That morning, Remy was informed by one of the palace servants that his squire had taken ill. The man had spoken with the awkward hesitation of someone uncertain whether the news was grave or trivial. Remy left his work at once and went to Jehan’s quarters.

  The guest chamber was dimly lit, the shutters drawn half-closed to keep out the winter light. Jehan lay upon her bed, pale and weary, her breath faintly visible in the chill air. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned her face toward him, and there was a faint redness about her eyes as though she had been fighting both exhaustion and discomfort.

  Remy crossed the room in silence, the wood creaking beneath his boots. He set his gloves aside and laid a hand upon her brow. Her skin was warm, but not feverish. Her pulse, when he checked it, was soft, steady, yet weaker than what one would expect from someone of her youth and vigor.

  He examined her with quiet precision, as he would a patient in another life. There was no swelling of the glands, no fever to speak of, no pain in her lungs or stiffness of joints. Only that curious heaviness in her belly that she described in a low, embarrassed voice, and the dull ache that came and went like a tide.

  Remy paused. He knew at once what it was, though he said nothing for a moment. Jehan knew as well, he could see it in the way her eyes flicked downward, the faint tension in her jaw. She was frightened, not of the pain itself, but of discovery. Here, in a palace where men and servants whispered freely, a young woman dressed as a squire could not easily afford to be ill in such a way.

  Still, he made no display of alarm.

  “Rise,” he said gently.

  She obeyed, though she pressed her hand to her side as she moved. Her face tightened with discomfort, but she stood straight. Remy observed her carefully. No fainting, no dizziness, only fatigue. The truth was plain, it was her course, her natural rhythm. Nothing more.

  “It is not an illness,” he said at last.

  Jehan flushed, half in embarrassment, half in relief. “Then… you know?”

  “I know,” he replied. “And you should not be ashamed of it. It is natural, as the seasons are. A holy rhythm, though many misunderstand it sometimes.”

  She looked at him with quiet gratitude, though she said nothing further.

  Remy advised her to rest, to drink warm broth, to avoid fasting or cold draughts until she recovered.

  “It will pass,” he said. “Give it time. You are used to this, no?”

  For the next four days, he took care of her. Jehan protested at first, saying it was improper for a knight to tend to his squire so personally, but he silenced her objections with the calm authority of a physician. “You will rest,” he told her. “That is all that matters.”

  During those days, the palace was muffled by snow. The wind rattled the shutters and turned the streets of Esztergom into a pale wilderness. Remy found his thoughts quieter, his actions deliberate. He tended to his tasks in silence, maintaining the armor, checking the blades, oiling the hinges of his weapons, and testing the crossbows for any sign of warping in the cold.

  When he was not repairing or sharpening, he went to the stables. The horses had become restless from being kept too long indoors, their breath steaming in the cold as they stamped their hooves. There were four now, two for riding and two for carrying their luggage.

  Morgan, his destrier, was the most temperamental of them all. A magnificent black beast with the bearing of a warhorse, he disliked being handled by anyone other than Remy or Jehan. The stable hands had learned that lesson the hard way, one man still bore a bruise from where the destrier had kicked him square in the chest after he’d dared to touch the reins. Remy was somewhat glad that it was only a 'light tap'.

  Morgan was peculiar. He took pride in his barding and caparison, and seemed almost aware of his own importance. Even in Rome, the men had joked that Remy and his horse were of one spirit, both armored, disciplined, and prone to silence.

  Remy would often speak to the horse while grooming him, as if conversing with an old friend.

  The animal would flick his ears and snort in response, the faintest sign of recognition.

  Jehan had a way with them, though. When she recovered, she returned to the stables without being asked. Morgan, who treated most men with suspicion, seemed to relax under her hand. The way she brushed his mane, the calm patience in her touch. Remy could see that the horses preferred her. It was a simple truth, and he was grateful for it.

  “You have a gift,” he said to her one afternoon, watching as she checked the hooves of the new mare they had received from the House of Clotilde and the other that came from the Bishop.

  Jehan smiled faintly. “Perhaps. They listen better than most people.”

  He did not disagree.

  When Jehan was well enough to resume her duties, Remy returned to his solitude. The rhythm of his days resumed, from training the Archbishop’s squires, assisting at the clinic when needed, attending mass when called, and otherwise keeping to himself.

  The snow deepened as the weeks passed, blanketing the palace grounds in silence. Life, already slow, became slower still. The markets were shuttered, the roads impassable. Even the Danube, which he could see faintly from the upper windows, had begun to crust over with ice.

  He did not mind the cold. It kept the world quiet, still, reflective. He had always found comfort in the sound of the wind when others found only bitterness. But the solitude had its own weight, a quiet, creeping melancholy that settled in when there was nothing left to occupy the hands or mind.

  At times, he would find himself staring out across the white fields, watching the snow fall endlessly, thinking of the world he had left behind. A world of glass and steel, of noise and light. A world that seemed more distant with every passing year.

  He had learned to avoid such thoughts. To dwell upon them was to invite despair, to poison the mind with longing for what could not be reclaimed. Yet in moments of stillness, they always returned unbidden.

  He would push the thoughts aside, bury himself in work, and by nightfall, exhaustion would silence them.

  Jehan noticed, of course. She always did. Strangely.

  One evening, as they sat by the fire, she spoke softly without looking at him.

  “You think too much, my lord.”

  Remy glanced at her. “Do I?”

  “You do. Your eyes are always elsewhere, even when you look at people. As if you see beyond them.”

  He said nothing for a time, only stared into the flames. The truth was that she was not wrong.

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  Finally, he answered, "There are things I remember that I should not. Things that do not belong here.”

  Jehan tilted her head. "You speak as though you’ve seen the world’s end.”

  “Perhaps I have,” he said, half to himself.

  She said nothing more, and the fire crackled between them.

  The next morning, he resumed training the Archbishop’s squires. The courtyard was slick with frost, the air biting. The young men came bundled in cloaks and scarves, their breath visible as they swung their swords with sluggish arms.

  Remy watched their movements carefully, correcting their stances with quiet precision. “Your hand is too high,” he said to one. “Keep your weight forward, not on your heel.”

  They obeyed, though with little enthusiasm. The cold sapped their energy, their discipline dulled by winter’s monotony.

  When the session ended, one of the squires, bold, perhaps foolish asked him, “My lord, how is it that you can move so easily in the cold?”

  Remy looked at him, his breath a pale mist.

  “The cold does not slow a man,” he said. “Only his mind does. The body follows where the will commands.”

  The boy blinked, then nodded uncertainly.

  Remy turned away, sheathing his sword. “Go warm yourselves,” he said. “And remember discipline does not end when the sun sets.”

  They dispersed, their laughter faint in the cold air.

  Later that evening, when he returned to his quarters, he found Jehan tending quietly to Morgan in the stables. She hummed softly under her breath, a tune he did not recognize, her hair hidden beneath her hood. The destrier stood perfectly still beneath her hands, the great beast calm as if soothed by the sound.

  Remy watched them for a moment before speaking. “He listens to you better than to me.”

  Jehan looked up, smiling faintly. “That’s because I don’t argue with him.”

  Remy chuckled under his breath. “Perhaps I should learn from you, then.”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. He follows you because he knows your strength. He follows me because I ask kindly.”

  He considered that and said nothing more.

  Weeks passed easily under the care and quiet rhythm of the palace. The four weeks leading up to Christmas were marked by fasting, prayer, and penance. In Esztergom, the priests, among them the Archbishop himself, held additional Masses each dawn, preaching of repentance and the coming of Christ.

  Rorate Masses, those early services offered before sunrise, were sung by candlelight alone. The cathedral glowed dimly in gold and shadow, voices rising in Gregorian chant as frost gathered upon the windows. Each morning, Remy watched the flame-lit congregation bow their heads as the Latin hymns filled the nave, the air thick with incense and cold breath.

  By Christmas Eve, the entire city had fallen into a reverent hush. The Midnight Mass was presided over by the Archbishop himself, and Remy, as a nobleman and guest of the Hungarian court, was seated in the front row among the country’s magnates.

  They had not liked him at first, but over time, respect had replaced suspicion. He was a skilled physician and surgeon, and such usefulness had its own kind of diplomacy. Even the proudest among them could not deny his value, and once men found reason to rely upon another, friendship or something close to it, often followed.

  Perhaps, he thought, it helped that he spoke their language without hesitation. It was hard to despise a man who could return your jest in your own tongue.

  The St. Adalbert Cathedral was radiant that night. Evergreen branches adorned the pillars, and hundreds of candles burned in iron holders, their light trembling upon the stone walls. A manger scene stood near the altar, figures carved in wood and painted with care. When Jehan had asked about it earlier, Remy had explained that it was a Franciscan custom that began in Italy and had now spread throughout Europe.

  The Archbishop began the service with readings from the Gospel of Luke, the Nativity. When the choir lifted their voices to sing the Gloria in excelsis Deo for the first time since Advent began, the sound filled the vaults like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

  Remy found himself still, listening, his thoughts wandering further than he intended.

  On Christmas Day, three Masses were held, as tradition demanded. The first, the Missa in Nocte, celebrated the birth of Christ in eternity. The second, at dawn, marked His birth within the hearts of the faithful. The last, the Missa in Die, honored His birth into the world itself.

  Remy attended the Day Mass, where the Archbishop presided before an assembly of nobles, knights, and clerics. King Sigismund was absent, having chosen to remain in Visegrád for the winter, though his messengers had delivered gifts and letters of blessing.

  The Te Deum was sung in full chorus, echoing through the nave like a storm of voices. When it ended, the Archbishop raised his hands, blessing the congregation and sending alms to the poor. There was a simplicity in it that Remy found admirable, a dignity unclouded by pomp.

  Later, in the great hall, wine and warmth replaced solemnity. The nobles drank, feasted, and spoke more freely than usual. Jehan sat beside him, dressed simply, though her eyes were bright with candlelight. She had refused to drink at first, as she often did, but Remy had insisted.

  “It is Christmas,” he told her. “Even the saints would toast to that.”

  She relented, taking a small sip, her cheeks flushing almost at once.

  The following days were filled with feasts and observances, the Feast of St. Stephen the Protomartyr, then St. John the Evangelist, and afterward, the Day of the Holy Innocents. Each day was marked by service, song, and celebration. The winter air was sharp, but within the palace walls, laughter carried like firelight.

  When the year turned and the bells tolled to welcome 1432, Remy and Jehan stood among the small gathering of knights and squires in the courtyard, torches burning against the snow.

  Jehan seemed strangely quiet that night, lost in thought. When he asked her why, she smiled faintly.

  “I was remembering,” she said, “the first time we met.”

  He turned to her, one brow raised. “On the riverbank?”

  “Yes,” she said softly, and then her face turned crimson. “I remember shouting at you, ‘Unhand me, you English dog!’”

  Remy laughed under his breath. “That you did.”

  “I had thought you were an Englishman because you spoke strange English,” she said, her voice flustered, “and when I realized you were not, well, I hoped you’d forget that part.”

  “I haven’t,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. “I remember it quite clearly. You were half-drowned and still managed to insult me.”

  Jehan covered her face with her hands. “I was frightened.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you agreed to travel with me afterward.”

  She lowered her hands, smiling shyly. “Yes. At the Auberge du Mouton Blanc. You offered me a place at your side. I remember thinking it was some strange trick of Providence.”

  He looked at her then, his expression softer than usual. “Do you regret it?”

  Jehan hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I think God willed that we meet, Sir Remy. If not for you, I might still be lost, unsure why I could not feel His guidance. You have given me… purpose again. Thank you for rescuing me.”

  He inclined his head. “You are welcome.”

  Her smile was small but sincere, carrying that quiet warmth that seemed to reach even through the cold of winter.

  Outside, the bells of St. Adalbert rang out again, their sound spreading across the snowy hills. The city glowed beneath the moon, roofs silvered with frost.

  Remy watched the snow fall for a moment longer, his breath forming pale clouds in the cold. He said nothing more.

  Jehan stood beside him, hands folded before her cloak, her gaze turned upward toward the bell tower.

  For a while, neither spoke. There was nothing more to say. The old year had gone, and with it, its burdens.

  A new one had begun.