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“Aw, alright. Good night, Pa. Good night, Blanchette.”
Blanchette smiled at the small boy as he vanished into the back chamber with Sir Aldric in tow.
Jonathan set down a wooden basket and chuckled, shaking his head. “His enthusiasm is never-ending, and I’m afraid he’s grown quite fond of you.”
“And I of him,” Blanchette said. “He reminds me of my little brother.”
Sadly, he looked at her, then sank into a parallel rocking chair. This shared time together had become a ritual. Most nights, Jonathan would sit at her side, murmuring soft words and happy tales.
He’d rapidly become a friend and a blessing.
“The days are getting shorter.” Jonathan’s lighthearted voice shattered her thoughts. Her foot found purchase on the floor, and the chair stopped rocking. “You’re looking better tonight, Blanchette,” he continued when she said nothing.
She sucked in a long breath. “Well. I’m not feeling much better.”
“I admire you. I do. I admire your strength.”
She turned her gaze back to the fire. The flames leaped and cracked, bathing her body in warmth.
“Strength,” she echoed, her voice distant to her own ears. “Strength, you say… yet I sit here, pitying myself while my family rots in the ground. I couldn’t save them; I couldn’t even save myself. I would have died if you had not fished me from the river. Strong is the very last thing I feel.”
Rhythmic creaking filled the walls as Jonathan rocked in the chair. Blanchette wrapped her arms around her midsection—gave a slight wince at her sore muscles—then allowed herself to be lulled into a semi-relaxed state.
“May I tell you a story? If it pleases you?”
Blanchette nodded. She urged her chair into a calming sway that she kept in sync with Jonathan’s voice. He had a charming accent she couldn’t quite place. “Yes… I’ve always loved stories.”
Jonathan nodded, his thin, weathered lips lifting into a smile. He rose from the chair and checked on the stew, stirring it with a satisfied grunt. “My wife and our daughter often attended the king’s tourneys.”
“You had a daughter?”
“Her name was Martha,” he began, dropping some dried herbs into the stew and giving it another stir. “She was a talented seamstress.” He waved nonchalantly at the rug with his free hand. “Colette died three winters back. Colette was our daughter.” He stared blankly at the stew, and Blanchette watched as the steam curled his thinning hair. “Wasn’t enough food to go around then, you see, and it was monstrously cold.”
His daughter had starved and froze to death.
“Oh… I’m so sorry.”
He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the stew. “As I said, we used to venture to the king’s tourneys. Martha and I didn’t care for them much, but Colette adored them. She loved the magic, the chivalry, the romance. Her favorite part wasn’t the joust—no, Petyr fancied that most—but when the knights gave their favor.”
Blanchette let her eyes slip shut as her mind reeled back to those thrilling days and nights. She could smell the dirt upheaved from the horses’ hooves. She heard the clash and ring of armor, the crowd’s cry, and the applause of a hundred hands coming together—a realm coming together, if only for one day.
She recalled riding to the tourneys with her queen mother, enclosed in a litter with curtains of crimson silk so delicate she could see right through them. They turned the world red. And when those draperies swayed, the world became altogether incoherent. The truth of Norland, the humanity of their capital, remained out of focus and hidden away.
The townsfolk would gather in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it always left her in awe—the shining armor, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind… and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.
What a simple time that had been.
“Colette was quite sad that day. See, she had a hound she loved dearly. The poor mutt drowned in the river that morning. She watched the joust through her tears… completely unmoved as the knights cantered out and clashed lances. Then the king mounted his horse and rode onto the field—a vision of shining armor, dust, and crimson silks. He pulled a handkerchief from under his gold gauntlet and tossed Queen Joanna his favor.”
Blanchette nodded. She relaxed as the memories washed over her in a gentle tide. She remembered that day with absolute clarity. The colorful banners waving, the smell of dirt and grass and fine foods, the sound of merry chatter and beating hooves as lances came together in a rush of pleasure…
Yes, life had been so simple then. So simple and pretty and… false.
Make-believe, she thought as Petyr’s wooden knight galloped through her mind.
“Queen Joanna stood in the pavilion, dressed all in white and looking like an angel. She waved the handkerchief for the crowd’s pleasure. Her eyes came to Collette’s from across the rows of seats that separated us. She smiled and weaved through the throng until she stood before my little girl. Colette just sat there, red-eyed and silent.” A forlorn smile came to Jonathan’s face. Blanchette felt herself holding her breath as he went on.
“The queen, bless her, curtsied before my daughter and handed her the handkerchief.” Blanchette watched as Jonathan smiled again, the lines around his eyes creasing. Then he went to his feet and opened a clay canister in the makeshift kitchen.
