Just like Lady Snowblood becomes Kill Bill, Toshiya Fujita passes a legacy to Quentin Tarantino, Mom’s abuser hands his privilege to Craig Lawrence. And we all let it happen, every one of us.
Mom chokes out a sob and her door slams behind her.
I almost wish I could take it back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I can’t take it back.
I’ve made such a mess of so many things, and before the hospital, before the blood, there was Marguerite, sneaking through the Royalist camp, recognized yet again by her father’s ring.
I’ve left her there, huddled with Zahra. At the mercy of a man who might have been an ally when her family could have increased his power. She has no family anymore. She is no longer an advantage and she has no reason to trust Ismidon de Primarette.
I can’t make things better with my mom, but I can do something for Marguerite.
I can give her someone worth trusting. This man, Ismidon de Primarette, her betrothed from the time she was twelve, can be someone who may not understand her fight but will try to help anyway. Who’ll put his own reputation on the line to get her an audience with the governor. The governor, who won’t just let her fight, that would be too easy, but she’s not taking no for an answer.
Mom can take my notebook—the one Papi gave me for expressing myself—but it’s not going to stop me from telling this story.
Just like one arrogant, shortsighted army commander isn’t going to keep Marguerite and Zahra from doing what they set out to do.
ARMOR
He will not
even look me
in the eye
directing his scorn
to Ismidon instead.
They may stay.
They’ll cook or clean
unless
they’d rather serve
the men in other ways.
To service men
with our bodies
would be appropriate.
To speak
our minds:
obscene.
The two women
who must share
their cramped space
are displeased but
their irritation wanes
as they realize
we are to relieve
their burdens.
But we have no intention
of washing soiled braies.
I am Zahra,
this is Madem—
Marguerite.
I am Marguerite.
The older one sighs
picks up a bucket
and leaves the tent.
The younger studies us.
You are her servant?
She directs the question
to Zahra, but I answer.
We’re sisters.
Sisters as we bide our time
serving slop to soldiers
sleeping with men on all sides
piling hair into helmets
that shield our faces
and sisters as we make our way
with the swagger of those
born into privilege
to where the others
swing their swords
in a melee meant to train
or maybe fool themselves
into believing that when faced
with lance or spear or battle ax
they will not soil themselves
faint dead away or throw
their arms up in surrender.
You there!
A dark-skinned officer,
young but confident,
points our way as
we approach.
You’ll spar with him.
He jerks his thumb
toward a beast of a man.
My heart stutters but
this is what I came for.
I step forward.
Not you, him.
He wants Zahra.
Zahra, barely trained,
here for loyalty,
friendship, love.
She would not be
the first to die in training.
She knows it.
She steps forward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I stay in my room, even when I hear Jess and Nor laughing together, smell chicken soup and home-baked bread.
When Nor comes to my door—hours later, I think, but time passes strangely when writing a battle, the moments between a lifted blade and the strike that ends a life interminable and also over before you’ve had a chance to consider what it means to kill—I pretend I’m asleep.
She comes in anyway, sits on the edge of my bed, strokes my hair.
“Sometimes,” she whispers, “sometimes it feels like this gaping wound is never going to heal. If we cover it up, it never gets sunlight. If we leave it uncovered, it gets infected. The body has all these amazing ways to heal itself. But what happens when that’s not enough?”
She stays for a long time. I think she cries.
COUNTERSTRIKES
I cannot bear
to watch, yet
will not leave her.
Zahra’s opponent
is on the offensive
from the jump.
His first few blows
make him overconfident.
But Zahra’s lack of training
makes her unpredictable
and her size, agile.
A circle of men
forms, attracted by
her unusual style.
Who is that?
Dunno.
Little guy . . .
Impressive, though . . .
A sword clatters
to the ground
and Zahra stands,
grip still firm
on her own blade,
pointing it calmly
at her opponent’s throat.
The onlookers explode
in good-natured jeers
toward the fallen man
who Zahra helps up,
a show of chivalry.
The officer steps forward,
claps Zahra on the shoulder.
Well done, son.
You still a squire?
If Zahra responds
her voice is muffled
by her helmet, her visor.
I think that a blessing
until—
he reaches out
flips up her visor
and freezes.
The man she bested
lunges, sword at her throat.
Reveal yourself!
He roars as though
she were an English soldier.
The men around me
explode again—
confusion.
With trembling hand
my sister removes her helmet.
Before he can react
my sword is at his throat.
She’s neither squire
nor knight, but maid
who bested you
on level ground.
Livid voices join in protest.
The young officer steps between
the enraged foot soldier
and the interloper.
Let’s take a moment—
The officer is shoved aside.
This isn’t a playground
for little girls.
She wasn’t playing
when her sword
was on your neck.
I flip up my own visor.
Release her.
I challenge you.
This man thinks
because of his sex
he is entitled
to win every game
every battle
no matter the stakes
death or pride
and I have a few things
to teach him
because despite
all their learning
there are quite a few
lessons boys still need
to learn.
An impossible choice:
accept my challenge
and legitimize me
or
show his fear
of being bested by a girl.
Again.
These men
know nothing
of impossible
choices.
He cannot back down
and besides he is certain
he’ll grind me to dust
make his point
erase the image
of Zahra’s sword
at his throat
in the minds of the men
he calls his brothers.
He shoves Zahra away,
turns his sword on me.
He’s enraged.
But his spark of fury
is nothing to my all-consuming fire.
Be aggressive, Marguerite.
Isabella’s voice
drifts through my mind
and somewhere further back
my father’s.
Take the initiative!
Displace his blows
with counterstrikes—
he will not see you coming.
Lessons in technique
flee for cover like birds
startled by the clash
of weapons in their meadow.
Counter the blows
with your edge
against his flat.
The short version
of all the drills
and repetition,
techniques and theory?
Try not to die.
Metal on metal—
blade on blade
or doors once thought secure
wrenched open
a fortress breached
a life destroyed.
Either way
I’ll show this monster
what a woman can do.
My brigandine’s
quilted leather
is not enough
to stop the blade
slicing my forearm.
My howl is not
for the gash in my flesh
but the rage that a man
has once again
shoved his blade
in what is mine.
Wounded animal
enraged woman
trained soldier
it no longer
matters
who I am
only that I fight.
After I disarm him
I would gladly
take off his head
if not stopped
by the officer
who looks at me
with something
approaching respect.
Peace.
You are the victor.
The men around us
thrum with fury.
Perhaps our journey
ends right here.
But then:
What’s this?
Our very own
Maid of Orléans?
Governor de Gaucourt
arrives to lend authority
to his young officer,
stepping neatly between
their swords and our necks.
Is your passion
divinely inspired,
demoiselle?
A few men snicker.
I keep my head down.
No sir.
I merely wish
to fight.
And where
did a noble girl
learn to fight?
My father taught me.
The Duchess of Anjou
made me a warrior.
Ah yes, Isabella.
Remarkable form, she has.
Chortles from the men.
And your servant?
The duchess taught her too?
Zahra is my partner.
Together we are unstoppable
as your men can attest.
I jerk my chin
toward the miserable
heap on the ground
stanching the flow
of blood from his nose
with his sleeve.
Do you really think
you have the stomach
to end a life?
Fury rises.
These bodies of ours
he thinks so weak
are capable of creating life
slaughtering it for supper.
Blood flows from our wombs
over and over
and still we rise
to face another day
create more life
slaughter it
live on.
CHAPTER FORTY
I write into the early morning, skipping my pain pills to keep my mind clear. No amount of narcotics could make me forget the things I said to my mom, but Marguerite makes me forget everything but the blade in her hand.
Every minute I don’t have pen to paper, the pages of my mind fill up with what will happen next, drafts so rough they’re more feelings than words. Her brother will track her to the camp, making everything about himself, picking a fight with Ismidon, berating his sister. But Marguerite will prove herself to the governor, and the governor runs this show. Instead of bringing his runaway sister to heel, Philippe will be sent away with his tail between his legs.
I sleep only when I know Marguerite has a path to the battlefield.
I don’t get up until I know the house will be empty. But I’ve forgotten about Jess until I see them staring into a teacup at the kitchen table. Then it surges back: They told Mom about my writing. Not only told her, but showed her the notebook. And now they’re apparently living in Nor’s room.
“So have you replaced my sister, or what?”
Jess’s head jerks back like I slapped them.
“I know your own family is pretty shitty, but I’ve got to say, this one isn’t much of an improvement.”
They shake their head. “I can see how it might be super oppressive to have parents who care that you exist.”
I’m not getting into Oppression Olympics with Jess. For one thing, I’d lose, and it’s not a game you want anyone to win. But it doesn’t change the fact that they completely betrayed me.
I grab the smaller cast-iron pan and set it on the burner to heat up. Then I yank the refrigerator open, sending the salad dressing and assorted condiments in the door sprawling on their shelf. I grab the eggs and leave the chaos of bottles for whoever comes along next.
“You had no right to give my mom my book.”
“Our book?”
“No.” I crack an egg. “My book. That you were doodling on.” Another egg.
“Doodling? Wow.”
They want me to jump in and tell them it’s their book too. That’s what Nor would do. “Look, Jess
—”
“No, I get it. It’s all about you. It always has been. But what are you even writing this for? Therapy? You’re the one championing how we have to tell these stories, different stories. But if it’s only ever for you, then what’s the point?”
“I know you’re invested—”
“I am invested, and don’t be condescending. It’s possible I might relate to the fear of moving through the world in a body that’s not the default.”
You are absolutely not my type, princess.
What Jess has given me is so much more than doodling. Even if they’d never put ink to paper. But I’m still furious.
“Why would you tell my mom, knowing how she’d react?”
“First of all, I didn’t know how she’d react! Parents who care what’s going on with their kids are not my area of expertise! But you had injured yourself. Badly! We were all trying to understand what happened. Have you given any thought to what that must have been like for Kath? To find you in a pool of your own blood? And how much worse it would have been if she hadn’t found you right away?”
If it had been Jess in the pool of blood, their parents wouldn’t have found them right away. Or maybe not at all. I grab a bell pepper from the fridge, scrambling to keep the salad dressing from falling out because some asshole left it toppled over last time they closed the door.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”
“I believe you. But either way, you needed help. You were spiraling. I know I’m self-absorbed sometimes, but I was worried—I am worried—so when your sobbing mother asked me if I knew why you’d impaled yourself in your bedroom, I was not going to lie to her!”
The fact that they’re right only makes me double down on my absurdly shifting ground. If I let myself think about Mom finding me like that, knowing what her face looked like the night Nor was attacked, then I can’t be furious at her for lying to me.
Is it a lie if she never told me her story? After a lifetime of championing the importance of stories?
“You’re a real hero, Jess. A model child who I’m sure my parents would be delighted to adopt. You can move into Nor’s room, since she’s clearly never coming back. But I’ll take it from here with Marguerite.”