Vandal laughed when Fenice snorted, and said in a disgusted tone of voice, “I’m not. A bigger waste of time I can’t think of, but Patrick insists that we give the wives and girlfriends something to do while the men are out learning how to wield a disemboweling ax and long sword.”
We reached the van at the last of her words. Vandal opened up the double doors at the back, and started pulling out large blue plastic bins that had lumpy armor shapes visible. “I’m not trying to jump on you for being sexist, because I’m sure you’re not, but... well...”
“It sounds sexist?” Fenice asked.
“Yeah. Don’t any women participate in the fighting bit?”
“Some,” she said with a one-shouldered twitch that I took to be a shrug. “More and more each year, but it’s nowhere near equal numbers. Until that time, I’m going to have little patience for women who don’t think they can fight as well as men. Or throw knives, or shoot a bow, or any of the other skills we hope to feature in future sessions.”
“Amen to that, sister. More women need to realize they can do anything a man can do except pee while standing up, and there are devices that let us do that,” I said.
“You are preaching, as you Yanks say, to the choir. I’m a police officer eleven months out of the year, and I know all about women having to struggle for everythinghanded to men. Whereas Patrick...” She looked sourly at her brother.
Vandal doffed a pretend hat. “There are no such glass ceilings in the world of accountancy.”
I giggled a little at the thought of the roguish Vandal being an accountant by day. “So for one month, you guys get to be”—I waved my hand—“this?”
“That’s right. Plus weekends. Most weekends we work at this or the jousting,” Fenice said.
“Enough chatter, ladies! More moving.” Vandal shoved a bin at me, and instructed me where to haul it. The following hour was spent lugging bins to the stable, and unpacking them into stacks arranged by type. I learned all about plate helms, gauntlets,bazubands, greaves, and brigs.
“This stuff weighs a ton,” I complained at one point, while lugging a bin of the rounded knee protectors known as cops. “How much does it add up to?”
“About a hundred pounds for the armor. More with the protective padding worn underneath,” Fenice answered.
“It’s worth it when you’ve got a six-foot-four man bashing at you with a mace,” Vandal commented as he staggered past with a plastic tub of thick, padded cotton arming tunics.
I made a face at that thought. While it looked interesting, I decided I’d stick to archery.
We were just putting away the last bin of helms when a voice spoke from outside the stable. “What in god’s name do you need all those bales of hay for? It’s drifting out all over my nice, tidy garden!”
“That,” Fenice said, looking meaningfully at Vandal as he straightened a rack of pauldrons, “is the new lord and master.”
“Ah.” His shoulders twitched as he tugged down his shirt, and he marched out of the stable with purpose in every stride. Fenice and I exchanged glances, and hurried after him.
“You must be the new Lord Baskerville,” Vandal said, stopping in front of Alden. “I’m Vandal. My sister, Fenice, tells me you have said some harsh things to her about our medieval training camp.”
“I’m not Lord Baskerville. There is no Lord Baskerville. The previous owner was a baronet, and thus was Sir James Baskerville. Nor did I say harsh things to anyone, unless you consider the things I muttered under my breath as rude, and I was careful that no one should overhear those.”
I smiled at Alden. He’d evidently been running his hands through his hair again, because it stood on end in a distractingly cute manner. My entire body was happy to see him again, but I told it to cool its jets—Alden had a girlfriend coming to visit him.
“We have a contract with Lady Sybilla,” Vandal continued. “It’s perfectly legal. I had my solicitor go over it in order to get the insurance we needed for the event. So whatever you think you’re going to do to intimidate us won’t work. We have the right to be here running our classes for three weeks, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
I frowned at Vandal. He was being awfully aggressive toward Alden when the poor man hadn’t done anything other than inquire about the bales of hay.
“Is that so?” Alden asked, clearly getting irate.
“Now, now,” Fenice said, a worried look on her face. “There’s no need for anyone to get upset. I told you that we’d worked things out with the new owner, Patrick.”
“Yes,Patrick,” Alden said with emphasis on the name. I gave him a point for that, since it was obvious that Vandal preferred his character name. “We have worked things out, so I don’t need you getting in my face.”
Vandal puffed up like he was going to explode. Fenice grabbed one of his arms, and tugged backward on it, saying something about needing to finish the sorting before it got too dark to see.
Ever the peacemaker, I moved in front of Vandal and smiled at Alden. “Hey, maybe you could show me where the kitchen is? Fenice says that although you are kindly letting us stay in the house, we need to cook for ourselves, and I’m famished. I thought I’d whip up an omelet or something easy like that. Would you like to join us?”
“I don’t like omelets,” Alden said stiffly, leaving me unsure if he was suddenly feeling awkward again, or if he was still ruffled by Vandal’s aggression.
“Oddly enough, neither do I,” I said, taking his arm and turning him so we could stroll to the house. “But I bet we could find something to make that everyone would like.”
