Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  cheap (OE)—A purchase, a bargain

  ciclatoun (OF, possibly from Arabic)—A precious material; cloth of gold or other rich material

  comelych (ME)—Comely, lovely

  comlokkest (ME)—Comeliest, most handsome

  coquin (also cokin; OF)—Rogue, rascal

  cote-hardie (also cotehardi, OF)—A close-fitting outer garment with sleeves, worn by both sexes

  cuirass (OF)—Breast-plate and back-plate armor

  cuir bouilli (OF, literally "boiled leather")—Leather armor

  cuisses (OF, "thigh")—Armor pieces for the upper leg

  depardeu (also depardieu; OF)—In God’s name; by God

  descry/descrive (OF)—To discover; to describe or reveal

  destrier (L dextra "right hand" because the horse was led by the squire with his right hand)—A warhorse or charger

  disturn (OF)—Turn away

  drury (OF)—A love-token, a keepsake

  enow (ME)—Enough

  escheat (OF)—To confiscate from; or more specifically the reversion of a fief to the lord, commonly when the tenant died without leaving a successor

  fermysoun (also fermisoun; OF)—The close season, when it was illegal or uncustomary to hunt the hart (a male red deer)

  fette (OE, "fetch")—Lay hold of

  forn (ME)—In front, forward of

  foryield (OE)—Reward, repay

  fourchée (OF)—A skewer for the special tidbits reserved for the lord from "unmaking" or butchering of the hart at the end of a hunt

  frith (OE)—wooded or waste land, underbrush

  frumenty (ME)—A dish made of hulled wheat boiled in milk, with spices and sweeteners added

  fustian (OF, possibly from Fostat, a cloth-making section of Cairo)—Coarse cloth made of cotton and flax

  gambeson (OF)—undecorated body garment of quilted material or leather, worn under armor to prevent chafing

  greaves (OF, "shin")—Armor for the leg below the knee

  haf/hatz (OE, ME)—have

  harlot (OF)—A rogue, rascal, villain, low fellow, knave; also applied to the pointed boots worn in the fourteenth century

  hastilude (L "spear-play")—A tilt or tournament

  havercake (ME northern dialect)—Oatcake

  houppelande (also houpland; OF, unknown origin)—A tunic with a long skirt, sometimes with train attached, worn by both sexes

  iwysse (OE, gewis "certain")—Certainly, assuredly, indeed

  lay (OF)—A short lyric or narrative poem

  leman (also lemman, lemmon; ME)—A lover or mistress

  lickerous (OF)—Delicious; lustful, wanton

  liripipe (L)—A long tippet hanging from the peak of a hood or from the elbows

  lovelokkest (OE, ME)—Loveliest

  luflych (OE, ME)—Lovely; gracious; a fervent expression of admiring or delighted feeling

  lymer (OF, "leash")—A leash-hound; a dog bred for tracking the quarry by scent without disturbing it, similar to a modern bloodhound

  menskeful (ME, memke "courtesy, honors")—Elegant, ornamented

  misericorde (OF, "compassion, pity, mercy")—A dagger

  mote (OF)—A note-call on a hunting horn

  mote/moten/moste (OE)—Expressing permission, possibility, or obligation; might, may, or must

  ne (OE, ME)—A simple negative; no, not. Sometimes formed in contraction with a verb, as in "n’ill I" for "ne will I" (I will not). Our modern term "willy-nilly" comes from "Will ye or nill ye!"

  passager (OF)—A wild falcon trapped during migration and trained; sometimes used only for a season and then released

  pillion (from Celtic pill "cushion")—A kind of saddle, esp. a woman’s light saddle. Also, a pad or cushion attached to the back of an ordinary saddle, on which a second person (usually a woman) may ride

  plessis (OF)—Felled trees, young trees, brambles, and thorn bushes woven and grown together as an impenetrable barrier and defense; plessis were common all over Europe in the Middle Ages, some so ancient they dated back at least to the Germanic tribes of Roman times.

  poleyn (OF)—Plate armor for the knee

  poulaine (OF, "souliers a la Poulaine," shoes in Polish fashion)—The long pointed toe of a shoe, as worn in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries

  rache (OE)—A hunting dog that pursues the quarry in a pack by scent, like modern foxhounds

  ramp (OF)—A bold, vulgar, ill-behaved woman or girl

  rechase (OF)—The horn call to denote the hounds are running, or to release them to run

  rouncy (OF)—A riding horse

  runisch (also runish, renish; ME, unknown origin)—Fierce, violent, rough

  sabaton (from L "shoe")—Armor for the foot

  shend (OE)—Overcome with fatigue; bewildered, stupefied

  sparviter (OF)—A keeper of sparrowhawks

  Tam Lin—A traditional name for the King of the Fairies

  trow (OE)—Trust

  unhende (also unhend; OE)—Ungentle, rude, rough

  varvel (OF, "bolt, hinge")—A falconry term for the metal ring attached to a bird’s jess, on which the leash is tied; usually engraved with the owner’s name

  vauntguard (also avantguard; OF)—the foremost part of a troop or army, the vanguard

  vewterer (also fewterer; OF from the Gaulish word "run")—A keeper of greyhounds

  voire (OF)—In truth, indeed

  waster bread (also wastel; OF "cake")—Bread made of the finest flour; a cake or loaf of this bread

  wit/wis/wist/wen/wot (OE, ME)—Know, understand

  witterly (OE, ME)—Clearly, plainly, evidently; for certain; without doubt

  woodwose (OE)—a wild man of the woods

  wrathe/wrothe (also wrath; ME)—annoy, vex, anger

  NOTES ON MIDDLE ENGLISH GRAMMAR

  Negatives—The modern idea that multiple negatives in a sentence are bad grammar and that "two negatives equal a positive," has no historical basis. In Middle English, the more you wanted to negate something, the more negatives you stuffed into the sentence. "No I ain’t done nothing," would be perfectly proper Middle English.

  Word order—Negative statements, commands, and questions often invert the typical subject-verb-object word order. "Ne care I nought," for "I don’t care." "Swear thee now." "Why sayest thou so?"

  Conjugation of verbs—As a very general rule, the first and third person singular are similar to our modern forms. I hear. He hears. Middle English differentiated between "thou" and "you," for the second person pronoun. Between equals, or to inferiors, "thou" was used. This informal second person singular adds an -est ending for many verbs. Thou hearest. When addressing a superior, "ye" or its plural "you" was used. This polite address, plus the infinitive and all other plurals typically use a -en ending: You hearen. To hearen. They hearen.

  There are only two tenses, past and present. The past tense follows the same general rules: I heard. Thou heardest. He heard. They hearden.

  There are of course many irregularities and complications, and grammar was never my strong point, so I’ll recommend A Book of Middle English by J. A. Burrow and Thorlac Turville-Petre for those who’d like to take a further peek into the grammatical rules and a more extensive dictionary of Middle English.

  When the characters in For My Lady’s Heart are not speaking Middle English, I used simpler conventions. When they are speaking French, the universal court language of the time, I generally used the informal and polite forms of address, thou and ye. When the characters are speaking Italian between themselves, I used modern grammar.

  FOR MY LADY’S HEART:

  New Condensed Version

  These old gentle Britons in their days

  Of diverse adventures they made lays

  Rhymed in their first Briton tongue,

  Which lays with their instruments they sung,

  Or else read them for their pleasance,

  And one of them have I in remembrance,

  Which I shall say with good will as I ca
n.

  But sires, by cause I am a burel man,

  At my beginning first I you beseech,

  Have me excused of my rude speech.

  I learned never rhetoric, certain;

  Thing that I speak, it must be bare and plain.

  The Prologue of The Franklin’s Tale,

  from The Canterbury Tales

  by Geoffrey Chaucer

  PROLOGUE

  Where war and wrack and wonder

  By sides have been therein,

  And oft both bliss and blunder

  Full swift have shifted since.

  Prologue

  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

  The pilgrims looked at the sky and the woods and each other. Anywhere but at the woman in the ditch. The Free Companies ruled these forests; her screeching might draw unwelcome attention. As she rolled in the wagon rut, grinding dirt into her hair, crying out pious revelations with shrieks and weeping, her companions leaned against trees and squatted in the shade, sharing a vessel of warm beer.

  Remote thunder murmured as heat clouds piled up over the endless grim forests of France. It was high summer of the ninth year after the Great Pestilence. Now and then someone glanced into the dark woods. The girl had prophesied that their party of English pilgrims would reach Avignon safe—and though she was prostrated by holy ecstasies a dozen times a day, it was true that they’d not seen a suspicion of outlaws.

  "John Hardy!" she moaned, and a man who’d just taken hold of the bottle looked round with dismay.

  He drank a deep swig and said, "Don’t sermon me, good sister."

  The woman sat up. "I shall so sermon you, John Hardy!" She wiped at her pretty young face, her bright eyes glaring out from amid streaks of dirt. "You’re intemperate with beer. God is offended with you."

  John Hardy stood up, taking another long drink. "And you’re a silly girl stuffed with silly conceits. What—"

  A crash of thunder overwhelmed his words. The devout damsel threw herself back down to the ground. "There!" she shouted. "Do you hear the voice of God? I’m a prophet! Our Lord warns you—take any drink but pure water in peril of eternal damnation!" She startled back as a single raindrop struck her. "His blood!" She kissed her palm. "His precious blood!"

  "Be nothing but the storm overtakin’ us, you great fool woman!" John Hardy swung on the others with vehemence. "’I’m a prophet!’" he mocked in a high agitated voice. "Like enough she’s a heretic in our midst! I’m on to shelter, before I’m drowned. Who’ll be with me?"

  The whole company was fervently with him. As they prepared to start on their way, the girl bawled out the sins of each member of the party as they were revealed to her by God: the intemperance of John Hardy, the godless laughing and jesting of Mistress Parke, the carnal lusting of the priest, and the meat on Friday consumed by Thomas O’Linc.

  They ignored her, taking up the long liripipes that dangled from the crests of their hoods and wrapping the headgear tight as the rain began to fall in earnest. The party moved on into the sudden downpour. The woman could have caught up easily, but she stayed in the ditch, shrieking after them.

  In the thunderous gloom the rain began to run in sheets and little streams into the road. She stayed crying, reaching out her hands to the empty track. The last gray outline of the stragglers disappeared around the bend.

  A waiting figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the trees. The young knight walked to the edge of the rut and held out his hand. Rain plastered his black hair and molded a fustian pilgrim’s robe to his back and shoulders, showing chain mail beneath.

  "They won’t listen to me," she sobbed. "They take no heed!"

  "You drove them off, Isabelle," he said tonelessly.

  "It’s their wickedness! They won’t heed me! I was having a vision, like to Saint Gertrude’s."

  His gauntleted hand still held steady, glistening with raindrops. "Is it finished now?"

  "Certainly it’s finished," she said testily, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She stepped out of the ditch, leaving her shoe. The knight got down on his knees, his mail chinking faintly, and fished the soggy leather out of a puddle. She leaned on his shoulder and thrust her foot inside the slipper, wriggling forcefully. He smoothed the wet wrinkles up her ankle. His hand rested on her calf for a moment, and she snatched her leg away. "None of that, sir!"

  He lifted his face and looked at her. The rain slipped off strong dark brows and dewed on his black lashes. He was seventeen, and already carried fighting scars, but none visible on his upturned features. Water coursed down, outlining his hard mouth and the sullen cast of his green eyes. The girl pushed away from him sharply.

  "I believe you’re Satan Himself, sir, if you’ll stare at me so vile."

  Without a word he got to his feet, readjusting the sword at his hip before he walked away to a bay horse tethered in the shadow of the trees. He brought the stallion up to her. "Will you ride?"

  "The Lord Jesus commanded me to walk to Jerusalem."

  "Ride," he said "until we come up with the company once more."

  "It’s evil for me to ride. I must walk."

  "This forest hides evil enough," he said harshly. "I won’t have us tarry alone here."

  "’Fear not, in the valley of shadow and death,’" she intoned, catching his hand. She fell to the sodden ground, her wet robe clinging to the feminine contour of her breasts. "Kneel with me. I see the Virgin. Her light shineth all about us. Oh...the sweet heavenly light!" She closed her eyes, turning up her face. Her tears began to mingle with the raindrops.

  "Isabelle!" he cried. "We can’t linger here alone! For God’s love—move quickly now!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her up. By main force he threw her across the saddle in spite of her struggle. She began to screech, her wet legs bared, sliding from his mailed grip. The horse shied, and she tumbled off the other side. He jerked the reins, barely holding the stallion back from trampling her as it tried to bolt.

  She lay limp in the grass. As he dropped to his knees beside her, she rolled feebly onto her back, moaning.

  "Lady!" He leaned over her. "Isabelle, luflych—you’re not harmed?"

  She opened her eyes, staring past him. "So sweet. So wondrous sweet, the light."

  Rain washed the mud from her face. Her fair blue eyes held a dreamy look, her lashes spiky with wetness, her lips smiling faintly. The pilgrim’s hood had fallen open, showing a white, smooth curve of throat. He hung motionless above her a moment, looking down.

  Her gaze snapped to his. She shoved at him and scrambled away. "You think of deadly sin! My love is for the Lord God alone."

  The young knight flung himself to his feet. He caught his horse with one hand and the girl with the other, dragging them together. "Mount!" he commanded, baring his teeth with a savagery that cowed her into grasping the stirrup.

  "I won’t," she said, trying to turn away.

  "Willy or nilly, you will!" He hiked her foot, catching her off balance, and propelled her up. She yelped, landing pillion in the high-cantled war saddle, clutching for security as he swung the wild-eyed horse around. The stallion followed him, neck stretched, the black mane lying in sloppy thick straggles against the animal’s skin. The knight hauled his horse a few yards down the verge through the wet grass and mud. He stopped, facing stiffly away from her into the rain. "I’m not Satan Himself," he said. "I’m your wedded husband, Isabelle!"

  "I’m wed to Christ," she said righteously. "And oft revealed the truth to you, sir. You take your way with me against my will and God’s."

  He stood still, looking straight ahead. "Six months," he said stonily. "You haven’t been my true wife in that time."

  Her voice softened a little. "To use me so would be the death of you, husband—so I’ve prophesied, often and often."

  He slogged forward. The horse slipped and splashed through a puddle, sending water up, causing the knight’s fustian robe to cling over the plated armor that protected his legs. The rain swelled into huge drops. Hail began
to spatter against his shoulders, bouncing in pea-size pebbles off his bared black hair.

  He made an inarticulate sound and dragged the stallion to the edge of the wood, stopping beneath a massive tree. Isabelle and the horse took up the protected space beneath the heaviest branch

  She began an exhortation on the sins of the flesh and detailed a vision of Hell recently visited upon her. From this she went on to a revelation of Jesus on the Cross, which, she assured him, God had told her was superior in its brilliance to the similar sight described by Brigit of Sweden. When a hailstone the size of a walnut cracked him on the skull, he cursed aloud and yanked his helmet from the saddle.

  Isabelle reproved him for his impious language. He pulled the helmet down over his head. The visor fell shut. He leaned against the tree trunk with a dismal clang: a faceless, motionless, wordless suit of armor, while his wife told a parable of her own devising in which a man who used ungodly maledictions was condemned to dwell in Hell with fiery rats forever eating out his tongue. The music of the hailstones pattered in tinny uneven notes on steel.