Warm Blood

four

4

1342

The journey was a long one—at least, much longer than I had ever traveled in my life. It had been days since we left Anjou: I noted every time the sun beat heavily on my pale skin, burning it, and every time the moon provided the only source of light through the beaten down paths to our destination.

Wymond was kind to me through it all, always assuring my hunger was sated, my thirst quenched. He owned horses which made the journey more bearable as I couldn't have imagined what walking such a distance in my hand-me-downs would do to my feet. He told me I would never have to walk this way again if I didn't want to—that I was going to live a better life. I remember thinking he was rather ambitious for having such a train of thought since a tailor like himself was certainly far better off than my family alas, but alas he was no prince.

Even once we made it across a large body of water to whereabouts that were unbeknownst to me, Wymond continued this rhetoric.

"Why me?" I inquired suddenly.

Wymond sat on the saddle of his black steed only a few feet ahead of me, but I saw his body stiffen at the sudden question. He must have pondered the question before replying, "why not you."

"I am a poor girl from Anjou," I stated the obvious. "I am not worthy of the life you say I will be given."

This amused him. "Is that what you think?"

"That is what I know."

It was silent between us for a moment. The only sound to be heard was from the slight trot of our horses' heavy steps and the occasional shuffle of our waterskins. "You are quite well spoken for a poor girl."

I shrugged. "I read."

Wymond let out a harsh laugh. "And you know what they say about a woman who reads," he said next, though I recognized the jesting manner in his voice. "I want a woman who can think for herself, and those women are hard to come by. I've met whores and royalty alike, but they are all the same."

"Royalty?" I should've known then that Wymond wasn't what he claimed to be. How could a tailor run in the same line as royalty? "Do you serve the king?"

His jest was back. I noticed that immediately about him—he thought most of my responses were amusing. "Yes, and no."

I was taken aback by his demeaner and suddenly, I questioned whether it was a good decision to agree to his proposal. Wymond didn't offer any consolation to my whirling thoughts; instead, he remained short and deliberate in his speech as though not to reveal any information until he deemed fit. He enjoyed it—making me wonder—and it wasn't until our horses trotted onto a paved pathway, when I knew my fate.

The path was lined with rows of evenly-spaced elm trees that had lost their leaves but still managed to appear taken care of. The path seemed endless, narrowing into the distance until its destination was obscured, but wasn't obscured were the tall, round tone towers emerging from the oblivion, so high that the clouds hugged them. They were connected by an even more impressive-looking stone wall that could've held back an invasion of ten thousand men.

Through a gaped mouth, I was able to muse, "You are not a tailor."

"That would be quite strange, wouldn't it?" He spoke with a different accent that was certainly not the French one he used since our first encounter. As the horses drew closer and the large castle started to tower over me, demeaning my worth with its expansive and beautiful features, curious thoughts of my true purpose here started to creep into my mind. Wymond was a noble, of what class I wasn't yet sure, but if I found it strange a tailor wanted to wed me, I knew a noble most certainly would not.