Chapter 7: Armoring Up

“Do you want a hauberk, then, my lady?”

“A what now?”

He blinked twice in surprise, “a hauberk.”

“Can you show me an example of . . . a haw-berk?” I ran the word over and over in my head. Could not place it.

“With pleasure, ma’am.” He walked us over to a long rack with chain mail hanging from it. He pulled one off a pole and held it up for me. It was a chainmail shirt that reached down below the waist, just above the knees. Similar to what my bodyguards were wearing, but not darkened like theirs.

“Ah, thank you.” I’d thought about trying to cover up my ignorance here, but why bother? Later, he could tell stories about the stupid princess who didn’t know what armor was called. Good for him! Funny stuff, drinking stories and all that. In fact, it would be better to use my ignorance here. On full display, “That’s very nice. What about leggings? I’d like a suit of armor that protects all of me. Arms, legs, head. Plate mail if you have it.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, plate mail?”

“Right, right, just what you see. Can you make me leggings?”

He stared at me for a long time, like I was asking him to change careers and becoming a basket weaver. “Ma’am, you’ll find leggings with the leather workers.”

I tried not to sigh, and I think I got away with it. “Yes, but I am interested in chain mail leggings. Like a . . . a, uhm, haubrook, but made for my legs.”

“A hauberk?”

“Yes, but for legs. Like a two-piece version.”

He scratched his head for a while, put the mail shirt he was carrying down, fingered along a few more of them, then pulled a lengthier version out and held it up. “I have this in roughly your size.”

“I see.” It was the same size as my boy guard was wearing. I had an idea of how to get through to this guy. I gave him a sly smile, head tilt and all, “Would you mind if I tried that on?”

“Over the dress, ma’am?”

“Over the dress!” Though he looked aghast, I was probably committing some social faux pas, like leaving your chopsticks in rice or something, but whatever. He slid it overtop my head, I stretched my arms up, and somehow we got it on, with a touch of struggle and grunting. It went well past my knees, a few inches above my ankles. There was no mirror, but I had full confidence that I looked ridiculous. Pieces of my dress puffing out wherever it could, like someone tried to squish a doll into tinfoil. I now had full protection from the terrible and infectious 5G cellular signals.

“Thank you, sir. Ok, so now that we got this on, what I want to do is . . . Oh, damn. Just a moment.” I turned around, didn’t know if he was watching, and hiked up my skirt and undergarments, leaving the chain as is, then turned back. “Ok, you see how this makes a kind of skirt?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If we push this front part in and pull from the back, we almost have leggings. All we’d have to do is attach these parts,” I drew my finger along an imaginary line of steel circles running down the inside of my left leg, “then cut away the excess, repeat for the right leg, and we have leggings.”

His cheeks were puffed up with air he was holding in. “Yes, we could do that, Your Highness. But how would you get into it? You see, it opens at the bottom, and we fit it over your head . . .” He was really hoping I understood how silly my idea was.

“Right,” I said, nodding, “and that is why we’d then have to divide this garment into two parts. A shirt and pants. Pantaloons. Trousers, whatever, you get what I mean. Divide it here, along my waist, and we’ll make some kind of leather drawstring to hold them up.”

He didn’t answer, was staring at my legs, my waist. The cogs were definitely turning. Damn, but I wish I had some oil to help them turn a little faster! He reached down and pushed the chain from either side of my bare legs, muttering to himself. He pulled a strip of leather out of a belt, attached a metal length to it, then began weaving in and out of the rings along my leg. I’d say ‘sewing’ but he was only going up one side, not attaching it to the other side of the mail to create a legging. He repeated the process on the opposite side of the mail, saying, “Leave some room for padding . . . and . . . saving some of the rings . . . lighter and,” more muttering while he wove that leather in higher and higher, his warm hands touching my slender, naked thighs, before he stopped at the bunched-up dress and the color drained out of his face. “Oh my lord! Lady! Begging your pardon!”

He was frozen in a panic, I was terribly uncomfortable with his hands holding the mail so tightly against my thighs, and I wanted to laugh so very, very badly, but somehow managed to calm myself. “Uhm, excellent work, Master Smith, I believe you have a little ways to go there to finish off your measurements.”

“Yes, ma’am! Sorry, ma’am!” He closed his eyes, counted with his lips one, two, three, pulled the leather through the holes and stood up more rapidly than any warrior ever could, face redder than a tomato, beads of sweat forming.

I wanted this tension broken, so I asked, “How fast can you remake this?”

He mouthed the word, “Three,” closed his eyes for a moment, then answered, “starting from this hauberk, I can finish this in three days.”

“Three days? You have two.” I learned that trick from watching reruns of Star Trek. Always cut down the time estimates given by your engineers.

“Yes, ma’am! Begging your pardon, but I need to put one more strap through . . .”

“Please, be my guest.” He took another length of leather and looped it round my waist. Ok, we just invented chain mail pants. It’d save him some steel yet cost him some time. By his silent mental calculations, he seemed quite taken by the idea.

I thanked him, exchanged goodbyes, then repeated roughly the same thing with the leather workers. Although, oddly, it was slightly more difficult to get them to see the point of making me padded leggings. Yes, I told them it was for chain, no, they didn’t believe me. I had to insist they make it regardless and through princess power, they agreed.

Whew! Sigh. Wipe sweat off my brow. That was more work than it should have been.

My entourage was restless when I left the armorer. Their patience had ended when I finished with the leather workers.

“Cayce,” said Saph, “I do believe it’s time for dinner and relaxation.” The other girls agreed, nodding.

“Dinner?” It was noon. Well, I didn’t know that. The sun was high. It felt noonish, but it could be anywhere from an hour before to two after and I wouldn’t know the difference without my phone.

“Dinner! Shall we?” She wrapped her arm around mine and led me off, back toward our tents. It was comfortable, her arm in mine, a level of contact I wasn’t used to but was instantly familiar, human.

The other girls had an extra bounce in their step, Tread seemed happy to be returning to the tents. Scary, large Morrentz seemed to walk just a touch lighter. I guess even princessly power could not stop dinner from happening. Anyways, we’d skipped breakfast, and I hadn’t noticed earlier, perhaps the newness of everything, I was hungry.