Curtea

It was not a castle.

Maggie remembered the argument she had with Bill Capeshaw. He insisted the residences of the Valachian boyars were much like the western medieval castles.

"Have you been reading Scottish romance?" Maggie muttered.

Bill Capeshaw pretended he didn't hear the jab. He kept his balding, white haired head deep in a codex.

She sighed and apologetically gave him space. She knew it was a thorny issue, complicated by years of cold war and warring ideologies.

Bill Capeshaw was a man of his time, who excelled at bending history to suit his grant givers, the same way his Eastern European counterparts did.

Through a cruel twist of fate, she sat now in front of a little more than a fence. OK, perhaps a lot more, however, it was a wooden wall a little taller than herself.

She was always on the tall side, and only the dark haired man riding in the front matched her height. His hair fell on his shoulders in shiny curls. Not so romantic, only the result of weeks of riding and a significant amount of pomade. Everybody reeked under the afternoon sun. Maggie was grateful she rode her own horse since the surly chief insisted she stayed in the middle of the group.

He spoke old Slavonic she happened to know well due to her research. He had kept quiet while his men made rude jokes about her and visibly disapproved of their behavior. She felt frightened, finding herself at dawn in the middle of a thick, dark forest, surrounded by a group of mounted men.

She replied in the same language. Oh, the look on their faces, she knew it well. The same surprise a mansplainer showed at conferences when they explained her the importance of the old Slavonic in the research of the Byzantine chant.

Something was also different. Instead of the frustrated huff of a self-important loser, the riders regarded Maggie with deference. One of them muttered something that sounded like "domina."

That was her first hint something was amiss. The campus and the forests around Austin brimmed with costumes on Halloween and Dracula was a common theme. The Houston Renfest was in full swing, and her first thought was they were a band of revelers who had a drink too many.

Their speech was too good. Their deference was too honest. Their smell was too awful.

And this was not a castle.

No, it was not, not even close. However, it was well built, with thick tree trunks, sturdy enough to withstand the attack of a wolf pack, a host of angry peasants or a band of hungry brigands.

"The carvings on the gate date from the middle of the 15th century. The hundred year war just ended and mercenaries found themselves unemployed." Maggie's researcher's brain whispered to her.

"What?"

The gate was not cheap either. No, this was not a new Renfest camp. It was not a new reenactment festival. Made of thick wood reinforced with wrought iron it opened slowly, without a screech from its well-greased hinges.

Maggie first noticed the chapel and shivered. This place is a multimillion dollar compound, and someone went to great lengths to make it look eerily authentic.

Of course, the chapel was square. A round ceiling covered it, and paintings abounding of mysterious blue adorned it.

"Second half of the 15th century." she heard her inner voice.

"Shut-up" Maggie huffed, this time in English.

The party turned their heads toward her with a baffled look. However, only the thick-bearded leader showed interest.

"Forgive me," Maggie answered in a proper Slavonic. She lowered her head, hiding under her large hood.

The party inched forward, and she noticed the slight nod the leader gave to someone at her right, in the direction of the chapel. Or should she get used to calling it "basilica"? Her hood obstructed her view, and she decided to keep looking forward.

Maggie knew she should feel vindicated. How many times did she argue this with Bill Capeshaw? In front of her, there was no keep. No fortress with a narrow door, slit windows and built from large stones of granite towered over her.

It was but a Manor. A mere two story manor, much like an Austenite neighborhood house stood before her. This if you did not count the half cellar above the ground and the narrow entry door. Very few houses had balconies. However, this one had a whitewashed foyer on the second floor. Massive wooden columns sustained it, sporting intricate sculptures in geometrical patterns.

She recognized them quickly. Rhombus, circles, and chevrons abounded, sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

"Shut-up," Maggie thought preemptively, tuning out a nagging thought beginning to form in her mind. So outlandish, she questioned her sanity even to entertain it.

She raised her head at the sound of the approaching hooves and turned in its direction.

She inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread and smoked meat coming from a lower building on her left before the reek of horse and the strong scent of unwashed bodies assaulted her.

"Gospodina..." she heard. What had happened to "domina"?

Maggie withheld her smile. She was not sure how far the reenactment would go. She remembered the word nowadays meant more of a housewife, however, in the 15th century it was a sign of deference.

"Welcome to our humble court. Our house is ready if you'd like to rest after a trying journey."

"Basilica." Maggie breathed. She needed to know. Did it have a large, round ceiling or a long line of smaller, semi-spherical domes?

The leader blinked as taken aback and Maggie couldn't help but notice his piercing black eyes. Darkness swirled inside them, and Maggie recoiled in fright.

She followed him then dismounted in the front of the chapel where a monk welcomed them.

Maggie drew a sharp breath. There was no mistaking the piercing blue eyes. His hair was light brown and not gray. However, there was no mistaking the scar marring his face.

Maggie followed the jagged line, from his right ear to his chin and cried in sheer terror.

"Boggie?"