Sir Treacher is beloved, honored. We Ladies of the Court adore him, long for the time he will invite us, one or two at a time, to his bed chamber. It was only recently that I was made a Lady in Waiting to Queen Olivia. So far, Sir Treacher has not yet glanced my way.
Jousting tournaments are held every tenth day. I sit on the cold white marble steps so far behind the queen that I can barely see the horses, much less the javelins, but can hear the horses’ hooves rumbling faster and faster towards each other. Only the eventual loud cheering lets me know a knight has been blinded or has been slain. Patrons push to get thru the crowd. They show no mercy to anyone.
Holding hands, Lady Francesca and I struggle together to reach the castle again. She sees Sir Treacher before I do, stops and jumps for joy. It is then that I realize she also waits for his bedroom invitation. I no longer cherish her as my best friend. We will joust for him in a polite, civil manner, using our pointed shoes as weapons.
Word has reached the queen that the Celtics are going to storm the castle. Knights in armor guard the moat. I cannot help but think about how heavy their armor is, clumsy, hot. The Celts wear little and will die quickly when lances slice easily into their chests.
Sir Treacher has been given a new shield by the queen. It is emblazoned with a golden lion standing on its hind legs about to devour a Celt. For battle he will hold the shield in his left hand and his sword in his right. He and all the other knights are ready for the horde of Celtic invaders. They come and drop like leaves in fall, die atop each other. Not one warrior has run away. Not one knight is injured. The bridge is lowered for the knights return. The muddy water in the moat is red.
Queen Olivia is going to honor the knights with a traditional feast. Pigs and dogs will be roasted, chickens boiled. Warm odors flood the dining area. Fruits of all kind, pomegranates, dates, figs, cherries are colorful, juicy. Wine flows faster than the Thames. The celebration goes on for two days and nights. Women are free, happy, satisfied.
Melody, a maid in waiting, knocks on Lady Francesca’s oaken door, giggles and hands her a note from Sir Treacher. It invites her to his quarters as the moon begins to rise. Her joy knows no bounds. She bathes in water sweetened by perfumes, combs her hair into radiant golden locks. Just as told, she walks to Sir Treacher as soon as she can see the moon start to rise. Head high she enters the room where the tryst will blossom.
He has hidden his armor but not his manhood. His long, strong arms embrace her, lift her, softly to lay her down on the outside edge of his bed. The soft silk covers are warm yet so cool and soothing. I become aware of Sir Treacher breathing hard while lying still between Francesca and me. She and I barely move. He, the prince of our dreams, must make a decision. Who shall be first? His muscles are sore, his body aching, his mind dizzy from wine. Looking a bit sick, first he turns right, then left and puts both arms out, hoping to enfold each of us at the same time. Bang, kerplunk, Sir Treacher, the Mighty, slips and falls to the floor. We two ladies cannot control ourselves. We laugh hysterically. Our hero cannot rise to the circumstances and falls asleep right where he fell.
This secret bonds Francesca and me forever. I have to believe Sir Treacher chose me for the following night and Francesca after me.
She can believe what she wants. I know the truth.
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