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Iteuil, Duchy of Aquitaine, September 1356

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Louise loved to wander the hills and the small village of Iteuil. It was where she grew up. She didn’t know much else apart from the large town of Poitiers a few leagues to the north. She’d been there on occasion when Papa needed to sell his hogs at market. It always astounded her how so many people could live in one place. The crowded streets full of merchants, soldiers, children, clergymen and various animals that reeked on a hot summer day invariably made her feel dizzy.

The countryside was where she belonged. It was where she felt safe, far away from the turmoil and strife of kings. The surrounding hills were her protection, and the vast open spaces of South West France made her feel free.

The air was fresh, and on days like today, the sun was but a neighbor of the scudding clouds in the empyrean above her. Louise would often lie on the grass and count the fluffy white cumulus; off and on she would imagine that the strange shapes they formed carried messages from God, telling her of the destiny that awaited her.

It was a magical and wealthy land made up of vineyards, iron ore mines and lush forests teeming with wildlife. It stretched from the Bay of Biscay all the way inland to the town of Toulouse. To the south, it abutted the Pyrenees and the Kingdom of Aragon, and to the north, it reached as far as Poitiers. But it had not always been so, making it difficult for Louise to precisely know where her allegiance should fall.

Theoretically, she was a subject of the King of France but the lands in which she lived belonged to King Edward the Third of England who also claimed title to the Duchy of Aquitaine. Yet, the border shifted continuously. It had been doing so ever since the beautiful Eleanor of Aquitaine divorced from King Louis VII of France to marry King Henry II of England. In essence, the status of her home was in limbo.

The Duke of Aquitaine ruled but had to supposedly pay homage to the King of France. It was something King Edward III of England had refused to continue to do a few years ago. As a result, King Philip, the previous French king, confiscated the duchy inducing the English to war. Louise lived in a period of war between the kingdoms of France and England that would last for one hundred years.

In her heart, Louise was French. Her family had tilled the lands upon which she roamed for generations. The House of Lusignan was the master of those lands, the very same family that also claimed title to the Kingdom of Cyprus.

None of that interested her much. Her father was an industrious man who always paid his tithe to his lord and made sure there was ample food on the table for his wife and daughter. Louise was more fortunate than most, and she knew it and was grateful. Many of the other peasants in the area suffered due to a lack of most things, and the situation was getting worse.

In open revolt against the King of France’s claim to his father’s domain, the Black Prince, son of the English King, had led a chevauchée with his army from Gascony, also known as Aquitaine, sacking and plundering as he went. Many French towns fell, and people were starving. Rumor had it that he was camped with his army close to where Louise lived.

Thinking about it made Louise shudder. She had seen the effects of war from the wandering people that plagued the countryside. She and her family often tried to help, but there were always too many mouths to feed and not enough food to go round.

She hugged the jacque, a padded surplice in the form of a white linen tunic, closer to her frame as the wind picked up. Although it was still summer, certain crispness floated on the air. Louise brushed an errant strand of ash-black hair from her face before it could tickle her small nose too much. Usually, she would find this funny, but the weight of history in the making had somehow found her.

She let her gaze sweep across the backdrop. She squinted. In the distance, she could make out a group of men on horses. They rode fast and straight toward her. Louise did her best to identify the banners that fluttered over their heads, but she could not discern which house they belonged to.

Her instincts shouted at her to hide. It was a primal premonition of sorts. The closer the posse approached, recognition dawned upon her. It was Jean Philippe, a squire from Château Le Blanc. She swallowed deeply. He was the last person she wanted to see. He was vileness incarnate.

She looked to her left and right. It was a superfluous gesture because she was alone and no manner of contemplating would change that fact. After straightening her posture, Louise began to descend the hillock upon which she stood in the opposite direction of the approaching horsemen. She started to walk in a beeline back toward Iteuil and home. With each step she took, she prayed that the riders might ignore her.

“Stop! Mademoiselle! In the name of the King of France, I command you to stay where you are,” said an authoritative voice.

Louise recognized it, and involuntarily, she froze. She knew that she was no match against more than ten heavily equipped men-at-arms. Her heart hammered in her chest. Louise did her utmost to regulate her breathing in preparation for the inevitable exchange of words.

“What are you doing out here all on your own?” It was the same man again, only this time speaking in a harsher tone.

“Is it a crime to go for a walk, Monsieur?” Louise remained glued to the spot. Indignation flared within her.

“Turn around and face me, woman!”

By now the men had brought their horses to a full halt. Louise heard the clumping of hooves all around her. The animals snorted and whickered as they gradually calmed down after their gallop across the fields.

Jean Philippe repeated the order again.

Louise sucked the air into her lungs and turned to face the soldiers. Her breath hitched in her throat. Jean Philippe looked more unsightly than usual. His face was pockmarked, and his nose was crooked. A feral grin flitted across his lips when he recognized her. The gesture made the man appear even more frightening. She did not fail to acknowledge the lecherous snarl that escaped his lips – it was always the same when he was near her.

“It appears my day is about to improve, eh? Such a fine filly wandering the hills all alone,” said Jean Philippe to the pleasure of his companions, who were equally as ill-favored in appearance as he was. “Today your father is not around to protect you, girl.”

More untamed sniggers erupted from the men attired in heavy chainmail and sporting all manner of weapons.

As a little girl, Louise always enjoyed the stories of chivalrous knights in shining armor told by the nomadic troubadours that scoured the land in the hope of earning some coin. More often than not, these tales involved romantic twists and turns between fair maidens and heroic men. It was something Louise dreamt of. She too wanted to find a brave and noble man to wed. And yet, it seemed that the world did not harbor such honorable sorts anymore. And if it did, Louise was certain that she would never encounter one.

However, these men were nothing like the knights she dreamed of. To her, it appeared that the King of France had made ugliness and uncouthness a criterion for the soldiers that served in his army. Brutes and drunks were fast becoming the new warrior. The days of knightly gallantry were fast coming to an end.

“Have you had enough time to mull over my proposal?” inquired Jean Philippe harshly.

Louise felt bile threaten to rise up her throat. Even though she had expected the question, it still came as a shock to hear the words spoken out loud.

“No, Monsieur, I have not.”

He scowled at her. His face contorted into a savage grimace. “Then it is good I am here to remind you.”

“Pray, Monsieur, I cannot marry you. My family needs me more than ever since my brother’s death from the plague two years ago.” Louise referred to the Black Death that had recently ravaged Europe for seven years, killing millions of people.

Jean Philippe chuckled.

“It is not a laughing matter, Monsieur,” said Louise.

She felt anger simmer inside of her, ready for the bursting. She would have no qualms in burying the dagger she had concealed under her tunic into his thigh. He was close enough. All it would take was one or two large steps. Louise had to temper her ferocious temperament. It was both a boon and a bane to her, at times getting her into more trouble than it was worth.

“I do not laugh at the demise of your brother. I laugh because you consider yourself above your station.” Jean Philippe sneered.

Louise arched her eyebrows.

Arrogant cur! Who does he think he is? He is but the bastard son of a knight and a serving wench who got lucky in obtaining the position of becoming his father’s squire.

“You are but a woman. And a woman’s place is in her husband’s bed. And when he is not exercising his conjugal rights, the wench must prepare food. What use is a daughter to a father, eh? He cannot bed you.”

All it would take was one more provocation. It took all of her restraint not to make an insulting remark or use the knife on her person to hurt him. She felt the steel against her skin – it felt good and comforting. Her anger grew with each little snigger coming from the soldiers’ mouths.

Jean Philippe continued remorselessly. “It is time for you to understand that you are my woman to do with as I please.” He shrugged. “And besides, would it not be better to live in a château than in some stinking hovel? I will arrange for you to work as a serving girl for the lord.”

Jean Philippe did not wait for an answer. The opportunity to wed above her station should be incentive enough for a poor crofter’s daughter. He was at his patience’s limit.

“Gaston, seize the woman. We will take her to the château before we depart for the king’s camp.” His gaze made Louise feel as if he was undressing her with his eyes. He took no notice of the endearing crevices on her cheeks or the satin smoothness of her skin; the brute’s scrutiny was for her firm physique that, to his chagrin, was hidden under the unflattering garment she wore.

“Monsieur, may I remind you that our orders are to return to camp immediately after our patrol. A battle with the English is imminent,” said one of the men.

To Louise, the reproving soldier appeared to be the only man who had any semblance of humanity left in him. She looked back to her nemesis. She could see the conflict playing on his face – his brow was deeply furrowed, and his ferrety eyes were almost slatted shut. She immediately recognized a coward.

“It appears I must keep you waiting for a little while longer, my love,” said Jean Philippe. “I pray you won’t miss me too much when I am gone.” He pulled on the reins of his horse. “I will be back to claim you as my betrothed after the battle is over and the king releases me of my duties. I look forward to having you in my bed very soon, Mademoiselle.”

With caterwauling jubilation, he heeled his horse and directed it in a northerly direction. The other members in his posse followed him, displaying equal lewd enthusiasm. The last man to leave was the one who had intervened a moment ago.

“Mademoiselle, please go home now. It will be dark soon. These lands are too dangerous for a woman to be outdoors on her own.” He hesitated. “Especially for one as pretty as you.”

“Merci, Monsieur.” Louise blushed.

Compliments about her beauty had become ever more prevalent since she had turned sixteen three summers back and they were only becoming more ubiquitous the more she matured – she could never get used to them. To her, beauty was sometimes a curse.

She focused her gaze on the man-at-arms. She could see that he was not happy leaving her all alone.

“I will be alright,” she said, needing to be by herself again.

The soldier nodded before he followed his comrades.

The moment the soldiers crested the next hill, she picked up the fabric of her tunic that clung to her legs and began to run in a homeward direction. It would take her at least an hour to get there. Louise was grateful for her fitness and strong body, inured by countless hours of roaming the hills and helping Papa move the hogs.

Louise moved quickly. There was a sense of urgency that she had never before known in her life. It was as if everything was coming into place. She knew that something momentous was about to happen. Yet, she did not know what.

The undulating hills and lush countryside were but a blur as she crested mound after mound on her way home. Her mind raced. Images of her youth appeared – when life had been so much easier – and then she stopped moving. Her heartbeats had accelerated because of the exertion and worry flowing through her.

“There will be a battle,” she exclaimed. Louise took a moment to catch her breath. She creased her brow and squinted into the distance. “Papa – I must go home to Papa.”

And before she knew it, her feet carried her forward once more.

The moment she saw her father tending to his livestock close to their hovel, Louise started shouting.

“Papa, Papa, King Jean is camped with his army a few leagues from here.” It took a moment to steady her breathing form the efforts of the brisk walk before she could continue. “There is to be a battle.” When her father did not respond, she frowned. “Papa, did you not hear me?”

“Chère Louise, help me with Matilda and don’t worry yourself with such things.” Her father smiled at her. “The sow is expectant and will give birth very soon. We must move her away from the other pigs. You know how important this is.”

Louise eyed the man she loved more than anything in the world. He was short and stout and a rock of a man. Working the fields and tending to animals since he was a boy had made him almost herculean in strength. If his strong arms and barreled chest could frighten, his kind face that was invariably covered with a patina of grime always assuaged any fear that may have birthed.

“But, Papa…”

“Louise – Matilda…” He pointed at the sow.

Louise sighed. She pursed her lips and walked up to him, her leathern-clad moccasins squelching in the mud in the sty. It took some effort to maneuver Matilda into the next pen. The animal was huge, and her teats were already primed for feeding a drove of piglets in a few days’ time.

“So, daughter, what is so important that you needed to shout?”

It was so typical of Papa. First, work, then talk.

“The English army is nearby… Papa, the Black Prince.” She shuddered. Louise did not know anything about the Prince of Wales, but his sobriquet was potent enough to induce fear.

Louise’s father frowned. “I heard that he moved north with his army in the direction of Paris.”

“No, Papa! Jean Philippe was in the hills. He is a part of Jean the Good’s army. He did not say much else, but if he is here, then the English are too.”

Papa looked concerned. “He did not hurt you, did he?”

Louise shook her head and crinkled her nose. “No, Papa. That vile man is too stupid. He will never get the better of me. Fools like him cannot handle a woman that stands up to them.”

He smiled and stroked his daughter’s cheek with a finger, leaving a long brown smear of dirt in its wake. “You always were clever, ma fille.” He chuckled. “Sometimes, I think it was not such a good idea to let Father Mortimer have a part in your education. I have never heard of a crofter’s daughter who is able to read in Latin, French, and English.”

“It is good, no?”

Louise smiled back at her father as he continued chuckling. It had been to her good fortune that an English clergyman ran the church in the village. Despite not being French, Father Mortimer was in many ways more local than the village’s inhabitants. When he had first arrived in Iteuil, there had been suspicion and dislike among the populace. However, the priest’s unwavering love of God and his strong beliefs that serving in his image was his only goal in life, soon convinced the villagers that this servant of God had no nationality.

He had taught Louise the same way a noble girl would be instructed. It was a secret in the village; nobody could know. However, the boys her age noticed she was different and kept their distance. Deep down, Louise knew that she would never marry and settle down in Iteuil. She both relished and feared the notion. One day, she would leave, but where would she go?

“Yes, Louise, it is good. But now, we shall be good to our bellies.”

“Henri, is Louise already home?” came a woman’s voice from inside the small wattle and daub house. It was as if her mother had sensed her presence.

“Oui, chèri!” Louise’s father winked. “Come now. It is time for supper. If you must, you can tell me all about the French and the English. But be careful, Maman does not like such talk at the table.”

Father and daughter laughed together as they followed the wafting scent of pork stew spewing from the chimney and cracks of the hovel.

Louise’s tummy rumbled, reminding her just how hungry she was. She promised herself that she would say a prayer before bed, thanking God for the generous bounty he always bestowed upon her family.