You voted, and here's the first chapter of our book together.

If you didn't vote, check out the previous blog and introduction here .

Remember to scroll down to see this week's polls and make your voice heard for the next chapter that will be posted on July 8th.

Enough talk. Let's get to reading.

Gusan, FranceSeptember 1413

Marie struggled to push the door open with a hip as she tried to squeeze her way into the hall of the Blue Lily. Her arms were so overloaded with recently cut logs that she barely fit through the doorway. A square hearth sat cold in the hall’s center with a massive uncooked leg of lamb hanging on the spit above it. She staggered around a trio of wobbly wooden tables—each with a pair of equally wobbly wooden benches—and nearly fell against the brick-lined hearth as she dropped the logs into it with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you,” she said sarcastically, throwing a frown at Roul sitting in the corner of the inn. “I didn’t need any help.”

Roul was the only customer in the Blue Lily this early in the afternoon, and he watched her with a leering smile as he sipped his mug of ale. His eyes lingered on her longer than she liked. “You’re a strong lass,” he replied. “You didn’t need me.”

She dusted wood chips off her apron and tugged at her simple calf-length brown dress. She hated Roul, but he paid on time and drank enough to almost single-handedly keep the Blue Lily in business. Since her father’s death last winter, she ran the inn essentially alone, which was uncommon for an unwed twenty-two-year-old woman. She was in no position to turn anyone away. Aside from the extra attention he paid her, he wasn’t any real trouble.

Just a nuisance, she thought. And a creep.

“I can help.”

Marie turned to her eight-year-old sister, Joanna, who sat atop the bar at the back of the inn with crossed legs. She picked at her dirty fingernails as she watched Marie at the hearth.

“I can light the fire,” she offered.

“I’m sure you can,” Marie replied as she dug the flint and steel from a pocket in her apron.

“Don’t you have to feed Isabeau?”

“Why don’t you feed her?”

“I can’t lift the fodder,” Joanna said. “The pitchfork’s too big. But I can start the fire. Promise!”

Marie frowned at her sister.

“I’m not a baby,” she persisted. “I’ve done it before.”

“When?”

Joanne looked down suddenly. “Never mind.”

“Let the lass do it,” Roul put in.

Marie turned to him. “The only advice I’ll take from you is how much to water down the ale.”

He frowned and looked at his mug. “It’s watered down?”

She gave a noncommital shrug, grabbed a handful of tinder and kindling, and dropped it atop the logs. She started to light it, then sighed and turned to her sister. “Come on…”

Joanna beamed and leaped down from the bar. She snatched the flint and steel and struck the kindling, and the spark caught almost immediately as a low fire started. Joanna bent over the bricks and blew into the fire. The logs caught a moment later, and she smiled up at Marie.

“Thank you for your help,” Marie said. “Now watch that Roul doesn’t sneak any more ale while I feed the horses.”

“I didn’t sneak any!” he lied from his corner.

The two girls ignored him as Joanna retreated to her seat on the bar and began picking again at her fingernails.

“And watch the lamb,” Marie added as she opened the rear door again. “Make sure you’re turning it. Father Clement’ll be sure to let you know if you burn it.”

“Father Clement is a stuffy old man,” Joanna whined.

“That may be true,” Marie agreed, “but he’s a kind stuffy old man.”

Father Clement had said the mass at their father’s funeral, and he’d helped support the Blue Lily for a short time afterward by donating food and even running it a few nights Marie hadn’t been able to. That’d been quite the sight: a priest pouring ale for travelers. They owed a great deal to Father Clement, so Marie believed he was entitled to be a bit particular about his food.

Marie stepped outside to where Isabeau waited in the stable. Isabeau was an aging donkey, though she was sturdier than she looked and had served them well for almost ten years. Marie filled her trough with hay, then continued preparing the inn for the rush she knew would be coming.

Gusan was a small hamlet, and there was little for the townsfolk to do besides eat and drink at the Blue Lily and complain about King Phillipe Augustus, though even Marie knew the king was a good one. Everyone chipped in to ensure that Marie and Joanna could provide the Saturday evening meals that had become a custom in Gusan. The lamb had been a gift from Humbert, Gusan’s only shepherd. The fruits and vegetables came from Killian’s farm. Father Clement himself provided an extra cask of ale or wine most Saturdays.

An hour later, Marie returned inside and found Roul sleeping in the corner. Joanna leaped down from the bar and rushed over the hearth, rotating the lamb for what was probably the first time. Marie frowned at her sister, then took the remainder of Roul’s ale and poured it into the cask behind the bar. She placed the empty mug back into the drunkard’s hand.

“If he asks, tell him he finished it,” Marie said, and Joanna flashed her a smile.

“Fire’s getting low,” Joanna said. “Can I chop some more wood?”

“If the pitchfork is too heavy, the axe is too heavy. Keep tending the fire. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The Blue Lily had been built at the edge of a dense forest of oak and birch. The trunk of a broad oak sat in the shade of the forest with an axe embedded in its surface. A fallen pair of birch trees rested in the grass beside the trunk. Marie grabbed the axe—the same axe she’d used that morning—and pulled to no avail; it remained deep in the wood. She eventually had to stand atop the trunk and grab the axe shaft with both hands to finally pry it free.

“Should make Roul chop wood,” she muttered, dragging the heavy axe toward the fallen birch trees. She wrestled the blade atop the wood. “Then maybe he’d drink less. That old son of a—”

She heard footsteps from the forest and spun, holding the axe in front of her like a weapon. It shook from the weight and dipped almost immediately into the grass as a man stumbled out of the shadows, clutching his side. He met Marie’s tense gaze and then collapsed into the high grass.

At first, she didn’t move. Rarely—if ever—did she see anyone back here. The light from the fading hearth flickered from the still-open backdoor of the Blue Lily, though she doubted Joanna could see them. She turned cautiously back to the injured man.

“Hello…”

No response.

“Monsieur…” she stammered. “Are you…” she trailed off. Please don’t be dead, she thought.

She stepped to his unmoving body with the axe dragging behind her. He lay face-first on the grass. Kneeling, she placed a palm on his back and felt his mostly steady breathing. At least he was alive. Her hand came back slick and red, and she noticed a smear of blood at the man’s side. He wore a faded leather vest, a dirty hood, and an equally dirty pair of fabric pants. An empty scabbard of plain brown wood and a meager leather pouch hung on his belt.

“What’s that?”

Marie spun to find Joanna standing nearby. When her little sister saw the man, her eyes went wide. She looked at Marie’s axe and bloodied hand.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Marie shouted. She dropped the axe. “He just stumbled from the woods.”

Joanna walked around her and continued to stare down at the unconscious man. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” She brushed her bloodied hand on the man’s dirty hood, though it did little to clean it. “Why are you out here?”

“You took too long. What do we do with him?”

“I don’t know. Get away from him,” she added.

Joanna didn’t move. “Why? Is he sick?”

“I don’t know,” she said for the third time.

“You can’t just let him die,” she went on.

“I know. Back up,” Marie insisted, pushing Joanna back this time.

“Eww! You got blood on me.”

“Joanna, go back inside. I need—”

“I want to help!”

Marie gave a frustrated groan. “There are bandages inside. In our room, under the bed. Grab them. And get my sewing kit and some honey.”

“Honey?”

“Yes, honey,” she said. “Now go!”

Joanna turned and ran inside. Marie bent down again and watched the man breathe. Underneath his vest, he wore a faded set of mail armor. She knew little of armor and arms, but even she could tell that the man’s mail was poorly taken care of; the rings were rusted, and many along the fringes were even broken or fractured. She tried to turn him over, but he was too heavy.

“Here!”

Joanna skidded to her knees in the grass beside Marie. She held a handful of linen bandages in a bundle in her arms, along with a leather pouch and a small jar of honey.

“Help me turn him over,” Marie said.

Joanna dropped the items, and the two rolled the man onto his back. He groaned as they did, but his eyes remained shut. Marie unbuttoned the vest, and Joanna saw the mail armor for the first time.

“Is he a soldier?”

Marie didn’t answer. Unlike the vest, the mail wasn’t buttoned up the middle, meaning she’d have to pull it over his head to remove it. Instead, she shimmied it and the shirt underneath up and out of the way to see the wound. It looked like a clean cut, though she suspected it hadn’t been an accident. Blood seeped through and began to pool on the ground beside them.

“Mon dieu,” Joanna muttered.

“Hush. Get me some water.”

Joanna ran off again as Marie placed some bandages over the wound. They immediately soaked through. She held them in place until Joanna returned with the water. Soaking more bandages, she wiped the wound clean before smearing it with honey. The man groaned as she began to stitch the wound closed, though he didn’t open his eyes as Marie finished the rough stitches. Even she frowned at her work when she was done.

A few minutes later, they had the bandages wrapped tight about his abdomen, an extra layer packed over the wound.

“We have to get him inside,” Marie said. “Father Clement’ll know what to do next. Come on.”

The man’s hand shot up suddenly and grabbed Marie’s wrist. She tried to jerk back, but his firm grip held her in place as he met her gaze with fierce green eyes. “N-no,” he whispered. “Get no one…I…I can’t…trust…” he trailed off into a fit of coughing. He patted at a pouch on his belt. “Keep it…safe…Keep it…away from…them…”

His lids fluttered, then closed, and he fell limp once more.

“What did he say?” Joanna asked.

Marie didn’t answer. Her eyes were on the man’s pouch.

“What did he say?” she asked again.

“To get no one.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think he’s a bandit or something?”

Marie bent down and opened the leather flap of his pouch. She looked inside before cinching it back shut. “Come on,” she said quickly, grabbing him under the arms. “Let’s at least get him upstairs.”

They dragged him across the grass—Isabeau watched them with interest—and through the open back door. Roul still snored away in the corner. They wrestled the unconscious man up the stairs to the mezzanine and into one of the Blue Lily’s rooms, closing the door behind them before hauling him up onto a bed.

“What now?” Joanna asked. “Do we call Father Clement?”

Marie didn’t know how to answer. He’d said to call no one. He didn’t seem to want anyone to know about what was in his pouch. After seeing it herself, Joanna only had more questions than answers. She knew nothing about the man or the thing he carried; he could be a dangerous outlaw or a lost soldier. He could be both.

“Get me some rope,” Marie said. “Hurry.”

Ten minutes later, Marie had the man’s ankles tied together and his hands bound behind him. She removed his belt and hung it near the door—her eyes lingering on his pouch—then tied him to the post of the bed.

“Where’s his sword?” Joanna asked, pointing at the empty scabbard.

“I don’t know,” Marie answered. She realized she’d said that at least a dozen times since the man had shown up.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t—” she stopped. She hated being so uncertain. “Don’t tell anyone yet,” she said instead. “Keep him secret. I’ll figure out what to do when he wakes up.”

“What was in the pouch?”

Marie glanced at the pouch on the wall. “Nothing important,” she said, though she suspected that was a lie. “Go tend the lamb. I still have firewood to cut.”

Joanna reluctantly left the room. Marie watched the man sleep for another few moments before leaving. Roul was awake when she got downstairs, though he only quietly examined his empty mug as Marie stepped outside. She cut more firewood—her eyes on the forest the entire time—then brought it back inside and stoked the dying fire.

Father Clement was the first to arrive. His tonsured head shone in the firelight, and his priestly robes nearly dragged on the floor. He smiled wide through his thick, gray beard as he warmly hugged Marie. Humbert came next, grinning proudly at his lamb that now dripped over the fire. Killian showed up with his three sons, each carrying a wicker basket overflowing with melons, potatoes, cabbages, and carrots. Estienne, Killian’s oldest son at nineteen, paid Marie extra attention, though not in the same lascivious manner as Roul had.

The afternoon wore on as more of Gusan’s residents arrived. John entered the Blue Lily with his gittern, Gosse and Melisende brought their heavy chess board and pieces—Marie still didn’t understand the game—and Rollant came with the same bundle of lavender and daffodils he always brought Marie. She took them with a practiced smile and placed them into a clay vase she’d filled with water in anticipation of the flowers. She’d gotten used to the various suiters. She knew she was pretty, though it was more tiring than anything.

The ragged music of John’s gittern filled the inn, followed by Rollant and Estienne’s singing. The two boys competed for Marie’s attention, though neither received it as she couldn’t stop thinking about the unconscious man and his mysterious pouch upstairs.

Father Clement prayed over the meal, Humbert cut the lamb, and Joanna and Marie ambled about the inn with plates of food and drink. Every seat was taken, which wasn’t overly impressive; they only had three tables. Joanna remained atop the bar as Marie handed out mugs of ale and beer. Roul again fell asleep in the corner, though he’d fully emptied his drink before nodding off.

The sun faded into the west, taking with it the golden sunlight streaming through the Blue Lily’s two windows, and Marie went about the hall and lit the sconces above the door and the six rush candles sitting atop the tables. She was about to step again behind the bar when the door groaned open, and a trio of men she didn’t recognize stepped inside.

Two wore cuirasses over arm-length mail and had swords strapped to their belts. The third man wore a long tunic belted at the waist and a cloak lined with fox fur despite the warmer late summer evening. This man scanned the room with a detachment that unnerved Marie. She didn’t know why, but she found her gaze drawn up to the mezzanine.

“Greetings,” the cloaked man said. “I’m looking for the innkeeper.”

John’s gittern stuttered to a halt, and most of the men turned to eye the newcomer with suspicion. Only Gosse didn’t bother raising his gaze as he continued to study the chessboard between him and Melisendre.

“That’s me,” Marie said. “Do you need a room for the night?”

He curled a lip in disgust and scanned the inn once again. “Hardly,” he muttered. “We’re looking for a man. We tracked him through the forest to your establishment and hoped you could help. Have you seen him?”

Time to vote! What happens next? That's up to you.