Oh, I was so, so wrong. The pain was the worst thing I had ever felt. Worse than a concussion when Jules hit me with a swing in second grade. Worse than a broken leg when I fell off a horse in fourth grade. Even worse than Jill Yeltz, who bent my dick the wrong way when we tried to fuck in the school janitor’s closet my junior year.
A long list of such profanities spewed out of me before I could stop them. I screamed like a little fucking girl. I swore again.
“Fucking Christ on a motherfucking cunt cracker … mother…”
Marie was quick, pulling back the blade and backing up about a foot. Her eyes went wide as I swore. I pressed my hand to my side, feeling the blood slowly pool around my fingers. It wasn’t so much that I had to worry, but there’s something to be said about feeling your own blood exiting your body. It’s trippy and a little terrifying. Jules ducked behind me and slapped her hand over my mouth.
“Knock it off, you big baby,” she whispered.
“Fuck me, that’s the worst,” I moaned between her fingers.
I swear she chuckled as I felt her press the cheesecloth to my side. We had tried our best to sterilize it, though without antiseptic it was sketchy at best. She motioned to Marie, who was a bit frozen in front of the fire, still holding the dagger.
Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I started to feel a bit dizzy. “Jules …” I said, sitting heavily on the bed.
“Get rid of it, and hand me the needle and thread!” Jules barked at Marie, moving my hand to cover the cheesecloth. “I’ve got to stitch him.”
Before Marie could react, a loud crash and clatter sounded behind her. She spun.
“Oh shit,” my sister said. She was standing in my way from seeing what the noise was about.
“Move,” I told her, and she looked over her shoulder at me, stepping to one side. Piers stood in the doorway, a silver platter at his feet, three clay bowls spilled on the stone floor, remnants of barley, leeks, and white radishes everywhere.
Barley soup. God awful stuff. We had nothing else for three days, save this and disgusting black bread. Bread? It was good with butter. Piers tilted sideways a bit, and I craned my head. Pain ripped through my side, and I moaned. Dear God, would people just stand upright, please?
“Get rid of that knife, and get rid of him!” Jules hissed. To someone. Who?
“Stop moving,” I said and threw my head back against the bed. Someone was moaning. Was that me? I heard whispered French, but I didn’t know what they were saying. Oh, God, that fucking pain…
“Oh, Gill,” it was my sister’s face, floating about my head, “I told you it would hurt.”
“Jules…”
“Hang on. This might sting a bit.”
She moved my hand, and I felt the drafty breeze of the room hit the wound in my side. I sucked in air through my teeth. A small pinch, then another, and another. She was pricking me with something. “Ow! Knock it the fuck off!” I said, but she ignored me.
“There,” she said, and I heard her rip the end of the thread, “you’re good.”
“I didn’t want soup,” I said. “I just wanted chicken nuggets.”
I heard my sister laugh, then. Why was she laughing?
“You should sleep,” she said, and I felt her pull that fucking scratchy blanket over my bare chest. “It’s been a long three days.”
“Ok,” I said. “Where're my chicken nuggets?”
“Goodnight, Guillaume,” she whispered. I think she left the room. I don’t know. Everything went silent.
Fuck, don’t ever get stabbed. It’s the actual worst.
***
I never got French music. In my time, French rock was very strange. The lyrics were about abbeys, old lovers, dead flowers. It was the synthetic pop of the 1980s in America, rolled up with depressing gothic themes. Not my forte, really. My mother used to sing in French when I was a baby, a lullaby that I barely remember about a chicken or something. All their music was just fucking weird.
I never realized how French music never evolved much from the middle ages.
When I finally came out of my stabbing stupor, as I came to call it, I heard someone softly humming the strange little tune. I could barely make out the words: Dodo, l'enfant do, L'enfant dormira bien vite. Rather, Lullaby, child, lullaby, the child will quickly go to sleep, my brain reminded me in English.
I opened my eyes, and there was Marie, sitting on the edge of my bed. I knew it was her, because of the ridiculous white headdress she always wore. She was sitting with her back to me, but I could see her smooth hands running her quill over that piece of parchment she always carried around.
“Une poule blanche, Est là dans la grange,” I murmured about the white hen and her egg through my parched lips, my voice cracking. Dear God, I’d kill for an Evian water right about now.
“Tres bon,” she said. “You’re awake.” She sat her parchment aside on the bed and reached to a low table nearby, handing me a goblet of ale. It was warm and burned on the way down, but I forced myself to swallow it anyway and handed the goblet back to her.
“That white bird,” I said in English, “from that song. There was a white bird that landed in the window just before the prince died.”
Marie nodded. “The Caladrius.”
“What is that? Why is it in a lullaby?”
She shook her head, chuckling. “The one in the lullaby is a cuckoo,” she said, “much like a … chicken?”
I shook my head. “This, Caladrius, that’s what Becket called it. He and the queen seemed terrified of it.” I remembered how Becket had paled when he saw the owl-faced fowl.
“Yes, if he looks at you, he takes away your illness. If he doesn’t look at you, you will die.”
“Jesus, that’s pretty superstitious.” She stared at me for a minute, so I continued: “a bird can’t tell if someone will die.”
“They think it does. It only appears to princes and kings, however. It’s very rare.”
I frowned, I didn’t want to argue. I marveled at her for a moment. The Caladrius had been a very real bird, I was sure of it. Why then did history remember the extinction of the dodo, such a stupid looking bird, but not the majestic cluckerfuck of the Caladrius? It was the awesome evolutional component of the platypus of the bird world. Science had it all wrong.
Marie shook her head and looked away, then. Behind her, the sun was setting, and the room was cast with many shadows, one of them falling on her rounded face. Her cheeks were red and rosy, even though the heat from the fire didn’t stretch to the corners of my bed. She caught me staring and almost smiled, but she quickly hid behind her parchment, scribbling quickly and looking at me over the top of the rolled edge. I tried to stretch, clearing my throat and looking anywhere else but at her dark eyes. I didn’t make it far, remembering I’d been stabbed—for the good of king and country, of course. I fought to remain still, hoping my stitches were holding fast. I looked around the room, clenching my teeth from the pain that shot down my side.
Stab wounds are a bitch; don’t let anyone tell you any different.
Where did we go from here? I took a wound to become to King, but … we never made it that far. Fuck.
Where was Jules? I needed her to help me figure out what we had to do next.
As if she read my mind, Marie said, “Your sister has retired. I will get her?”
“Do you speak French?” I asked her in that language, struggling to sit up. The pain shot down my side, and I quickly learned I’d be stuck here for a few more days. I knew I had ignored her question, but Jules would appear at any minute, I knew. This mysterious woman was rarely ever around, though her visits seemed to grow more frequently as of late.
She nodded slowly. “And English, as you know,” she said in her perfect, almost-but-not-quite American accent.
“English hasn’t been invented yet,” I told her.
“I know.”
“Marie, who are you?”
She stood up and turned to smile at me. “I’ll find
Mistress Julia.”
“No need,” Jules strode into the room, a pewter mug in one hand, more of that damn black bread in the other. Behind her, a dirty face also poked his head in the arched doorway. Marie nodded to Jules.
“It’s okay, Piers,” Marie said in French, “you can come in.”
Jules crossed the room and plopped down on the bed next to me. The young teen followed close on her heels.
“Piers?” I sat up then, no matter how much it hurt. It all came back to me – the clatter, the spilled soup, Jules shouting at Marie to get rid of him.
Jules put her hand on my arm. It’s okay, she mouthed. “Thank you, Marie,” she said to the woman softly.
Marie curtsied, ducking her head low. “I’ll be off now,” she said, and Jules waved her away. I didn’t want her to go, but Jules seemed insistent on it.
Piers came to stand on the other side of the bed. “Anything you’ll be needing, your majesty?” He said slowly in the archaic French I was slowly getting used to.
I looked to Jules and then Piers. Jules held up her hand with one finger up. To me, she said, “We’ve got a plan, and Piers is a big part of it.”
I cleared my throat. “Yes, Piers, bread, and more ale, please.”
My French seemed acceptable. He bowed and rushed out of the room.
When we were alone, Jules punched me lightly in the arm. “How are you feeling, little brother?”
“Like someone stabbed me.”
“Good.”
“How long was I out?”
“Eight hours,” Jules said, motioning toward the window. “It’s dark already.”
“Wow,” I said. My head was still fuzzy, and my side hurt.
“I didn’t worry much. I figured the last couple of days…”
“Yeah,” I finished for her. I stuck my hand under the blanket and gently probed the area around the stitches. “They seem nice and tight,” I told her.
“Isn’t that my line?” She laughed and took a swig of the mug, then ripped a piece of bread off, straight from the loaf.
“Why are you so fucking delightful all of a sudden?” I said.
“Oh, I’ve made a friend,” she said, taking another swig.
It hit me then the way she sashayed into the room. My sister was never so, well, feminine. She stalked, brooded, stomped. She never swung her hips at anyone. Then it hit me.
“Jules, you’re drunk,” I shook my head. “At a time like this?”
“Ah, well, this friend is very special,” she said, winking at me.
I grabbed the mug from her, ignoring her protests, and downed the rest of it myself. So fucking disgusting, I almost wondered if dehydration would be better. I tossed the mug on the table next to the bed. “Who’s this friend?”
“Never you mind,” she said around a mouthful of bread. “But Piers, oh, that boy is some kind of fucking special.”
“How?”
She finished the bread and lay down next to me on the burlap pillow. She started to laugh, giggled, hiccups. I realized with some alarm I had never seen my sister drunk. She was serious, committed, dedicated. Married to her job and her school work. I wasn’t sure if I liked Jules like this. She was … unpredictable.
“How, Jules?” I asked again, sucking in a breath as the pain of the wound ripped through me. “How is Piers special?”
She looked over at me. “He’s the prince’s fucking nephew!” She laughed hard, holding her stomach.
I propped my head on one hand. “What?”
“Yes,” she said, wiping at her eyes, which were wet with her ridiculous laughter. “Becket said, and I quote,” she held up her hand like a puppet. “If Piers can vouch for your brother as prince then we will seal the deal.” She dropped her hand. “Or, so Marie told me. Did you know she speaks English?”
“Yes, sister,” I said. I suppressed a smile. Drunk Jules was actually quite entertaining.
“I wish there was a bitch around here to fuck,” she said suddenly. She rolled on her back and clamped her hands over her mouth. “What is wrong with me?” she said, looking at the ceiling. “I had one mug … maybe two!”
I did laugh at that. I shook my head. “Oh, my god, Jules,” I said. “It’s basically moonshine,” I said, remembering how it burned when it went down.
She glared at me. “You’re not even twenty-one yet, mister. How would you know that?”
I smiled at her. “I never kiss and tell.”
She frowned at me and then giggled again and laughed.
Piers appeared then with a tray of bread and two mugs and sat it down on the table. He eyed Jules warily. I pushed her a little, and she nearly fell off the bed in her haste to stand. “I…suppose I should get some rest,” she mumbled, her hand pressed to her head. She stumbled through the archway, pausing briefly to keep herself upright, and then started down the stairs, slowly leaning against the middle of the circular stones.
Piers watched her go. When she was gone, he looked at me. “I am confused, your majesty.”
My head was a little foggy, and the pain was returning anew. I shook my head, finally highlighting on the word for confusion. “Yes, Piers?” I asked him.
“You had a beard three days ago, but now it is not a beard.”
I felt my chin stubble, fully on its way to a beard. I made a note to ask Becket how long I should grow it, and if he’d let me keep it trimmed. I had never bothered with facial hair. I didn’t know why; I just figured girls liked a smooth guy. “They had to trim it while I slept, and I suppose my usual barber wasn’t available,” I tried to joke.
My humor was lost on him. He frowned, bowed, and began to back out of the room. “Just one more thing, please, sir.”
“What is it?” I tried to put on my most authoritative voice, despite the fact it was getting hard to talk.
“Where did that knight go, and why did he leave his sister behind?”
I kept my face as calm as I could. Jules and I had never covered that part. “I supposed he went back to his home and country, or wherever knights go,” I said, flashing a brilliant smile that usually accompanied anyone trying to tell a half-truth.
“I mean, Sire, if I had a sister…”
“Piers,” a voice barked from the archway, and I exhaled, relieved to see Becket, holding his absurdly tall priest hat straight on his head as he ducked into the room. He ordered Piers to do something, what, I didn’t catch, but the boy’s eyes widened, and he scurried out of the chamber.
Becket nodded to me, and I nodded back. We stared at one another, and he motioned to the tray at the side of the table. I took a bite of bread and a drink from the mug, only as small as possible because it was truly close to what I imagined grog would taste like. He seemed to approve with a nod, then tapped his hat and the cross around his neck, and left the room.
How odd, I thought, that he didn’t bring Marie with him. I would have liked to see her again. Her quiet hum of the old lullaby filled my head.
Stop, Gill, Angelic Gill screamed in my head. She’s clearly on her way to a convent or something, and not interested in the likes of you.
Dismissing Becket’s strange motions to eat and drink, I found myself thinking of my lady in red. I couldn’t get Marie out of my head. There was something familiar about the way she walked, not to mention how strange it was that she knew English. What had the history books missed? What had I missed? I mused through her mysteries as I finished the last of the bread and ale. The ale made my head fuzzy again, but at least I didn’t focus on the pain. I fluffed the flat pillows best I could and settled down to sleep off the rest of the night. Through the cracks in the floor, I could hear a party getting louder and louder, drunken voices rising in mirth, a few in anger. I hoped Jules was alright.
And dear God, I hope we survived this.
Chapter Five: The French Ambassador, The Mouse
So, as it turns out, stab wounds heal fairly quickly. They still hurt like a bitch. But they do heal. The first couple of days afterward were the worst. I
lay in the grand four-post bed, not wanting to move or even speak to anyone. Jules sat with me every day but disappeared at night. Piers brought food occasionally. I longed for a medium rare cheeseburger and a naked woman. Not really in that order.
I think that’s when I realized I was feeling better – I woke from a rather vivid dream of a delicious harem surrounding me, and all of them were blessed with the biggest tits I had ever seen. It was the most embarrassing thing to have morning wood in the year of our Lord 1154. Everyone knows it exists, but no one wants to talk about it.
And especially not my sister, who had generally always been revolted by that sort of thing. This morning made no difference.
“You need to get out of bed, Gill,” she said to me. Sometime in the last few days, she’d donned another dress, this one tan colored but fancier than the blue one she wore when we first got here. She was starting to dress more and more like royalty. Except today, she was dressed in a plain tan headdress that fit tightly around her forehead and hid her short crew cut.
“You look like a girl,” I teased her, ignoring her command to get out of bed. I pressed a pillow to my stomach, hoping we could both avoid the elephant in the room. That’s right. My dick was the size of an elephant. Close enough.
“Shut the fuck up,” she said, “they made me wear this. It’s subjugation.”
“You are on your way to a convent.”
She crossed her arms and sat on the bed. “I think my back story might need work,” she said, “Although Marie did tell me what a Beguine is, and between us, we have quite the creative story. She’s brilliant, you know.”
“What did you come up with?”
“My husband was a Lord in eastern France, and he died leaving me childless. If you’re a widow, I found out you only have two choices: return to your parents or live in a convent as a half-nun.”
“What the fuck is a half nun?” I eyed her. I shifted my grip on the pillow. Go down, damn it. It was not complying at all. Thinking about nuns wasn’t helping at all.
Marie (The Curse of Lanval Book 2) Page 4