I sat at a small, square table tucked against the wall near the tavern’s entrance. The thick door was old and a small, fresh wind slipped in through its cracks, hence why the seat was perhaps unpopular. I preferred the corners, normally, where I could sit hidden and unbothered, but it was a busy Saturday. In the morrow, the townsmen were free to cater a splitting headache.

The opposing was empty, except for my carefully laid out black cloak. I had chosen a crimson red for my tunic, and more black for the trousers, in a more daring fashion than ever before, while the boots were high and practical, and very well-made. Cavalry boots of exquisite leather. I was particularly proud of a bronze buckle on my belt, and the wolf-head pin on the cloak, now on the chair. I had a ring with a ruby too, I remembered satisfyingly, passing my finger over it. Almost unconsciously, I swept the tavern from the corner of my eye, wondering if anyone looked before I returned my attention to my book. A few souls were, but absentmindedly so. Throwing looks while talking or passing their eyes over me.

The volume regarded the Art, of course. I had read it three times thoroughly, and skimmed it many more, but this particular type of spellcraft was eluding me. The Old One had created sound in his illusionary enchantments, and I could not replicate even a peep.

It was abstract and difficult to practice, like hitting a correct note with an imaginary voice. But it seemed no harder to budge than the winds, which I had mastered… to some extent. Some might argue for the use of throwing a breeze in someone’s face, but for me, it had been a spectacular victory.

I grunted irritatingly. Too low for anyone to notice. The increasing cheer in this tavern was making it increasingly difficult to focus. I closed the book and leaned back in the chair, attempting to not stare too accusingly. I had not considered the day to be Saturday, and had come here to study, as I had the yesterday, and day before again. I rather liked the establishment, which served wine and finer things. The solid beams were imposing, the servants pleasant, the fire always crackled cosily.

But now a young group of noblemen occupied an entire wing, centred around a young, thin man, who seemed rather timid and observant, and his friend, a bull of a young man with bulging muscles and a thundering voice. And when he smashed his wine into the table and pointed at me, he was poking a bear already irritated.

“There! Another one who’s fond of the letters, Robert!” He exclaimed, staring at the thin boy, Robert, as if this observation had won him an argument. “Who prefers the pen to the sword!” He boomed helpfully when no immediate response came.

He was not wrong. I no longer carried a sword at my hip. It was practically inconvenient, but also forbidden in many towns. The one named Robert, who had a narrow, hooked nose but otherwise looked fair and handsome, made no comment. He seemed equally bored and embarrassed.

The thunderous youth turned to me again with a broad smile. “Am I right, goodman?” He asked cheerfully when I looked up and met his eyes tranquilly.

I let the silence hang for a few heartbeats, enjoying the break to their momentum, before smiling kindly. “I enjoy the letter,” I said simply, though I hadn’t really written since Fetinja’s lessons, except to scribble notes on my pages.

“There!” The turbulent youth exclaimed triumphantly, but he quit bothering me and went to joke and chink with his friends instead. I put the book away, giving up completely, and planned to sip my wine a bit before moving on. Maybe I’d read a bit in the fresh air on some rooftop. Or in the forest, sitting against a tree trunk in the moonlight. The romantic in me loved the thought, but it ruined my cloak.

Then a young man approached, the one named Robert. He smiled and lifted his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Apologies. They are very drunk, my friends.”

I huffed, amused. “Well, I realize that. Please sit, if you want.”

He did. Interesting. I had thought him more timid. “What were you reading, sir?” He asked in a conversational tone, sitting rather straight on the chair but with his legs spread and firmly rooted on the floor.

“Ah.” I glanced down to my volume of the Art hidden away in the bag. It was a very taboo subject by the Church’s decree. “It’s embarrassing. I prefer not to say.” I said light-heartedly, looking into his brown eyes even darker than mine.

He was taken aback, worried for a second he had said something unbecoming, but my relaxedness brought him to amusement. “Really? But you seem so… collected.”

“…Another reason not to show you the book. It would ruin your picture of me,” I deadpanned, and he chuckled again, looking agreeably surprised.

“My name is Robert of Nevers,” he said, sticking out his hand. His eyes shone with genuine interest. His name was something. He was the son of the Count who ruled this town, Auxerre, as well as Nevers. Quite a bigshot. I took his hand slowly.

“I am Archibald of Reims,” I lied readily, “son of a carpenter.”

“A carpenter? Really?” He was surprised, but not condescending.

“His first son, actually.” I added, smiling, which made me even more of a curiosity. The first son traditionally took the father’s mantle.

“But you read, instead, and you… what do you do?” He asked curiously, eyeing my expensive attire.

“I travel, and sometimes, I trade tomes,” I said, which was not exactly a lie.

“How curious,” he said, scratching his head. “I hope I am not interrupting?” A formality. He was used to people giving their time away happily. He was the highest authority in this place, with the count himself in Nevers, or on crusade, though he probably didn’t run it. He didn’t seem many days above twenty of age. But in the end, only the bishop could rival the weight of his word.

“I think it’s too late for that,” I wryly commented which was highly rude, given his stature, but what did I care? I gestured vaguely to his friends to lighten the words.

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He laughed softly. “Right, yes. But I meant to ask if it was alright that I take your time?”

Why did he keep insisting on this? Was he simply being exceedingly courteous? “I have the whole night,” I said, “but I was intending on leaving very soon to breathe some fresh air. You’re of course welcome to join,” I proposed. His eyes lit up, which had me internally laughing.

He was very lucky that I was one of the good ones.

In the night, the town’s odour was mildened with fresh air from the province and the river, and Robert of Nevers breathed it deeply as he stretched his back. I held my cloak under my arm, and kept step with him, as he went left towards the northern part of the town.

“Can we walk towards my house? I don’t plan on being home too late,” he said embarrassingly, actually blushing. Was he… no. His thoughts revealed simply admiration, and self-doubt. He wanted to please me, for he looked up to me. That simple.

“That is fine,” I said quietly, enjoying the light of the moon and stars on the main street’s pavement, on the fountain square. It had rained a little, and the light played on every stone. I suddenly clasped my hands together, almost jolting him, and asked with an amused smile: “so, my young and new friend, what do you like reading?”

Looking nervous, he blabbered his way through a number of historic accounts, before duly mentioning the old and new testaments, and their importance, and finally finishing with his family’s ancestry, as his voice became smaller and died out awkwardly. “What of you?” He asked quickly, remembering himself.

I raised a brow and gave him a meanigful look.

“Oh, right!” He said, reddening further, “I’m sorry for asking!” Then he frowned as I laughed, “is there really nothing you can tell me?”

I waved it off dismissively and talked. I pretended it was one of the first books I had read, namely the monk’s travelling account down the Novgorod River. I detailed the story accurately and with articulate smoothness, enjoying having this young man hooked to every word.

We arrive to his house. Or rather, his manor. It was a large and imposing structure, the first floor made of stone and the rest half-timbered, with many windows of glass. He wanted to show me his book collection and I agreed curiously. But we did not enter through the main gate, which was locked for the night. He employed a smaller entry reserved for servants, making me like him a bit more for his practical, unassuming mind, and we emerged in a small courtyard with a well, and drying clothes, and entered straight into the kitchen which was not empty even at this late hour: a young woman was cleaning up.

What I noticed first was her long and thick hair, stiff and pale yellow like hay. It reminded me a bit of Caterina’s, but hers was thicker still. She turned when we entered and greeted the young lord with a quick smile. In the back, I heard rustling in the pantry, showing she was not alone, at least.

“But Carmele,” Robert exclaimed indignantly, “why are you up at this hour doing chores? Is it not Clothilde’s duty? You have the morning also. Let me follow you up,” he requested, and I followed in interest, for I had thought she was simply a servant, a laundress or a help to the pantler. But the young lord addressed her wish such deference. She turned again, rubbing the water off of her hands.

“No, Lord Robert, I prefer to finish. Clothilde is unwell.” Her grey eyes were hard like steel, until they suddenly softened, and she said in a milder tone: “I really don’t mind, it is quite peaceful in the evening and the morning. If I am tired, I will sleep at noon.”

I immediately liked her. The mouth was wide and every word that left it was full of conviction. The young lord bent to them like wheat to the wind. She had no cheekbones to speak off, which drew attention to the eyes and the rosy-lipped mouth. And she was not pale, her skin was neither bronze nor white, but somewhere in between.

“Who have you brought with you?” She asked, eyeing me intriguingly.

The boy suffered a surge of anxiousness. He introduced me reluctantly, “this here is...oh,” he reddened.

I stepped forward and stuck my hand out, offering her a relaxed smile. Her brows went up, but she did take my hand in a man’s shake. Her hand was small, but the fingers were long and slender, and her wrist was loose as I pressed it gently. “Archibald of Reims, son of a carpenter.”

“A carpenter’s son?” She repeated, huffing, “really? A very rich carpenter, perhaps.”

“Not quite,” I corrected, “Carmele.”

“You know me?”

“He mentioned it,” I said, gesturing to the boy who looked at a loss for what to do.

“You did? You have talked of me to him?” She looked wry.

I laughed, “he hasn’t, I mean he said your name just now. Yet I am sure you are worth a conversation, or perhaps two.”

Now she looked at me sullenly and I relished in her attention, I wanted more of it. “Aren’t you a spry one,” she said sharply, but I could tell she was amused from the way her lips pouted.

And her mind was a puzzle to me. And, yes, I was not above looking. Of course not. I was a careful man. There were no strings of words to follow in it, only intermixed emotions, impressions, it seemed every word came to her as she spoke it, yet her mind was keen and quick.

“Spry as a sparrow,” I said, bowing, and my silliness made her laugh.

“That library… my library, I wanted to show you,” Robert pressed out urgently to me, almost pushing me up the stairs, “Carmele, I see you tomorrow, yes? I wanted to tell you of that new one… that new book.”

She smiled, “if I have time, Lord Robert, between my chores and naps,” and she chuckled.

Robert assured her that this was perfectly fine, and I waved her goodbye before following him to his library, though I would have preferred a thousand times over to stay and chat with her. It would have been awkward, however, to force that situation now. I had to be patient. So, I followed Robert into the upper floors’ east wing where he showed me a fine collection, though I was not truly impressed. And both of us were distracted. I politely took my leave after some twenty minutes, after which he nervously questioned me as he accompanied me out.

“So, my goodman, how long do you plan to stay in town?”

The poor boy. I was almost sorry to cause him sorrow. Almost. “I think I will stay for a week or two more,” I said nonchalantly, grey eyes flashing in my mind, along with a wide smile.

He offered to show me all the way out, but I declined. He insisted. So, I pinned him with a cold smile, and repeated slowly that I remembered the way. For I wanted to pass by the kitchen. Robert blinked and paused; I felt a shudder run down his back as he hurriedly backed off. He seemed surprisingly unused to even the smallest of conflicts. He seemed to dread them, even.

The kitchen was, unfortunately, dark and empty. But she was close, very close. Sleeping, perhaps? Her mind felt no different than before. Complex and with no head or tail to the thoughts.

In a contemplative mood, I left the town. This night, I decided to pass by the gate and greet the guards. The town was closed, but it was sergeant Philippe on duty, and he hailed me cheerfully as I approached.

“Archibald! Here to play some cards with boys again? They’re inside, if you want,” he said cheekily.

I smiled to him warmly. “Not tonight, I fear I’ve lost too much coin already, this week. And mostly to you, I think.”

He laughed, “well, you’ll need to spare more if you want out now!”

“You wolves,” Archibald said theatrically and dropped a small handful, into his hand. More than was necessary, but he was wealthy, and wealthy men didn’t bother counting.

Philippe grinned and exchanged looks with his fellows as the door opened and Archibald passed through with a lazy wave. “Careful in the night! Might be other, less kind wolves out there!” Philippe shouted then, more seriously.

They thought him a retired trader with a house in a small village a good while up the road. In truth, he’d hidden his carriage in the forest, as far in as he could get it. The horses were cared for in the town, and he slept well in daylight.

And now, he had a good feeling in the stomach.