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I wish I could say it was a beautiful fight, or that the fighters moved with the grace and decorum of their years' experience--perhaps that their swords glittered in the glare of a righteous sun--but it was a murky, frozen day and the fighters were not even well matched. There was a fair crowd of onlookers because the gauntlet had been thrown on account of a matter of honor--some said it was an irrelevant matter and counted both men fools but there were those thoughtful few that recognized how very solemn the matter might have become had not the challenge been accepted.

In the end, it was the younger of the two that won even though he was less experienced in combat. He also followed a higher standard of chivalry, without which he might have been able to end the fight earlier in the day; the more honor to him that he did not compromise himself to match his enemy. As it was, the defeated had to be taken off the field on account of a twisted ankle. Nobody was sorry for him because he was trying to execute an illegal move [word choice: find period-authentic term or rephrase] when it happened; they hardly waited to see if he was examined before throwing a cheer of victory for the victorious youth. For a moment he stood triumphant, the righteous defender victorious; then those who knew him could see his shoulder slump a little. I am always trying to do the right thing, he thought.

The King himself stepped forward from his chair on the dais and with a startling grace, walked across the yielding ground as if it were the stones of his own hall. As he stepped forward to congratulate the champion, a breeze lifted the air and the sun shot a shaft of light across his shoulders. Smiling, he stepped aside to let the glory of the sun reflect on the winner. Still trying to catch his breath, the youth removed his helmet and knelt in the frozen mud before the King.

The King announced the winner to the assembled crowd in a loud voice, and the crowd cheered again before dispersing slowly towards the hall and outbuildings. The rest of the judgment would be settled in court sometime within the next fortnight, and the day was wet and cold, after all was fought and won. The King and his guards remained, as did a nondescript secretary or two. A page was sent to the gate to help carry the youth's armor and weaponry back to their quarters and the armory.

"I owe you a very deep gratitude, as does the entirety of the court, for not shedding blood on this especially beautiful day." The King looked gravely down at his subject, who looked up, startled. The maille on their shoulders clinked as both men laughed softly and blinked in the sunlight. "As a father, too, I must thank you," continued the King quietly and a little more hesitantly; "as you must know it is difficult to be a leader of men when one's own family is threatened by the very same men." The King removed his armored glove and held his bare hand out to the youth, who removed his glove in turn and accepted the assistance to stand.

"Sire, I beg you not to single me out for this; it is what any man would have done in my place had there been another present." Indecorously putting his glove inside his helmet the better to carry it, he flexed his cold fingers awkwardly and tried with many stammers and stutters to explain himself.

"Assuredly they should have, but none did." The King had a quiet and confident voice, as sure as his steady step as they walked back to rejoin his retinue at the edge of the enclosure. "I hope you will at least dine with us tonight," said the King. "I am--that is, I would be honored to join you," returned the youth, and bowed as the King smiled and began the trek back to the dry, warm throne room. It seemed to the youth that every honor was a duty, every privilege a burden.

The sun once again retreated behind dark masses of clouds, and the wind once again began to lift. He finally felt the cold, and turned back to prepare for the evening. By the time his page had carried most of his armor back to their quarters, began to polish the wet metal, and his master had been given some ale by a sympathizer, most parts of the castle were full of activity in preparation for the evening. There was no festive air, as he felt there almost ought to have been. He reminded himself that it was a small incident.

A fortnight later, though, there was a festive air about the castle as the means of his honor arrived home from her journey. He felt he ought to feel some sort of gratitude towards her, or perhaps a desire to speak to her, to boast, to apologize for the inconvenience; all he could muster was a mild curiosity. After having dined with at the high table that month past, he made no further effort to make himself known--in fact, he rather slid into the background.


It would have been scandalous anywhere else but a woman in nothing but a man's wool tunic and her own stockings, all curled up under a pile of blankets, was nothing really surprising in the ladies' winter solar. Since there was a bathing room down the hallway and the room was only ever frequented by women, it was a safe place to dry while clothes were brought down and warmed for their wearers. The days before winter feasts often filled the room with slightly damp and cold women in warm robes, sewing or talking while their hair dried enough for a servant to brush, oil, and pin it up.

This afternoon was a stormy one; the horizon over the sea outside was blurred with falling rain and the wind as it met the surface of the water. Occasionally a fall of rain would whip the window panes, but for the most part the storm raged outside without affecting the peace and warmth of the solar.

There was a pot of cider warming over the fire, hung by an iron hook that squeaked; one of the newly-wed lords was highly praised for his practical gift of a set of glass beakers to the solar.

Anyway, she had her hair pinned up even though it was still soaking wet, and she was sketching on a piece of vellum with a bit of charcoal. She'd returned with her retinue from a long trip and since she had been riding forward of the group, got caught in the rain. After she made certain that her servants had been seen to, and the horses stabled, and arrangements to be made for their return, she'd been huddled off to the solar to be "fixed up" before the feast began that night. Unfortunately not everything had been seen to, so she was left to sit in a towel before the fire for a little while before some clothes were hurried from the laundry--none of hers were ready--so that she wouldn't catch her death of cold before the night fell.

The only female member of the company of players that was to play that night sat humming and tuning her lute a little distance from the fire. The tuning would be quite useless by the time night set in (the feast hall was noticeably cooler than the solar and the presence of such a warm fire in the solar would change the tune considerably) but the fire was so warm and the presence of female company so rare that the player sat comfortably dawdling until the hour they were to rehearse.

The two companions talked to each other during the intermittent silences when others weren't going in and out of the room. Discussing the dances, they decided the country dances were infinitely more fun to dance and to play. In dress their tastes ran mostly alike, except for the business about sleeves (the lute player really had to have close sleeves so that she could play); but generally it was quite decided that the jewel tones of dress were abhorrent and unnatural. A golden yellow or nice blue of natural dye always looked more graceful than the bright glare of scarlet or green. In books, too, they could converse, though the player knew more poetry than prose, because of her profession, of course.

In one of the periods of flurrying activity in the room, a red-faced girl came made a hurried curtsy and interrupted their conversation.

"That's not your tunic." It was a rather abrupt greeting, one might think. Well, so it was.

"I know. Somebody gave it to me while my clothes dry. I think it's father's--the shoulders on this are fantastically huge." She shrugged to show the seam where the sleeve met the torso of the shirt was several inches past her own shoulders.

"I don't think it's your father's." There was an awkward silence.

"Umm. I need to take it off, then." The woman in the tunic blushed. Another pause. "How very embarrassing. Whose--never mind, I don't want to know. I don't have anything to wear until someone brings out the next batch of clothes. It should be any minute. All I have are stockings."

"Oh dear. His squire is waiting outside for the laundry--"

Smoothly eliminating the tension in the room, Juliana (nee Fiona) sailed into the room with several dresses laid over her outspread arms. "Put these on!" she said, and as Juliana's prophecies generally had a habit of coming true, the tunic was exchanged for the proper underdress, and the tunic was spirited out of the room to its owner, none the worse for wear. Another prophecy from Juliana made sure that nobody would slip the secret of such impropriety on behalf of the ladies.

Juliana took a phial of oil, a brush, and a comb from her basket and clucked at her lady's hair all pinned up and drying only in patches.

"Juliana?"

"What."

"The dress is still a bit damp in places."

"It will dry. Give me those ridiculous pins. Turn around. Sit there. Your hair has to dry before midsummer, so let the fire warm it a bit and it will dry faster."

"Couldn't you just brush it wet this once? It's cold."

"Not if you want hair when I'm finished."

"Yes, but it's cold."

"I've got other things to do than to listen to you whinge about being cold. Don't touch the brush. I'll return in a moment. Your hair had better be dry when I come back."

"I'll do my best."

Juliana sailed out of the room as majestically as she had entered, and the lute player laughed, shaking her head.

"Isn't she sweet?" said the lady, sitting obediently still in front of the fire.

"No. I mean yes. I wasn't laughing about that, though--I just think it's funny that he's been wearing your sleeve as his honor and you've been wearing his tunic for modesty."

"How funny--wait, I think you must be mistaken. I haven't given my sleeve to anybody since I came of age."

"Didn't you hear? Oh, no, you were gone. I thought certainly you would have heard at the first opportunity--a man made an idiot of himself insulting your charity in the north, and somehow or other it got to be awkward. One of the southerners threw the gauntlet and they fought for your honor."

"When did this happen?"

"A fortnight back--the justice is to be pronounced tonight after the feast. I thought you must know."

"No, I didn't. I only just returned, you know Thank you for telling me . . . " She began to comb through her tangled hair with her fingers. "Mercy! What an interesting world I live in." The door opened, letting in a draft, and Juliana entered bearing brocade slippers.

"I have to find the rest of my company--we'll need to set up in the hall soon." She gathered up her lute and finished buttoning her hood. "Oh, you might like to know that the southerner won."

"What? Oh! Thanks."

The "squire" who was waiting for the laundry was actually a glorified page, whose name happened to be something from which the diminutive was Nolly. It may have originally been "Oliver", but who can tell? Oh, you mean you want to know why I called him a "glorified page". Well, the champion of the past fortnight's combat was to become a knight in a year's time; he'd been nominally granted his knighthood but the ceremony was not to take place until the period of mourning for his father had passed. That was at the man's request--and an odd request it was!--but most people already treated him as a knight since he was altogether worthy of the place.

Since it was still Nolly's duty to act as page, he dutifully and dolefully ran messages and carried things back and forth, but one of the maids had seen his method of laundering clothes and at the last moment decided to have pity on the other guests and wash the champion's clothes with the rest of the batch that was going in at the moment. You know of course Nolly wouldn't mind that, so when he brought back the tunic and chausses for his master, he was expecting surprise or praise for finally having mastered the art of laundry.

However, he was disappointed. His master was preoccupied and distant, and rather cold from sitting in the stables in his old, patched clothes (the only clean ones at present) while his court-clothes had been prepared. In a fit of frivolity he laid his chausses (the equivalent of pants) on a hook by the broad stone hearth before putting them on, warmed. The brocade tunic he put on absent-mindedly over a linen under-tunic, then untangled his hair with his fingers, tying it back with a leather cord.

"I miss my gambeson," he mumbled, feeling oddly bereft. (A gambeson is the padded jacket that a fighter wears under his armor.) He took his cloak from a now sulky Nolly and stepped out into the cold towards the hall.

The feast was a rather homely affair of root vegetables and stewed meats, and baked fruits--all things to fill and warm those feasting, but still lavish enough to be called a feast. The dais was full of royalty with a few additions of the token Knight of the Golden Wren, the champion whose judgment and reward would be called after the feast had ended, and a traveling riddler that chanced to be overly clever and won a bet with the King in his own hall.

The light from the hearths in the hall glittered off of jewels and hair and the ruddy faces of those who had recently come in from the cold. The room was soon warmed from the talking and jostling of one and a half, maybe two hundred people, with the tapestries and fires in the hall insulating the feeling of cheerful isolation from the world outside.

The feast ended slowly. Ceramics clinked, benches creaked on the stone floors, and knives were wiped and sheathed; the talking died down as people left the hall in twos and threes. Some went back to their rooms along torch-lit halls to prepare for evensong, and others went to finish their day's work and have a surreptitious beaker or two, or five, of wine mixed with honey. The table on the dais, usually the first to empty, was hushed and silent, the day having been long for all of them--cold and difficult winter days caught in closed spaces do not foster chivalry in the best of men.

The King leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Perhaps he was hoping, remembering, dreaming, or maybe he was merely more exhausted than he had been willing to show at the meal itself. The Queen was saying farewell to the Knight of the Golden Wren, so old and gray as he walked in perfect dignity to pray for his Order before evensong. The riddler was led off to find a place to sleep, and then only the royal family, several guests, and their attendants remained.

A few more logs were put on the fire in the back of the hall, and then at a word from the King, they stood and made their way to form a semi-circle around the fire. In such a way did the King begin to speak, recounting the deeds of the past month and declaring the purpose of their meeting.

" . . . and a reward is due, a request from the champion ought to be granted. We are gathered to hear what this request may be, and how it may be fulfilled to the honor of the people. Let the champion speak."

The young man squared his shoulders and spoke.

"Long did I ponder what boon I might ask of thee, and in the wondering did I fathom how vulnerable thou hast made thyself to those whom you honor. Thanks must doubly be in order, and the price thou hast set upon the honor of thy family--thy people--that care must be taken to find a suitable reward I return for what seems a small deed, to me. I have tried to think well. I would honor the love of thy family with my request--the good lady to whom I owe the honor of my reward I ask to pray at the vigil of my knighthood, that will be in one year's time, from the first day of the new year."

The King, afraid that the young man might have asked a place in the court for which he was not prepared, or a horse that he might ride errant, or at worst a vulgar kiss (all of which he could have rightly asked), was relieved and pleased by the discretion of the youth.

"You are a true son of your father! As thou hast a right to thy request, so we shall honor it. Thy vigil she shall attend, and pray therewith. May the day of thy knighting come soon that may we all prove your worth in praise and thanks, for verily thy grace and prowesse has shown thee worthy of knighthood yet again."

They stepped forward in front of the fire and grasped hands. A cup was brought of wine that all might drink in witness and agreement.

When everyone had drunk from the cup of wine, she had gone to stand at the end of the semi-circle and began to observe her champion for the first time. He was slight and wiry and stood squarely on his feet, preoccupied with formalities and looking somewhat uncomfortable in the midst of such a solemn company. In short, he looked quite as she felt.

Their eyes met once, but there was no recognition in his--not that she expected there to be; this was the first time they'd been in each other's company. It seemed odd that he'd fought for her and yet didn't know her at all; she felt the stirrings of resentment in the back of her mind. Before she could pay them any attention, though, he had declared his request for her to pray at his vigil of knighthood. That was an odd enough request and she couldn't help but be relieved to hear it. A sleepless night praying in the chapel was infinitely preferable to any number of things he might have asked.

The group in front of the fire was dispersed and she remained staring vacantly into the fire until someone came to take the cup from her. Collecting her thoughts, she remembered that Juliana would be waiting for her with a clean shift and brushes for her hair (now quite dry), and would probably let her tiny fire go out if she didn't arrive soon. Turning, she tucked the front part of her skirt into her belt so that she wouldn't trip when she walked.

All of her helpmates would have gone to their rooms and would go back to their villages tomorrow or the day after since they'd all returned late from their small quest. The horses were taken care of. The books had all been delivered safely and diplomatic relationships were, for the most part, strengthened as a result of their efforts. Everything had gone well.

"Gone well, went well, is well, all is well," she whispered to herself in footsteps as the torches in the great hall were extinguished behind her. She felt she was followed by a sense of unease and unhappiness, and hurried away from the cold darkness of the hall to her rooms.

She embraced Juliana when she entered, and Juliana took it in stride, extracting herself with a brusque "Good! You are home. I know. Go to sleep." Juliana loosened the laces of her lady's dress and handed her a clean shift, taking away the dress and stowing it in the depths of a wardrobe on the other side of the room. The lady removed veil pins and veil, swinging the carefully-arranged braid over her shoulder and, untying the end, began to undo the weave of the plait with her fingers.

Juliana was humming tunelessly, choosing tomorrow's dress with the same calculating glance that frightened many maids and assistant cooks. Tomorrow morning would be spent in the throne room, so it must be beautiful. Tomorrow afternoon she could relax in the solar or the great hall, so it must be warm. Et cetera.

"Juliana."

"Mmm. You are upset because of this boy who wore your sleeve."

"Actually . . . who gave him my sleeve, anyway?"

"Your father had one fetched. It's back in the drawer, no harm done."

There was a pause before Juliana spoke again. "Something still bothering you? You should be content, it has been a good day."

"Yes, but . . . who is he? He doesn't even know me. I feel like it is . . . just awkward."

"What, you think he did that for you?" Juliana snorted, and took up brushing her lady's hair.

"Isn't that the point of those things?"

"No. The point is that he had a principle he wanted to stand up for and you provided an opportunity."

"Oh." She was not a little chagrined.

"Yes, well . . . you listen to your father's storytellers too much. That is why you have the wrong ideas about things--you should pay more attention to your studies." She ended awkwardly, aware of having advised precisely the opposite at least several times in the very recent past.

"You must be right. It was a selfish thought."

"Of course I am right. Now go to sleep." A ribbon was tied at the end of her plaited hair and she felt its soft weight against her back again.

"Good night, Juliana."

"Milady."

After Juliana left, the lady did not climb into her canopied bed but stood at her window that overlooked the central courtyard, the decorative one with the garden, and watched as the last few stragglers took an easy shortcut through the grass to the gate into the real courtyard she had entered earlier, right before she'd relinquished her horse and been whisked off to the solar before the feast. She went over the day again in her mind, ready to retell the story of their journey tomorrow at the king's court.

The sky was stern and dark and the night clenched and cold but the casement windows with their tiny panes of glass did not show the stars or the moon; she unlatched one of them and peered out. She could see her breath in the air, and the moon was only a sliver in the sky and surrounded by her stalwart, constant stars. The hills were dark, too dark to see even their silhouettes, and she listened for the sound of the ocean far below.

*****

Margeryte awoke the next morning with the realisation that having returned from a pilgrimage did not provide her with a sense of inner peace or a nearness to the knowledge of her own destiny, but only that of having lost time and having much responsibility to shoulder once again. This was only confirmed by Juliana's have laid out a very fine wool dress with embroidery on the hem and a pair of delicate, soft leather shoes that looked more like slippers than practical footwear: this could only mean a day full of councils and silent observation, a day of catching up.

Breakfast was laid out in the great hall; a spread of cheeses, cold meats, and fresh bread. She took a roll and walked carefully in her fine shoes over to the fire in the grate.

"Good morning," said Mark, nervously standing alone by the fire in his new cleric's robes. He had been sent by Margeryte's mother's kin to be of help to the priest of her father's house--it was a political move of a large family to send a young cousin, and convenient because he was a younger son with very small prospects at home. He had integrated very well with the group as a whole, but tended to be more of an anxious peacemaker than a spiritual leader.

"Mark! Good morning, brother. I'm sorry I didn't see you; I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Missing the lumpy mattresses and dingy inns?"

"Yes, actually. You don't look bad in cleric's robes. They suit you."

"Thanks." He stood a little more at ease, and made a solemn attempt to look dignified.

"They don't look that good."

"Oh."

They both smiled in relief that there was someone else who understood the changes they were both making. Marye soon joined them, sleepy in a russet gown.

"Was I supposed to wear something fine?" She asked, looking at Margeryte's gown and scowling. Margeryte scowled back.

"No, you're leaving for home today and Meg's got councils to attend."

"Oh, poor thing."

Meg finished her roll and brushed crumbs from her hands into the fire. At the far end of the hall, her champion had entered. He looked wide awake and alert, which made them all hate him instantly. Meg privately thought he looked a little haggard, but at that moment Juliana entered purposefully and steered them all towards chapel for matins.

Many thanks to acronymsical for editing help! Redeem for one cup of tea/caffe or dram of whisky at any available opportunity.

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