Gloucester
Date: 1357
Electra chose the bronze dress and Emily the hunter green. They fit the way Electra thought they would. The bodice of the bronze was tight on her and Emily’s green one dragged on the ground more than it would’ve on the taller Shakira. Both dresses smelled vaguely of the cedar lining used in the chest. It wasn’t unpleasant but Electra inexplicably expected anything of Shakira’s to have a perfume scent. Every time she’d seen the woman, she wore an expensive perfume.
Electra dug through the chest looking, hoping for a brush. She didn’t need a mirror to know her hair looked like squirrel tails. Tufts sticking out tickled her cheeks and chin. Emily’s was messy as well. She found a bone comb and they each redid their hair into a single braid. She opened the door and stepped out, dreading what questions they’d face at dinner.
Harold didn’t say a word. He clamped a firm hand on the arm of each sister and walked them down the corridor at a quick pace.
“What will be expected of us at dinner?” Electra was forming simple and easy to remember answers to potential questions.
“I’ve no idea what Richard or Simon expect, but I wish for you to be quiet. Your nonsensical jabber on the trip here sufficiently tested my patience.”
She didn’t care what he thought. She had no fondness for the knight but didn’t feel what little talking she’d done amounted to nonsensical jabber. “I was just making polite conversation. You really are a jerk.”
“I don’t know what a jerk is—” He leaned closer to her face. “And I don’t care. Be quiet now.”
****
When they reached the Great Hall the tables and chairs had been laid out in a u-shape. Richard and Simon were seated at the head table. While some knights and ladies stood, most had taken seats at the nearest tables.
Harold left the sisters at Richard and Simon’s table and joined several other knights seated at the first table to Simon’s right. He’d barely sat when two women took places on either side of him.
“Emily, you sit here.” Simon indicated the spot next to him. “Electra, you can sit on the other side of Emily.”
A servant poured them wine with a strong spicy fragrance. Electra had tried spiced wine at the home of a friend during the holidays. It was too sweet for her tastes but from the look of it, that was all they were serving here and like the saying goes: when in Rome....
She sipped a small amount of the red wine. It tasted of several spices that married into a pleasant blend, none overpowering. Most were spices she often used in her culinary class like ginger, cinnamon, pepper, and cardamom. The wine was also sweetened with sugar. The addition of sugar made it an interesting combination she’d never tried but would, when or if she ever got home. She’d try it in a dessert rather than wine. She still thought the combo made the wine too sweet.
Another servant girl brought baskets of bread and pewter plates of colorless butter. The bread smelled delicious with a warm, yeasty scent only fresh baked bread has. For a fleeting moment, very fleeting, Electra considered not eating to protest their captivity. But she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was ravenous. She broke off a hunk of bread and popped a piece in her mouth. After all, she could voice her objection just as well.
“Here, use my knife if you wish butter,” Richard said and handed her his knife.
She brushed the blade with her thumb, careful not to cut herself. The blade was narrow and sharp and set into a carved bone handle. “This isn’t intended as an everyday weapon, is it? It’s rather elegant for that.”
“No, I don’t carry a weapon. I don’t really need to as the household steward. I rarely leave the castle grounds and when I do, I am surrounded by our well-trained knights. That’s an eating knife.”
“Harold certainly seems popular with the ladies. He’s got one on each side and two behind him all vying for his attention,” Electra said as another servant set down bowls of porridge and scrambled eggs with wooden spoons inside. A second servant followed with platters of roast pork and pureed peas.
Simon dunked a hunk of bread in the porridge and took a bite. “I am reminded of my good friend, Stephen. The ladies adored him.”
“You said adored, past tense. Where is he now?” Electra asked, taking the opportunity to engage Simon in talk that didn’t involve them as spies or witches.
“He’s dead, killed in battle at Poitiers.”
“I’m sorry. The loss of a close friend is ever painful,” she said, sincerely.
Emily laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry too.”
“I still find it strange his body was never found,” Richard said. “He was with the same fighting column as Guy and Lord Basil. Their bodies were recovered. At the very least, you’d expect they’d find Arthur.”
“Who’s Arthur?” Emily asked.
“Stephen’s horse. He wasn’t anywhere on the field and being a warhorse, I doubt he was stolen in the aftermath of the battle. He’s not much use to the farmers in the area.”
The sisters exchanged a look of mutual curiosity at hearing the knight called Stephen had a horse named Arthur. Their brother-in-law Stephen had a horse by the same name.
“What an odd coincidence,” Emily said low.
“Very,” Electra whispered back.
Emily posed the question Electra hesitated to ask fearing the answer. “What did Arthur look like?”
“As I said, he was a warhorse so he was big, a good seventeen hands and white with a thick mane and tail. Stephen braided both before battle to lessen the chance of an enemy horse biting and tearing at them,” Richard replied.
Their brother-in-law Stephen’s horse was white and that big with a thick, coarse, mane and tail. What the hell was going on? Like watching the proverbial train wreck, Electra couldn’t stop herself from asking what Stephen looked like.
“Tall, four fingers taller than me,” Richard told her. Hair the same color as Harold’s. He didn’t like to wear a beard and the ladies said he was fair of face. Not much else to say. I never looked at him with a romantic eye.”
The vague description could apply to Esme’s Stephen but also to a load of other Stephens. While she ate, the button on Electra’s sleeve fell out of the frog loop. She didn’t hook the button again, reaching for her wine instead. The sleeve pulled back from her wrist to expose her watch, which she hadn’t thought to remove.
“What is that?” Simon asked and pointed to her Seiko.
“A watch.” What a bizarre question. There wasn’t a corner of the planet that people didn’t recognize a wristwatch.
A frown slowly formed and he stretched across Emily and took hold of Electra’s hand to tug it toward him for a better look. He turned her hand over and in a matter of seconds had the clasp undone.
He brought the candle in front of his trencher closer and held the watch under it. “What do the numbers mean?”
“It’s a clock, a miniature timepiece you wear on your wrist.”
From his expression, the explanation puzzled him. “Do they not have candle clocks in this Greenland you claim you’re from?”
How to explain the abundance of various clocks to a man who apparently has no context for the anything beyond a candle clock or similar ancient means of telling time?
“Are you saying you’ve never seen a clock?” Emily asked.
“One like this? No, I have not.”
Emily bent her head nearer Electra and whispered, “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Sadly, yes.”
Simon ran his finger over the watch face. “These small digits, what is their meaning?”
“It’s the date and year: 5.14.15.”
He shook his head. “What year is 15?”
“2015, of course.”
“You are mad. It’s the year of our Lord, 1357.”
“What year were you born?”
“1327, why?”
Electra didn’t care for the speed which Simon answered. She held onto the small hope this was some odd reality show and that he’d stumble or hesitate before coming up with a year. “No reason, I was just curious.” She turned to Richard who’d been chatting with the serving girl. She tapped his arm. Getting his attention she asked, “Richard, what year is this?”
He tipped his head like a dog hearing a strange noise. She assumed he too thought her mad for asking. “1357. Do you measure your years differently in your native country?”
“Yes, it’s a different time there.” A different world. She looked over at Emily, who’d been listening. The color had drained from her face.
For both their sakes, Electra fought to keep from falling apart in front of the whole room. She failed and began to tremble uncontrollably. She balled her hands into fists and turned from Simon to Richard. “I need to go outside. I feel sick.”
“I’d like to go too,” Emily told Simon.
“I’ll go as well.” He smiled. “Just to make certain nothing untoward befalls you.”
****
Electra thought the evening meal would never end. Her eyes burned from the torch smoke and the stuffiness of the room. What little she’d eaten sat like a rock in her stomach. Once they’d come back inside from gulping fresh air, two more courses were served. Richard and Simon insisted she and Emily eat more than the tiny portion they had before learning what year it was. The ravenous hunger Electra had come to the hall with disappeared in a heartbeat with the information.
When the meal was over, sourpuss Harold followed them back to their chamber. A maid brought a chair and he took up his post outside their door. He bade them an insincere goodnight, but not before he brought up a gravy-scented burp.
Stunned by the truth, Electra and Emily sat on the end of the bed. “Of course the possibility we’d gotten ourselves caught in some kind of tear in time occurred to me. But I buried it. I wanted to believe if I didn’t acknowledge that possibility, then it wouldn’t be true,” Emily said. “This is a terrible time for women.”
“I know.”
Emily grabbed Electra’s arm. “We really could wind up at the stake.”
“I know.”
“Oh, my God. I just had another horrible thought—when was the Black Plague?”
“We’re past it for now. I believe it was 1348 and 49 mostly.”
Emily sighed with relief.
Electra hadn’t the heart to mention the hosts of other diseases they might die from. Emily wasn’t an idiot, she’d learned their medieval history in school. Neither of them had Esme’s expertise, but she knew the basics. Electra saw no reason to remind Emily of the other risks.
Both unlaced their field boots and worked at pulling them off.
“When we asked to go outside, I don’t believe Simon offered to go with us out of protection. I bet he suspected we might make a run for the gate,” Emily said, wiggling her toes.
“I’m sure it crossed his mind. It crossed mine. Had I thought we stood a ghost of a chance, I’d have made a break for it.”
“I doubt I’d get far running in these boots and hampered by this long dress. My only hope would be to get far enough into the woods to find a tree I could manage to climb. Then, I’d sit in it like a treed raccoon until sunup.”
Electra went to the window and opened the shutters. “I’m in the same boat, if I even got that far. I’m not the athlete you are. I’ve never been a fast runner.” The rattle of armor and the sound of male laughter drifted up. “We’d also have to get past the men on the walls.”
Emily joined her at the window. “Help undo these buttons,” she said with her back to Electra. “When you were exploring this afternoon, did you happen to see if there’s a way out the rear of the castle, through the gardens?” she asked as Electra worked the buttons. “I should think there has to be for easier access to the garden by the cook’s staff.”
“No. Harold caught me before I reached a place with a decent view.” She finished undoing Emily’s dress. “Do mine,” she said and turned around.
“After what Simon said the year was, do you still want to see the road to Gloucester?” Emily asked.
“I have to. If for no other reason, than to see the proof.”
In her heart of hearts, she knew if she saw a road, it wouldn’t be the highway of her time. She’d see proof everything that happened after leaving Roger’s side was not a nightmare she’d wake from. How could she survive a world she had little knowledge of other than what she learned in school? Classes she should’ve paid more attention in were a dim memory. Esme was the historian sister, but she was in the modern world, lucky girl. All Esme wanted was to work at the History Channel. Emily was the mathematician of the three. Emily’s goal was to teach and she loved making math important and fun for her students. Electra sighed. She’d attended university for a year but found most of the required courses dreary and painfully boring. She just wanted to cook and one day be a well-respected chef, perhaps even a Michelin Star chef. Not much use for a fine dining chef here, although she had a couple of ideas how the cook could give the pureed peas a boost.
“Here.” Emily handed her a goblet of wine. “The maid left a ewer of wine and a pitcher of water while we were at dinner. There’s also a basin, another pitcher of water, and a small bar of lavender-smelling soap with two linen towels.”
“We’ll thank Richard tomorrow. It’s a thoughtful gesture considering our unexplained presence.”
Emily closed the chest and sat on the lid. “You’re very quiet. What’s on your mind, other than the obvious?”
“I’m kicking myself for not being a better student of a subject, any subject that provided a skill set usable in this place.”
“You have one.”
“Being a student chef doesn’t count.”
“Sure it does. We spent two hours in a room filled with people eating. How does not being a full-fledged chef not apply?”
“For one, I am not familiar with what spices and seasonings are available here. Esme would know, but my classes on spices and their place in history centered on their origins in the Middle East and Orient. We hadn’t gotten around to when they arrived in Europe.”
Emily gave her the that’s-a-stupid-reason look. “That’s a lame excuse. Walk your fanny downstairs tomorrow and talk to the cook. Ask questions.” She took a swallow of wine. “This isn’t bad,” she said, swirling the wine around and then sniffing it. “Is there another reason?”
Electra took a swallow of her wine. It was pretty good. It wasn’t mulled or spiced like the dinner wine. This was a nice robust red. Her knowledge stopped there. Wine pairings was an advanced class she wouldn’t be eligible to take until fall. “I doubt they’ll let me wander into the kitchen. I’m sure Simon doesn’t trust I won’t dump poison into one of the pots.”
“Take crabby Harold with you. What other excuse do you have?”
“My studies have been geared to French cuisine. If I ever open a restaurant of my own, I wanted to specialize in it. Based on the dinner tonight, I imagine most meals here are comfort food-ish.”
“El—please, we grew up on comfort food. Mom does not cook French so don’t try to fly that as an excuse. Whatever comfort food they serve here, you’ll adapt.”
Electra huffed her agreement. It was still speculation based on the possibility she’d be allowed into the kitchens and allowed to help prepare some dishes. “Getting into the kitchen is a small problem. We’ll have to figure out a way to start making regular trips to the outcropping. That’s where we were when this time warp or whatever it is, happened. It’s our best hope for returning.”
Emily got up. “I’m going to offer Harold some wine.”
“Why?”
“He’ll never be a friend to us but we needn’t make an enemy of him.”
Electra snorted in disgust as Emily cracked open the door and peeked out. “Hello Harold. Thought I’d see if you wanted some wine.”
There was the dull thump of chair legs hitting the stone floor followed by a short scraping. Emily looked up and stepped back.
“Do not worry yourself over my comfort. My relief is on the way as I shall gratefully be as soon as he arrives. Goodnight,” he said in a flat tone and pulled the door shut.
“I had a bugger of a thought,” Emily said. “What if we managed to be at the outcropping at the right time and found ourselves home.”
“So?”
“It’s conceivable we might drag Harold or someone like him with us.”
“I’m willing to drag Attila the Hun with us for the chance to get home.”
“Good point. I don’t care who comes along if it means going home.” Emily sipped her wine and said, “You know Simon’s friend Stephen is our Esme’s Stephen.”
Electra removed her watch and set it next to Shakira’s in the chest. “Yes. I’d love to say no way, but bodies don’t simply disappear from where they were struck down, let alone a knight and his horse. The descriptions are dead on. I think somehow, some way, he came through to our time.”
“Do you think he told Esme about traveling forward?” Emily asked.
Electra thought about it, unsure how Esme would react if she knew the truth. She’d probably handle it well enough but would she keep the information secret? “I honestly can’t say. I’d like to think she’d trust us with the information but I’d understand her hesitation to reveal it to anyone, ever.”
“Would you tell? I would.”
No revelation there. Telling Emily a secret was comparable to pouring water into a sieve. She’d burn up rushing to tell everything to her and Esme. Esme, on the other hand, would do what Stephen wanted. He didn’t strike Electra as a man who’d put himself in a position to be mocked by anyone, Emily and Electra included.
“If it was Roger in the same position as Stephen, I’d honor his choice whether to share the information or not. That said, I can’t see him sharing the experience.”
Roger. With everything that occurred since they left him to pick flowers, she hadn’t thought about what he was going through. He’d be panicked by their disappearance. He had no way to know what happened or how to help. What would he think? What could he think?
Emily rose and refilled her goblet halfway. “The upside of knowing this about Stephen is: if he can come through we can too.”
“Same with Shakira. There’s no way she wasn’t here sometime in the past and escaped.”