Unconventional History

It was a lovely day in the shadow of Conisbrough castle. There in the castle yard, the weavers wove, the knights practiced swordplay, the cooks busily tended fires, and the visitors happily snapped pictures with their iphones.

May took a break from her 12th-century shoemaking, brushing pieces of leather off her apron and blowing strands of greying hair away from her face as she looked around. The sky shimmered blue, the air tingled with woodsmoke and full of laughter and ringing metal. Not everyone from her reenactment group had made it, but most of her friends had. She rarely got to see them during the week. Getting away with them to spend weekends at historic sites was a treat -- a ‘vacation in another era,’ some joked. It often came with new things to learn and new fun times to be had, not to mention relaxation. It gave her a break from her busy life as a university professor. It brought peace to her overworked mind and eased her fears about fitting in with judgmental colleagues. 

“Oh, damn it!” May sputtered.

A nearby preteen giggled and elbowed his mother. “Did they really say that in medieval times?”

“Excuse me,” May murmured to the family, ducking her head. Through her lashes she snuck another peak, not at her onlookers, but at the man striding along the row of tents. It was him. And he was only half a dozen tents and one armor display away from her own little leather-working workshop. 

“Excuse me,” May said again, this time more loudly -- but not loudly enough to draw his attention. She shoved the leather slipper off her lap and into her chair as she rose. Her awl and heavy-duty needle went with it; just in case she got caught, she didn’t want to be armed. 

No doubt it wouldn’t go over well at the office on Monday if word got out she’d stabbed the new Dean of Archaeology. 

Even if he was so incredibly well-connected and well-published that it made everyone else green with envy. 

May slipped out of her tent without another thought for her visitors. They’d slide on down to the wool demonstration next door. She paralleled them, ducking behind the tents. Where, in a live encampment on an old ruin, could she go for some peace?

“Whoa, there!” A very tall knight in green woolen hose carrying a flask that smelled suspiciously of mead reeled. “Where’re you going, May?”

“No time to talk,” she informed her comrade. “Don’t you have to go start a battle or something?”

“Next one’s not for fifteen minutes,” he informed her. May had already wound her way around him and over the tent ropes, not an easy feat in long skirts. “We could use more waterbearers if you’re around!” the knight called to her retreating back. 

May waved and kept moving. Act as water-bearer for the guys playing with swords? Not likely, she thought. Everyone loved the battle demonstrations, which meant that everyone would be paying attention as she wandered around the battlefield distributing water to “dead” or overheated soldiers. Water-bearing was a noble task, truly, but if she signed up then it would be only a matter of seconds before Dean Martin noticed her. 

Unless, of course, he didn’t want to watch the battle. He was probably far too uptight and professional to enjoy such a show, anyway. But if he didn’t want to see folks flail around with 12th century weaponry, then why had he come?

May stumbled over an unused campfire stand and tried to set these thoughts aside. What she needed to do was get back to her own encampment just down the hill. There, she could hide in a tent until the Dean went away. 

But would the canvas be enough to keep her reputation intact?

“May! You’re in a hurry!” A jovial mother of three called gaily from her place stirring a cookfire. Her clothes were stained with ash, but her hairscarf so white the sun made it blinding. May looked over, blinked, then next thing she knew she’d tumbled over a pile of spears and rolled right down a little ravine. 

“You okay?” Several faces peered down at her -- all reenactors, fortunately. The ravine snaked along behind the show tents, at the back edge of the historic site. May reminded herself to count her blessings. 

“Fine!” She yelled back, dusting off her apron and struggling to her feet. “Keep an eye out for the MOPs, would you?”

“MOP” was the reenactors’ affectionate term for “members of the public.” Also known as guests, visitors, audience, annoying-question-askers, or terrifying university deans. 

“Saw someone?” a sympathetic voice called down. The other reenactors shifted, murmuring as they moved to form a wall. Despite herself May smiled. Her friends were always ready to lend a hand. 

It wasn’t actually common to run away from someone you knew at a reenactment. Sure, the teenager reenactors dragged along by their parents might contemplate such a thing, rather than let their friends see them in archaic dress. But May had never known a grown reenactor to do it. She was making an absolute fool of herself. The only problem was, she worked in her university’s archaeology department. And if the Dean found her, she’d be making a fool of her academic reputation. Something she’d spent years carefully building up and keeping separate from her personal life.

Scholars, by and large, did not have a high opinion of “hobbyists.”

“Distract him,” May called back, blissfully ignorant of the fact that she hadn’t even told her friends who to distract. “I’m going to circle back around the smiths’!” 

And with that she took off down the ravine. It would be cowardly to go and hide in her tent, she decided. No; she would be brave and resourceful, just as any woman in any era might be. She would use the noise and allure of the blacksmiths’ demonstration to cover her retreat as she high-tailed it for the castle ruins and took refuge on higher ground. Was her plan a bit infantile? Yes. Was it still hiding? Yes. But would it also enable her to see everything going on at the event and therefore keep tabs on her dean without disrupting her friends? 

Bingo, thought May, huffing and puffing her way up the stairs of the castle’s nearest remaining tower. She had to hold her skirts up high against her knees to avoid tripping. Her head hung low, bedraggled. Most likely, dirt still covered her backside. But at least now she could stop running. 

She emerged into the free air of the tower, though she reminded herself not to act too jubilant. The tower only stood a few stories tall, and the wall that kept her from the throng below only rose as high as her waist. If she made a scene, she might still be seen. And so she remained careful as she approached the edge, glancing about almost casually. She didn’t notice the Dean anywhere along the string of show tents. Had she just imagined seeing him? May scanned the perimeter of the makeshift battlefield next. Had all that running been for nothing? 

“Lovely view, isn’t it?”

“Gods and goddesses and all that’s holy!” May clutched at her chest, and then at the crumbling stone wall. 

The Dean’s voice came from behind her again. “Is that something all reenactors say?”

May cocked her head. He sounded . . .amused. She straightened up to meet his eyes, which were as cold as ever. This is terrible, she realized. He already thinks this hobby’s a joke. Now just look how much worse I’ve made it!

“There’s a lot of variety in reenactors,” she proclaimed, taking a step back and lifting her chin.

“Is there?” Dean Martin raised an eyebrow as he looked back at the field, where the fight had begun. From this distance the men were action figures all covered in mud, each wearing an identical split-your-face-in-two beam. 

“There is,” May said firmly. “More than can be found among scholars, if you ask me. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.” 

Inwardly, she cringed. Am I really talking to the Dean this way?

Martin also seemed surprised. He leaned back and focused on her face again. “Explain.”

“They give me ideas for my research.” May found herself so caught off-guard that the words tumbled out like a novice knight in a tourney. “Not just working with the materials, practicing old skills. It’s also the people who help me keep my interest in history alive. They all have different things to contribute -- some less than others, it’s true, but even the camaraderie is important, because it’s something we all need. Without this hobby, I could never keep doing my work.” 

Oh dear, she thought. Not only am I a confirmed reenactor and a runaway, I’m babbling. And, she realised as horror crept up her spine, “I said all that aloud, didn’t I?”

“So,” said the head of her academic department. “Running away, were you?”

His eyes twinkled in the sunlight. May didn’t breathe. Maybe he would forget she was present and walk away? 

“I never gave a thought to your hobbies,” the Dean said finally. “How careless of me. It seems now that I ought to be thanking them. After all, you are one of our best professors.” He added with a wink, “No matter how unorthodox some of your methods might be.”