.” An elderly man in a rusty-brown robe hobbled down the flight, rubbing tired eyes beneath heavily sprouted brows. “I heard from the stable boys … she has been poisoned?”
Stephen nodded, brow furrowed as he showed his results of his efforts to the tonsured monk.
“I know,” sighed the monk. “It has been a long winter, and the Grays have been very active. Our supplies are running out. If only we could find more, and did not need to ration our remaining medicines. I guess this will have to do for her, though.”
Lucia lay on the table, motionless now except for the slight trembling of her hands and feet. Her eyes were closed. Stephen gently drew the cloak back. In the light of the many candles, he now saw that she wore a long, blue tunic over a pair of black leggings. He heard Ian’s snort of surprise, and smiled to himself. Not so unusual after all. He had met numerous women on his travels who preferred the warmth of pants for winter riding.
Stephen loosened the brown leather belt and gingerly slid the tunic up above her stomach, revealing her waist. The fabric was soaked with blood, and a long slice could be traced from her hip up to her lower ribs. He could also see that a speckled rash was spreading across her skin. He took a folded square of cloth from a shelf and poured some of the mixture into its center.
The monk turned to Ian. “Hold her wrists. She may struggle because of the pain,” he warned the blond, gently pressing down on her ankles. “We have got to try and keep her from hurting herself. May the Lord calm her,” he added to Stephen.
“Thank you, Matthew. Let us hope we have gotten to it quickly enough this time.”
Stephen carefully cleaned the wound with a damp cloth, doing his best not to cause her further harm. She moaned softly while he worked, twisting beneath his hands, her body shivering more violently with every passing moment. As he wiped away the layers of caked blood, he found to his surprise that it was not deep after all; rather, a glancing slide along her ribs that had bled a great deal. Others he had worked on had been poisoned by far deeper wounds. With such a shallow injury, he didn’t believe that enough poison could have gotten into her system to cause the spreading rash and bone-deep trembling.
Maybe the Grays were using something new, something even more vicious?
He held back the racing thoughts with practiced effort. For now he had to address the task at hand. Then he could have the luxury of dreading an even greater threat.
He quickly finished cleaning the wound, then put a clean cloth against it to hold back the bleeding. He used another cloth to wrap around her waist and hold the first one in place. A leather thong was tied to hold the bandage in position.
Satisfied that the wound was not mortal, he did a quick survey of the rest of her outfit while Ian looked away in embarrassment. In addition to the tunic and pants she wore high black, well-worn leather boots, which he removed, and simple stockings. He did not find any other indications of a wound beneath any of this, and his gentle examination of her arms and legs found strong muscle, but no obviously broken bones. This arrow wound seemed to be the only serious injury. Still, it should not have caused the rash that he could see on her stomach, nor the trembling that had seized her.
The reactions concerned him. What had happened?
Ian’s eyes drew with curiosity over the woman’s face. “She does not look familiar,” he mused. “Who could she be?”
Stephen did not break his concentration, staring intently at the wound. “I think her name is Lucia,” he replied, and glanced at the sword at her side. The Grays had deliberately sought her for some reason. They’d apparently poisoned her by accident, and had wanted her alive. As for the poison - it didn’t seem to him like the arrow wound could account for her state. What, then?
He looked up at her face, at her closed eyes, down to the rosy lips. They were dark crimson against the paleness of her cheeks.
Dark crimson?
He looked more closely. There were flecks of blood around her lips. He took one of her trembling hands from Ian, examining it. He could see now that there was ash and blood mixed in with the dirt, and that they were singed, as if by fire.
Suddenly, the answer hit him clearly. She must have tried to clean her wound herself, of course, when her enemy had fled. She had gotten the poison on her fingers. His mind searched the possibilities. While building the
cairn for her fallen comrades, she had burned herself. Naturally, she put her fingers in her mouth to soothe them.
The poison wasn’t on her body - it was in her stomach.
“Sit her up,” ordered Stephen, as he turned to the bench for his bowl of mixture.
Lucia half-opened her eyes as she was raised, and he could see again how dilated her pupils were. She tried to speak, but no words came out, and she gave up in exasperation and weariness. Stephen stood before her for a moment, holding the bowl. He looked across at the exhausted woman.
“You must drink this,” he quietly requested, again willing her to believe him. She hesitated, looking up at him. “Please. Trust me,” he added softly, holding her gaze.
She looked down at her tended wound, and at the rash that was visible even beyond the bandages. Looking back up at Stephen, she appeared to be weighing something in her mind. Finally, she nodded quietly.
Her hands were shaking too badly for her to hold the bowl herself, so he carefully poured the mixture into her mouth. She drank it down, closing her eyes at the taste of it. Almost immediately, she clutched at her stomach and moaned in pain. Matthew grabbed a nearby pail, and after a few moments, she vomited convulsively, gagging out the contents of her stomach. She continued to retch long after her belly was empty, the shivers wracking her entire body. All the while, Stephen wiped her brow with a cloth, keeping her long, auburn braid to one side. Matthew held her shoulders, and Ian kept her from rolling back.
When she was finally done, she slumped back onto the table, limp and exhausted.
Ian looked with concern at the still figure, but Matthew gave Stephen a pat on the shoulder. “I believe you were on the mark,” he asserted. “She must have ingested some. That explains the symptoms.” He put the pail to one side. “We have done what we can to get the base of it out – we will need to keep her warm now, and help her to stay awake, at least for a short while.”
Stephen glanced around at the room, which, while bright with candlelight, was chill and damp. “It would be best if we could settle her in one of the rooms upstairs.”
Matthew nodded in agreement. “With the seriousness of her symptoms, we should arrange a twenty-four hour watch too, for perhaps a week, until the symptoms fully fade.” He glanced to the younger man. “Ian, could you arrange that?”
Ian brightened with a task to take charge of. “For my lovely lady, of course!”
An odd twinge ran through Stephen at Ian’s possessive language, but he said nothing.
Ian continued, “I shall go wake my father right away. We can arrange for her to have one of the larger bedrooms.” He looked over to Stephen, then his smile widened. “She should have great fun spending time with Anna once she recovers,” he added with glee. “I need to get things ready!” He grinned with pleasure, then turned and ran up the stone steps.
Matthew turned to Stephen as Ian’s footsteps finished echoing off the cold, stone walls. He chuckled, then looked down at Lucia, who lay with her eyes closed. “Aye, she is a pretty lass, though perhaps not the Lady that Ian is hoping for! Whatever she is, she is real enough. Call me a fool if he is not already smitten with her.” Matthew smiled to himself at the thought, then gathered a woolen blanket off the shelf to wrap about her.
Stephen turned away from Matthew and gazed down at the exhausted woman. Lying there, she almost seemed to be a child, her arrow wound perhaps a youthful nightmare. He reached absently to her face and eased a stray hair back into the braided weave. She made a small noise, then lapsed back into silence.
Child indeed. Stephen could tell by the firm muscles in her arms that any appearance of helplessness was deceiving. She obviously knew how to wield that sword, and much else besides. Yes, it would be interesting to find out where she was from and where she had been headed.
His brow furrowed. For all he knew, she was the ‘companion’ of one of the wolves’ heads and was being hauled back to pay the piper for some misdeed. Time would tell the truth, though.
Stephen took the blanket from Matthew and wrapped it gently around Lucia’s body. He lifted her swaddled form easily, then snagged the handle of the oil lamp and headed toward the stairs. He could already hear muted footsteps and shouted orders as the great hall came to life.
Above it all, Ian’s voice gave the commands.
Here’s where to read Lucia’s full story!
http://www.amazon.com/Believing-Your-Eyes-Medieval-Romance-ebook/dp/B008RIBYTI/
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 combi
nations 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.