“It says candles.”
“Wonderful.”
“The next one is salt.”
“How are these entirely different symbols?”
“The steward created personal shorthand twenty years ago and apparently sees no reason to stop now.”
I set down the parchment with the quiet despair of a woman discovering her expensive education had betrayed her completely.
“I spent years studying medieval manuscripts,” I informed him. “And I cannot read your grocery list.”
“I can write you a key.”
The offer came without mockery. Without condescension. Just simple practicality. Which somehow made it more embarrassing.
“A key would be appreciated,” I admitted.
Geoffrey wrote one immediately, neat explanatory notes in the margins translating the steward’s chaotic abbreviations into something approaching civilization.
I returned to the accounts afterward with slightly improved success.
Probably.
Aldwin abruptly shoved back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“I’m done with this,” he announced. “Geoffrey, she’s either useful or she isn’t. Sitting around discussing historical theory won’t change that.”
Then he stalked out of the hall looking very much like a man resisting the urge to punch masonry.
“He doesn’t trust me,” I observed.
“No,” Geoffrey agreed mildly. “But he’s beginning to believe you’re not a spy, which is improvement. Aldwin prefers things he can quantify. You are difficult to quantify.”
“That sounds suspiciously like liability.”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“You’ve spent three days inside this hall. Another day and you’ll begin blending into the stonework.”
I looked reluctantly at the accounts still waiting for me, then at Geoffrey. Then back at the accounts.
“Fine,” I sighed.
The stables occupied the far side of the bailey, warm and low-roofed and smelling overwhelmingly of hay and horse. Four enormous animals occupied the stalls with the serene confidence of creatures fully aware humanity existed primarily to feed them.
I stopped in the doorway.
I knew horses existed.
That sounds ridiculous, but modern horses and medieval warhorses were apparently entirely different species emotionally. These creatures looked large enough to conquer neighboring kingdoms independently.
Without the formal weight of the great hall around him, Geoffrey looked younger in the stables. His dark mantle had been abandoned somewhere behind him, leaving only a fitted wool tunic and riding boots dusted with straw. For the first time since arriving at Thames, I thought he resembled less a political hostage negotiator and more the knight he actually was.