"Lady Keisha? Lady Keisha? Oh my own wretched God, thy lady is dead."
In which readers peaceful medieval life is interrupted by three mysterious beings and the black death that follows them.
"I have found attraction to other women."
"I thought thou...
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(Y/N) was tucked under a thin blanket, body sprawled out onto the straw of her bed. Soft breaths of sunlight filtered in through the window as dawn stretched over the quiet medieval village.
It was not until a rooster took his post as the households waker did the girl stir. Sitting up and stretching out her well-worn ligaments.
Having only owned one dress (Y/N) was ready to begin her day of chores for the vineyard she lived on.
An exhausted body carried the girl into the kitchen and out the front door in just over a dozen steps, passing her father who was sorting the wine barrels out of the house and onto a cart.
"Are you going to town now father? I didn't realize we'd already made enough wine." The girl called out to him, September was still early and usually, the month would progress further before the wine was ready.
"Yes well, shit happens. With Bartholomew helping and all." Her father responded, his peasant tongue caring not for his foul language. The girl also thought far more of the swear than of Bartholomew's name. Her father may have liked him but that didn't mean a lot when compared to his personality.
"You called?" Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Bartholomew's moist sounding voice caught in the air and (Y/N) felt the need to swat it away from her ears.
Her father and Bartholomew began to talk as our daring reader tuned them out and began to walk off towards the nearest vine, aiming to distract herself by stripping the emerald plant of its plum-coloured riches. 'Oh, the joys of the harvest' she thought bitterly.
Bartholomew had begun his work with the family in the early summer. Full of himself and empty of any respect women juice Bartholomew soon grew to be the bane of any afabs existence, including (Y/N) who he loved to annoy and try to charm. True to sour personality Bartholomew has lemon-yellow hair and his face was often set in a frown. Dark eyes made darker in the shade of his furrowed brows. His year's of medieval peasant work had left him muscled and tinted with the sun. He would be handsome if well, if he wasn't himself.
"Wait, my lady! Would you like to accompany me to town?" Bartholomew called out to her before the grapes had even the chance to grace her fingers.
Without turning to face him the girl rolled her eyes, replying with a sharp "Ight".
Turning back towards the two of them, (Y/N) pulled herself up to the front of the wagon and grabbed the reigns.
"Oh, wonderful! Tis a joy to travel with you... Hey, what are you doing? Fair lady wait!" But the fair lady did not wait, she waved over her shoulder as the horse pulled her away from the men.
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The journey was short but (Y/N) enjoyed it none the less. The September sun peaking through the amber leaves of autumn saturated her vision and cold crisp air passed through her lips.
