and follow my sister.
Codes of conduct disintegrate
on the field of battle.
Lessons learned at Father’s side
are toddler’s scribbles and this
illuminated manuscript
writ in blood.
Men lunge and thrust,
run one another through.
A man before me howls,
his eyes gouged out
vomit
blood
shit
mud
panic
sweat
entrails
Zahra dismounts and fends off
two attackers, swords flashing.
She holds her own
but not for long.
We came for Helene.
Now I fight for Zahra.
Together
they have more muscle
but Zahra and I have
fury and sisterhood.
No room for fear,
awareness of the horror
all around.
There is only
thrust and block
steel on steel
anticipate
and hope.
My sword
makes contact
not with armor
nor chain maille
but only flesh
could have that give
that shock that travels
from my victim
through my sword
and back again.
He drops his weapon
staggers back
grips his arm
where I sliced
through brigandine,
blood flowing freely.
I could end him now.
Straight through the gut
in and up, twist the blade.
Or slice the neck
if I can stand the spray
across my chest.
But I saved my sister.
It is enough.
I let him stagger away.
One man routed,
Zahra and I
subdue the other.
We leave him
on the ground
alive and crying
for his mother.
There are no
mothers here.
This isn’t
what I hoped for.
Obscene
that I could hope
for anything
resembling
this.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I wake to a silent house, pitch-black outside.
My neck is screaming, probably because I fell asleep with a history of the Hundred Years’ War for a pillow. I’m ravenous, a hunger I haven’t felt in weeks.
There’s a note on the ground, slipped under the door, Papi’s slanting handwriting. The funny little smiley face he adds to all notes.
Hay caldo de res en la refri. Te amo.
I find the beef stew and heat it up. Sitting in the dark, I eat alone. Except I’m not. Papi is with me in every bite.
Before stumbling back to bed, I add onto his note, make my own goofy little face, and leave it on the table.
Gracias, Papi. Te amo también.
I must get Zahra
out of this madness.
But en route to cover
I see a man stumbling,
dragging a sword,
the man I thought
I’d disarmed.
He sneaks up on de Gaucourt
who’ll be dead in seconds.
I shout to Zahra.
Make for the trees!
I’m right behind you!
This time
I do not let him live.
Once our wounded
have been tended or
ended by misericorde
the fallen stripped of
weapons, family crests
de Gaucourt’s second
leads me to a tent
alongside his. It seems
I’ve earned new lodgings.
You’ll feast at the governor’s side.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When I ask Papi if he needs help with dinner the next night, he doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just asks me to shred the chicken for the enchiladas while he works on the sauce.
As we move around the tiny kitchen to pull out the baking dish, grate the cheese, arrange the tortillas, it’s not the choreographed dance he does with Nor. We bump into each other. I drop the cutting board. He can’t find the cilantro.
But the enchiladas get made and in the oven. They smell amazing. It’s comfortable in a way that feels both totally foreign and familiar. It’s family.
Zahra and I sink
onto sumptuous cushions
in a tent with room
for every woman
in our party to Salette.
I remove my hauberk;
she removes hers.
Even with the outer layers
crumpled on the floor
like men left to die
we are still covered in blood.
We’ll never find them.
I know.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Mom isn’t home when Papi and I eat because she went to her book club. Instead of the relief I’ve felt each time Mom and I have avoided each other in the last week, I find myself missing her. Wishing we were all three eating this meal together.
This time I’m the one who leaves a note before retreating to my room.
Enchiladas in the fridge. Love you, Mom.
In the feasting tent
men sit at overflowing tables,
drink as though this is a day
for celebration and not a day
of senseless slaughter.
I am led to the grandest table
to sit at de Gaucourt’s side.
Zahra is swept away
by the officer who first
flipped up her visor,
who hails from Ethiopia as well.
He manages to charm despite
the smudge of blood upon his cheek.
I try and fail to catch her eye;
she laughs, a hand on his arm.
A slice of panic
shoots through me
I cannot lose Zahra
to anything, not even love.
Mademoiselle de Bressieux!
The governor began to drink
the moment the last body fell.
My gallant savior!
Guffaws from all around
as though I did not truly
save his life.
He shoves
his second
to the side
so I may take
his seat.
Sit! Dine!
I would know your story.
Would he though?
If I told him, might he
be forced to reflect
on every drawbridge breached
every servant, noblewoman
who looked on him in terror?
A man like him
does not achieve his rank
through basse danse
and repartee.
He will not
know my story
for I choose not to give it
but I can weave a tale
of vengeance
for my loving father
and it is not a lie.
It’s simply not t
he truth.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I come home from writing at the library to an empty house. Mom has class tonight, so I pull last night’s leftovers from the fridge.
While they’re heating up, I grab a new notebook from my bag and start to look over what I wrote that day. When I hear the front door, I assume Papi’s back, but it’s Mom.
We’ve been civil for the last week, speaking to each other when necessary, only when Papi’s around as a buffer.
I close the notebook. “Papi’s on a job. I thought you had class.”
She sets her stuff down, pulls something from her bag, and comes to sit on the barstool next to me. She sets my Moleskine notebook on the counter between us. “Student walkout to protest gun violence. Good on them. I wish I had the energy to join in, but I’m so tired.”
I look at her face—really look. She’s not the kind of tired a good night of sleep would fix. Or even a week at a spa. She’s the tired of a woman who’s been shoving her own shit down so she could keep her head above it and try to protect her daughters in a world where they never had a chance, no matter what she did.
She nods at my new notebook. It’s a cheapo spiral-bound from the drugstore with some pages from the hospital notepad taped inside. Turns out words on a page don’t really need a fancy, leather-bound journal. “You’re still writing.”
“Were you forbidding me from ever writing again?”
“Of course not. It was foolish of me to think taking this notebook would stop you from working on your story.” She pushes it toward me.
“Did you . . . did you read it?”
“Sweetheart, no! I would never. Not without your permission. I promise.”
Which makes me feel like shit, since I went into her stuff without her permission. Even if I had a good reason.
“You should keep writing it,” she says. “If it’s helping you. But . . . talk to us about it too. Or a therapist, if you want. There has to be some balance, you know?”
“What changed your mind?”
She sighs. “What you said about my own history, the teacher—”
“Mom, I’m so sorry about that, it’s none of my business—”
A quick shake of her head shuts me up. “I kept waiting until you girls were old enough. I planned to tell you. But then you were old enough and I still kept putting it off. I couldn’t see what use it would do. I had raised two awesome young women. Young feminists. Knowing my pain would only hurt us all.
“But it is a part of my story. And I want to tell you girls. Together. If you think Nor would want to know.”
“I think she would. When you’re ready.”
She pats my hand, then gets up to investigate the leftovers situation.
“I’m heating up the enchiladas,” I offer. “If you want some.”
The surprise on her face kills me a little, but I get it. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“Do you know if Jess went back to San Francisco?”
She puts water on for tea. “They did not. They’re staying with Summer’s parents. They feel awful about whatever happened between you two and that’s all I’m authorized to say.”
“Thank you for being there for them.”
“Their parents are going through a lot. So Papi and I are trying to step up. I’m sorry if it’s weird for you—”
“It’s not. I mean, it doesn’t have to be.”
She nods and busies herself in the cupboard, organizing the mess of tea boxes.
“Mom, I really am so sorry. I said awful things to you. I’ve been a terrible friend to Jess. I really screwed up with the hashtag—”
She gives me her full attention, leaning across the counter to grab my hand. “There’s no road map for this. Just because it’s happened to a million women before Nor, before me, that doesn’t mean anyone knows how to process it when it happens to them. You’ve had your own trauma in this.” She gives a quick shake of her head to stop my objection. “I’m not saying it’s the same; I’m saying it’s valid. And yeah, you’ve messed some stuff up. So have I. But we keep trying. We keep loving each other. That’s all we can do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
It doesn’t take a lot of persuasion to get Papi and Nor to help me make a medieval feast. It’s not going to come close to whatever the San Francisco hipster chefs would have whipped up, and there will be no suckling pig, but we’re doing our best.
We’ve settled on roast chicken, but it did give Papi the excuse to finally splurge on a (Goodwill) rotisserie like he’s always wanted, so the bird is turning on a spit, just like in ye olden times.
Nor got here hours ago to begin the Tuscan onion confit, which has been caramelizing for ages. She stashed Mom’s finished scrapbook under a pile of books on the coffee table, to be revealed later. Tonika and Wyatt showed up with a giant basket full of plums, which they’d plundered from the fruit-heavy trees near their apartment building.
Wyatt leans toward me and says, “It’s not stealing if people are going to let the fruit drop to rot on the sidewalk, right?”
I sit at the kitchen table with him, pitting the plums while he chops them. Tonika’s perched on a stool at the counter, following Papi’s instructions for the pot pies. Nor is rolling out crust for a tart and endlessly stirring the confit.
I don’t even know what confit is, but it smells amazing.
“When do Mom and Jess get here?” Nor asks from the stove.
“Depends how long it takes to get a license.” I’m hoping they pass, and they’ll feel like celebrating with us. With me.
Turns out it takes a while, which is good, since turns out it also takes a while to make a medieval feast. After plum chopping, Wyatt and I are on trencher duty. I have the feeling Nor has assigned us the most foolproof tasks. But that’s fine by me. I’d much rather leave her to fuss over the elderflower cream cheese tart while I flatten hunks of dough into bread plates.
By the time Mom and Jess pull up, the most amazing smells fill the house. I hurry outside so I can talk to them before they’re distracted by medieval delicacies and found family.
Mom climbs out of the passenger seat and shoots me a thumbs-up.
“You passed?”
Jess gives a tiny smile I haven’t seen in weeks. “Always the tone of surprise.”
“They did great!” Mom gives them an awkward side hug, then starts for the house.
Jess grabs her arm and pulls her back for a proper hug. “Thank you, Kath. So much.”
Mom pats their cheek. “You always have a place with us, love.” She gives me a pointed look and hurries into the house.
“Is that true?” Jess looks shy, afraid I’ll pounce. “I was such a jerk—”
“No, you weren’t. I’m the jerk. You only told me the truth.”
Jess fiddles with the cuff on their wrist. “Not necessarily. We don’t know the truth.”
“Exactly. We don’t know.” I grab the fiddly hand. “But just because I have my ideas of how to tell the story doesn’t mean I can ignore yours. I want you to be a part of this. I need your voice. If you’re willing.”
A sly look creeps over Jess’s face. “You need my doodles?”
“I am so sorry about that. Your art, your perspective—it’s amazing. I think I felt like if I loosened my grip on the story at all it would fly away completely. But I don’t give anything up by letting you in. I gain so much.”
“You’re making me blush.”
“Meow.”
“When you texted—”
“I was so glad you agreed to come. Now if we’re good, I have a surprise for you. Are we good?”
They squeeze my hand and let me lead them up to the house, like they haven’t spent most of the summer there.
“Whoa.” They pause at the sound of unfamiliar voices in the kitchen, but the enticing smells draw them farthe
r in. They stop in shock when they see their family crest, taken from sketch to wall-size banner by Tonika, who apparently makes the banners for her church and whipped this up like it was nothing.
The chosen family Jess wants, the family they deserve. I don’t know if I deserve to be a part of it, but I’m going to try to earn my spot.
Family: from the Latin word for “servant.”
“What is all this?” Jess asks in wonder.
Feast: from the Latin word for “joy.”
“To thank you,” I say. “For everything. For Marguerite. And to try to make up for the feast thing you missed.”
Realization dawns and they take in the dishes spread across the counter. “You made me a medieval feast.”
“I mean, you’re expected to share.” Tonika presents herself, introduces Wyatt, and starts showing Jess the various dishes we’ve made: chickpea stew with saffron, yogurt, and garlic; (stolen) plums stewed in rose water; roast chicken pot pie, intentionally free of potatoes, which hadn’t made it to Europe yet, and we may be falling apart but we will be historically accurate; elderflower cream cheese tart.
We made them together.
We’ve gone through this whole thing together—Nor and me, Mom and Papi—picking up more family along the way. We’re not all the way through it. But we keep moving forward. We keep loving each other. Serving each other.
We’re not traveling alone.
THUS SHALL YOU BE
The feasting over
we advance again.
The previous day’s horrors
were but a skirmish.
Not even battle
to hardened soldiers
but I would bet
the men who died
might see it differently
if given the chance.
Zahra has a spring
in her step despite
the bloodstains on her tunic.
Tell me of your
handsome officer.
Color rises in her cheeks.
We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire Page 23