I COULD SCARCELY enjoy the rare sweets of the night, some spicy oranges grown in the South by wealthy landowners and brought up to Toulouse. I peeled mine, my mouth unused to the astringent sensation lingering upon my tongue.

My fellow servants indulged in the dessert wastefully, devouring their fruits with too much vigour and little politeness common of the peasant class.

During feasts like the one I was amid then, I would often look at my superiors and watch them for signs of propriety and grace, hoping to imitate their actions. I was not attempting to act above my rank, but emulating the grace of my noble superiors provided me with a sense of pride.

I had learned, for example, that all guests of the higher class would wash their hands in the bowls upon their long tables, scrubbing with water until their fingers glistened clean. The act, I assumed, was done to evoke impressed observation from witnesses, so that the nobility could prove that they maintained a certain standard of hygiene. My masters would also manage wit in their conversations when speaking about military and political matters, eager to skewer their peers with clever remarks and quips.

There were things my masters did not do at their respective tables—acts suggestive of my class. They would not dip half-bitten bread into their soup or wine, or sniff the sustenance or drink of a neighbour. They would not allow unpleasant smells to disgust their table mates, withdrawing from the table before burping or releasing gas. They would not speak in uninhibited deluges of words, and they certainly would not speak in crude or unbecoming terms. Unlike the other servants, they would go to great lengths to disguise a sneeze and they would only use only three fingers when consuming meat, while the peasants used both hands greedily.

Because of my prolonged attention to the habits of my master and his esteemed guests, I emulated their customs. I did not know exactly why I attempted to act in such a way, other than that I felt an uncommon desire to become more like the nobility and less like an oafish laundress.

As I was gingerly lifting a piece of orange to my lips, William questioned me brashly from the other side of the table concerning my conduct. I realized he had returned and had been watching me for a long time, his auburn hair cropped short across his wide and dirt-smeared forehead. "You, Catherine, do not eat as quickly as the rest of us. Are you not enjoying your special treat?"

I placed my orange down on the table, becoming self-conscious of the rude valet's gaze fastened to me.

If I told him the truth about my strange ambition, he would think me delusional, or pretentious, or both.

"I am enjoying it," I replied, staring down at the fraying threads of my tunic. "I do not want to eat too swiftly, for we do not receive such pleasantries often."

Before William could provide a cutting reply, the musicians played the lute and sing an old chanson of love and heartbreak called O Rosa Bella. I wondered why the men would play such a sombre tune for a joyous occasion. Such songs were meant for gloomy affairs, not to celebrate a new marriage.

My eyes flew up to the dais. The master was leading his wife to the middle of the great hall, where there was a large space for dancing. Bernard, his handsome figure determined, assisted his sister up from her seat since she had no husband to help her. Isabelle of Clement seemed to wilt behind him, her face slack with a mixture of sadness and terror, though insignificant against the ornate refinery of her costume.

If only she could see how remarkable he is, I thought to myself. There is no better man for a husband than Bernard.

The rest of the nobility followed, and soon many people were littered across the great hall, dancing in the popular Italian style with skill and practice indicative of the required daily dance lessons for the children of noble families.

The servants and peasants could not dance until the nobility had finished, and so we waited for our turn.

"Say what you will about our new mistress, but she dances well," Fleurine commented, directing us to gaze at the young Isabelle.

Her colour was improved with the flush of exercise, but I thought her to be stiff and uncomfortable.

Bernard did not appear himself. His eyes were dull. He did not look at his bride, staring instead at tapestries rich with scenes from ceremonious duels to serene village maidens weaving.

"If you mean she dances like a wounded mare." William snorted on his wine, red liquid staining his tunic.

"Farm animals have more decency than you, William." Gerard chided, though a mild look of amusement softened his rough features. My eyes traced his, and he looked away, reddening.

Our turn came, and the servants hopped up from their chairs, scrambling over to the dancing section of the great hall with little care for their clumsiness.

I stayed behind, watching my company leap about with no restraint or skill, and wondering what my masters thought of us. A spectacle of ruddy faces loomed above clumsy feet and stocky limbs, unconcerned with the amused and somewhat disgusted glances of the nobility.

Isabelle did not look pleased with having to watch the peasants dance. Her eyes narrowed and mouth knotted in contempt. My mercy for her melted, and the old dislike flooded back into my chest. We did not share the privilege of Italian dance lessons, so her judgement was unfair.

"Catherine, would you care to dance with me?" Startling me, Gerard had moved to stand beside my chair. His hands were folded awkwardly in front of his tunic—soiled, though neatly arranged. A nervousness haunted his eyes, though I was not sure of what I had done to startle him.

I did not want to wound him, so I complied, but my thoughts remained at the dais, where Bernard's stare was then locked upon us.

Neither of us was as dignified or graceful as our noble counterparts, but Gerard had a lively foot and kept good time to the chansons. He was quick, but waited for me to catch up. He was rather tall for a serf, and I had to strain my head to look over his shoulder. I held onto him as he swept me around the room, spinning in circles till dizziness overtook me and I laughingly asked him if we might rest. However, the entire time I was focussed on Bernard and his family atop the dais, wondering if he was looking back.

When we returned to our table, Fleurine cast me one of her strange looks.

♕♕♕

LATER, WHEN WE had retired to our communal bed chamber shared with other unmarried female servants at the uttermost bottom of the manor, Fleurine asked me about Gerard.

"What would you like to know about him?" I replied, wrapping a coarsely woven blanket around myself and flattening my stomach against the floor, hoping to absorb some heat emanating from the furnaces and fireplaces in the grander rooms of the house. The stone walls of our chamber provided little protection from the roaring winds outside, especially when the fading sun shifted below the horizon.

"I was watching when the two of you danced together in the great hall this evening. Have you not noticed the way he beholds you?" Fleurine adjusted her own straw mattress, spearing me with her inquisitive pale gaze.

"I have not," I said as embarrassment all but engulfed me. I had been far too preoccupied with our masters atop the raised dais to notice anything or anyone else.

"There is not much besides the might of God that can stop a young man from claiming a bride he loves." Fleurine remained oblivious to my humiliation, twisting her long silvery-brown hair into a knot down her crooked back. "I remember when my Anthoine won my heart. He found a bunch of wildflowers in the forest and told me they would complement my blue eyes. His own eyes showed nothing but love and affection for me—the same look I saw on Gerard's face when he beheld you."

A dismantling panic rose within me. I did not want to marry Gerard Du Perron. I did not want to be a hunter's wife, nor did I desire to live with him in his crude hut on the edge of the manor. I knew what my friend Eleanor suffered, with constant childbirth, labour, and cold during the winter, and I did not want to experience it. Not yet.

If I married a villager, I would never leave the manor gates or see anything beyond the rolling hills. I would never discover where the oranges grew. I would never feel the ocean within my grasp or glimpse the sea monsters spoken of in chansons and stories. I would never know the life of anything but a wife, mother, and labourer—only enjoying rest on select Holy Days and the Sabbath.

I told Fleurine this, and she laughed at me, covering my soft hand with her own withered one. "You are in your eighteenth year, my sweet Catherine, and almost your nineteenth. You are a young woman, though not still a girl. You must accept a betrothal, or you will be confined to the life of a laundress forever."

I rubbed my temples to relieve my head of a growing ache. Gerard had not requested my hand in private. I would have been asked or at least informed in such a personal circumstance, as Anthoine had wooed Fleurine. Though most men did not ask women to marry them—I had thought that Gerard was caring enough to discern my favour first.

"He has asked for my hand?" I whispered, my hope ebbing.

"He asked me if you might think of him," Fleurine explained, her expressive voice subdued. "He has known you for years, dear Catherine, and undoubtedly perceives you as a virtuous young woman. He is a kind and Godly man, my dear, a man any wise woman would want to marry."

Fleurine was not wrong, Gerard was a good man. Gradually, an image as vivid as a roll of tapestry unfurled in my memory—one in which Gerard had rescued me from a wild boar. I was perhaps a child of ten, and Gerard was still a youth learning the trade of hunting from his father.

I had been tending to the laundry when the sun ran golden across blades of wheat and rye, and Fleurine was too fatigued to work. Alone in the field, I ventured into the forest as I often did, scavenging for edible berries and plants to fill my belly. As a thicket of green enveloped me, the repulsing sound of a wild animal flooded my ears. I felt my knees buckle beneath my tunic. Before I could think to escape, the grotesque face of a boar leapt up at me.

Screaming, I ran back towards the manor, my feet being pierced by broken sticks and twigs as I raced along the forest path. With the beast at my heels, I resolved to scramble up a tree—a skill I had mastered when playing games with the other children of the manor in between washes and my manor duties. To my despair, however, the beast remained lodged below me for far longer than I had expected it to, gnashing its teeth and licking its lips as if in want of a meal.

I remember the voice in the most brilliant detail, for it was what delivered me from my moment of great peril. "Depart from here, you beast!"

I squinted into the unruly thicket to behold Gerard. His bow and arrow readied for the attack within a bent arm, his dark eyes fixed to the hulking animal.

Despite the deep gravity of my circumstance, laughter threatened to burst forth from within me. Gerard appeared as defenceless as a roast goose on Michaelmas—his limbs spindly beneath his long tunic, and his short chestnut hair gathered in curls around his youthful face. Even though he was a hunter, the fear within his eyes was apparent—the fear of a boy who had never killed an animal without the supervision of his father.

Oblivious to Gerard's unease, the boar stamped its feet and then ambled back into the heart of the forest until it could no longer be seen.

"Thank you." I had quelled my amusement, gathering my tunic in one hand as I climbed down from the tree.

Gerard offered me his hand, and I accepted it, landing on my feet.

"It is unsafe for children to venture into the woods unaccompanied." He chided, though he was few years older than I.

"Please do not tell Fleurine what has happened." I had begged, stifling my mild annoyance with him for calling me a child. "I spend much of my time in the forest, and it brings me great joy. It would pain me if she prevented me from returning."

Gerard nodded, his expression softening. "I know. I have seen you here often."

I was surprised that Gerard had been watching me, but remembered that he lived with his father in a serf's hut near the forest's edge, and spent much of his time hunting.

"So you will tell no one?"

"I will not. But remember, the forest can be dangerous, and I will not always be around to save you. You must be careful." Gerard had warned me, assuming the tone of one far older and wiser in years.

"I will be fine on my own," I had assured him, my annoyance with him only growing. He was just as much a child as I was, and I had never needed his help before. Locating the forest path with my eyes, I followed it back to the manor without him.

After our encounter that day, Gerard rarely spoke to me except in passing, and I soon forgot his act of service.

As a serpentine curl of smoke from Fleurines's candle whirled around me—the rich smell of tallow filling my lungs, I again wondered what I had done to make Gerard want to marry me.

I was not beautiful in any sense of the word. I was thin, with spools of dark hair as coarse as a lamb's wool and large, charcoal-brown eyes. Nor did I adorn myself in the elegant gowns and jewels of the nobility. My primary article of clothing was my tunic, which ran straight down to my calves and covered a plain linen shift beneath. On special occasions, I would adorn my outfit with a leather belt and arrange my hair in braids, but even then my appearance fell short of remarkable.

I doubted Gerard had been charmed by my character either, for we rarely spoke, and I had behaved towards him that day in the forest.

Perhaps he was interested in me because I was the last unmarried woman in his vicinity. The thought struck a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"I do not want..." I paused, searching for a rebuke.

Fleurine shook her head and gripped my wrist. "You must accept when the Count calls you for the proposal. I was slow to marry my own Anthoine, but he was a good husband. A good husband brings joy and children, as Gerard may bring you."

A look of sadness settled over Fleurine's usually stoic features. She once had possessed a great desire to have children of her own, but remained barren. And when her hot-headed Anthoine perished in a jousting accident, her desire was quashed forever.

I gazed at my guardian. She had taken good care of me, but was already old and growing older. One day, I would no longer enjoy her company, and the thought paralyzed me. I did not want to be lonesome, and the idea of a good and kind husband appealed to me for that reason. But I was still enamoured with a man I would never marry—a man who was married to another woman. However sinful my desire was, I could not marry Gerard and pretend to love him when I knew I was in love with another.

But if my master ordered my marriage, Fleurine was right. I would have no choice but to accept.

I returned to my position of lying still on the floor, tucking my feet beneath the wool blanket to ward off the terrible cold that would not depart.