Warm Blood

two

2

1342

I was born in Anjou in 1327, a small French province sat just above the Loire River and lived under the reign of King Philip VI—loved by the noble and hated by the commoners. My family lived a life of poverty and relied on our servitude to lords for even just a few deniers.

Papa worked the land, tending to the animals and shearing the sheep alongside my little brother, Neville, whose ambitions were way too high for the kind of life we lived. Maman was a seamstress, and a cook, and a servant, and whatever else she had to be at the time in order to make ends meet while still managing to take care of baby Anya. The marketplace was practically my home, as it was my duty to gain profit from all our combined odd jobs. Everything we earned went to our lord, and sometimes, we would get a cut if he was feeling generous.

Even so, my family was always hopeful I would get married to a noble for it would relieve us of living in poorly woven twig houses that barely provided shelter in harsh weather, but I knew better. I was the ripe age of fifteen—the ideal age for marriage—but I was too poor to be considered by most men, and often went unnoticed. No amount of hope would ever get a noble man to marry me.

I had a accepted a lifetime of poverty until I met Wymond, a tall man with brilliant dark hair that curled around his ears and dark eyes that peered into my soul as he gazed at me. He had to have been several years older than me, but not by much, as he kept a youthful charm to his countenance. I had never seen him on the market streets prior to that very moment, and I would've known because he had a face no one could forge—one that was completely void of imperfections, a canvas one would think was painted.

He had been traversing the village market for goods when he stopped at my family's shed hoping to buy some wool. "Hello," he greeted me in my native tongue as he withdrew his hood, but I was unable to respond. There was something enchanting about him that hindered my speech, and he must've known that because the smile that followed eased my worries instantly. "Twelve deniers for five fleece."

I nodded promptly, stumbling to gather myself. "Coarse or thin?"

"Coarse," he responded. His stare dropped to my clothing which was nothing more than a measly dress tailored by Maman. It didn't provide much warmth, but I learned to get used to the cold. "The winter months will be among us, soon," he noted, "you must be cold, no?"

"My blood keeps me warm, sir," I said to him—words spoken by my lord whenever we complained of having to work the fields in the treacherous storms.

He didn't remove his deep brown eyes from my stature, studying me as though to uncover all of my secrets. There was only so much a poor person could hide, but he seemed determined. "Ah, well..." He smiled again, "...I'll give you another twelve deniers for five fleece—this one, for you."

My mouth fell agape at such an absurd act, and I shook my head profusely. "No, sir, I cannot accept that." My family could never afford this type of wool—if my lord ever were to catch me wearing such an expense, he would think I had stolen it. I was smart for my age, as a life parading the streets made me so, and it made me wonder if this lovely man was sent as a test of my loyalty to my lord.

"But I insist." It was the grin that followed his word that made me fall into a trance, pulling the words out of my mouth and rendering me speechless once more. He did not want me to refuse, and so I didn't. "You are far too beautiful to freeze to death."

A flush of color came to the tops of my cheeks. "Thank you, sir."

He extended a hand to me. "Wymond."

I felt compelled to grab his hand, shivering at the touch of his wintry flesh. "Madelaine."

"Madelaine," he said my name with a sweetness in his dark voice, something that made me shiver once more, only this time not from the weather. "Tell me, are you betrothed?"

"I am poor," was all I could say. My clothing consisted of rags, poorly sewn together, which spoke for itself. This man was too perceptive to not notice my status, and yet, he was still here.

A momentary silence ensued between us. I never expected the exchange to go on for as long as it did, and I thought by mentioning my financial status I would have scared him away, but it only seemed to intrigue him. "I come from a family of tailors. I would be honored to bestow material wealth to your family in exchange for your hand in marriage." The proposal was so forthright that I believed it to be a jest of some kind.

"Me?" I questioned incredulously. "You want to marry me?"

"Why, yes."

"I—"

"I'll give you a few days to think about my proposal. Should you agree, I shall meet you here at dusk. I will know then that you've agreed to marry me."

He gave me the choice, or the illusion of it, when he spoke those words, but we both knew what my response would be. Marrying him was the only way I could rescue my family from poverty—it didn't matter if I loved him because I would soon learn to.

My family confirmed everything I had been considering when I told them of the news that very night. Maman wept tears of joy because she knew this meant baby Anya would grow up in a lovely home. Papa gave me his proud fatherly smile as though he was giving me his blessing to become a woman and bestow honor upon them. Neville was sad to see me leave, but I knew he would be happy once he was old enough to understand.

And so, I met Wymond at dusk to accept his hand in marriage, not knowing it would be the last time I saw them.