When Remy and Jehan arrived in Prague, a city of timeless beauty greeted them. The gothic spires of churches rose high above the cobblestoned streets, as if reaching for the heavens themselves. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of baked bread and wood smoke, and the distant noise of a bustling populace.

  Then he smelled the usual dung that was left by some horses.

  He rode into the city on his warhorse, his posture upright and commanding, the signet ring on his hand marking his noble lineage. The guards at the gates eyed him warily, their sharp words in their native tongue cutting the air with suspicion. Though he could not fault them for their skepticism, seeing a noble that was not from their land with only one squire, made their crudeness reasonable.

  Jehan, his companion, stood at his side in silence. She could not understand the exchange of words, but the tension in the air was unmistakable, and her fierce demeanor matched his own.

  The guards flinched visibly when Remy addressed them in their language, his voice strong and deliberate. “There are many men who walk and ride through these lands, friends. Many who speak your tongue. I am one such man, a warrior and a nobleman. Your lords would not hesitate to grant me the right to challenge you to a duel if they deemed your conduct disrespectful. So, I advise you, seal your tongues. The world is wide, friends. Do not be so hasty to judge strangers and earn yourself danger. Use thy God-given wits!”

  The sharpness of his words, coupled with the authority in his tone, seemed to disarm them. Their glances turned uneasy, and they stepped aside reluctantly to grant him and Jehan entry.

  Once inside the city, Remy made his way directly to the largest Cathedral, as was his custom. Years of travel had taught him that the fastest way to understand a city’s soul was through its priests. Priests, especially those learned in Latin, were always eager to share their wisdom. It was as though the very act of speaking their tongue unlocked some hidden gate in their hearts and made their mouth loose.

  At the Cathedral, he was greeted by a kind, gray-haired priest who welcomed them warmly. His robes were modest, his demeanor humble, yet his sharp eyes suggested a man of intellect and discernment. After exchanging pleasantries, the priest offered them shelter in the Cathedral's dormitories itself, a generous gesture, but Remy had other plans.

  “Reverend Father,” Remy said, “though your hospitality is most gracious, I must ask for another favor. I carry letters and symbols meant to open doors. If it is not too much trouble, I ask that you send word to a nobleman of standing who might grant us lodging. We are pilgrims on a journey to Constantinople and the Holy Land, and I would not impose unnecessarily on the sanctity of your Church.”

  The priest nodded thoughtfully, then summoned a young monk. Remy handed the monk one of his signet rings, instructing him to deliver it to a noble household alongside his request for hospitality.

  While they awaited the monk’s return, Remy passed the time admiring the architecture of the Cathedral. The vaulted ceilings and intricate stained-glass windows told stories of faith and resilience. Jehan, though not a woman of many words, seemed equally taken by the serene beauty of the place. The monks moved silently around them, their presence a reminder of the quiet devotion that anchored this sacred space.

  Two hours later, the monk returned, accompanied by a young man who bore himself with an air of both confidence and apprehension. He was, as Remy later learned, the nobleman’s youngest son. His eyes widened slightly as he took in Remy’s appearance. Remy wore plate and mail beneath his travel-worn clothes, and though his garments were practical, they bore the unmistakable marks of nobility.

  He could see the young man’s nervousness, likely a mixture of awe and intimidation. The roads had hardened Remy’s features, giving him a stern countenance that often unsettled those unaccustomed to warriors who had seen wars. Sensing his discomfort, he softened his expression and greeted him warmly.

  “God be with you, young master,” he said in their native tongue, inclining his head slightly. “I am Lucien Valois, of House Valois. You have my gratitude for coming to escort us.”

  The young man managed a polite bow and introduced himself before leading them to his family’s estate. As they rode, Remy observed him closely. The boy was green, idealistic, with the wide-eyed naivety of someone who had yet to encounter the harsher realities of life. But also a sign of his righteous upbringing.

  The estate itself was modest but well-kept, a testament to the family’s diligence and pride and wealth. They were greeted at the entrance by the nobleman, his wife, their elder son, and two daughters. The patriarch of the house was a sturdy man, his graying hair and lined face hinting at both wisdom and weariness.

  “Praise be Jesus and Mary!” Remy said, dismounting and bowing respectfully. “I am Lucien Valois, of House Valois. I am on a pilgrimage to Constantinople and the Holy Land, and I thank you for your generous hospitality. Allow me to introduce my companion, Jehan. He does not speak your tongue, so I ask for your understanding and patience.”

  The nobleman responded with equal politeness, though Remy could sense he was eager to establish his importance in the conversation. He spoke with the kind of overbearing hospitality that often accompanies those unaccustomed to hosting guests of higher rank. Remy smiled inwardly, knowing it was best to navigate such situations with tact.

  “Your generosity humbles me,” he said, inclining his head. “However, I must insist on a modest reception. I would not burden your household unduly.”

  Despite his request, the family prepared a feast that modest by their standards, but still grander than Remy had anticipated. The table was laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and seasonal fruits. The wine flowed freely, and the conversation turned to his travels.

  The nobleman’s son was particularly curious, peppering Remy with questions about the lands he had seen and the battles he had fought. The young man’s enthusiasm was endearing, though Remy tempered his responses to avoid encouraging any romantic notions about war.

  “Travel is a great teacher,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It shows you the beauty of the world but also its dangers. The road is not kind, young master. There are brigands who prey upon the unwary. Only vigilance and preparation can keep a man safe. A mighty sword-arm and wit can you take to places that a swing of a sword couldn’t!”

  At this, he shared a warning about a traveling band of brigands he had encountered weeks prior. The family listened intently, their expressions growing solemn.

  Before the evening ended, Remy made another offer.

  “Should you or your household ever require the skills of a physician,” he said, “do not hesitate to call upon me. I have trained in the healing arts and would consider it an honor to serve you.”

  The nobleman’s wife seemed particularly heartened by this, thanking him profusely. It was not uncommon for households to lack access to proper medical care, and his offer clearly meant a great deal to them.

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  As the night wore on, Remy found himself reflecting on the strange yet comforting rhythm of such encounters like this. Each city, each noble household, was different, yet there was always a common thread of humanity to them.

  A desire to connect, to share stories, and to find meaning in the fleeting moments they spent together.

  The family bid them goodnight, and they were shown to their chambers that simple but comfortable. Jehan, after praying to God and asking him to read a few verses from his pocket book, fell asleep almost instantly.

  Remy, however, lay awake for some time, gazing at the wooden beams of the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of the City of Prague.

  The next few days became a blur, a rhythm of humble service and instruction. Remy was in no hurry to reach his destination, so he kept his promise to the noble family, tending to their ailments and offering his skills wherever they were needed. Many members of the household suffered from skin conditions, an unfortunate consequence of the expensive powders the women used to maintain their appearance.

  “These powders,” he explained to the Madam, “contain arsenic. It is highly toxic. Prolonged use leads to skin sores, organ failure, and even death if absorbed into the bloodstream over time.”

  The Madam gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The Lord of the house, on the other hand, turned red with fury, clenching his fists and muttering oaths about punishing the merchant who had sold such poison to his family.

  “Before you act rashly, my lord,” Remy said, his tone measured, “heed my advice. It is better to educate than to exact vengeance. I’ve written a list of ingredients to avoid and remedies to aid in their recovery.” He handed him the list, written in his neat script with his ink pen, an object he usually kept hidden, fearing it might attract unnecessary attention.

  When he wasn’t receiving visitors or attending to the household’s ailments, Remy devoted his time to training the family’s two sons. Harold, the elder, was cautious and methodical, while Fritz, the younger, was brash and impulsive as he was green. Neither had any formal training in combat, but both were eager to learn.

  They began with the basics stances, strikes, and footwork. Despite their enthusiasm, neither could land a blow on him. His armor, though heavy, was a second skin, and his movements were too precise. Time and again, they found themselves on the ground, winded but determined.

  “I will tell you this,” Remy said after one particularly grueling session. “Do not let your eyes betray your intent. You tell your opponent where you’ll strike before you even lift your sword. Your body telegraphs every move.”

  “I understand, Sir Valois,” Harold replied, though his brow furrowed with concentration.

  In the following days, he taught them strategies for dire situations, what to do when surrounded, how to face archers and crossbowmen, and when to fight or flee.

  “If you’re outnumbered,” he instructed, “seek to funnel your enemies. Make them fight you one-on-one. If escape is possible, take it. Survival is not cowardice, it is wisdom.”

  Fritz, somewhat the idealist, frowned. “But sir, isn’t running a disgrace?”

  “No,” Remy said firmly. “It’s called using thy God-given wit. Honor can be reclaimed. Your life cannot. Remember this, and you may live long enough to call yourself a master of the sword.”

  To demonstrate, he called Jehan over. Despite her protests, he had been training her to use a crossbow. She loaded it hesitantly and aimed at him.

  “A good plate can save your life,” he said as she fired. The bolt struck his armor and bounced harmlessly to the ground. The brothers flinched, their eyes wide with amazement.

  “However,” he continued, “not all armor is impenetrable. Watch closely.”

  He took a spare piece of his plate and placed it against a fruit. Jehan reloaded with a different bolt and fired again. This time, the bolt pierced clean through the metal and into the fruit.

  “This is what happens when you grow complacent. Even the strongest armor has its limits. Clean your wounds. Infection is a far deadlier foe than any blade or bolt.”

  Their expressions were a mix of awe and apprehension. They were young, and youth often finds it hard to grasp the gravity of such lessons. To drive the point home, he demonstrated one final technique.

  “Jehan, shoot me again,” he instructed.

  She hesitated, her brows knitting together in disapproval. “This is reckless, Sir Valois.”

  “Just do it,” he insisted.

  She sighed and fired. Anticipating the trajectory, he deflected the bolt with the flat of his blade. The brothers gasped, stunned into silence.

  “Focus, discipline,” he said, pointing to his temple. “And wit. You cannot deflect arrows and bolts like I do, but with enough training, you may achieve this. Still, I pray you’ll never face a situation where such a skill is necessary.”

  The brothers thanked him profusely as they left the courtyard, their minds brimming with newfound determination. Once they were out of earshot, Jehan rounded on him.

  “It’s reckless! What if I’d shot you to death?”

  “I had a plate beneath my clothes,” he replied evenly.

  “That doesn’t make it any less foolish!” she snapped, her voice rising.

  He let her rant, remaining silent until she ran out of breath. Her concern, though harshly delivered, was a balm to the weariness that had begun to creep into his bones.

  The days continued in this manner, a cycle of healing, teaching, and quiet reflection. The noble family grew fond of them, giving way to warmth. The Madam often sought his advice on matters of health, while the Lord seemed to take pride in hosting a nobleman of his stature.

  In the evenings, after supper, he would sit with Jehan in the small chapel attached to the estate. While she prayed in her quiet, steadfast manner, he would read aloud from his pocket Bible and teach her a few words and phrases in Latin.

  As the time drew near for their departure, the family prepared a modest farewell feast. The table was laid with roasted meats, fresh bread, and wine. The Lord raised his cup in a toast, his voice ringing with sincerity.

  “Sir Valois, you have not only honored us with your presence but have also imparted wisdom and kindness that will not be forgotten. Should you ever find yourself in need, know that the doors of House Leyen will always be open to you.”

  Remy inclined his head. “Your hospitality has been a balm to weary travelers, my lord. We are in your debt.”

  After the meal, the family presented them with gifts, a finely crafted dagger for him and a warm cloak for Jehan. The younger son, Fritz, hesitated before stepping forward with a small wooden carving of a horse.

  “For luck on your journey,” the boy said, his cheeks reddening.

  Remy accepted the gift with a smile. “Thank you, Fritz. I will carry it with me as a reminder of your kindness.”

  As the sun rose the following morning, they prepared to leave. The family gathered to see them off, their faces a mix of gratitude and sadness. Remy mounted his warhorse, turning to offer them one final bow.

  “God be with you,” he said. “May we meet again in better times.”

  With that, Remy and Jehan rode out, the estate fading into the distance. The road stretched before them, uncertain and unyielding as always.

  Jehan broke the silence as they rode. “Do you think they’ll remember us?”

  Remy glanced at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps. But what matters is that we remember them. Each place, each face, becomes part of the tapestry of our lives. That is the true gift of the road. Isn’t it?”

  She nodded, her expression thoughtful.

  Together, they pressed on, leaving the City of Prague behind and to their next destination, Vienna.