Chapter Thirty-nine:
Morning broke bearing the gray skies of impending rain, and I arose rather late from my slumber, having slept decently in spite of the lumpy bed I had been given. When we knocked upon the count’s door the previous night, a male servant had opened the door, the count himself having already retired for the evening. The servant—a withered old sort holding a melting candlestick in one hand—had accepted my explanation concerning Garin Zeuner without a second look. He invited us in and served us mint tea and flatbread before calling a maid to guide us upstairs to our quarters.
Freia and I had taken one guest room, while Joel occupied the smaller one beside it. Before we said goodnight, Joel and I devised a signal involving several sharp knocks on the connecting wall. He insisted that he was not about to go downstairs alone the next morning. “I don’t want to have to talk to anybody without you there to translate,” he said.
Our room included two thin beds with coarse blankets and mattresses that felt like they were stuffed with straw and wool, quite unlike the beds I had become accustomed to in the twenty-first century. An empty wardrobe occupied one corner, with a table and washing basin resting nearby. A chamber pot sat beside the table with its accompanying rag—just one, so I would have to share it with Freia.
The idea of that had disturbed me at first, for I had faithfully used my roll of toilet paper during our journey downriver. But while lying in bed the previous night, I had realized that I had no clue how she had wiped over the past two days. Had she used leaves, the river water, or part of her dress? It was high time to start assimilating with society, so that morning I used the chamber pot and its rag without complaint, though my squeamishness likely showed on my face.
A fireplace stood against the outer wall of our room, flanked by a window with a view of the count’s fields. I headed there after relieving myself and invoked my ice into my eyes to sharpen my vision. I saw quite a few peasants at work in the fields, some tending sheep, others harvesting some type of grain. I smiled at the sight and then glanced back at the room behind me, wondering vaguely where my Rhenish companion had gone.
I stretched and yawned, looking forward to meeting the count that day and finding out more about my people as well as life in Muniche in general. My qualms about being trapped in the past had begun to dissipate even further at the knowledge that in two years, Muniche would fall to the Saxons. Joel had already hinted that we may not survive the siege, and he was probably right about that. Though that sort of death frightened me, I took comfort in the fact that sooner or later, we would escape this primitive realm into which we had fallen.
Freia reentered the room while I sat at the window, having clothed herself in one of the two extra dresses I had in my pack. I rose to my feet and turned to face her, and she greeted me with a smile and a friendly “Good morning” in her native Rhenisch. She had brushed out her gorgeous blond hair, which hung down almost to her waist; the light green fabric of the dress and head covering she wore matched her eyes almost exactly. I smiled back and stretched again, then said good morning in Teutonica, commenting that she looked a lot more relaxed in my dress than she had in the Gypsy clothing.
“I’m going to throw those rags in the cooking fire this morning,” Freia told me, her green eyes drifting to where they lay in a colorful pile by the door. “Your dresses may be a bit flimsy, but they’re much better than a slave’s clothing.”
“If we can buy some decent fabric, I’ll sew both of us better dresses,” I promised, retrieving the other extra dress from my bag, one of deep blue linen. I washed my face and hands at the basin after clothing myself, noticing that one of the servants must have brought in fresh water while I slept. After running my brush through my tangled black hair and adjusting my clothing as well as I could, I put on another pair of socks with my shoes and took a good look around the room, the familiar veil of blue still enhancing my vision.
Freia stood near the window, gazing out at the cropland with a contented expression. I suddenly realized that since we were free, she would probably wish to return home to the Rhineland as soon as possible. Sadness gripped my heart at the likelihood of losing my potential best friend of the eleventh century so soon. I sighed and crossed the wooden floor to where she stood.
“Well, I guess we might as well go out and meet the count, so Joel and I can find out how to become citizens of Muniche,” I said, a bit of melancholy tingeing my voice. “And you can probably find someone to take you back to the Rhineland.”
Freia replied shortly, without looking at me, “I’m not going back.”
I started in surprise, tilting my head at her. I remembered the longing in her eyes when I had mentioned the beauty of the Rhine that first day on the log. I had simply assumed that she would want to return. “Why not?” I asked, curiosity overtaking me while I contemplated why a young woman with such a pure and innocent countenance would not want to go home.
Freia turned from the window to favor me with a tragic smile. “My father is the ruler of the village of Eisenwald on the Rhine,” she related quietly in her mixture of Rhenisch and Teutonica. “I’m the eldest of three daughters. He has no sons, and he wished to marry me to a man who could take his place one day as the ruler of our settlement. I ran away with the Gypsies a year ago because I couldn’t bring myself to marry the man he chose.” Her sad eyes searched mine for understanding.
My eyes widened, and I took one step toward her. “What sort of man did he chose?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“A young man, one aspiring to greatness,” Freia responded, her expression downcast. “He wanted me for nothing more than my beauty and my position. He never would have truly loved me, and I don’t want to marry a man who would use me and destroy everything I love for his own glory.” She paused and shook her head with a sigh, looking frustrated with herself. “I suppose I’m ridiculous. Marriages are made for convenience, not love. But I’d rather not be forced into something so permanent when my instincts tell me it could never be beautiful.”
Freia and I had more in common than I had realized. I knew that I would have done the same thing had I been in her shoes, so I confided to her softly, “I’ve had the same problem. Where I come from, my father is very rich, and I’ve lost count of how many men have tried to woo me just because of that.” Our eyes met, and Freia nodded at me in agreement. “I’m not going to marry some fool who wants me only for money and power,” I said.
“What about your cousin?” she queried, her eyes drifting toward the far wall adjacent to Joel’s bedroom. “Was her betrothal arranged?”
I chewed on my bottom lip, images of Beth’s demise resurfacing in my brain. Thankfully I had slept a dreamless sleep for once, but I knew that what had happened to her would haunt me for countless nights. “Not exactly,” I said, not wanting to fabricate a complicated lie about my background just yet. “It’s a really long story, and maybe someday I’ll be able to explain it all. I need to wake Joel up, though.” I walked over to his wall and rapped out the code we had agreed upon, closing the issue of Joel and me and our rather unprecedented appearance in the forest.
We met Joel in the hallway soon afterward, and he admitted with a smirk that he had poked around in the other upstairs rooms earlier that morning. He had come upon a small collection of girls knitting sheep’s wool in a chamber at the far end of the hall. “I told them I couldn’t speak Teutonica, and they all giggled at me,” he said, sounding as though he had found that amusing.
“Well, this is a medieval manor, so the kids probably get roped into working as soon as they can handle a sewing needle,” I guessed, looking to Freia as we descended the stairs. “Did you talk to any of the servants this morning?” I asked her in Teutonica.
“I talked a little with the head housekeeper. Her name is Ulka, the bailiff’s wife. She told me that the main meal is served in the great hall downstairs at Sext.”
“Sext?” I did not understand the term, but I did recall Beth saying that most people ate only two meals per day in the Middle Ages.
Freia gave a short nod. “Yes. We’ll still be early, even though you slept late.”
Eventually we made our way to the great hall, a dining room much larger than any of the parlors in the Thaden house. One long table flanked by benches stood at the center of the room, and oil lamps hung at intervals from the rafters, casting the hall in a cozy glow. There were two empty fireplaces on either side of the hall, halfway between the entrance to the main house and the far end. Tapestries of various colors, interwoven with threads of silver and gold, hung from the walls, and at the far end, near the kitchen doorway, stood what had to be the count’s chair. It looked to be made of larch inlaid with gold, standing regally at the head of the table, apart from the benches that lined either side.
Freia breezed off toward the kitchen with her colorful robes in tow. I caught the sleeve of Joel’s tunic before he could follow her. “She’s getting rid of her slave’s clothing,” I explained in a low voice. “And I’m going to have to figure out how to get some more outfits since we have only three between us.”
“Ah,” Joel answered, his hands on his hips as he looked around the hall. “Where do you think we’re supposed to sit?” The room was empty at the moment aside from the two of us, but an instant later the elderly servant we had met the previous night drifted in from the doorway behind us. He greeted us politely and indicated that we should sit beside the count’s chair, for he always exchanged news with any noble travelers.
“We’re going to have to make up some sort of news,” I muttered to Joel as I sat down to the right of the chair. “I’m going to try to convince the count that we’re nobility, so wish me luck.”
“Tell him I lost my family estate to the Vikings,” Joel said with a grin, pulling a knife from his trousers, using its tip to probe at a hangnail. More people began to settle upon the benches, all of them clad in the muted colors of peasantry: browns, grays, and dull blues. “Do you think he’s going to be like Count Dracula or something?” Joel went on, wincing and shaking his hand out. I saw that he had wrapped his left palm with a fresh batch of gauze.
“This isn’t Transylvania,” I said, elbowing him good-naturedly. “And he owns a farm. He’ll probably be more like Old McDonald. Careful what you use that knife for, though. You might need it for the meal.” I had abruptly recalled that forks were not a thing in medieval Bavaria.
“Did you bring yours?” He eyeballed me in an accusatory fashion, and Freia appeared behind me, brushing one hand against my left shoulder before sitting on the opposite side of Joel.
I had forgotten my knife back in the room, but I had no time to consider that now, for the count had finally entered the hall. He exchanged brief words with a servant or two on his way to the head of the table, his appearance reminding me of those old photos of Paul von Hindenburg during World War I. Though he had a full beard and was not quite as fat, the count’s face looked just as serious and withered, his whitish hair cut almost in the same style, his sharp blue eyes piercing. He wore a long, multi-colored tunic hanging over dark leather trousers, held up by a massive belt with an intricate brass buckle.
He nodded at the three of us in full propriety when he reached his chair and introduced himself as Count Helmut Friedrich von Meldorf. The three of us stood and said our names in turn, Joel stumbling slightly over the correct phrase. Then the count waved us to our benches and sat down himself, declaring with a knowing glint in his eye that the full meal would be served soon.
The meal began with a salad consisting of lettuce, cabbage, onions, radishes, herbs, and vinegar, all of which tasted as though they had been freshly harvested. Mead was the beverage of choice, and I found it sweeter than expected, though I caught its slight twist of alcohol. I remembered Joel’s headache from the previous day and wondered whether the constant offerings of alcohol would help his body transition away from caffeine. We’re all going to be alcoholics whether we like it or not, I thought to myself, not particularly happy with that idea. I hoped that I could handle it maturely like my father, and that Joel would not become a violent addict like Beth’s grandfather.
The main dish consisted of chicken stew spread out over slabs of unleavened bread. Joel, Freia, and I ate in silence for the most part as I tried to negotiate using only a spoon for such a dish. Count von Meldorf made a few comments about the weather, the summer crops, and the fact that he had not entertained travelers in over three months.
“That obliging nephew-in-law of mine, Garin Zeuner, has the tendency to send all of the respectable latecomers my direction once the gates to Muniche have closed for the night,” he remarked, the ends of his mustache turning upward into a rather tolerant smile. “He knows quite well that there’s an inn further down the Isar, but it’s no matter. Since his judgment of people’s character tends to be accurate, my servants have been instructed to allow such occasional guests to stay the night and meet me in the morning to exchange news.” The count’s blue eyes gleamed with interest, and I had the feeling that he did not get out much due to his age and physical condition—somewhat overweight.
Joel nudged me when the count had finished speaking, requesting a rough translation, his mouth full of bread. I gave him a dirty look and said, “I can’t just keep translating everything bit by bit, if you really want to learn Teutonica. You’ll have to wait until we’re done. And quit talking with food in your mouth.”
Before Joel could reply, I addressed the count. “Unfortunately, my lord, we may not be bearers of entertaining news, though we have journeyed a great distance. I also wish to apologize that I must be the one to address you. Joel neither speaks nor understands Teutonica, and Freia’s grasp on our language is tenuous.” I nodded at each of them when I expressed regret for their lack of comprehension. Joel favored me with a sour look, probably guessing what I had said.
Count von Meldorf tilted his head at my words, taking a copious swig from his goblet before commenting rather pointedly, “Your accent, Miss Swanhilde, is one I have never heard before, though your Teutonica is good.”
Apparently I would be hearing that comment quite often and reading it on the faces of everyone with whom I spoke. I determined then and there to somehow rid myself of my “strange accent” during my time in the eleventh century. Once Joel and I returned home, I could shock Hans with my new take on the Teutonic dialect.
I apologized to the count again and explained that I had been away from Teuton lands for some time and had forgotten many things. I told him that Freia was from the Rhineland, while Joel had been born in England. “All three of us are hoping, my lord, to find refuge in Muniche for a few years,” I added, “and we would like to obtain employment there, if needed.” I eyed the count covertly over the rim of my cup, watching his reaction.
Count von Meldorf’s grizzled face took on a hue of surprise. His eyes drifted to Joel, then back to me. “Are all three of you skilled laborers, Miss Swanhilde?” he inquired quizzically, stroking his beard with the fingers of his left hand, which were adorned with several golden rings.
Now the test would come. I knew that we were not dressed as laborers, for none of the servants around the tables wore colors as vibrant as ours. I chewed on a bite of chicken while I considered what sort of background I should fabricate for myself and my two companions. Then I met his gaze, silently praying that I would sound articulate. “Actually, my lord, I am of noble birth, though I lost my relatives long ago,” I stated carefully, ordering myself to remember every part of my story, for I would likely have to tell it again later, not altering events. “My family name is von Thaden. I have spent quite a few years traveling and have garnered some skill in the trade of sewing.”
I broke off and stared down at what remained of my stew, feeling our host’s intense eyes heavy upon my face. I had to impress him somehow, make him believe that I was indeed of noble birth in spite of my strange accent. Struck by a sudden inspiration, I raised my eyes to the count’s once more and said in Latin, “I read and write both Latin and Teutonica, and I have studied music and history.”
The count’s cerulean eyes sprang open, and he opened and closed his mouth several times before admitting in a low voice, “I do not speak Latin . . . my lady.”
A triumphant smile broke across my face. Count von Meldorf had addressed me as someone more than a commoner! I repeated my last sentence in Teutonica, and he shook his big head a bit, stirring in his chair. “Although I am lord of this estate and could have gained education in my youth, I’ve always preferred the work of the field and left the writing to others.” He flexed his wrinkled hands and confided, “These ancient fingers of mine can hardly grip a pen after so many years of pulling the plow.” His expression was wry, his tone slightly ashamed.
Something occurred to me at that moment, when I looked upon the elderly farmer, the lonely manager of a medieval estate, the lord of quite a few vassals. He did not seem quite as harsh as his face suggested. He was a Teuton; I could see it in his eyes, and I had to know. “Are you earth?” I asked him, my decorum failing me at last.
Count von Meldorf jerked a bit in his chair, likely taken aback by my direct query. Then a slow smile appeared beneath his mustache. “That I am,” he affirmed, looking pleased that I had figured it out. “And you, my lady?”
I smiled back shyly and replied, “I am ice,” breathing out a frigid puff of air to illustrate. He chuckled and lifted his goblet to his lips again as I added, “Freia and Joel are not Teutons, only me. Freia, also, is of noble birth. Her family rules a small settlement beside the Rhine.” I decided not to name the town, for fear that Freia would think I had said too much. She could say more about herself later, for that matter, for her Teutonica was not nearly as faulty as she led me to believe that first day.
“Joel comes from a wealthy family in England,” I went on, “many of whom boast excellent skills with the bow and arrow.” Joel should appreciate that. Anyone who could skewer a squirrel through the brain must be good at archery, so I hoped that he had not exaggerated that tale.
The count nodded thoughtfully, looking from one of us to the next, seeming to consider our possibilities. Eventually he leveled his gaze upon me and said, “The young man could certainly find some sort of labor in Muniche, with the smiths creating weapons or perhaps with the hunters or soldiers. As to your own fate, my lady, and that of the Rhenisch lady, I might have a few ideas of my own. Before any of you could find permanent positions in Muniche, however, you would have to meet with the city council.” He eyed me with a severe stare when he stated this, his expression calculating.
I nodded at Count von Meldorf, accepting his words, a small germ of anxiety settling within me at the concept of confronting the medieval council—and likely Prince Otto himself. “Then we will meet the council, my lord, whenever they deem it proper. However, I should pray that they would realize that in dealing with the three of us, they deal with only one Teuton and two outsiders. Hopefully that may convince them to treat us with greater leniency.” I cocked my head at our host.
The count raised his bushy eyebrows and replied, “That remains to be seen, my lady. I will send word to them today that three newcomers wish to join our city. Until they can meet with you, all of you may stay here.”