Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(39)

I shook my head. Unbelievable. Freaking Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Her fame had endured over a thousand years. Born in 1122 to the Duke of Aquitaine, her only brother had died young, leaving Eleanor the richest heiress in Christendom. At barely fifteen, she’d been married off to the weak and overly pious French heir, who within two weeks would become King Louis VII. By all accounts the marriage had been cold and loveless. Two daughters. No sons. Fictional accounts claim Eleanor and the fiery future king of England had fallen in love at first sight. But it was likely only good politics when she divorced Louis and quickly married Henry.

Still, Eleanor and Henry had been happy for a long time. The eight kids that followed proved that. Until it all came crashing down when Henry hooked up with “Fair Rosamund” Clifford. That did not sit well with the prideful queen, and Eleanor had eventually sent her sons to war against their own father. In punishment, Henry had imprisoned his rebellious queen in a remote castle for sixteen years.

Well, I guess no marriage is perfect.

A squirmy feeling oozed over me. What would happen if—no, when—we brought Mom back? How would my own mother react when she found out another woman had already taken her place?





Chapter 18


THE TRAFFIC THICKENED AS WE NEARED THE TOWERING STONE WALLS. The massive construction of gray stone and mortar stretched its strong arms to encase the city like a protective father.

I squirmed in anticipation as we waited in the long line. At the gate, guards searched some of the wagons, but mostly they just waved people through. Fine carriages rolled past us and were admitted with flourishes and deep bows.

Apparently, even in this time, rich people got all the perks.

Everyone relaxed when we were waved through with little more than a glance. Once through the thick gate, we emerged into a fairy tale.

A very stinky, very grungy fairy tale.

The thatched roofs of two-and three-story buildings leaned precariously out over twisting, rutted lanes. Dirty snow still clung to shadows and roofs. The smell caught me off-guard at first, and I had to cover my nose. Rotting garbage and raw sewage. Wet wool and manure. Every so often, the sweet stench of decaying meat. I didn’t want to think what kind. All of it overlaid with a pervasive pall of wood smoke that hung in incremental layers in the air around us. As I sucked in the mélange of odors, I frowned. It was bad. Really bad.

“Be glad it’s winter,” Phoebe said, noticing my expression. “Bet it would knock you to your knees in summer.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Right.”

The feeling eventually faded as we lurched deeper into medieval London. Vendors shouted wares on every corner. Rags and copper pans. Hot potatoes. Boots. A strong, fishy odor wafted by as we passed a man crying, “Oysters! Get yer oysters here!”

Phoebe and I exchanged a glance. Oysters were one of the things we’d been warned against. Not that I’d ever dream of eating one. They were riddled with typhoid.

Phoebe gave her upper arm a significant rub, where she—like Collum and I—sported brand-new typhoid boosters. I’d had my initial shot two years earlier, when my mother first spoke of taking me on some of her more remote lecture tours. Apparently I’d also been inoculated for smallpox. Though at the time, I’d had no clue. Doug claimed Lucinda had pulled some strings for that one, since the disease was eradicated in our time. I remembered thinking it odd that the “nurse” had come to our house, then had tea with my mother afterward.

Staring now at the crowds and the filth, I was suddenly and deeply grateful for the shots.

Horses and wagons clogged the streets leading to the center of the city. The smell of wet horse and unwashed people grew thicker as we slogged ever forward through the straw-covered muck.

“You don’t think about them having traffic jams in the Middle Ages,” I said to Phoebe when we stalled for an overturned cart.

A beefy, red-faced baker doffed his cap to us as we jounced past. We both laughed when his equally rotund wife jabbed him with her twig broom.

At the edge of the great market that packed the yard before St. Paul’s Cathedral, we parted ways with the family. Mud squelched under my boots as I gaped up at the famous church. In this time it wasn’t yet Christopher Wren’s elegant, domed marvel I’d seen in so many photos. That wouldn’t be built for hundreds of years. Still, the cathedral’s high stone walls and square Norman towers were imposing.

Hundreds of tents and ramshackle booths crammed the vast area before the front entrance. People clogged the straw-strewn, muddy aisles, wrapped to the eyeballs in dark cloaks and nubby scarves. Somewhere, a hammer banged rhythmically on steel. Voices and laughter carried across the space as men tipped horn flasks to their lips and warmed their hands over fires set in iron barrels. Women haggled with vendors. Everywhere people had gathered into loose circles to watch the dozens of performers. Acrobats flipped a woman into the air. A monkey crept into the crowd to steal a farmer’s hat. A dwarf offered odds on any newcomer who’d chance wrestling with his burly partner.

It was overwhelming and deafening. The most disgusting, the most beautiful, sight I’d ever seen.

“Wow,” I breathed, trying to look everywhere at once. “I mean . . . wow.”

Collum’s lips twitched as he and Phoebe exchanged a grin. “Aye,” he said. “I know.”

I jerked as something damp and wooly brushed against my fingers. Glancing down, I saw a dingy sheep nibbling at my cloak. The smell of moldy, wet blankets floated in a cloud around us as a young boy smacked the animal with his crooked staff. It ambled on, unconcerned, joined by a dozen bleating cousins.