Lady Lucia of Rockingham cared not for the queer glances she received from the pretentious Norman aristocrats, many of whom openly declared her licentious, nor for the obtuse self-righteousness those same men betrayed by leering at her salaciously, for she was far too preoccupied with enjoying life rather than dreading the repercussions of a few impotent cretins.

​

Oops, mocked Lucia devilishly, that’s not very lady-like of you, is it, Lucia?

​

She “accidentally” rubbed her body against a count of some who-cares province as she squeezed past him. The older gentleman blushed, and she chuckled with enjoyment. The invigorating air of her cousin’s wedding was not to be understated. Uncle Rowan sure knew how to throw a party. And she should know; she’s been to a shit ton of them.

 

Lucia giggled at the crude word.

​

Shit, shite, shitty-shite! What would these fucking knaves think if they heard me speaking like this?

​

That would be something worth trying out! She grinned a rakishly mischievous grin. Another time perhaps, for she needed to meet Father inside the keep before it got too late. Eadric, baron of Rockingham and northern Northamptonshire, steward of Rockingham Castle, was many things to many people—including a personal confidant of King Henry—but all that was naught compared to his greatest accomplishment: fathering the perfect daughter.

​

Lucia swiped a half-full tankard of wine off a table. She downed the drink in one swift gulp, barely acknowledging its fruity flavor and grainy texture. Father didn’t like it when she drank. It’s unseemly for a fair maiden to do so, as he would say. Lucia sighed. The stigma of maidens and their inherent purity was of great detriment to her and her friends, for they all shared a penchant for alcohol and the intoxicating chaos it could imbue into the tedious routine of being a nobleman’s daughter.

 

It was a blessed thing that her father didn't know she'd lost her maidenhead. Dear Lord Jesus, was it a good thing! That would be an awkward conversation indeed.

​

Lucia stretched her arms and gazed about Uncle Rowan’s inner bailey, where the core of the festivities was centered. The whirling whine of a flute, mixed with the surging plucks of a lute, and hammered home by the coursing beat of tabors, sent waves of enjoyment through the courtyard. Lord Merek and Lady Lorena’s wedding had drawn in thousands of people—most of whom were peasants, to Lucia’s surprise—and they openly bore all the freedoms granted to them by the liberating powers of liquor.

​

The bailey of Uncle Rowan’s castle was a sizeable expanse of flat land with a meandering pathway that led from the gatehouse to the entrance of the keep. A field of trimmed grass usually occupied most of the space; however, the vibrant grass was being molested and trampled upon by the exuberance of human merriment. The last sliver of daylight, shining over the cold stones of the castle’s fortifications, shimmered off their densely garnished dresses and tunics. As Lucia stood by the gatehouse and ogled at the wonderful intermingling of peasant and noble, Saxon and Norman, she became inebriated by the gaiety of it all. The human spirit, when restored by the warmth of companionship, hospitality, and, perhaps, a few carnal indulgences, was a spectacle worthy of the glory of Heaven. God made humans imperfect, and those imperfections were infectious.

​

Lucia crossed the oval shape of the bailey. Her uncle’s castle was of ringwork design, erected nearly a century ago in the early days of the Norman conquest. While the original castle was built of earthwork and timber, it had since been renovated to adopt a more modern and defensible design of stone masonry. Lucia hated—nay—loathed the fact that she knew all this. Her father was insistent, however, that she should learn the layouts of all the varied castles found throughout their kingdom. He forced Lucia, time and time again, to study the very secrets and hidden posterns that are shielded within these fortifications. She still didn’t understand why her father wanted her to know these things so badly, for she had every intention of living out all her days at their Rockingham estate, being pampered and spoiled until her dying breath.

 

But the happier her father was, the more leeway Lucia got. Life’s a little more fun when taking advantage of others . . . in a non-churlish way, of course. She wasn’t a whoreson now.

​

Or, whoredaughter, I suppose.

​

She hummed happily to herself as she created new combinations of vulgar slang. She understood why the peasantry loved their foul language so much, as it could be quite creative and witty. The haughty discourse of the aristocracy got on her nerves more often than not. Where was the fun in four-syllable words if simpler banter had more humor and bite?

​

“Lucia, ‘tis you?!”

​

She spun around to face the high-pitched voice. Lady Yvette of Bayeux laid out her arms wide, and Lucia wedged herself into the embrace.

 

“I didn’t know you crossed the channel,” said Lucia excitedly.

 

“We arrived only a week back. I didn’t believe we’d make it in time. We thought Father was going to flog one of our deckhands, we did. But Lord Jesus blessed us with good and powerful winds.”

 

Lucia and Yvette sized each other up; it had been many long months since they last saw one another. Yvette had splendidly long brunette hair that she coiled back to hide beneath a light-blue wimple. Lucia could tell from Yvette’s curious glance that she didn’t agree with her more scandalous approach. Lucia hated covering her lustrous, curly black locks. She spent her entire childhood growing it out and combing it daily, and thus she could never imagine doing anything to make her hair less prominent. People were going to gaze upon her beautiful hair with all its elaborate braiding, whether they thought it obscene or not!

 

Now, of course, she wore a thin veil around it tonight, as she would see her father later. She had to maintain her pure and youthful veneer for him.

 

Other than the hair, Yvette dressed very similarly to Lucia; she wore a form-fitted purple dress that tied snugly around her waist by a three-foot-long leather belt. The dress billowed out as it reached the stone walkway. It took up a significant amount of space, all things considered.

 

“I see you still like to stand out,” said Yvette with her heavy French accent. Lucia used to have an accent like hers; however, her time spent living in the northern half of the kingdom had chipped it away like the wind does upon stone.

 

“Stop it,” said Lucia. “All eyes will be upon your beauty.”

 

“Or more likely on your bare skin!” Yvette laughed.

 

Lucia didn’t see what was so incredulous about her outfit. Her orange dress was much like Yvette’s—tied so it hugged her curves, yet remained loose enough by the girdle to not be salacious—except that the hemline ended right at the top of her feet where Yvette’s covered hers entirely.

 

What? Am I not supposed to show off my toes or my stockings after all the effort I went through dressing myself?

 

“We have to catch up later,” she said.

 

“Can’t we share that drink now?”

 

“I have to speak with Father first. I’ll meet you in the upper hall later.” Lucia peeked up at the darkening sky. Indeed, all the festivities would move indoors once it got dark. They can’t have a party without lights; although that did sound like it could be fun.

 

“It’s a date then,” said Yvette, her eyes locking onto a young count a few feet away.

 

“Be wary, love, that your husband doesn’t catch you staring.”

​

“Oh, everyone has their own muse nowadays. Courtly love is all the rage.”

 

Lucia bit her lip and grinned. Courtly love was the new loophole that arranged-marriage couples used to have a love life outside holy matrimony, thus letting them maintain their social and spiritual dignity. As long as the two lovers kept everything purely romantic and didn’t practice sexual deviancy outside wedlock, they would avoid any unscrupulous scandals.

 

“But really, that one?” asked Lucia.

 

“What’s wrong with him?”

 

“Do you not see that nose? And then those shoes with that embroidery?”

 

“Says the woman who always goes for peasants.”

 

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed some of these peasant boys?”

 

Yvette tried to hold back a fierce blush. Lucia nudged her playfully. Yvette was only fifteen years old, while Lucia was four years her elder. The two have been close friends since Yvette’s birth; they grew up together near Rouen in the Duchy of Normandy. Yvette’s father had married her off a year ago, but through the word of an embarrassed courier, Lucia had discovered that Yvette and her spouse didn’t find each other particularly arousing. She suspected that might be an age gap problem. Twenty-two years apart . . . I certainly wouldn’t be happy.

 

“They do seem to have a certain charm to them,” Yvette admitted. Lucia nodded in agreement. She looked around her at the mixture of peasants and noblemen. The distinction between those of Anglo-Saxon descent and those of Norman descent was clear. The Normans preferred to be clean shaven, their clothing emphasized style over function, while the Anglo-Saxons were scruffier and more muscular—undoubtedly thanks to their Germanic heritage. The main allure of the Anglo-Saxon men though, with their thick facial hair and simple tunics and very large hands . . . 

 

Lucia pushed down a fiery urge. She could indulge herself later.

 

“Speaking of which,” Yvette continued, “what happened to that blacksmith boy you told me about?”

 

“I haven’t seen him since the party last year.”

 

“Have you been inquiring about him?”

 

“Why would I?” Lucia scanned through the crowd again. In truth, she had been searching for that blacksmith boy who had run into her a year past. He’d been one of her more memorable lovers, and she was hoping they could rekindle some of that wonderful night. Lucia sighed. It wasn’t a big deal, of course. Bachelors ran amok within their kingdom, and she had enough trouble already staving off the endless boys her father kept tossing at her.

 

“I think I’m going to talk to him,” said Yvette, nodding at the Norman boy.

 

“May God grant you luck.”

 

“See you soon.”

 

Lucia continued to cross the bailey. Hundreds of people swarmed around her as she navigated her way toward the keep. Along the way she passed the band, who played their songs with ecstatic glee and rejuvenating alacrity. She glanced up at the sky.

 

I still have time.

 

She joined in with the mass of dancing bodies. The group comprised mostly of peasants and lower nobility, and as such, the dance felt livelier, more focused around flow and pure expressionism than the structured steps of courtly festivities. Indeed, it was easy for Lucia to get lost within the rhythm. The energy of the drums vibrated through the beat of all their hearts, and their limbs extended those vibrations to the participant next to them. Lucia came alive with the collective energy of a few dozen people, their human experience interlocked with her own; sweat became one with existence, and the radiance of the strings strung them together into a common understanding. Everyone from every class tried their best to stay separate from those above or below them; but the power of the human spirit, transcended through the rhythm of song and conjured through the carousing of love, brought the barriers of social disunion to a harmonious collapse.

 

Overwhelmed with the pleasure of the many, Lucia let that passion sweep her off her feet and into the center of the circular dance. All eyes turned toward her, and the band stuttered for a beat as they recognized a change in the wind.

​

Life was about taking control, and that was where Lucia shined.

​

She switched into a three-step. Most courtly dances revolved around a repetitive one- or two-step motion with added flourishes and an occasional bow or curtsy. Well, this night wouldn’t be a simple moment with periodic treats; no, tonight they’d experience the arousal of the human form, the romping of human passion. Lucia loved being the center of attention. The only people who hated attention were those who were too afraid to embrace their inner melody. Lucia knew who she was, what she inspired, and whom she affected. There was nothing wrong with championing the might of femininity and the thirst for existence.

 

Lucia let every emotion, every thought, wash over her. She expressed it all in her movements, The Dance of Lucia: her keen intellect that she trained daily, the long nights she spent praying for the salvation of her mother, the constant pressure of trying to achieve her father’s expectations, the lustful thrill of coveting young love, the naughty joy of perverted words caressing her lips, the amusing mischief she instigated with other girls . . . every moment of her life was revealed in the motions of her dance.

 

And it was addictive. Potent.

 

The band changed tune, adapting their beat, their cadence, so it matched with her. She no longer danced to the music; the music danced to her. Men hooted and hollered from the forming crowd. A middle-aged woman sang, and her Latin lyrics harmonized with the spectacle. Men and women alike clapped their hands.

 

How about this for a show . . .

 

She grabbed the hemline of her dress, gripping the fabric between her fingers, and lifted. Mouths gaped. One musician plucked a discordant string. A cool wind brushed over her exposed legs, and Lucia blushed with excitement at the chaos she caused. She spun, holding the bottom of her dress. The fabric twirled about her at mid-waist. She swung her arms up and down, causing the dress to flow into crests and troughs around her body. The crowd cheered themselves into a chorus of delirium as the band upped their tempo.

 

Lucia closed her eyes. She swayed her hips and bent her knees and curtsied and stepped and flung her hair and yelled with delight.

 

What a night. What a life. What a—

 

“Lucia?!”

 

Lucia stumbled as she tripped over her own feet. The crowd split in half behind her, and she twisted about to find none other than the devourer of joy himself, Don Álvaro de León.

 

Well, fuck me properly. Here we go again.