Chapter 14 #2
“Grady.” Vera put her hand on his shoulder and waited until he reluctantly met her eyes. “He is thrice your age and not half the man you are now.”
He was on the brink of tears, his chin quivering mightily.
“Fuck him,” Vera added.
Grady let out a bark of a surprised laugh. He nodded and set his chin before he set off to work.
“Well said, Guinevere,” Matilda said. She stood in the stall door, keeping her eyes fixed on the nobleman as Vera began brushing Calimorfis. Tears burned at her eyes as if they’d passed from Grady to her like a potent virus.
“I don’t care if I have to brush this horse twelve times. We aren’t leaving this stable until that man is gone,” Vera said.
“I quite agree.”
Thankfully, Grady’s work was quick. When Vera heard the man stirring outside the stall, she feigned taking the brush back to the tool shelf to hover near him. Grady walked the man’s horse out, his face set as he passed the reins to him.
“I’m sorry, boy,” the man growled, not at all sounding as if he meant it. Grady bowed his head respectfully before hurrying to busy himself with ropes and tack at the farthest end of the stable.
Vera crossed her arms on her chest, watching the man mount his horse.
“I’d consider finding a new stable boy,” he said as he tugged his riding gloves on, unable to resist vying for the final word. “This stable smells far worse than any I’ve ever visited. It needs a good cleaning. It’s shameful that this is our king’s stable.”
Vera wordlessly crossed to the stack of cleaning cloths, snatched one, and marched back to the man. She held it out to him as his eyes darted from Vera to the cloth and back in bewilderment.
“You have horse shit on your face.”
She was satisfied that the man looked rather like his head might explode.
“When I return,” he said, face crimson with fury, “I will take this up with the king.”
“Oh, please do,” Vera said, and the man road away in a huff.
Matilda had put forth quite the effort to keep the corners of her mouth from turning upward, and from that day on, her guard dropped.
Her laugh came readily, and even the time spent helping Vera dress became more punctuated with conversation.
In short, the two became friends. She barely protested when Vera insisted on serving her during their evening visits.
“Do I have more blankets?” Vera asked her one chilly evening. Matilda had just gotten a fire roaring in the hearth and settled back into her cozy pouf.
“Yes, in that chest.” She gestured to a trunk behind Vera and started to get up, but Vera waved her off.
“I’ll get them,” she said. Matilda merely smiled and shook her head.
The trunk was filled with heavy blankets, neatly folded.
Vera took two in her arms and noticed a corner of thinner fabric sticking out from beneath the blanket pile.
She gave it an experimental tug, and something attached to the material scraped against the side of the chest. With a steady pull, out came more fabric attached to a wooden embroidery hoop.
The project was barely started: a simple cloth napkin.
All that was completed was a thin line of green vines and four flower petals sewn with tidy blue stitches.
Vera added it to her armload of blankets. She dropped one on Matilda and pulled the other over herself as she ran her thumb over the bumps of Guinevere’s stitches, feeling like she held a ghost in her fingers.
“Do you remember how to do embroidery?” Matilda’s voice pierced the trance of this thread between Vera and Guinevere.
“Actually, yes.” It was true, but it wasn’t a recovered memory.
Embroidery had had a moment in Glastonbury a few years back.
Vera and Allison attended a kitschy sip-and-sew workshop where they’d giggled and shared pinot noir while a grandmotherly woman instructed them on various stitches.
Vera had enjoyed it and taken it up as a hobby over the following months until she lost interest. Forgotten embroidery was something that she and Guinevere had in common, for Vera knew she had a partially completed project tucked in a drawer somewhere, too.
“I’d guess you had plenty of time for that sort of activity at the monastery,” Matilda said. Vera stared vacantly at her. “While you were recovering at the monastery,” she clarified.
“Oh! Yes. Right. Erm, a bit.” That’s what everyone had been told; that Guinevere spent the year recovering at a monastery in the farthest southwestern corner of the land, an order devoted to healing.
“What was it like there?” Matilda asked. “I’ve heard the monks like to play games to fill their idle hours. Is it true?”
Vera remained so thoroughly delighted by this newfound friendship that she heard herself reply, “Yes,” even though she knew nothing about the monks who were supposed to have cared for her.
“Will you teach me one?”
“Erm …” Of course, she had no idea what games the monks played (if they played them at all). So, Vera taught Matilda the only one that came to mind. “It’s called rock, paper, scissors.”
After sharing a pitcher of wine in the warmth of a fire with a friend who kept forgetting which beat what at rock, paper, scissors, and falsely proclaiming victory time after time, it turned out the game was rather funny.
“All right, all right. I’ve got it. This time, I’ve got it,” Matilda said confidently.
“Fifth time’s the charm.” Vera laughed. “I believe in you.”
Three slaps of fist to hand followed by the reveal. Matilda balled her hand as rock, and Vera laid hers out flat as paper. Matilda squealed in delight before Vera had a chance to say anything.
“I won, didn’t I?” Matilda all but shouted. Vera couldn’t speak. She shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks as she devolved into the sort of laughter that produced no sound at all.
“I didn’t win?” Matilda cried. “That doesn’t make any sense! Those monks are fools.” This only sent Vera further into her hysterical collapse. And then Matilda was laughing, too.
For the moment, the embroidery hoop had fallen aside from Vera’s lap, forgotten, but it had sprouted an idea.
Dinner the following evening proceeded as was now usual. They ate, the performers performed, then Arthur made an excuse to leave. They arrived at his exit like clockwork.
He nodded to Lancelot and then to Vera as he muttered, “Good evening.”
That was one of a few positive shifts. Since the night when he’d been so harsh, he’d at least acknowledged Vera before he departed each evening.
She wasn’t sure if this was owed to her new “could not give a shit” attitude, if Lancelot had said something to him, or if he just felt guilty.
Once she had stopped seeking Arthur, however, he seemed to relax.
He even laughed at Lancelot’s jokes in her presence or forgot to harden his gaze when he accidentally met Vera’s eye, but only ever for a moment.
Though his gaze had drawn goosebumps on more than one occasion, Vera made a point to give it little of her attention.
She’d find the memories without him and never have to go any deeper to figure out what his problem was.
After all, she had her newest plan to tend to.
She scanned the hall until she found Matilda in the back corner.
Matilda smiled knowingly as she wove her way to Vera, an unassuming bag hanging from her shoulder.
By all appearances, she was escorting Vera to her chambers.
In truth, they crossed the grounds in long strides, raindrops beginning to splash off the tops of their heads and bursting in tiny explosions on the stone path around them.
From the castle’s entry chamber, Matilda passed Vera the bag as she continued alone to the chapel.
With a quick wave of confirmation from Vera when she got there safely, only Matilda retired.
She’d initially been hesitant when Vera pitched the idea, thinking it was unwise to send Vera off alone. But by late afternoon, Matilda had an abrupt change of heart. Vera was so pleased that she didn’t bother asking why.
After the first chapel service, the priest encouraged her to come to pray any time, that the chapel would be empty and unlocked in the evenings should she wish to use it, and indeed she did.
Vera wasn’t sure if she would call it praying, exactly.
But as soon as the idea took her, she knew she wanted to sit alone in that chapel and bathe in the jewel-colored sunset beams streaming through the stained glass, embroidering in the shadow of the exquisite Mary statue. It was all as lovely as she’d imagined.
After that, any evening not spent with Matilda, Vera rushed to the chapel where she embraced the benefits of solitude, of not having to worry about who was watching or listening.
While she stitched, she sang whatever she wanted.
Vera didn’t have a voice that would make anyone hold their ears, nor would it bring an inspired tear to anyone’s eye, but she liked music and didn’t want to forget the songs from her life before.
She sang through the ones she’d loved with a broad catalog of whatever suited her in the moment: The Beatles, Adele, the Mamas & the Papas, Ed Sheeran, Whitney Houston—even the Spice Girls.
This night, Vera’s fifth of such a routine, a soft rain tapped a percussion on the high roof above her.
She was so deep in song that her fingers fumbled, and she pressed the needle through the fabric with too much oomph, driving it deep into her thumb.
Vera loudly yelped and hissed “Fuck,” as she wrenched the needle free.
And then she heard a noise from the front of the chapel. She sat stock still as fear pulsed in her gut. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.
Vera realized now that she’d never walked to the very front. There might have been an alcove off to the left. She hadn’t thought to check.
She stood and took a few wary steps forward. “Hello?” she called.
Silence, heavy and ringing, answered.
The sun had set by now. Vera bit her lip, remembering the marble tile controlling the lights on the opposite end of the room. She wished she’d set them brighter. Out of habit, she nearly reached for her phone (that wasn’t there) to use as a torch.
“Is someone there?” Vera called more forcefully.
“Good evening.” The man’s voice came from behind her. She jumped and spun so quickly to face him that she nearly fell over.
“Sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
He stood just inside the door and was around Vera’s father’s age with mostly grey hair save for darker spots clinging to their youthful nut brown.
“I saw the light and thought Father John might be here. My name is Thomas. I was appointed deputy treasurer during your time away.” She was relieved he’d introduced himself and that this wasn’t one more person she had to pretend to remember.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping Father John might scribe a letter for me, but it appears you’re alone here? ”
“Yes,” Vera said. “Sorry.”
Thomas twisted his hands together, seeming torn between further entering the chapel or leaving. He bobbed for a moment and, with a deep breath, decided on the former.
“Would you pardon a moment of boldness?” Thomas asked.
Her curiosity stirred. “Gladly.”
He came toward her and happened to stop in a chink of blue light reflected from the stained glass. He did not notice that his face was awash in blue, and Vera did well not to chuckle at the sight. “It’s awfully heartening to see a lady spending her idle time in prayer,” Thomas said.
He meant it as a compliment. Vera murmured her thanks, curious what he would have said if he’d heard her cursing after stabbing her thumb.
“I know we choose with the grace of Christ to be tolerant of all,” he said hastily with a dismissive wave. “But with so many who follow the old pagan ways, I, for one, am grateful our king and queen follow the Christian path. You are the queen our people need.”
Vera had to consciously coach herself not to bristle at Thomas’s comments. Nearly everything about this time had been more free-thinking than she could have dreamed. And she was moved by his earnest conviction and generous compliments, even if she felt it was misplaced by being directed at her.
“You’re too kind,” she told him honestly as she searched for the right words to say. “I’m … not sure my prayers would satisfy the Lord.”
He beamed. In her attempt to be subtly truthful, Vera had unintentionally fit further into Thomas’s demure caricature of her. “You’re a sweet girl. It’s an honor to meet you, my queen.”
As she watched him leave, Vera remembered what Lancelot had said about her being alone with a man and wondered if the protocol breach registered with Thomas.
She never thought again about exploring the alcove at the front of the chapel, and she forgot to wonder: if not Thomas, what, indeed, had made the noise she heard on that rainy night?