At first, Jehan wasn’t one to speak up. She seemed to dwell in constant reflection, her silence like a fortress against the world. But the Jehan Remy had met, floating like a log in the Seine river, was utterly unlike the fierce figure now standing before a distressed wife, defending her from the ill-bred wretch of a husband.

  They were a sight to behold, Jehan and Remy. Travel-worn though they were, there was an unmistakable air of authority about them or at least about Jehan, in this moment of righteous fury. As for Remy, he was clad in a practical set of plates beneath his clothes and cloak, his armor light enough for agility but durable enough for combat. He had prepared well before leaving the comforts of his home, ensuring that he could move and fight as needed. While he didn’t consider himself a man of violence, he had his methods of making an impression that would send even the most hardened knaves into retreat.

  Jehan, on the other hand, needed no theatrics. She stood before the crowd with an unshakable resolve, her piercing gaze enough to make the adulterous man quake like a cornered animal. Her words lashed at him with all the fervor of a zealot, and Remy couldn’t help but marvel at her command.

  “I swear,” she said, her voice ringing like a bell of judgment, “you men think yourselves masters of the world, yet you cannot master your own desires! Is this what you call honor? To betray the woman who has borne your children, who has stood by you in toil and hardship? How dare you! The Lord sees all, and His judgment will not spare the likes of you.”

  Remy had raised her to become a Dame, well, Squire, in her case and had sent a letter to his father and mother back home with that intent. She was clearly using that title freely now. No, Remy felt like she was used to it.

  The man sputtered, trying to argue, but Jehan silenced him with a single raised hand. Her words were like fire, her presence a force that demanded attention. The man shrank before her, his earlier bravado reduced to nothing.

  The confrontation had drawn a small crowd, their faces a mixture of curiosity and approval. The wife, her cheeks flushed with both shame and relief, clung to the edges of her shawl. She looked young, too young for the burden of such betrayal, but there was a spark of hope in her eyes as Jehan spoke.

  To be honest, Remy wasn’t certain Jehan would have intervened had the couple not spoken French. Perhaps their shared tongue stirred something in her, a sense of kinship or obligation. Or perhaps it was simply Jehan’s nature of being unyielding, righteous, and determined to root out sin wherever she found it.

  After nearly two hours of relentless lecturing, Jehan finally turned to him. Her eyes, sharp and probing, seemed to dare him to contribute.

  “Well?” she asked. “Do you have words of wisdom for this man?”

  Remy stepped forward, meeting the husband’s gaze with all the weight of his own authority. Switching to the man’s native tongue, he spoke in a calm but firm voice, his words laced with conviction.

  “Was the word of God unclear to you?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air. “You must not commit adultery! Give honor to marriage, and remain faithful to one another. God will surely judge the immoral and the unfaithful! Do you have no shame? No sense of honor? You swore an oath to God and spat on it! Treat your wife as she deserves, or will you disgrace yourself further?”

  He turned to the gathering crowd, raising his hand for emphasis. “Let it be known here and now that if this man beats or cheats his wife again, he will answer to God and to those who defend His justice!”

  As he spoke, he cleverly revealed his signet ring to make it clear he was a nobleman, the emblem of the House of Valois catching their attention. The crowd murmured among themselves, and the husband’s face paled as the weight of his disgrace settled upon him. His reputation, already tarnished, would not recover easily.

  The wife, though visibly shaken, seemed to find a flicker of courage in the support around her. Some among the crowd, women who appeared to know her, stepped forward with murmurs of comfort and promises of aid. It wasn’t much, but it was something, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone.

  When the ordeal was finally over, Remy grabbed Jehan by the arm and steered her away from the square. The crowd parted to let them pass, their whispers following them like a shadow.

  Jehan remained quiet as they walked to their lodgings, her face set in a thoughtful frown. The righteous fire that had burned so brightly during the confrontation seemed to have dimmed, leaving only the steady embers of her resolve.

  “You did well,” Remy said at last, breaking the silence.

  She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It was my duty.”

  He smirked, unable to resist teasing her. “Your duty to spend two hours chastising a man while I stood there like an ornament? You didn’t even need me.”

  Jehan’s lips twitched, though she quickly masked it. “You did fine, Sir Remy. Your words carried weight. Though I suspect your ring had something to do with it.”

  He shrugged, feigning indifference. “A bit of theatrics never hurts. But really, Jehan, I’m impressed. You have a way of speaking that makes people listen. Even that wretch couldn’t argue with you.”

  Jehan’s expression softened, and for a moment, she almost looked shy. It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability, quickly replaced by her usual stern demeanor. “The truth speaks for itself,” she said simply.

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  As they approached the modest inn they had chosen for the night, Jehan slowed her pace, her gaze distant. “Do you think I was too harsh?” she asked quietly.

  Remy raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. “Harsh? No. You were honest. That man deserved every word.”

  Jehan nodded, though her frown deepened. “Perhaps. But I wonder if it was enough. Words can stir hearts, yes, but they can also fall on deaf ears.”

  Remy placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “You can’t save everyone, Jehan. You did what you could. That’s all anyone can ask.”

  “I hope so,” she said softly, before turning and heading inside.

  Remy owed a debt of gratitude to the aristocrat who had extended an invitation to them, though he suspected it wasn’t purely out of goodwill. Jehan, his companion, was a “male” in the eyes of others, and he had to ensure that her true identity remained concealed. The deceit was second nature by now, a necessary precaution in a world that would not accept her for who she truly was.

  And even if she was discovered, he had his ways of persuading them.

  Their host was the very image of aristocracy, a man steeped in tradition and self-importance. He was the sort who proudly introduced his young daughter, who was no more than fifteen years old, frail and awkward. Draped in a thick layer of powder and rouge, her hair slick with oils. She looked more like a doll than a person, her discomfort visible even beneath the mask of cosmetics. This display was not unusual. Daughters were commodities to be bartered, their worth measured in dowries and alliances. A fact that Remy loathed.

  The evening required tact. Remy had to navigate the conversation with care, presenting himself as someone of importance without overtly declaring his status in the House of Valois. Using his standing within his house as his shield. He invoked his pilgrimage as evidence of his station, a guise that allowed him to evade too many probing questions. It wasn’t long before the aristocrat understood the weight of his name or at least the weight Remy allowed him to perceive.

  Once the man was satisfied, the conversation shifted to matters of the realm. The ongoing war in France dominated the discussion, as it always did in such circles. The aristocrat spoke of it with the weariness of one who had seen too many battles fought and too many sons buried. How long until the kingdom stabilizes? How long until peace returns? These questions hung heavy in the air.

  Remy offered his thoughts sparingly, echoing sentiments he had heard in the future. His words seemed profound to the man, though they were merely borrowed from those who would write history long after this host was dust. The aristocrat stroked his chin thoughtfully, as though Remy had revealed some great truth.

  Once the formalities of the evening concluded, Remy made his way to the chambers assigned to them. The room was modest, though comfortable enough, with a small window that overlooked the estate gardens. Jehan joined him shortly after, her expression carrying the fire of another argument waiting to ignite.

  She began, as she often did, by lamenting his refusal to take up a position of power. Her voice was a mixture of frustration and admiration, a strange blend that he had grown accustomed to.

  “It’s maddening,” she said at last, pacing the length of the room.

  “What is?” he asked, though he already knew.

  “That you possess such wisdom, such insight, and yet refuse to use it for the good of others.” Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword, a gesture as natural to her as breathing. “Do you not see what you could accomplish? What could you become?”

  He sighed, leaning against the wooden frame of the bed. “The fact that you find my words insightful only proves my point. Wisdom and insight are not the sole requirements for ruling a nation, Jehan. To be a king is to shoulder the weight of a mountain and a mountain that demands not only strength but also the will to wield it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you believe you lack that will?”

  “I do not wish for it,” he replied firmly. “To rule is to be bound, tethered to the responsibilities of a kingdom. It is not wisdom that holds a nation together but power, the ability to bend others to your will, to enforce order. That is not a burden I am willing to bear.”

  Jehan’s frustration was palpable. “Why do you refuse so adamantly?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with genuine curiosity.

  “Because France is not the world,” he said simply. “I have no desire to remain confined to a single corner of this vast earth. God, in His infinite wisdom, created a world of such beauty and wonder. Would it not be a sin to ignore it?”

  Her expression shifted, skepticism giving way to contemplation. “Is that your purpose then? To see the world God has made?”

  “Yes,” he said with conviction. “I believe so. The world is far too beautiful, too rich in marvels, to remain unseen. To spend one’s life in a single place, no matter how grand, is to deny oneself the fullness of His creation.”

  She shook her head, a wry smile playing at her lips. “It is still a shame,” she murmured.

  He chuckled softly. “They can manage without me, Jehan. If you truly believe me wise, then trust me when I say that France does not need an unwilling king. To rule without desire is to treat the kingdom as a burden, and that is a disservice to the people. They deserve better than a reluctant monarch.”

  “And yet a reluctant monarch would be better than a spineless fool,” she murmured.

  She fell silent, though her furrowed brow suggested that his words had not fully convinced her. He did not expect her to understand. Jehan was unique in many ways, but like most, she struggled to see beyond the conventional. She was one of the few who believed he could be king, and yet she could not comprehend why he rejected the notion so thoroughly.

  “The world is vast, Jehan,” he said after a moment. “It is filled with wonders and mysteries that I have only begun to uncover. To sit on a throne is to chain oneself to a single place, to forfeit the freedom to explore and discover. I would rather walk the earth and see its marvels than languish in a gilded cage.”

  Her gaze lingered on him, searching for something she could not name. Finally, she sighed and turned toward the door. “And I believe,” she said softly, “that those who do not seek the throne are the ones most worthy of it.”

  With that, she left for her room, leaving Remy alone with his thoughts.