Entertainment was lacking in this era. To Remy’s mind, the amusements of the fifteenth century were rather crude, from boozing, praying, and mating, all in their own monotonous cycles. The people of the age seemed content with that. He, however, was not. So he often spent his nights reading the books he managed to purchase along his travels, poring over them by candlelight while the common row below descended into drunken laughter and song.

  Mating was out of the question for him, not out of chastity, but prudence. He feared the diseases that loose women carried, the poxes and fevers that ravaged flesh and bone alike. He had seen and heard of this era enough to know that pleasure was a poor bargain for rot.

  He woke early that morning, just as the bells of the church tolled faintly across the city. The air in the room was cold, heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and damp wool. Rising from his bed, he splashed water on his face, washed briskly, and prepared for the day. He then requested the innkeeper to boil him another kettle of water for what he called his “tea.”

  Of course, the “tea” was mostly an excuse to have boiled water. He had long since learned that most water sources of this time were polluted beyond measure, a stew of filth and disease. Though he had built a strong resistance after years of living among them, the habit of boiling his drink had become something of a ritual. Jehan called it lavish, always urging him to save his coins, but he would rather be lavish than stricken with dysentery.

  “Lavishness is a sin, Monsieur Remy,” she had said once.

  “Then I shall sin in health,” he had replied.

  That morning, he drank his “tea” in silence, savoring the faint warmth that lingered in the tin cup. The world outside was stirring with wheels creaking, horses snorting, and distant shouts of merchants opening their stalls. When the cup was empty, he strapped on his armor, as he always did. He rarely removed it, not only for protection but out of habit. It had become a second skin, just a reminder of caution in a world that changed little and trusted less.

  After ensuring Jehan was awake and aware of his absence, he stepped out into the streets and made his way toward the merchant quarter. The morning sun was pale, filtered through clouds that hung low over the city. The cobbled streets glistened faintly from the night’s dew, and the scent of bread baking in clay ovens drifted from narrow alleys.

  In the merchant quarter, the world came alive in a different rhythm, from coins clinking, voices bargaining, parchment rustling. Remy moved among them quietly, perusing information as one might gather herbs, a pinch here, a fragment there. He questioned traders about the Danube route, probing them for their opinions on which captains were worth their salt. Most gave vague answers, speaking in circles, but a few offered names.

  One name surfaced repeatedly, a Slovak captain known for ferrying cargo between Vienna and Buda. A rough man by reputation, but steady enough to trust.

  Remy decided to find him.

  He followed the trail to a tavern frequented by Slovaks and Danube sailors. The place smelled of ale and sweat, its air thick with laughter and the low growl of foreign tongues. Inside, men huddled around tables, their rough hands wrapped around wooden mugs, their eyes gleaming in the dim light.

  He spotted the captain easily, a broad-shouldered man with a beard like iron filings and eyes that had clearly seen both profit and peril. The man looked up from his drink, squinting at the armored stranger in the doorway.

  In Slovak, the man grunted, “What’s this noble fool looking at me?”

  Remy smiled faintly, approached the table, and replied in the same tongue, his accent even more fluent than the man. “This ‘noble fool’ heard that. Speak like that again, and you will take on my armored fist.”

  The captain froze mid-drink, ale dripping from his chin. For a moment he stared, then threw back his head and laughed heartily, slapping his thigh. “Pardon, pardon, good sir! Aye, I didn’t think you’d speak my tongue.”

  “I know most languages,” Remy said mildly.

  The captain’s companions glanced at one another, their suspicion melting into amusement. There was always power in understanding another man’s speech, to know a tongue was to command respect. It told them that one had traveled far, that one had listened, and therefore was worth listening to.

  The Slovak gestured to the bench opposite him. “Sit, my lord. Drink with us.”

  Remy sat. The ale was coarse and bitter, but it warmed the blood well enough. He introduced himself simply as Remy, avoiding titles. Then he spoke of his purpose and his wish to travel along the Danube.

  “Ah,” said the captain, stroking his beard, laughing. “I’m afraid I can’t go to Constantinople, if that’s where you’re bound. Only as far as Buda.”

  “That is sufficient,” Remy replied.

  “Tomorrow,” the captain said, “we’ll be heading to Esztergom. You can board there. After that, we follow the current south.”

  Remy nodded. “That will do.”

  They spoke then of payment, of cargo, and of space. The Slovak asked for florins, and Remy agreed that he would pay a deposit now and the rest upon arrival. He also made mention of his “squire,” Jehan, who would accompany him.

  The captain raised a brow but said nothing. In these parts, it was not unusual for nobles to keep squires of curious appearance. So long as payment was in good coin, few asked questions.

  When the matter was settled, the conversation turned lighter. They shared more ale, and soon the talk drifted to the east to the Turks, to the Saracens, to the endless wars that gnawed at Christendom’s borders.

  The Slovaks spoke freely, their words laced with superstition and half-remembered rumor. One claimed that Ottoman horsemen had been sighted near Belgrade. Another swore that ships flying the Crescent had been seen on the Black Sea. A third, more sober, spoke quietly of disease spreading along the trade roads and how caravans lost not to bandits but to plague.

  Remy listened with fascination. He found it curious how these men balanced their faith with fear. They spoke of God’s protection, yet behind every invocation of divine mercy lurked the tremor of doubt. They prayed that the Lord would shield Christendom, but in their eyes he saw the silent question.

  What if He does not?

  He understood that fear. These men depended on the roads and rivers for their livelihood. Should the routes close, should the Saracens or the Turks make them impassable they would lose everything. Faith was a luxury and bread was not.

  And knowing history... it won't be long until the Ottoman shatter Christendom's shield.

  Still, their stories entertained him. It was rare to hear the voice of common men speak so freely of the world beyond their horizon. And though much of it was exaggeration, there was always a kernel of truth in rumor.

  When the mugs were empty and the laughter began to fade, Remy rose. He thanked them for their company and made his way out. The tavern door creaked behind him, spilling light into the gray afternoon before closing once more.

  The streets outside had grown busier. Carts rolled by, their wheels clattering on cobblestones. He walked through the lanes until he reached the money-changer’s stall. The merchant, a plump man with a shaven head and quick eyes, greeted him eagerly. Remy exchanged his groschen for florins, the gold coin of Florence, steady in value and favored across all Europe. The merchant counted each piece twice before handing it over, his rings glinting in the light.

  “Going east, my lord?” the man asked.

  “Perhaps,” Remy said.

  “Then may God guide your path,” the merchant replied, though his tone carried the hollow politeness of one who blessed every customer alike.

  With coins secured, Remy returned to the inn. The sun had begun to lower, casting long slanting beams through the windows. Inside, Jehan was seated by the small hearth, mending a tear in her cloak. She looked up as he entered.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You were gone long, Monsieur Remy,” she said.

  “I was gathering information,” he replied. “We’re leaving tomorrow. The captain I found will take us as far as Esztergom by riverboat.”

  Jehan’s hands paused in her stitching. “By river?”

  “Yes. It will be quicker than the road.”

  She nodded slowly. “Then I shall prepare.”

  He sat down opposite her, unstrapping his armored gloves. For a moment, neither spoke. The faint sound of the street seeped through the shutters, laughter, hooves, the cry of a vendor.

  Remy glanced toward her. “Jehan, have you ever been on a riverboat?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I suppose I will learn.”

  He smiled faintly. “Then consider it another miracle of your survival.”

  She did not answer, only bent her head once more to her work.

  That night, as the city quieted, Remy packed his belongings carefully. His sword, his books, his instruments, and a few scrolls tied with cord, these were all he possessed of value. Everything else could be replaced. He set them beside the door and then extinguished the candle.

  The bell woke him, as it always did, cutting through the gray morning with its solemn clang. Remy rose from his bed, washed his face, and had his tea while Jehan set about her morning routine. They ate a modest breakfast together, bread, a few slices of salted meat, and the thin ale that passed for nourishment in these lands. When their things were packed and the morning air had begun to fill with the noise of the waking city, they went down to prepare their horses.

  At the door, Remy turned to the innkeeper, the kindly goodwife with arms flour-dusted from her morning work and said, “God bless you, goodwife. You may boast freely of your fine service.”

  The woman smiled, flattered by the nobleman’s words.

  Outside, the world was already stirring. Carts rattled along the cobbles, and the smell of damp hay and smoke mingled in the air. Jehan tightened the reins of her horse while Remy saw to his destrier, a proud and temperamental beast that tolerated no stranger’s touch.

  When they arrived at the docks, the Slovak captain and his crew were already waiting by the riverboat. The vessel rocked gently in the water, its hull stained by mud and time. As they approached, a sailor reached for the destrier’s reins, attempting to lead it aboard.

  Remy opened his mouth to warn him, but too late. The destrier reared, its hooves striking the air in fury. The sailor stumbled backward, cursing, and in that instant Remy got off his horse. He shoved the man out of the way, stepping into the kick and catching the blow against his left forearm. The impact jarred him, the metal of his gauntlet ringing dully.

  "At ease, Morgan," Remy made the horse stand down.

  It obeyed.

  Jehan cried out, her voice sharp with alarm. “Are you all right?”

  Remy lowered his arm and flexed it. The steel had taken most of the force, and his own unnatural resilience had done the rest. “I’m fine,” he said calmly.

  The captain strode over, his expression half concern, half admiration. He glanced at the gauntlet, then at Remy’s composed face. “You’re a sturdy man, sir,” he remarked.

  “Sturdier than most,” Remy replied.

  He led the destrier into the hold himself, speaking softly to the animal until it calmed. The beast’s breath came out in short snorts, ears twitching, but it obeyed him. He tied it securely, then gave it a final pat before stepping back. Jehan offered to stay and watch the horses, and Remy allowed it. She was better suited to the quiet company of beasts than to idle waiting.

  He climbed the ladder to the deck and stood by the railing as the crew began to push off. The ropes were hauled in, the poles pressed against the dock, and slowly the vessel drifted into the current. The city receded behind them, its rooftops fading into the morning haze.

  The deck was a mess of barrels, crates, and ropes. The smell was unpleasant, from fish, tar, and the faint reek of rot. He wrinkled his nose slightly. “A fine perfume,” he muttered to himself.

  One of the sailors laughed. “It’s worse in summer,” he said, hauling a net aside.

  Remy nodded absently and looked out across the river. The Danube stretched wide, its surface shimmering in the light, carrying with it both trade and rumor. There was nothing to do but watch the water and think, and Remy was not one to idle long without turning to inquiry.

  He found the captain by the rudder, giving orders in his rough Slovak tongue. When the man had a moment of quiet, Remy joined him. “Remind me where are we stopping first?” he asked.

  The captain scratched his beard. “Pozsony,” he said.

  Remy paused. The name meant nothing to him at first, then memory supplied its translation.

  “Bratislava,” he said aloud.

  The captain blinked. “Aye, that’s what some call it… I think?”

  Remy smiled faintly. “You people and your names. I can hardly keep them straight.”

  He had often found it confusing, this constant shifting of names and tongues. Cities he knew by one title were called another entirely by those who lived there. Rouen was Rotomagus, Mainz was Mogontiacum, and Vienna was once Vindobona.

  He made a note to himself to keep his internal geography in order, to filter the world’s names into something recognizable to him.

  The riverboat carried not only Remy and Jehan but several others, merchants, peddlers, burghers traveling on business. Their crates of wares were stacked beside the crew’s cargo. From pots, iron tools, and bundles wrapped in coarse cloth. The faint scent of horse manure still lingered on the planks.

  A sailor nearby caught Remy’s look and grinned. “We carry horses most days, sir. No problem for us. Sometimes sacks of grain too, but you know how it is. Takes days to scrub the stink out of the horse shit.”

  Below deck, Jehan could be heard speaking softly to the destrier. Her voice carried faintly through the wooden boards.

  Remy leaned against the railing, feeling the slow rhythm of the boat beneath his boots. He found himself observing everything, the way the ropes creaked, the murmur of men, the expanse of water rolling eastward. There was a dull monotony to it all, but he did not mind. It allowed him time to think.

  They had paid six groschen for the passage. Not an excessive amount, but enough that Jehan had raised her brows. The men would exchange it to florin once they reach their destination for a reason he barely knew. Remy had explained, half in jest, that nobles must sometimes pay as common men do. Truthfully, he possessed safe-conduct and certain privileges, of course, and could have avoided most tolls through his network of influence. But convenience mattered more to him than ceremony. To argue or negotiate at every crossing was tedious.

  Still, he suspected the captain had agreed to carry him partly out of self-interest. A noble aboard could serve as a shield against river tolls, a pretext to claim official passage, a convenient excuse for avoiding inquisitive inspectors. Remy did not mind. Every man had his bargains.

  He stood there for a long while, watching the muddy banks slide past. Villages dotted the shores, clusters of huts with thin trails of smoke rising above them. Children paused in their play to wave, and fishermen turned their heads to stare at the passing vessel. The world seemed both vast and small, connected by the river’s winding path.

  At times, he wondered how much of this world truly understood itself. The people of this age lived in fragments, each knowing their craft, their trade, their prayer, but few grasping the pattern that bound them. It was easy to think of them as simpleminded.

  Once, he had believed that. That they were inferior, not in spirit, perhaps, but in mind. That he alone carried the light of knowledge through the dim corridors of time.

  But the years had humbled him.

  Time and again, he had been proven wrong. What these people lacked was not intellect, but the accumulation of understanding that his own age had taken for granted. Their wit was sharp, their memory long, their courage unflinching. What they built, they built with faith rather than science, and still it endured and would continue to do so.

  As he leaned against the rail, the thought turned over in his mind. Perhaps the true difference between his world and theirs was not progress, but patience.

  The wind shifted. The smell of the river mingled with the faint stink of hay from the hold. The captain shouted an order, and the crew adjusted the sail. The boat tilted slightly, caught by the current, and steadied again.

  Remy watched in silence, feeling the motion underfoot. The rhythm of the Danube was hypnotic, almost meditative. He imagined the river as a line through history, one that carried emperors, crusaders, merchants, and dreamers alike, each believing their journey to be unique, when in truth they were only passengers in a greater tide called time.

  Jehan emerged from below deck, brushing her hair back from her face. “The horse is calm now,” she said.

  “Good,” Remy replied. “Let’s hope it stays that way. I am not fond of blocking the kick of horses”

  She smiled faintly. “You’re lucky it didn’t break your arm.”

  He flexed the limb again, as if to prove her wrong. “Luck had little to do with it.”

  Jehan’s smile faded into quiet contemplation. The wind tugged at her blue cloak as she turned her gaze eastward. For a while, they both stood side by side, watching the water flow toward horizons unknown.

  Remy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Someday,” he murmured in a language no one would understand, “I may find that everything I know, all my knowledge, all my foresight, might be nothing more than a delusion.”

  Jehan looked at him, puzzled, but said nothing.