From Crime To Court

Chapter 2

▪️S E R E N A▪️

I had always fantasized about jaunting back in time, expecting grandeur and gallant knights.

Instead of majestic castles, I found myself in a barn full of disgruntled farm animals eyeing me with more suspicion than I was comfortable with.

Clearly, this was not the historical highlight reel I had envisioned. As I got up and stretched, I could not help but wonder if the universe had misplaced a decimal point in its time-travel coordinates. Medieval knights? More like medieval mooers.

"Moo-ers..." I giggled. "Nice one Serena."

So much for my dreams of swashbuckling through time. At this rate, my most daring escapade would be explaining polyester to peasants.

"That would be the best-case scenario," I muttered.

With a background in Art History and European History obtained from my university days, I knew all too well that the Renaissance period was no picnic, especially for a woman.

The pages of history were replete with tales of a patriarchal society, where a woman's fate was often decided before she drew her first breath. The constraints on freedom and agency were enough to make any modern woman shudder.

Yet, here I was, thrust into the heart of it, a time where my very existence was seen as a disadvantage.

Before seeking refuge in the barn on the outskirts of the coastal village, I had managed to orchestrate a small act of thievery, knowing all too well that survival in this unfamiliar era required more than just resourcefulness-it demanded a complete reinvention of myself.

With deft fingers, I swiped a few articles of clothing from the wash line of a nearby cottage. The stolen garments, tunic and trousers, were a motley assortment of faded linens and rough-spun wool. They smelled faintly of wood smoke and were clearly meant for toil and labour, practical and unassuming.

In the barn, these clothes were more than just fabric against my skin. They were a promise of anonymity, a cloak of invisibility that would hopefully allow me to navigate a world that was not my own. They were my armour, my defense against the prying eyes and judgmental glances of a society that had no place for a woman out of her time.

It was a bold choice, one that allowed me to blur the lines of gender, to exist in this world as both a woman of my time and a man of theirs.

Glancing down at my body, I wrinkled my nose at the smallness of my breasts, a feature I had often complain about. Now, they became an unexpected blessing, for they were completely hidden under the layers of my new clothes.

To take an extra measure of precaution, I fashioned a makeshift binding for my chest using a torn strip of fabric from my Lululemon pants. It was not as if I would have much use for them anymore.

My petite frame, a constant source of frustration, now proved to be an advantage. In my own time period, my slender build and lack of pronounced curves had often led to mistaken identities. With my choppy bob haircut and preference for practical attire, I was often mistaken for a male, or at least someone non-binary.

"Let's hope the folks of this era feel the same way," I mused.

Although, I was fairly certain that the notion of gender fluidity or any similar terminology would be entirely foreign at this point in history. Regardless, I held hope that my altered appearance would effectively communicate the message I intended to convey-that of a male presence.

As the first rays of dawn painted the horizon, I knew that I needed to leave, before the owner of the barn arrived.

I reached for the cloak that had shielded me through the night, my fingers tracing the coarse fabric. It had become a companion, a shield against the chill of the summer night. As I draped it over my shoulders, I felt a quiet gratitude for the simple comforts this barn had offered.