12 September, somewhere in the Midlands
My Dearest Harper —
The plausible errand worked. I am not naming the house in this letter, because the letter may be opened and read. Suffice it to say I am fed, dry, and surrounded by men whose names you would know if I wrote them.
Do not reply to this letter through the same courier. I have given him a different instruction for the next leg. The next letter you receive from me will arrive by a man who will introduce himself only as Hugh of Banbury, and who will ask whether the kitchen’s chickens have settled their theological dispute. If he does not ask that, do not give him a letter.
Tell my father I am well.
I am thinking of you in inappropriate proportions for a man supposed to be in hiding.
Yours,
Geoffrey
I read it three times in fast succession and went down to the Baron’s study.
He absorbed the news without expression and returned to his correspondence.
That evening over supper he said, “He used the chicken.”
“He did.”
“I will permit one full minute of pleasure at this. After which we must continue.”
* * *
Autumn closed around Thames Castle. The river ran higher and colder. The kitchen put up apples. The seamstress returned to make me two cloaks and did not, this time, complain about my sleeves, on the grounds that I had successfully not stained them with ink.
I rode out with the Baron one morning to inspect a property he had bought from a coalition lord who needed gold quickly. It was the first time I had been outside the walls in three months. The gallop along the river road was startling. The wind smelled of leaves and cold. There was no car exhaust, no humans for miles in any direction. I cried briefly without entirely understanding why.
The Baron rode beside me without comment. When I finished and was sniffing, he handed me a cloth from his saddlebag, which had clearly been put there by someone who had anticipated weeping.
“Maud,” I said.
“Maud.”
The ride did me good and I found I’d come to like riding, though I missed pop music, and sometimes caught myself humming a few of my favorites.
* * *
One morning while helping Maud inventory dried apples and sacks of barley in preparation for colder weather, I realized Thanksgiving would have been the following Thursday back home.
For the last several years my friends and I had held what Lauren insisted on calling “historically irresponsible Thanksgiving.” We cooked too much food, drank alarming quantities of wine, and arrived dressed as our favorite historical figures.
Two years ago Jen had appeared as Anne Boleyn carrying a fake severed head in her purse.
Last year Mark arrived in full Roman senatorial robes and spent an hour dramatically denouncing the stuffing.
I had gone as Eleanor of Aquitaine because I admired competence and intimidation in equal measure.
Now I was standing in a thirteenth-century storeroom holding onions while actual medieval people prepared for winter around me.
The absurdity nearly flattened me.
“You look sad,” Maud observed from across the table.
“I was thinking about a feast from home.”
