A tall patient mare named Cora was assigned to me, along with a groom named Walter whose primary responsibilities appeared to involve rescuing me from humiliation and pretending not to laugh while doing it. The bruises down my left side counted out the days.
The first letters arrived three weeks after Geoffrey rode south.
One for me.
One for his father.
The courier who carried them had ridden through two days of rain and was visibly in love with the kitchens. I told him to eat before speaking another word while his horse was seen to, and sent him away carrying two meat pies the size of his head.
I took Geoffrey’s letter to my chamber and closed the door before opening it. The handwriting alone made my pulse stumble.
Written at Westminster on the fourth day of July, in the year of Our Lord 1215.
I stopped.
July fourth.
Somewhere eight hundred years ahead of me, everyone in Boston was probably buying fireworks and arguing over rooftop views of the harbor.
And here I sat in medieval England holding a letter written three weeks after Magna Carta while the future United States of America remained centuries away from being born.
None of this was useful in helping me survive my current life. I sat down at the desk and read.
To Lady Harper Ainsley, at Thames Castle.
From Sir Geoffrey de Warenne, presently in attendance upon His Majesty’s court at Westminster.
The court arrived this morning, having spent three nights at progressive stations along the road. I will spare you the catalogue of complaints regarding the inn at St. Albans. They were many.
The King’s mood is what you would call unstable...
Twelve
HARPER
I wrote backto Geoffrey that same evening, sitting at the small writing desk Maud had rearranged twice in pursuit of the best light. The seamstress’s newest gown hung from the door behind me in deep summer blue, half-pinned and waiting on its final fitting. I had already unfastened the cuffs of the sleeves of the dress I was wearing, because women’s medieval fashion had been designed by people who had never attempted correspondence.
The chamber smelled faintly of lavender water and warm wax. Outside the narrow window, the last light of evening spread gold across the river below Thames.
I dipped the quill again.
4 July, at Thames
To Sir Geoffrey, wherever the court has dragged you this week.
I received your letter four days after you wrote it. The pies were a success.
Your father is in good health and bad temper. He writes letters at the speed of a man who has decided to outworkevery messenger in England. I sit with him most mornings now. We work through the household accounts and then a stack of correspondence he reads aloud while demanding my opinion on men I have never met.
Yesterday I gave an opinion regarding the Bishop of Coventry. Your father accepted it. I remain uncertain whether to feel flattered or deeply alarmed.
The bay mare in the lower stable foaled two nights ago. A colt. He arrived backward, which caused panic among the grooms and language I suspect would concern the Church. He was standing before dawn with the kind of offended determination that suggests he intends to become a difficult horse.
Yesterday morning a chicken came shrieking out of the privy in the kitchen yard while Maud was using it. She emerged at speed. The chicken cleared the kitchen wall entirely. Maud has not recovered, the chicken has not been seen since, and the kitchen staff now suspect the responsible bird has been taken by faeries. I will continue to monitor the situation.
Your father wishes me to inform you that Lord Mowbray’s wife has died. He believes you should express regret publicly and within the King’s hearing if possible.
The chapel remains quiet.
