There are the famous ones most people have heard of: Lagertha (thank you, Vikings the show for cosplay inspiration for days); Joan of Arc; Boudicca.
And then there are hosts of other woman who did remarkable things, but who most people don’t know about: Matilda of Canossa, an Italian countess who battled for 30 years against kings. Caterina Sforza, another Italian woman who said, “If I must lose because I am a woman, I want to lose like a man.” Sichelgaita of Salerno, a Norman woman who commanded sieges. Khawlah bint al-Azwar, sister to a Muslim commander during the Islamic conquest who led a troop of women against the Byzantine army (oh! to go back in time to that battle!). And so many others. Each of them brave. Fierce. And heroic.
“What should I do?” I ask the faces that stare back at me.
They’re silent, as always, so I turn away from my favorite ladies and toward what hangs on the other wall above my bed. It’s a giant sheet of poster board with “KIT’S BIG PLAN” written at the top in gigantic letters. Big plan, big letters. I can’t help it. I’m a planner, literalist, and sucker for a pun. Beneath the title are ten tidy bullet points and rules for living that will get me from where I’m at to where I want to be. It’s half bucket list and half dammit-universe-I-will-wrestle-my-destiny-from-your-cold-unfeeling-hands.
As I do every night before I get into bed, I recite the bullet points. To remind myself of the direction I’m heading and what I have to do to get there.
First point:
• Get a better job, preferably KNIGHT!, to save money for college.
Chris tells me that some Knights can make close to $50,000 a year, which is more than I need, but even just working a few shifts a week as a Knight would net me more than the tips I make as a Wench. You’d think wenching at a place like the Castle, with the sheer number of guests we have, would bring in a lot of tips, but most guests leave small tips because they’ve paid so much for admission and then blown the rest of their money on souvenirs and beer.
Next point:
• Get into a great college to study history. Options: Stanford, Yale, UPenn, Harvard, Marquette.
Marquette sits out there alone, like the last fragile leaf on a tree before the autumn wind comes along. I glance at the letter on my nightstand. I can’t open it and risk marking through that last hope. Not tonight.
After the college plan, the bullet points get more abstract:
• Study in Paris—so much history! Musée de Cluny! The Louvre! Notre Dame! (A whole bunch of hearts and exclamation points follow this one, and hopefully it will be repaired by the time I get there).
• Get into law school, join fancy law firm, take care of Mom… .
I can’t read the rest of the bullet points after that like I usually do because instead of getting closer to the first one, after my stunt at the Castle tonight, I’ll probably have to start over and get a new job.
Not part of my plan at all.
After brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed, ignoring the Big Plan. My bones ache as I settle onto the pillow. Another text comes in as I’m falling asleep.
Jett: You okay?
Kit: Erm … I got grounded. And I got my letter from Marquette… .
Jett: Well?
Kit: Well what?
Jett: Did you get in?
Kit: I didn’t open it. I’m preparing myself for a rejection.
Jett: KIT!
Kit: JETT!
Jett: What if it’s not a rejection?
Kit: I’m not ready to take that leap of faith just yet.
Jett sends me a GIF of a squirrel leaping from one branch to the next. I reply with one of a dog trying to jump over a kiddie pool, failing miserably, and landing in the water.
Jett: Ye of little faith.
I can almost hear the teasing tone in his voice.
Kit: Promise I’ll open it tomorrow. Just can’t handle any more drama tonight.
Jett: You get in trouble for fighting as a Knight?
Kit: To be discussed later.
Jett: Call you tomorrow. Oh, and did you see this?
He sends a link that takes me to a YouTube video. It’s titled Kickass Girl Knight Takes On the Castle!
My heart speeds up as I recognize myself in the arena. This is definitely not flying under the radar.
Kit: Did you have anything to do with this?
Because of course he did, since Jett’s planning on studying filmmaking in college and he’s seen like a million documentaries. This video also looks like it was shot from the royal box.
Jett: Maybe.
Kit: I can’t decide if I’m mad or delighted.
Jett: Sleep on it. Tell me what you think in the morning.
I risk one heart emoji and promise I’ll watch it tonight. After I say good night to Jett and blow out the candle, I click on the video.
It starts with my “I am no man” moment, then has a bunch of clips from the show. I watch it three times in a row, still not quite believing it’s me on the screen.
It’s fierce, badass, and fun.
I think my wall of medieval ladies would be proud.
The number of views keeps jumping as I watch.
It’s only been up for an hour, but it’s already been viewed more than four thousand times. And the number keeps climbing.
Holy shit.
That’s a lot of people watching my video.
That’s a lot of people who could be watching at the Castle in real life.
That’s a lot of people who I should tell the Castle Corporate Group about.
Where is that flyer?
Using the light from my phone, I find my backpack. My wenching dress is shoved into it. I fish the flyer out of the pocket.
“Email us your thoughts, plans, dreams, and schemes,” it says.
And I suddenly know exactly what I need to do.
I scrawl notes into my bullet journal until my phone’s low-battery light flashes at me. Before I go to sleep, I click back to my video one more time.
Six thousand views and still climbing.
This might actually work.
9
SEVEN FORTY-FIVE SATURDAY MORNING. I WAKE UP SORE and with a head full of foggy dreams. In them, I was a cartoon character, fighting in the arena … and then someone buried me in the ground.
Ground.
Right.
Grounded.
I roll out of bed and get myself dressed in yard-work clothes. Scrubby T-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and torn sneakers.
As I brush my teeth, I space out, thinking about being grounded.
Mom’s punishment reminds me of a part of the Middle Ages that’s always sat badly with me. Lots of women were basically grounded back then. Unless they had the moxie (and fists) of the Wife of Bath, travel beyond a small sphere was limited.
Other women, though, were grounded in a more literal sense. Like scary Edgar Allan Poe bury-you-alive style. These unfortunate souls were anchoresses, nuns whose primary duty in life was to “anchor” the convent or church community they lived in. And where do you put an anchor? At the bottom of things. So, these women were walled into a small cell below the ground. The cell had a few openings that looked onto street level: one for delivering food and water, another for hearing the prayers of the faithful, and (hopefully) at least one for getting rid of waste.
But that was it. That was their life for years and years. Subsisting on whatever crusts of sunshine and fresh air made their way through the cracks. Shivering in winter, baking in summer. Peering out at the bustle of the street and imagining all the what-ifs had their lives gone differently.