Disclaimer: No characters belong to me except Ismene and Thomas -
fanfiction is purely for fun.
It was a mild day in mid-February, which found a young woman dressed in simple garb riding alone into the bustling camp that had sprung up in anticipation of the Oxford Tournament. She carried a scabbard at her hip and a grey bow on her back, with a sheaf of arrows hanging alongside a cloth bag from her saddle. Her horse was dappled grey, dusty from the road and tired from days of travelling from the north. Little notice was taken of them as they entered the camp and wove their way amongst the stalls towards the blacksmith's quarters. They were a dejected sight, but no more so than scores of other peasants who came to watch the knights battle for riches and honour.
Ismene dismounted with some relief outside a blacksmith's tent. Riding had cramped her muscles, and she was sure that the horse felt better for the rest, too. The heat from the forge was welcome this early in the year, and Ismene hailed the blacksmith almost cheerfully.
"Hello there," she said as the grizzled man looked up from where he was beating a piece of plate-armour. "I have work for you, if you're willing?"
The blacksmith stopped hammering and looked her up and down slowly. "Oh aye? What work would that be, lass?"
"A sword," she replied. "I need it re-forging. Can you do it?"
The man leaned back from his work, stretching his back leisurely. "And what would a young girl like yourself be wanting a sword for?"
Ismene frowned. "What do people normally want swords for?" she bristled.
"Fighting, normally. See this now." he motioned to the armour he was fashioning. "It's for Lord Liddesham. He's entered the jousting competition, so he needs it? What could *you* possibly need with a sword?" he regarded her mockingly. "I'm afraid I have better things to do than make weapons for girls."
Ismene's frown had now become a black scowl. She drew a breath and unleashed a hail of poisonous abuse onto the startled blacksmith.
Geoffrey Chaucer watched with amusement the scene unfolding a few dozen yards up from Kate's blacksmiths' tent. A woman - barely more than a girl really - was attacking a red-faced man with some of the most colourful language he'd ever heard outside of a gambling den. He made a mental note to use some in a story he was writing. Kate had stopped work and come to join him.
"What's going on?" she asked, watching the debate with interest.
"It seems that the blacksmith refuses to make something for the young lady" Geoff replied. "I don't think she's too pleased."
By now the large man was shouting back at the girl, who stepped backwards defensively as he raised his hammer in threat. When he had stopped shouting she said something in a low voice which Geoffrey and Kate didn't catch, then took her horse by the bridle, turned it away from the seething man, and stalked off down the makeshift street towards the writer and woman blacksmith.
"Excuse me," Chaucer stepped into the street in front of woman and horse as they were about to pass him by. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with yonder blacksmith," he motioned up the street to where the grim-faced man still glared angrily towards them. "and I feel that myself and my friend here may be of help to you."
Ismene had been startled by his sudden address, but his politeness calmed her, and she now appraised him and the small woman next to him, who wore a leather apron blackened with soot.
"You're a blacksmith?" she asked the woman, a faint hint of surprise in her voice.
"Yes." Kate replied defiantly.
Ismene nodded. The woman probably shared her lack of acceptance in this male-dominated world, which gave her hope she would find what she needed here.
"I need a sword re-forging," she stated. "and some mail fixing. Can you do it?"
"Of course!" the woman smiled. "Come inside, show me what I have to work with."
Ismene took her saddle bag, and left her horse, Orthos, tethered to a post outside. The tall man who had accosted her began to talk as he led her inside.
"My name is Geoffrey Chaucer, Weaver of Words, and this is Kate, Mistress of Metallurgy." He motioned to the woman who was clearing a table of chisels and scraps of metal, who smiled at his loquacity.
"Erm.I am Ismene Levoux, of Durham, though I'm afraid I hold no title." Ismene replied. She dug into the saddlebag and pulled out a rusty mail shirt, some of whose links had become broken. It was small in size, and light when Kate took it from her. "I need this repairing" she said. Kate nodded.
"And the sword?"
"Here." Ismene pulled a hilt out of the scabbard, whose blade ended after about six inches in a jagged edge. She turned the scabbard and shook the other half of the blade out onto the table. Kate raised an eyebrow.
"How did this happen?"
"It's an old sword.it just gave up one day. It was most inconvenient, I can tell you."
"I can imagine." Kate agreed, fitting the two pieces of the sword together like a jigsaw. "I can have them ready by tomorrow, if you need them soon."
"Yes.I'm.erm," Ismene stuttered. "having them repaired for a friend. He's taking part in the sword-on-foot in two days' time."
Chaucer regarded this strange girl curiously. She said she was from Durham, but her surname was French. Not only that, her forename was from a Greek tragedy, and as a writer that interested him immensely. He wanted to know why she had been named so. Also, she wore breeches, which were certainly not the clothes of a woman. It was all very curious. As she and Kate finished their deal, the strange woman began to look uncomfortable.
"There's just one thing," she began. "I won't be able to pay you until after the tournament."
Kate's face fell. "Really?"
"I'm afraid so. Once my friend has won, you will, of course, be paid in full." She saw Kate's uncertainty. "I understand however, if you don't take my word for it." She made to pick up the remains of the sword, but a hand on her arm gently restrained her.
"Of course your word is good enough!" Chaucer stepped in. "Your friend has a good chance of winning?"
"The best." Ismene smiled.
Kate's face, however, showed displeasure. "You will leave your horse here as insurance?"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the woman's face, but Chaucer's expectant grin seemed to have some influence upon her. "You have a deal."
Ismene took her leave of her new acquaintances, taking all her bags from Orthos and making sure that he would be well looked-after, and left the blacksmith's tent feeling a lot better. She was as out of luck at the moment as she had ever been - circumstances had robbed her of both money and opportunity, and she had few friends to whom she could turn. Her only real chance of survival was to win some event in the tournament, or gamble the right way. The money that would bring could buy passage to France on some ship sailing from the east coast. Entering the tournament was harder than it sounded though. Firstly, you had to be of noble blood, and secondly, you had to be male. Ismene was neither, but she had a way round that. The "friend" she had spoken of to the woman blacksmith and the talkative man would indeed enter the tournament. But he would not be the one competing. Ismene's saddle bag held an outfit of black which would hide her form and face so that the plot would not be discovered. Her friend had written to say he would arrive at the tournament the next day, which gave her just one night to kill by herself.
She whiled away several hours wandering the camp, looking at the goods on offer from the trinket stalls, and then went into Oxford to join the crowd of peasants gawping at the knights who had arrived with rich entourages from the surrounding fiefdoms. Ismene noted with dismay that her clothing fit in with the peasants almost perfectly - if anything she was a little too clean though. She was no peasant however, and thought with impatience of the money that would surely bring her life back on track. After the knights had passed, she began to think about where she would spend the night. If she was to have a bed, she needed money.
Digging in her pockets she found two bronze pieces - enough for some mouldy bread perhaps, but nowhere near what she would need for a bed for the night. On the road she had caught her food so money had not been such an issue, but the noise of the tournament had surely scared away all the game for miles around. Someone had once suggested she sell herself to earn enough to make a living.but he had ended up in an infirmary for his troubles. Ismene headed for a gambling den.
The tent that served as the den was stereotypical - dingy and dirty, it was full of unsavoury types. Men sat at tables with whores watching over them, no doubt waiting to offer their services to whoever won the most money that night. Ismene, cloak pulled close about herself, made for the card table. Although gambling was normally only open to men, (like most other things) they usually let her play because they thought she was easy pickings. That was their mistake, and Ismene was happy to let them make it.
Joining the game was easy - you simply sat down and had cards dealt to you. Ismene chose a table near the back of the tent, feeling more anonymous there. Although no-one at this tournament was likely to know her, gambling was still a sport for the lowlife of the world. After some suspicious glances she was accepted into the game, and slowly increased her two bronze pieces to four, then eight, then a silver bit. This would cover dinner, and now she was just playing for a warm place to sleep.
Just as the next hand was about to be dealt, a newcomer joined the game. Ismene did a double-take when she saw who it was, and he looked back at her in surprise. It was the man from the blacksmith's.Geoffrey Chaucer, and now he smiled at her in recognition. Ismene managed to smile wanly back. She was there out of necessity, but by the looks of his long embroidered coat he didn't need the money, and that left only one explanation for his presence, which she would rather not contemplate. She shook her head to clear it from these thoughts. For some reason she found herself disappointed in his vice - he had been so nice to her after all.but now he was just an opponent, who would pay for her bed that night.
~**~
Geoffrey stalked the tent which was to be his home for the next week or so. After William's marriage to Jocelyn, the couple had wanted to be alone (understandably), so he, Kate, Wat and Roland had gone their separate ways. Or, they would have done, if their "separate" ways hadn't turned out to be exactly the same. Kate had started out on the tourney circuit, and she still wanted to ply her trade there; Wat and Roland had managed to get themselves taken on as squires to a knight who had become friends with Will, and Geoffrey was loving his audiences too much to leave them now for a life in the city, so he had been taken on as Herald by the same knight, Sir Francois de Villeux.
Although there was a lot of work to be done for his master before the tournament began, hardly any of the cleaning, planning or preparing had to be done by the herald. Geoffrey found himself redundant until it came to announcing his master in the joust. He could work on an introduction, but oration came naturally to him. In short, he planned to make it up as he went along.
The only interesting thing that had happened that day had been the arrival of that strange girl. Her horse looked expensive, but it was not shod, and her clothes had been those of a peasant. She had white, straight teeth however, and clean hair, and pale skin that any noblewoman would kill for. In fact, he thought, she was something of a beauty. And her name.Ismene, who had been ready to die for her sister in the Greek legend.Geoffrey's romantic spirit was stirred by the unusual name, and the story her French surname must surely conceal. He was bound to see her again, he thought excitedly, but that did not solve the problem of what to do in the meantime. He knew what he *wanted* to do, but the last time he had done it, he'd ended up naked.
A few minutes later he found himself walking purposefully towards the gambling tent he had noticed on his arrival in the camp. He wasn't quite sure when exactly his resolve had failed, but he knew now that he could not keep away from his one other passion aside from writing. He entered the tent with a sigh of satisfaction, although the sight which met his eyes was not one he normally condoned. Whores thronged the spaces in between the dirty men crouched over tables, and the air stank of stale beer and unwashed bodies. The writer made his way to the card tables, and selected one which was a little outside the main crowd of people. He pulled out a chair to sit down, and began to scan the other men at the table to gauge the set of the game. His sky blue eyes met wide, dark blue, somehow familiar ones, and he started in surprise as he recognised the girl he had been thinking about a mere hour before.
He smiled instinctively, although he was more than a little shocked at her presence in such a place. She was probably the only woman in there who wasn't a whore. At least, he didn't *think* she was a whore.
The cards were dealt, and Geoffrey felt all the old emotions coming back - the need to disguise your face when looking at your cards; the rush which came from knowing that you had a good hand, and the sly cleverness when you had a poor hand but bluffed the other men into folding and giving you easy winnings. His hand this time was a good one, and he put his money in with all the others as the game got going. He watched Ismene closely. Her face was blank and passive - she had obviously played before, and that just raised even *more* questions! Two men folded in this first round, leaving five players. More cards were dealt, and the stakes were raised again.
Geoffrey's own hand was poor, and he folded soon afterwards. He watched with interest as Ismene won that round with nothing but two pairs, and scooped the bronze coin into a pile to her left.
The next few rounds went in a similar fashion - Ismene folded in all of them, obviously waiting for better cards. Geoffrey himself won two rounds, felt the old rush of victory, and knew that if he ever tried to give up the game, it would prove a difficult task indeed.
~**~
Ismene was beginning to get frustrated. She was so close to having enough to last till Thomas arrived, but the cards would not come her way. She watched Chaucer play - he seemed seasoned at the game but was beginning to raise the stakes deliberately so that others were forced to fold, or take wild chances. At the next game, however, she was dealt two good cards so put her money in with everyone else. At the second round the stake was raised to a silver piece, and Ismene saw it, although three of the men did not. Chaucer, herself, and two others remained.
Ismene looked at her cards. Three kings, a queen and a ten, with one more card to be dealt. When that card came, she smiled inwardly - it was impossible to lose. In this round the two men she did not know had folded, leaving herself and Chaucer. She pushed the remainder of her money onto the pile in the centre of the table, and the writer met it, but thankfully did not try to raise her. They looked at each other across the table, and the dealer told them to show their cards. Ismene slowly placed them down - four kings and a queen.
Chaucer smiled and spread his hand out for all to see - a two, and four aces. Ismene stared at the cards in shock. How the hell could she have been so stupid?! She'd just lost her entire nights winnings, including the two worthless bronze pieces she'd had in the first place! She stood up from the table, controlled on the outside but feeling like a dimwit nonetheless.
"Congratulations" she said, putting out her hand to shake Chaucer's. "The best man won."
~**~
Geoffrey watched the young woman weave her way out of the gambling den with something approaching guilt. Although he'd won fair and square he couldn't help feeling that he'd just robbed her of all she had. She hadn't been able to pay Kate, so she was probably just trying to win some money for food or something. Four aces was a hand you didn't come across often, however, and he'd have been a fool to waste it. In a way, he mused, it was a pity the stakes hadn't been higher.
"You in for this one, mate?" the dealer asked, ready to hand out the next round.
"Erm.no, no I think I'm done here." He replied, scooping the coin into his pocket and standing up from the table. "Good evening to you."
He left the tent a bare minute after the woman, and looking to his left, saw what had to be her form, making its way through the shadows down the street. He jogged to catch up, and when he was within arm's reach, casually tapped her on the shoulder. Ismene stiffened and spun round in surprise, drawing a long dagger from her belt.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Miss Levoux!" Geoffrey bowed low, and Ismene, on seeing who it was, quickly replaced her dagger.
"No, I'm sorry - I didn't know it was you." She replied. "It's just.one can never be too careful."
Geoffrey nodded. She was a woman travelling alone, after all. "I was wondering," he began, recovering his composure. "if you would allow me to buy you dinner?"
Ismene frowned in confusion. "Do you always buy dinner for those whose money you win?"
"No." he replied. "Those I win money from are seldom as pretty as you."
~**~
When Ismene grudgingly accepted Chaucer's offer of food, she had expected a cup of broth or some bread from one of the many stalls surrounding the encampment, but she soon learned that when the man had said, "dinner", he'd meant it in the sit-down sense. Thus it was that she found herself in an inn, sitting at a table facing the writer, ordering meat and mead. The place was relatively clean, and its clientele seemed to be made up from the knights, rather than from the peasants who watched them.
"So, what brings you to the tourney circuit?" Geoffrey asked, thinking to start the conversation off on a topic that was not too probing. He had done the right thing - the woman smiled when she replied;
"Fame and fortune." She said. "Well fortune, anyway. Its a better living than can be made elsewhere."
"Yes." Geoffrey agreed, thinking of the trouble he had gone through as a struggling writer. "But I've found that most of the fortune goes to the man *winning* the competition, not to his lowly squire.or herald."
This self-deprecating remark warmed Ismene to him. She was naturally suspicious of strangers, but this one seemed like a gentleman.
"I'm both. And general dogsbody." She said. "But we share the winnings, half each."
"Why could your friend not join you today?" Geoffrey asked.
"He had business in the south. And I had business in the north." Ismene sighed. It was difficult to decide how much of the truth she could tell this man without giving anything away. She decided not to lie, just to omit things. "Tournaments aren't exactly a living for us - we just go to them when the money runs short. We're lucky that Thomas - that's my friend - normally wins."
"He must be a skilled fighter."
"He had a good teacher." Ismene smiled. "But tell me, you are a writer, yes?" Geoffrey nodded.
"So what brings you to the tournament? Are you researching a book?" Chaucer told her something of his adventures with Will Thatcher, embellishing the tale a bit, pleased that the young woman seemed entertained and was hanging onto his every word. He told of how William was now married and he was working as a herald, bringing the crowds onto the side of his new knight.
"You certainly have the gift of words!" Ismene laughed. "You tell a good tale. And perhaps you would tell me of your friend - how on earth did a *woman* come to be a blacksmith?"
~**~
By the end of the night Geoffrey was more than glad he'd approached the woman. Although there was a hardness about her, something unapproachable, his gentle manner had drawn her out of herself and he found her to be more learned than he would have imagined in a female. He knew that women could certainly be as intelligent as men, but they didn't have the same opportunity for education. Ismene, however, could read and write, knew Latin and French - the language of nobles (which raised another interesting question), and had even heard of his poem The Book of the Duchess. As they were walking back towards Geoffrey's tent, he asked about her name.
"My father was a Frenchman," Ismene said unnecessarily. "Although that doesn't explain why he named me after a Greek heroine. To be quite honest, I don't have a clue what he was thinking."
"Your mother didn't know?" Geoffrey asked. The woman's face darkened.
"My mother died in childbirth."
"Oh.I'm sorry." Geoffrey feared he'd gone too far - Ismene went silent, and when he asked if she had a bed for the night, she merely replied in the affirmative, then thanked him for the meal and bid him goodnight.
Ismene didn't have a bed, but she was resigned now to sleeping beneath the stars once again. It was a long time since she'd been on what could almost have been thought of as a date, but in her present situation she didn't need the attention. If he were to know what she was planning, he might report her to the authorities, and then she'd really be in trouble. She looked back as she made her way down the dark street - a tall figure stood watching her, but his face was in shadow, and she felt a pang of guilt that she may have upset or offended him. It wasn't his fault she was so defensive - she just wasn't in the habit of letting people close, especially men.
~**~
"Where have *you* been all evening?" the jovial tone met Geoff as he threw back the flap of his tent. Roland was sitting at a table engaged in some sewing, whilst Wat was sprawled on the floor some feet away studying a leaflet advertising the knights who would be taking part in the tournament.
"Kate said you were trying to lose your shirt again." Wat sniggered, earning a glare from the tall man.
"Actually, I was having dinner with a young lady." He replied. "You know, those creatures that won't talk to you, Wat.
Wat scowled. "Can't have been much of a lady to go out with you" he muttered.
"What's she like?" Roland asked, laying down his sewing.
"The paragon of perfection!" Geoffrey cried, gesturing widely. "Beautiful, learned, a little on the short side, but we can't all be masterfully built." He looked at Wat pointedly.
"What's her name?" this came from Roland, as Wat was smouldering too much to form a retort.
"Ismene." The writer pronounced this carefully. "A Greek goddess."
"She's Greek?!" Wat was amazed. "What's a bloody Greek doing in England?!"
"She's not Greek."
"But you said."
"I know what I said! Look, she's having Kate forge a sword and some mail, so maybe, if you're lucky, you'll see her tomorrow."
Roland grinned. "I look forward to it. Now go and tell Wat what that leaflet says - he's been poring over it for hours."
"Let me see, my illiterate friend." Geoffrey said, taking the piece of paper from the redhead. "Lord Chiswick declares he will skewer any fool mad enough to oppose him in the jousting tournament. Hmm.he's confident."
"Ha! Wait'll he sees our boy!" Roland laughed. "I've been making these jerkins for us to wear." He held up his handiwork - cloth shirts bearing Count Villeux's coat of arms, a swan on a blue field.
"Lovely!" Geoffrey sank into a chair opposite his friend. "Your needlework is as fine as any maiden's."
Roland scowled. "How dare you - it's finer!"
It was a mild day in mid-February, which found a young woman dressed in simple garb riding alone into the bustling camp that had sprung up in anticipation of the Oxford Tournament. She carried a scabbard at her hip and a grey bow on her back, with a sheaf of arrows hanging alongside a cloth bag from her saddle. Her horse was dappled grey, dusty from the road and tired from days of travelling from the north. Little notice was taken of them as they entered the camp and wove their way amongst the stalls towards the blacksmith's quarters. They were a dejected sight, but no more so than scores of other peasants who came to watch the knights battle for riches and honour.
Ismene dismounted with some relief outside a blacksmith's tent. Riding had cramped her muscles, and she was sure that the horse felt better for the rest, too. The heat from the forge was welcome this early in the year, and Ismene hailed the blacksmith almost cheerfully.
"Hello there," she said as the grizzled man looked up from where he was beating a piece of plate-armour. "I have work for you, if you're willing?"
The blacksmith stopped hammering and looked her up and down slowly. "Oh aye? What work would that be, lass?"
"A sword," she replied. "I need it re-forging. Can you do it?"
The man leaned back from his work, stretching his back leisurely. "And what would a young girl like yourself be wanting a sword for?"
Ismene frowned. "What do people normally want swords for?" she bristled.
"Fighting, normally. See this now." he motioned to the armour he was fashioning. "It's for Lord Liddesham. He's entered the jousting competition, so he needs it? What could *you* possibly need with a sword?" he regarded her mockingly. "I'm afraid I have better things to do than make weapons for girls."
Ismene's frown had now become a black scowl. She drew a breath and unleashed a hail of poisonous abuse onto the startled blacksmith.
Geoffrey Chaucer watched with amusement the scene unfolding a few dozen yards up from Kate's blacksmiths' tent. A woman - barely more than a girl really - was attacking a red-faced man with some of the most colourful language he'd ever heard outside of a gambling den. He made a mental note to use some in a story he was writing. Kate had stopped work and come to join him.
"What's going on?" she asked, watching the debate with interest.
"It seems that the blacksmith refuses to make something for the young lady" Geoff replied. "I don't think she's too pleased."
By now the large man was shouting back at the girl, who stepped backwards defensively as he raised his hammer in threat. When he had stopped shouting she said something in a low voice which Geoffrey and Kate didn't catch, then took her horse by the bridle, turned it away from the seething man, and stalked off down the makeshift street towards the writer and woman blacksmith.
"Excuse me," Chaucer stepped into the street in front of woman and horse as they were about to pass him by. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with yonder blacksmith," he motioned up the street to where the grim-faced man still glared angrily towards them. "and I feel that myself and my friend here may be of help to you."
Ismene had been startled by his sudden address, but his politeness calmed her, and she now appraised him and the small woman next to him, who wore a leather apron blackened with soot.
"You're a blacksmith?" she asked the woman, a faint hint of surprise in her voice.
"Yes." Kate replied defiantly.
Ismene nodded. The woman probably shared her lack of acceptance in this male-dominated world, which gave her hope she would find what she needed here.
"I need a sword re-forging," she stated. "and some mail fixing. Can you do it?"
"Of course!" the woman smiled. "Come inside, show me what I have to work with."
Ismene took her saddle bag, and left her horse, Orthos, tethered to a post outside. The tall man who had accosted her began to talk as he led her inside.
"My name is Geoffrey Chaucer, Weaver of Words, and this is Kate, Mistress of Metallurgy." He motioned to the woman who was clearing a table of chisels and scraps of metal, who smiled at his loquacity.
"Erm.I am Ismene Levoux, of Durham, though I'm afraid I hold no title." Ismene replied. She dug into the saddlebag and pulled out a rusty mail shirt, some of whose links had become broken. It was small in size, and light when Kate took it from her. "I need this repairing" she said. Kate nodded.
"And the sword?"
"Here." Ismene pulled a hilt out of the scabbard, whose blade ended after about six inches in a jagged edge. She turned the scabbard and shook the other half of the blade out onto the table. Kate raised an eyebrow.
"How did this happen?"
"It's an old sword.it just gave up one day. It was most inconvenient, I can tell you."
"I can imagine." Kate agreed, fitting the two pieces of the sword together like a jigsaw. "I can have them ready by tomorrow, if you need them soon."
"Yes.I'm.erm," Ismene stuttered. "having them repaired for a friend. He's taking part in the sword-on-foot in two days' time."
Chaucer regarded this strange girl curiously. She said she was from Durham, but her surname was French. Not only that, her forename was from a Greek tragedy, and as a writer that interested him immensely. He wanted to know why she had been named so. Also, she wore breeches, which were certainly not the clothes of a woman. It was all very curious. As she and Kate finished their deal, the strange woman began to look uncomfortable.
"There's just one thing," she began. "I won't be able to pay you until after the tournament."
Kate's face fell. "Really?"
"I'm afraid so. Once my friend has won, you will, of course, be paid in full." She saw Kate's uncertainty. "I understand however, if you don't take my word for it." She made to pick up the remains of the sword, but a hand on her arm gently restrained her.
"Of course your word is good enough!" Chaucer stepped in. "Your friend has a good chance of winning?"
"The best." Ismene smiled.
Kate's face, however, showed displeasure. "You will leave your horse here as insurance?"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the woman's face, but Chaucer's expectant grin seemed to have some influence upon her. "You have a deal."
Ismene took her leave of her new acquaintances, taking all her bags from Orthos and making sure that he would be well looked-after, and left the blacksmith's tent feeling a lot better. She was as out of luck at the moment as she had ever been - circumstances had robbed her of both money and opportunity, and she had few friends to whom she could turn. Her only real chance of survival was to win some event in the tournament, or gamble the right way. The money that would bring could buy passage to France on some ship sailing from the east coast. Entering the tournament was harder than it sounded though. Firstly, you had to be of noble blood, and secondly, you had to be male. Ismene was neither, but she had a way round that. The "friend" she had spoken of to the woman blacksmith and the talkative man would indeed enter the tournament. But he would not be the one competing. Ismene's saddle bag held an outfit of black which would hide her form and face so that the plot would not be discovered. Her friend had written to say he would arrive at the tournament the next day, which gave her just one night to kill by herself.
She whiled away several hours wandering the camp, looking at the goods on offer from the trinket stalls, and then went into Oxford to join the crowd of peasants gawping at the knights who had arrived with rich entourages from the surrounding fiefdoms. Ismene noted with dismay that her clothing fit in with the peasants almost perfectly - if anything she was a little too clean though. She was no peasant however, and thought with impatience of the money that would surely bring her life back on track. After the knights had passed, she began to think about where she would spend the night. If she was to have a bed, she needed money.
Digging in her pockets she found two bronze pieces - enough for some mouldy bread perhaps, but nowhere near what she would need for a bed for the night. On the road she had caught her food so money had not been such an issue, but the noise of the tournament had surely scared away all the game for miles around. Someone had once suggested she sell herself to earn enough to make a living.but he had ended up in an infirmary for his troubles. Ismene headed for a gambling den.
The tent that served as the den was stereotypical - dingy and dirty, it was full of unsavoury types. Men sat at tables with whores watching over them, no doubt waiting to offer their services to whoever won the most money that night. Ismene, cloak pulled close about herself, made for the card table. Although gambling was normally only open to men, (like most other things) they usually let her play because they thought she was easy pickings. That was their mistake, and Ismene was happy to let them make it.
Joining the game was easy - you simply sat down and had cards dealt to you. Ismene chose a table near the back of the tent, feeling more anonymous there. Although no-one at this tournament was likely to know her, gambling was still a sport for the lowlife of the world. After some suspicious glances she was accepted into the game, and slowly increased her two bronze pieces to four, then eight, then a silver bit. This would cover dinner, and now she was just playing for a warm place to sleep.
Just as the next hand was about to be dealt, a newcomer joined the game. Ismene did a double-take when she saw who it was, and he looked back at her in surprise. It was the man from the blacksmith's.Geoffrey Chaucer, and now he smiled at her in recognition. Ismene managed to smile wanly back. She was there out of necessity, but by the looks of his long embroidered coat he didn't need the money, and that left only one explanation for his presence, which she would rather not contemplate. She shook her head to clear it from these thoughts. For some reason she found herself disappointed in his vice - he had been so nice to her after all.but now he was just an opponent, who would pay for her bed that night.
~**~
Geoffrey stalked the tent which was to be his home for the next week or so. After William's marriage to Jocelyn, the couple had wanted to be alone (understandably), so he, Kate, Wat and Roland had gone their separate ways. Or, they would have done, if their "separate" ways hadn't turned out to be exactly the same. Kate had started out on the tourney circuit, and she still wanted to ply her trade there; Wat and Roland had managed to get themselves taken on as squires to a knight who had become friends with Will, and Geoffrey was loving his audiences too much to leave them now for a life in the city, so he had been taken on as Herald by the same knight, Sir Francois de Villeux.
Although there was a lot of work to be done for his master before the tournament began, hardly any of the cleaning, planning or preparing had to be done by the herald. Geoffrey found himself redundant until it came to announcing his master in the joust. He could work on an introduction, but oration came naturally to him. In short, he planned to make it up as he went along.
The only interesting thing that had happened that day had been the arrival of that strange girl. Her horse looked expensive, but it was not shod, and her clothes had been those of a peasant. She had white, straight teeth however, and clean hair, and pale skin that any noblewoman would kill for. In fact, he thought, she was something of a beauty. And her name.Ismene, who had been ready to die for her sister in the Greek legend.Geoffrey's romantic spirit was stirred by the unusual name, and the story her French surname must surely conceal. He was bound to see her again, he thought excitedly, but that did not solve the problem of what to do in the meantime. He knew what he *wanted* to do, but the last time he had done it, he'd ended up naked.
A few minutes later he found himself walking purposefully towards the gambling tent he had noticed on his arrival in the camp. He wasn't quite sure when exactly his resolve had failed, but he knew now that he could not keep away from his one other passion aside from writing. He entered the tent with a sigh of satisfaction, although the sight which met his eyes was not one he normally condoned. Whores thronged the spaces in between the dirty men crouched over tables, and the air stank of stale beer and unwashed bodies. The writer made his way to the card tables, and selected one which was a little outside the main crowd of people. He pulled out a chair to sit down, and began to scan the other men at the table to gauge the set of the game. His sky blue eyes met wide, dark blue, somehow familiar ones, and he started in surprise as he recognised the girl he had been thinking about a mere hour before.
He smiled instinctively, although he was more than a little shocked at her presence in such a place. She was probably the only woman in there who wasn't a whore. At least, he didn't *think* she was a whore.
The cards were dealt, and Geoffrey felt all the old emotions coming back - the need to disguise your face when looking at your cards; the rush which came from knowing that you had a good hand, and the sly cleverness when you had a poor hand but bluffed the other men into folding and giving you easy winnings. His hand this time was a good one, and he put his money in with all the others as the game got going. He watched Ismene closely. Her face was blank and passive - she had obviously played before, and that just raised even *more* questions! Two men folded in this first round, leaving five players. More cards were dealt, and the stakes were raised again.
Geoffrey's own hand was poor, and he folded soon afterwards. He watched with interest as Ismene won that round with nothing but two pairs, and scooped the bronze coin into a pile to her left.
The next few rounds went in a similar fashion - Ismene folded in all of them, obviously waiting for better cards. Geoffrey himself won two rounds, felt the old rush of victory, and knew that if he ever tried to give up the game, it would prove a difficult task indeed.
~**~
Ismene was beginning to get frustrated. She was so close to having enough to last till Thomas arrived, but the cards would not come her way. She watched Chaucer play - he seemed seasoned at the game but was beginning to raise the stakes deliberately so that others were forced to fold, or take wild chances. At the next game, however, she was dealt two good cards so put her money in with everyone else. At the second round the stake was raised to a silver piece, and Ismene saw it, although three of the men did not. Chaucer, herself, and two others remained.
Ismene looked at her cards. Three kings, a queen and a ten, with one more card to be dealt. When that card came, she smiled inwardly - it was impossible to lose. In this round the two men she did not know had folded, leaving herself and Chaucer. She pushed the remainder of her money onto the pile in the centre of the table, and the writer met it, but thankfully did not try to raise her. They looked at each other across the table, and the dealer told them to show their cards. Ismene slowly placed them down - four kings and a queen.
Chaucer smiled and spread his hand out for all to see - a two, and four aces. Ismene stared at the cards in shock. How the hell could she have been so stupid?! She'd just lost her entire nights winnings, including the two worthless bronze pieces she'd had in the first place! She stood up from the table, controlled on the outside but feeling like a dimwit nonetheless.
"Congratulations" she said, putting out her hand to shake Chaucer's. "The best man won."
~**~
Geoffrey watched the young woman weave her way out of the gambling den with something approaching guilt. Although he'd won fair and square he couldn't help feeling that he'd just robbed her of all she had. She hadn't been able to pay Kate, so she was probably just trying to win some money for food or something. Four aces was a hand you didn't come across often, however, and he'd have been a fool to waste it. In a way, he mused, it was a pity the stakes hadn't been higher.
"You in for this one, mate?" the dealer asked, ready to hand out the next round.
"Erm.no, no I think I'm done here." He replied, scooping the coin into his pocket and standing up from the table. "Good evening to you."
He left the tent a bare minute after the woman, and looking to his left, saw what had to be her form, making its way through the shadows down the street. He jogged to catch up, and when he was within arm's reach, casually tapped her on the shoulder. Ismene stiffened and spun round in surprise, drawing a long dagger from her belt.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Miss Levoux!" Geoffrey bowed low, and Ismene, on seeing who it was, quickly replaced her dagger.
"No, I'm sorry - I didn't know it was you." She replied. "It's just.one can never be too careful."
Geoffrey nodded. She was a woman travelling alone, after all. "I was wondering," he began, recovering his composure. "if you would allow me to buy you dinner?"
Ismene frowned in confusion. "Do you always buy dinner for those whose money you win?"
"No." he replied. "Those I win money from are seldom as pretty as you."
~**~
When Ismene grudgingly accepted Chaucer's offer of food, she had expected a cup of broth or some bread from one of the many stalls surrounding the encampment, but she soon learned that when the man had said, "dinner", he'd meant it in the sit-down sense. Thus it was that she found herself in an inn, sitting at a table facing the writer, ordering meat and mead. The place was relatively clean, and its clientele seemed to be made up from the knights, rather than from the peasants who watched them.
"So, what brings you to the tourney circuit?" Geoffrey asked, thinking to start the conversation off on a topic that was not too probing. He had done the right thing - the woman smiled when she replied;
"Fame and fortune." She said. "Well fortune, anyway. Its a better living than can be made elsewhere."
"Yes." Geoffrey agreed, thinking of the trouble he had gone through as a struggling writer. "But I've found that most of the fortune goes to the man *winning* the competition, not to his lowly squire.or herald."
This self-deprecating remark warmed Ismene to him. She was naturally suspicious of strangers, but this one seemed like a gentleman.
"I'm both. And general dogsbody." She said. "But we share the winnings, half each."
"Why could your friend not join you today?" Geoffrey asked.
"He had business in the south. And I had business in the north." Ismene sighed. It was difficult to decide how much of the truth she could tell this man without giving anything away. She decided not to lie, just to omit things. "Tournaments aren't exactly a living for us - we just go to them when the money runs short. We're lucky that Thomas - that's my friend - normally wins."
"He must be a skilled fighter."
"He had a good teacher." Ismene smiled. "But tell me, you are a writer, yes?" Geoffrey nodded.
"So what brings you to the tournament? Are you researching a book?" Chaucer told her something of his adventures with Will Thatcher, embellishing the tale a bit, pleased that the young woman seemed entertained and was hanging onto his every word. He told of how William was now married and he was working as a herald, bringing the crowds onto the side of his new knight.
"You certainly have the gift of words!" Ismene laughed. "You tell a good tale. And perhaps you would tell me of your friend - how on earth did a *woman* come to be a blacksmith?"
~**~
By the end of the night Geoffrey was more than glad he'd approached the woman. Although there was a hardness about her, something unapproachable, his gentle manner had drawn her out of herself and he found her to be more learned than he would have imagined in a female. He knew that women could certainly be as intelligent as men, but they didn't have the same opportunity for education. Ismene, however, could read and write, knew Latin and French - the language of nobles (which raised another interesting question), and had even heard of his poem The Book of the Duchess. As they were walking back towards Geoffrey's tent, he asked about her name.
"My father was a Frenchman," Ismene said unnecessarily. "Although that doesn't explain why he named me after a Greek heroine. To be quite honest, I don't have a clue what he was thinking."
"Your mother didn't know?" Geoffrey asked. The woman's face darkened.
"My mother died in childbirth."
"Oh.I'm sorry." Geoffrey feared he'd gone too far - Ismene went silent, and when he asked if she had a bed for the night, she merely replied in the affirmative, then thanked him for the meal and bid him goodnight.
Ismene didn't have a bed, but she was resigned now to sleeping beneath the stars once again. It was a long time since she'd been on what could almost have been thought of as a date, but in her present situation she didn't need the attention. If he were to know what she was planning, he might report her to the authorities, and then she'd really be in trouble. She looked back as she made her way down the dark street - a tall figure stood watching her, but his face was in shadow, and she felt a pang of guilt that she may have upset or offended him. It wasn't his fault she was so defensive - she just wasn't in the habit of letting people close, especially men.
~**~
"Where have *you* been all evening?" the jovial tone met Geoff as he threw back the flap of his tent. Roland was sitting at a table engaged in some sewing, whilst Wat was sprawled on the floor some feet away studying a leaflet advertising the knights who would be taking part in the tournament.
"Kate said you were trying to lose your shirt again." Wat sniggered, earning a glare from the tall man.
"Actually, I was having dinner with a young lady." He replied. "You know, those creatures that won't talk to you, Wat.
Wat scowled. "Can't have been much of a lady to go out with you" he muttered.
"What's she like?" Roland asked, laying down his sewing.
"The paragon of perfection!" Geoffrey cried, gesturing widely. "Beautiful, learned, a little on the short side, but we can't all be masterfully built." He looked at Wat pointedly.
"What's her name?" this came from Roland, as Wat was smouldering too much to form a retort.
"Ismene." The writer pronounced this carefully. "A Greek goddess."
"She's Greek?!" Wat was amazed. "What's a bloody Greek doing in England?!"
"She's not Greek."
"But you said."
"I know what I said! Look, she's having Kate forge a sword and some mail, so maybe, if you're lucky, you'll see her tomorrow."
Roland grinned. "I look forward to it. Now go and tell Wat what that leaflet says - he's been poring over it for hours."
"Let me see, my illiterate friend." Geoffrey said, taking the piece of paper from the redhead. "Lord Chiswick declares he will skewer any fool mad enough to oppose him in the jousting tournament. Hmm.he's confident."
"Ha! Wait'll he sees our boy!" Roland laughed. "I've been making these jerkins for us to wear." He held up his handiwork - cloth shirts bearing Count Villeux's coat of arms, a swan on a blue field.
"Lovely!" Geoffrey sank into a chair opposite his friend. "Your needlework is as fine as any maiden's."
Roland scowled. "How dare you - it's finer!"