Beowulf is Back

  Chapter 5

  In which, Amarilla confronts her Uncle, seeks solace in fast food and conversation. She considers the options for women of her time (with one or two who know a thing or two) and finally, she meets a charming stranger, who gives her chicken.

  Amarilla was lying in wait. More accurately, she was sitting on a bench just outside the monastery of Monte San Carlos, looking out over the bland, cheerful, blue sea, and waiting for her Uncle to finish his meeting and follow her. She was shocked and disappointed, not as one would easily suppose, with her foolish, conniving, narrow minded, traditionalist Old Fool of an Uncle; but with herself. Amarilla prided herself on her ability to think and act decisively in her own interest. She had no time for the subordinate role of woman as required by Dark Age French society; she wished to be mistress of her own destiny and to do that she needed to be mistress of her own emotions. She felt that she had let herself down very badly.

  She was also very angry that she had not anticipated this wedding being arranged behind her back. It was ‘how things were done in proper society’ and it was a simple and obvious move to consolidate her Uncle’s power. He had raised the French Monarch and, if he were able to marry the King to his niece he would hold a very secure grip on power in France. She should have seen it coming. She knew how he thought. She should also have been able to work it out from Louis’ behaviour; although the blood of the Kings of France ran through his veins, very little mental activity took place in his Royal head. When he had said ponderous things such as ‘I look forward to a future where our families may be even closer’ it was now glaringly obvious what he had meant; but she had failed to see it! She had thought he was talking about working more closely with her Uncle when the money from the Holy Gambling was kept by France instead of being sequestered by the Pope. She felt she had been very stupid indeed not to see this coming.

  This was because she worked very hard to not be stupid (an attribute she was supposed to possess on the basis of birth, caste and gender). She had realised for herself that the Louis’ had been switched and she had worked out who was responsible and why. She knew the importance of the revenues from Holy Gambling, as she had studied to find out things; such as the cost of equipping an army. She knew and understood her Uncle’s plans for strengthening the nation sate of France as well as he did. She had seen how the British had achieved something similar (hence the comments in their favour that had caused such consternation in the Chapter House) and she regarded herself as a well educated, astute, determined, practical modern woman. This was why she was so ashamed of her response in the meeting; she had behaved as if she was a little girl who had been denied a toy.

  But really! She was supposed to marry that dullard Louis – or even worse his equally insipid, pseudo-religious brother Louie-Louie! How could her Uncle consider that reasonable? How could he still think this when he knew that Louis was not even Louis? Would a marriage under those circumstances even be valid? As well as the political aspect there was the personal one- Amarilla found neither of the Louis’ at all attractive. They were small, dark and slow, like tame furry bears. She had never really quite seen a man she might consider suitable; but she was sure that neither of the two Louis’ were what her friends might describe as ‘the one.’

  She had begun to work out a plan to confront her Uncle, but before it was all clear in her mind, he was there. He glared at her and sat down, very heavily, on the bench beside her. They both inhaled deeply, ready for battle.

  The Marshall broke first. Much to his surprise, instead of the anger of betrayal he had expected when he left the Chapter House, he found that there was a lump in his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry; I should have told you earlier.’

  Amarilla was too angry to register this apology.

  ‘You should have asked me.’

  The Marshall had expected his apology to bring about reconciliation and the rejection of this wounded him. The opportunity for healing passed. He sat up straighter.

  ‘I asked your parents; they approved. I asked the King, he approved. It is a great honour to be the bride of a King; it is a great honour to be Queen of France. You should be thanking me, not having a tantrum like a petulant child. Do you think many young women get an honour and an opportunity like this? Everyone has their place in the world and this is yours. It is also a place you are lucky to have.’

  Despite her anger Amarilla could recognise a degree of truth and fairness in her Uncle’s argument. Everyone did have a place in the world and she knew that she was fortunate to be wealthy and to have escaped the poverty in which nearly everyone else lived, nevertheless she was determined to be free and she could see that marriage to either of the Louis’ was no kind of freedom at all. It was this threat to her liberty that identified for her that freedom was the thing she valued the most.

  The recognition of this sent her mind racing. If she could not marry a Louis and be free, then she must not marry a Louis; but how could she avoid this, if the King, her Uncle and her parents agreed? She had no legal status to oppose this; and if she absolutely refused, what would happen to her? She knew that people did not slight the will of Kings without consequences.

  The energy that she had channelled, ready to argue with her Uncle now dissipated. There would be no joy in winning the argument- the important thing was to find what she could do. She realised that she did not know how to go about doing this. She needed to get away. She looked at the Marshall and felt a terrible frustration that he just did not understand what he had done. She knew that he did not intend to harm or hurt her, but his unshakeable belief that, whatever he arranged, she would fall in with, had hurt her. This realisation also almost overwhelmed her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it was a shock.’

  The Marshall, taking this for acquiescence, answered,

  ‘It was my fault. I should have told you earlier. You should have not have found out like that. It was a mistake.’

  Amarilla nodded, but did not answer.

  ‘I think it will turn out well,’ the Marshall continued, ‘I have men working to get the proper Louis returned; you know I would not wish you to marry his brother.’

  ‘Unless it suited your purpose’ was the thought that came to Amarilla’s mind, but again she kept her head bowed and said nothing.

  ‘A girl must marry, you know; and marrying a King is an honour. To be a Queen is to be somebody in the world, and that is what I would want for you.’

  ‘It is what I want, too,’ agreed Amarilla, aware that the ambiguity of her response would pass over the Marshall’s head.

  ‘I am so glad,’ said the Marshall, standing up; and the pleasure that he obviously derived from her compliance nearly caused her to lose control again.

  ‘I shall sit here a while and think things through,’ Amarilla announced, in what she hoped was a meek voice.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ agreed the Marshall, ‘and then come back home and we will discuss the details.’

  Again Amarilla nodded. The Marshall hesitated for a few moments to see if she would say anything else. As she did not, he, somewhat guiltily, hurried away. As soon as he was gone, Amarilla got to her feet and started off in the other direction. She walked past the monastery and down towards the town. There was a large travelling fair set up, just outside the town that she now realised was part of the celebrations for the forthcoming Royal Wedding. As the fair was, at least in part, in her honour she decided that she ought to give it a visit.

  Emsmeralda (known as Emsie, for short) was exactly the same age as the Marshall’s niece. That, apart from considering herself a ‘well educated, astute, determined, practical modern woman’ and an innate intelligence that she was not supposed to posses was about all they had in common. Emsie’s hair was blonde, her eyes were blue and she had the fairest complexion. Sadly, from her point of view, there were no princes lining up with offers of marriage for her. This dearth of alluring matrimonial offers left her working in her Grandfathers’ chicken sta
ll.

  Her Grandfather, claimed to have been a Colonel in the great army that Marshall Gney had led against the Batavian Army at the battle of Linz. Emsie’s Mother, the ‘Colonel’s’ daughter, said that it was more likely that he had been a corporal- or even more likely a cook. Whichever was true, it was certain that Emsie’s Grandfather had returned from Batavia carrying a new recipe for Batavian spit roasted chicken with spices that everyone, rather surprisingly, declared to be delicious. He had then purchased a concession to sell this spiced chicken, in a travelling carnival. This notable event had taken place a number of years ago, on ‘the day my life ended,’ as Emsie was prone to describing it.

  Her (quite accurate) view was that her Grandfather had kidnapped her from her parents, in order to have someone to turn the chicken spit and serve customers, while he went out drinking the proceeds of the spit-roasted chicken business. Emsie had now toured Europe with the old man for five years and she was unimpressed. She was unimpressed, with her Grandfather, the chicken business (despite the fact that, on occasions, after he had drunk a good deal, her Grandfather would tearfully declaim, ‘when I’m gone, all this will be yours!’), the carnival and Europe. This was because all she had seen of Europe in the past five years was the inside of the chicken tent. She was aware that she was on her way to being disillusioned and, being a resourceful and optimistic girl, she was determined that this should not happen; however, each day in the chicken tent, tested her resolution just a little further and she was aware that something would have to be done soon.

  She was not aware that the future Queen of France had just entered her tent, as she was fully engaged in chasing off Albert, a large black and white cat that had attached itself to the carnival. Albert, after a little casual thievery, had developed an insatiable addiction to Grandfather’s chicken. So bad had his lust for the chicken become that he was compelled to attempt to raid the chicken tent nearly every day.

  Albert had climbed furtively up into the roof of the tent, earlier in the day and then he had lain quietly, in the rafters, while Emsie had prepared the chicken; waiting for his moment to strike. Emsie, unknown to Albert, was comfortably aware of his presence. She was waiting, with an equal level of patience, for her turn to strike. As Amarilla entered the tent, Albert had sensed that his moment had come, and he had prepared himself to make a chicken grabbing spring. Emsie spotted the twitch of his muscles tensing and gave the appearance of looking away. As Albert jumped, leaping down on the chicken tray, Emsie bought her large wooden spoon up, knocking Albert away from the chicken and onto the floor.

  ‘Out! Go on, get out! No one wants you here!’ shouted Emsie at the unrepentant feline, who reluctantly crawled away.

  Amarilla was taken aback, unaware that the comments were directed at the vanquished and fleeing Albert. No one had addressed her in this way before; certainly not a serving girl in a chicken tent!

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Emsie still had not looked up and assumed that the visitor was from the carnival,

  ‘Why, what have you done?’ she laughed and then stopped short and wide eyed. It was immediately apparent that Amarilla was not from the carnival.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Neither girl seemed to know what to say next, so they stared at each other. Emsie recovered quicker,

  ‘Do you want some chicken? It is really quite good.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ replied Amarilla, ‘but I don’t have any money, or rather, I have an awful lot of money, but I don’t have any with me.’

  Somehow, at that moment, all the emotion of the day caught up with her, and to her dismay she began to sob. Emsie was equally horrified to find herself with a rich girl blubbing away in her tent, it was sure to mean trouble; however, she had a kind nature and few girls her own age to talk to.

  ‘I’ll get you some chicken,’ she said, ‘and we can, you know, talk?’

  This produced another sob from Amarilla, who nodded; and so Emsie got some chicken, shut the tent flap and they both sat down on a low bench.

  ‘What is it’ asked Emsie, who had some experience of what usually upset girls at the carnival, ‘A boy?’

  ‘No,’ said Amarilla, ‘it’s worse.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Emsie.

  Amarilla did.

  ‘So,’ summarised Emsie, some time later, after a fair consumption of story and chicken, ‘the problem is this: although you are an extraordinarily beautiful, fabulously wealthy, young heiress, who is engaged to the King of France; you feel that your life lacks direction and meaning because you have no freedom to act as you would choose and are forced into a subordinate role because of the patriarchal nature of our male dominated society?’

  ‘That is just what I would have said,’ agreed Amarilla.

  ‘I suspect that you would not have put it as succinctly; I happen to be an excellent summariser.’

  Both girls laughed.

  ‘And your problem,’ reciprocated Amarilla, ‘is that although you are an extraordinarily beautiful, absolutely destitute, possible heir to an alleged chicken empire; mercifully free of romantic entanglements (although I suspect that the boy at the Rum Merchant’s is still pretty interested); you have no direction in your life and you are terribly afraid you are going to spend the rest of it serving chicken and are therefore hoping that something will turn up.’

  ‘Pretty neat,’ conceded Emsie, ‘but you forgot the bit about the resentment of the inferior status and objectification of women, that is incompatible with the ideals of modern France.’

  ‘So I did,’ laughed Amarilla who was both surprised and delighted with her new (and as the Marshall would have had it, ‘totally unsuitable’) friend.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, ‘it seems hopeless. I shall have to marry whoever turns up at the monastery whether it is Louis or Louie-Louie and I will have to do what I’m told.’

  ‘Or you’ll end up selling chicken like me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Amarilla, ‘I think your problems are worse than mine.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, at least I don’t have to marry a martial numbskull or a religious nut and then pretend to be happy about it.’

  Both girls considered their options, but neither could find a way ahead.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ repeated Amarilla, ‘did your mother never give you advice?’

  ‘She did. “Look out for your Grandfather; he’s insane,” was one bit. The other piece of priceless wisdom was; “don’t wear pink with red.” I don’t think either helps. What about yours?’

  ‘She had a lot of variations on the theme of, “a real lady does such and such.” They amount to, “grin and bear it.” There must be someone, I mean some woman who really does know better.’

  This last comment gave Emsie an idea. For a moment she was too excited to speak. Then she did.

  ‘I know! I know! There is someone; some woman who does know better! She’s a Queen without a King and I think that she does whatever she wants.’

  Amarilla realised who Emsie meant,

  ‘Boo Dikka; the Queen of England!’

  ‘And she is here,’ shouted Emsie, ‘none of the Noble French will have her to stay, so she has pitched a tent, just up the hill from the fairground. We should go and ask her!’

  ‘But how, would we get to see her?’ asked Amarilla.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Emsie, ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘Lady Amarilla de Cassiones to see Her Royal Majesty, Boo Dikka, Queen of the Britons,’ boomed the herald and Amarilla (much to her surprise) accompanied by Emsie, who was bearing tributary chicken, entered into the tent and presence of the Queen of Britain.

  The tent was opulently furnished with red and gold materials. It was also large and long enough to allow visitors to approach the Monarch. Amarilla could see that the Queen and two men were sat on large velvet cushions at the far end of the tent. They were drinking, and had perhaps been laughing; but now they turned to look at Amarilla and Emsie. Amarilla was glad she had been
trained to be ‘out’ in society. Emsie was glad that she was stood behind Amarilla.

  The Queen was striking. Although seated she was tall, easily as tall as one of the men she sat with and almost as tall as the other. She was dressed in purple silks and had golden head and wristbands that caught the torchlight in the tent. She had a strong, yet feminine jaw and large brown eyes. What surprised Amarilla was that the Queen was dark skinned. Amarilla had seen women from Africa and that was where she would have guessed the Queen came from. She had always thought that Britons were a light skinned race, much more like the two men who were with her.

  The first was a powerful built, barrel-chested, middle aged man, who wore a dark cloak over some sturdy chain mail. He was blond haired, but his hairline receded and he had an old wound running down the side of his face. He had staring blue eyes that seemed not to blink. Amarilla decided that he looked scary.

  The second was a tall, slender, blond haired young man, who was dressed as a servant, but seemed to be keeping the Queen company. His eyes were also blue, but a much kinder and softer blue than those of his companion. He smiled at her and Amarilla decided that he looked ‘interesting.’

  The Queen and her companions stood to welcome the guest. Amarilla noticed how powerful the Queen looked. ‘Like an Amazon, from the legends’ she would describe her to Emsie, later on.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Boo Dikka, ‘Was it Amarilla de Cassiones? The Fiancé? Please come in and bring your maid, we don’t get many guests.’

  Cushions were pulled up and they all sat.

  ‘We aren’t really here on state business; that was a lie,’ said Amarilla, as soon as they were seated, ‘we wanted to talk with you and we couldn’t think how else to get in.’

  The Queen laughed,

  ‘Do you think they are assassins, Dorf?’ she asked the older man.

  He stared grimly at the girls,

  ‘I would have to consider the possibility, Majesty – they have something in the bag.’

  He gestured at Emsie,

  ‘Chicken.’ was her nervous explanation. She held out the bag of chicken. Dorf jumped to his feet and grabbed the bag. He rummaged through it in search, sniffed at the chicken and then said,

  ‘It may be poisoned.’

  ‘It is not,’ said Emsie, forgetting her nerves ‘it is very good chicken, and-’

  ‘You know, because you made it,’ finished the Queen, ‘I think it is safe to eat. You may try it, Dorf.’

  Dorf tried the chicken.

  ‘It is good,’ said Dorf happily. He then sat down and started to really tuck in to the chicken.

  ‘What is it you wanted to see me about?’ asked the Queen, while Dorf continued consuming the bag of chicken.

  ‘We need advice,’ began Amarilla.

  ‘About how to be a modern woman,’ continued Emsie.

  ‘And have the life you want!’ Amarilla concluded.

  The Queen laughed delightedly.

  ‘And you thought I’d know?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied both girls earnestly.

  ‘You are a Queen without a King. You rule your own Kingdom, choose your own advisors. You can do what you want.’ explained Amarilla.

  ‘Dorf, where is my husband?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Gone, missing, who knows?’ Dorf returned to his demolition of the chicken.

  ‘I can see that you are serious,’ said the Queen, ‘Dorf, you may leave us. My servant will remain, as he understands no French. I will tell you my story.’

  ‘Thanks,’ growled Dorf getting up. He gestured with the bag to indicate that his thanks were for the chicken. He went out of the tent, leaving the girls with the Queen and the young man.

  ‘I was not born in Britain, I think; but I grew up there. As you know, it was not really a nation at all until recently. I lived with a tribe who dwelt in one of the many forests. My parents had joined the tribe and been accepted. The beauty of being British, is that; you move there, decide you belong and then you do; that is the best thing about the place. My husband-to-be was the son of the chief of the neighbouring tribe, with whom we were perennially at war. I think that my husband’s tribe may have been slightly stronger, but neither tribe could gain the upper hand and the war was very costly in terms of life, rustled sheep and burnt crops. The elders of each tribe decided that the war must end. So, the elders of my tribe asked the elders of his tribe what was required for peace. My husband’s father wanted three hundred sheep and a large quantity of copper; which was far beyond what my tribe were prepared to pay; but fortunately he died and his son decided that all he wanted was me.’

  The Queen smiled, ‘I was quite happy with this (which does seem ridiculous now!) as I wanted to see more of the world than my tribe travelled. I was also flattered that this young chief wanted me - even more than three hundred sheep and a ton of copper. It was quite romantic, in a way, and so we were married.’

  At this point the young man, who had been intermittently sharpening a knife and drinking, interrupted (in English, of course)

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The price of chicken in France,’ replied the Queen.

  ‘Ah,’ replied the young man, ‘I am sure they have good chickens in France.’ He smiled at Amarilla, and then went back to his sharpening.

  ‘At first the marriage was a great success; we had a fine time ruling his tribe and starting a war with the tribe on the other side of his. He taught me to drive a chariot and we went to war together. The tribe on the other side were not strong and soon we ruled them too. Then the chief of my old tribe grew sick and somehow we ended up ruling this as well. As we became more powerful, I began to see how there were benefits in being bigger; some tribes had sheep, some had timber, some only had people. I realised that if we worked together, then we could achieve much more and so I worked to unify the tribes and bring them under our control. The diplomacy went well, as I’m sure you know, and we began to learn about other countries and how they organised themselves. Eventually, we created the Kingdom of Britain. That was when the marriage went bad.’

  Boo Dikka paused, as if she had difficulty recalling past times, and then she continued,

  ‘You would have thought my husband would have been happy to be the King of Britain; but as you have recognised yourselves, there is no joy in doing something that is not of your own heart. He liked being a chieftain, with the hunting and raiding; he did not like being a King, with all the responsibility that came with that role. I think he also did not like it that I was better at ruling then he was; however, that is how it was- I was a much better ruler than he was or ever would be. He began to be difficult. Sometimes he would deliberately give bad orders; some times he was drunk; often he just did not turn up. He became a liability. The Kingdom was suffering.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Amarilla.

  The Queen dropped her voice,

  ‘You met Dorf?’

  The girls nodded.

  ‘Dorf was a general in the German wars. He had come to Britain looking for work. I hired him. He helped me.’

  ‘How?’ asked Amarilla.

  ‘We got rid off him,’ whispered the Queen.

  The girls were shocked,

  ‘Is that what you have to do to be free?’ asked Emsie, ‘I mean I have thought about bumping off Grandpa, but it just doesn’t seem right!’

  ‘Do you swear you will tell no one if I tell you?’ asked the Queen.

  The girls swore, a little uncomfortably. Amarilla felt that the Queen, who seemed like a good person could not have murdered her husband. She thought the Queen might have killed him in a fair fight (and she looked strong enough to have done it) but she did not think she would have had him assassinated in cold blood.

  ‘I did not have him killed,’ said the Queen, ‘but I would have done if there had been no other way. One night, when he was drunk, Dorf helped me take him in a wagon. We drove to one of the remotest parts of our island where there is a tribe too savage to join us. I had found
out that they would accept another warrior and so I gave him a choice - to live there or not. I was happy that he chose to live, and I am sure he is happier where he is. Most people believe that I had him killed. The official story is that he went out hunting and did not come back.’

  ‘I am not sure if that helps at all with your own dilemma. Women in our time are caught up in the rules and traditions of our people and these give us only a few choices. I try to use mine to change some things. Perhaps you will do the same.’

  She smiled at the girls,

  ‘And now you must go! There is a chicken store that needs tending, and I imagine Marshall Gney will be anxious about his niece. I will send my servant to escort you, as it is getting late.’

  The girls tried to say that this was not necessary, but the Queen was used to having her own way and so Amarilla and Emsie found themselves being escorted back to the chicken tent by the tall blond Briton.

  ‘I wish I could speak your language,’ he said to Amarilla, confident that her English was a match for his French, ‘as you are such a fine looking girl. I would really like to talk with you!’

  Amarilla giggled and explained to Emsie, what their escort had said.

  ‘He looks all right, too!’ observed Emsie, ‘better looking than your intended.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Amarilla, ‘But I think I will have to go through with the marriage.’

  ‘I thought so as well,’ agreed Emsie, ‘you have to take the power.’

  Amarilla nodded,

  ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to have to get Grandpa to retire!’ laughed Emsie, ‘then I’m going to rule the roost in the chicken business. Or maybe sell it; I’d like a business selling scrolls. Writing is the coming thing.’

  ‘How are you going to get him to retire?’ Amarilla asked.

  ‘Now that is the question,’ agreed Emsie, ‘I don’t have a Dorf to help me!’.

  They fell silent and walked along. Amarilla stopped.

  ‘Name?’ she asked the Briton, in fake faltering English.

  ‘Me? Lewis is my name. Lew – is!’

  ‘He may be hot, but he’s not bright.’ observed Emsie.

  ‘You, name, please?’ he asked Amarilla, with a look of pathetic, puppy-dog helplessness; the kind of look that moves the sentimental and kind hearted, while nauseating the more worldly. Amarilla had not yet been on the other end of that look from a tall, handsome stranger, and although she realised with one part of her mind that this kind of thing could get tiresome; there was another part of her that felt very different. It was a sort of tingly, lightheaded, floating kind of feeling.

  ‘Amarilla,’ she replied.

  ‘Am-a-rilla,’ the young man pronounced, ‘that is a beautiful name.’

  ‘Oh,’ groaned Emsie, ‘Biology!’

  ‘Lew-is,’ said Amarilla. Their eyes met.

  ‘Am-a-rilla,’ said Lewis.

  Emsie poked him hard in the ribs. Lewis looked down. They had arrived at the chicken tent.

  ‘Chick-en!’ said Emsie, pointing to the tent. They went in. Fortunately Albert had not eaten the stock and Emsie’s Grandpa had not yet returned.

  ‘You go now!’ said Emsie to Lewis, using some of the manner she usually reserved for Albert. As she was pushing him from the tent Lewis had an idea. He produced a large silver coin and shouted,

  ‘Chick-en!’ showing an aptitude for languages that was a rarity in Britain.

  Emsie continued to shove, but the young man stood firm.

  ‘Chicken,’ he insisted, Chicken – Amarilla!’ He gestured, showing that he meant to buy the chicken for Amarilla. She giggled, which made things worse. Feeling conspired against; Emsie banged over to the counter and began to prepare chicken.

  ‘This is really stupid,’ she observed to Amarilla, ‘I’m sure he is a nice boy, but he’s a servant and he doesn’t even speak your language.’

  She might as well have been talking to herself. Amarilla and Lewis stood close together waiting for the chicken.

  ‘Chicken?’ asked Amarilla.

  ‘Chicken,’ confirmed Lewis, solemnly.

  ‘Idiots!’ observed Emsie, who eventually served them some chicken. Amarilla took the chicken.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered, ‘you were really kind to listen. I’ll be back to see you.’

  Although Emsie was quite cross, she whispered back,

  ‘Thanks to you, too. Do be careful; remember you were going to marry the King a minute ago!’

  This bought Amarilla up short.

  ‘I was, wasn’t I?’

  ‘And you were going to take control of your life.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And now-‘

  ‘Chicken – Amarilla!’ shouted Lewis, gesturing that they should leave.

  ‘I must be going,’ said Amarilla, who went and joined Lewis.

  ‘With the man with a two word vocabulary!’ Emsie observed to herself, ‘Still at least he bought her chicken!’

  As the couple left the tent, Emsie reflected it was going to be a long night in the chicken selling business.

  ‘Am-a-rilla,’ said Lewis, as they emerged into the cool evening air, hand in hand.

  ‘Lew-is,’ replied Amarilla, who was furiously thinking how to tell him that she could speak English, without betraying that she had understood what he said earlier.

  ‘Amarilla!’ said a quite different voice. Amarilla turned around to see the captain of her Uncle’s household guard and some of his men.

  ‘Your uncle sent me to find you, and here you are…’ the Captain was not quite able to finish the sentence, although his look of disapproval was very easy to read.

  ‘Eating chicken,’ said Amarilla, taking a step forward to shield Lewis from the armed guards.

  ‘Eating chicken with whom?’ asked the Captain, looking, with some hostility, around Amarilla, at Lewis. The other guards fingered their weapons.

  ‘Lewis!’ shouted Emsie emerging from the tent. She pretended to be surprised to see the guards.

  ‘Lewis, get back in the tent!’ she instructed and pushed him away, ‘the young lady can carry her own chicken!’

  Lewis went into the tent,

  ‘Please excuse him,’ she said to the guards, ‘he was just, trying to help the young lady carry her chicken. He’s a bit simple’

  ‘Thank you,’ Amarilla said, formally to Emsie, ‘the chicken is delightful!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to the guards, ‘for coming to get me. It is getting late. We must go.’

  She set off quickly, giving the guards and the Captain little choice but to follow.

  ‘Am-a-rilla!’ called Lewis from the tent.

  ‘Shut up!’ replied Emsie, with a sigh.