A Harvest of Memories

France — Burgundy Region, Autumn of 1472 (Grape country at the height of the wine harvest)

The sun sagged low over the rolling hills of Burgundy, staining the vineyards in molten gold and deep violet. Maxx rode slowly along the rutted highway, each hoofbeat uneven.

His mount, Brun, a bay gelding with more loyalty than stamina, had begun favoring his left foreleg miles ago. Now the horse limped with every step, breath huffing out in soft, pained clouds.

Maxx winced at the sound. He had ignored worse aches in his own bones, but a horse’s suffering was another matter entirely.

He drew on the reins and dismounted, boots striking the dirt with a dull thud. His green wool cloak swayed as he moved, brushing against his leather trousers. Dust clung to his dark boots, which had carried him across half the French countryside over the past month. He pulled off his gloves one by one and ran a bare hand down Brun’s neck.

“There now,” he murmured in the old dialect he still remembered. “You’ve done enough for today.”

The horse nudged him, exhausted but grateful.

Maxx caught his reflection in the animal’s dark eye—his face gaunt from too many days on the road without rest, black hair damp with sweat and wind, the broad white streaks at his temples stark beneath the hood of his cloak.

He looked every bit the wandering mercenary local lords distrusted and villagers avoided. Yet he was expected to meet one by tomorrow—Lord Étienne de Mirancourt, at a manor said to overlook vineyards that stretched like green oceans.

At this rate, he would not arrive before the next sunrise.

He loosened Brun’s girth and began to walk beside him, holding the reins loosely so the horse could hobble at his own pace.

Hunger gnawed at him, dry as gravel. Thirst burned in his throat. The late-afternoon wind only mocked him with the scent of crushed grapes from unseen presses.

No towns or inns for leagues. Only endless vineyards and fading light.

Then he noticed a narrow path splitting from the main road, scarcely more than a worn track between two sloping rows of vines. At the top of a gentle rise stood a small farmhouse, its stone walls the color of pale honey, its thatched roof weathered, a soft curl of smoke rising from the chimney.

The relief was subtle, but Maxx felt it bloom in his chest.

“Come, Brun. Let’s see whether kindness grows in this soil.”

They followed the path. As he drew closer, he heard the creak of a wooden bucket, followed by light female laughter, musical and carefree. Two young women stood at the well, drawing water by hand.

The first was fair as morning light. Her skin was pale and clear, with hair a burnished reddish-blonde that fell in loose waves from beneath a linen kerchief. She wore a simple dark-blue wool kirtle with a laced bodice, her sleeves rolled to the elbow as she worked, her bare feet planted on the packed earth. Her eyes, blue as a summer sky, widened at the sight of Maxx and lingered a heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded.

The second was darker, her skin a warm bronze kissed by sun and labor. Her hair was chestnut, thick and smooth, braided into a long plait that swayed as she moved. Her features were finer, her gaze sharper—a young woman accustomed to studying strangers before trusting them. Her earth-toned dress was well mended, and she handled the crank with quick, efficient strength.

Both froze as he approached the fence line, like startled deer—beautiful yet wary, and poised to flee.

Maxx inclined his head and pushed back his hood so they could see his face. He hoped the gesture made him seem less like a brigand.

Before either girl could speak, the farmhouse door swung open.

A broad-shouldered man stepped out, wiping his hands on a worn apron. He looked to be in his middle years, with thick hair graying at the temples and a closely trimmed beard. His rough-spun clothes were patched at the elbows and stained with the honest wear of fieldwork. His brown eyes were sharp with suspicion. In a land marked by wars and raiders, a lone stranger was seldom welcome.

“What is your business, traveler?” the man called, his accent thick and edged with unease.

Maxx stepped forward, reins in hand, Brun limping beside him.

“My horse is lame,” he said, his voice calm and respectful. “I’m miles from any town and have been on the road too long without rest. If you have room—a corner of a barn, even—I would pay honestly for a night or two. Food for myself, water for my mount. Nothing more.”

The farmer’s gaze flicked to the horse’s injured leg, then to Maxx’s clothing: travel-worn boots, leather trousers dusty from the trail, a grey-green tunic laced at the chest, and a sturdy wool cloak that marked him as either a man of means or a man pretending to be one.

Then the farmer’s eyes went to Maxx’s hair—the stark white patches framing his otherwise dark locks—and stayed there. A superstition stirred behind his gaze, the kind that ran deep in the countryside.

Maxx waited with his hands visible, his posture steady. He did not blame the man for his caution.

At length, the farmer exhaled.

“My house isn’t large,” he said. “Not enough for another body. But…” He scratched his beard. “You and your horse can stay in the stable. It’s dry and warm enough. My daughters will bring you bread and stew.”

At that, the two girls exchanged glances—one delighted, the other dubious.

Maxx bowed his head. “You have my thanks. And my coin.”

“I don’t do this for coin,” the farmer replied. “I do it because winter is coming, and no man should sleep on the cold ground with a lame beast.”

“Even so,” Maxx said, “you’ll have both.”

The farmer gave a single nod. “The stable is around the side. I’ll fetch salve for the horse’s leg.”

As Maxx led Brun past the well, the fair-haired daughter offered a shy smile. The darker-haired one watched him more closely, suspicion narrowed into curiosity. It was as though she sensed something about him that did not belong to the roads or the vineyards.

Maxx inclined his head to both, his cloak brushing his boots as he passed.

The sky deepened to amber. The scent of woodsmoke and crushed grapes filled the air. For the first time in days, he found himself looking forward to the night.

He pushed open the stable door and guided Brun inside. A lantern hung from the central beam, casting warm, flickering light over the stalls. The scent of sun-dried hay, sweet and familiar, wrapped around him like an old memory.

Brun limped forward with a weary grunt, nudging Maxx’s shoulder once before lowering his head to the trough. Maxx loosened the cinch, removed the saddle, and stroked the horse’s flank with slow, grounding motions.

“You brought us far today, my friend,” he murmured, his hand settling on the animal’s neck. “Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

He chose a clean corner of the barn and pulled together a fresh armful of straw to make a rough bed. He draped his green wool cloak over a timber post. The steel of his sword caught the lantern’s glow as he unbuckled it and set it close at hand.

As he lowered himself to sit, soft footsteps whispered outside.

He paused.

Three silhouettes appeared in the doorway, lantern light framing them in gold.

A woman stood at the front, poised but tired in the way country women often were. Reddish-blonde hair was tied beneath a linen wrap, her features strong but softened by kindness. At her sides stood the two young women he had glimpsed earlier.

Twins—now unmistakable. They mirrored one another in age and shape, and yet did not match.

The first, on the mother’s right, was the fair one. Her hair glowed with the same ember-lit gold as her mother’s. Her skin was pale, pinked by the chill, and her blue eyes shone with curiosity as she balanced a wooden tray carrying a steaming bowl.

The second twin, on the left, bore her father’s coloring—warm bronze skin, chestnut hair braided down her back, and keen brown eyes that assessed him with caution sharpened by intelligence. She carried a small jug of water and a clay cup.

The mother stepped forward and inclined her head. “Traveler, we’ve brought you supper,” she said. “It isn’t much, but you are welcome to it.”

Maxx rose, brushing hay from his leather trousers. “You do me more kindness than I deserve.” He gave a small bow. “Thank you.”

The twins entered, their lantern held high, its warm glow softening the shadows of the barn.

“My name is Elise,” said the fair twin, with a gentle smile. “And this is my sister, Marion.”

Marion nodded, still wary.

“And this is our mother, Dame Adèle,” Elise added.

Maxx placed a fist over his heart—a gesture of respect from another land, another age.

“Maximillian DeSilva,” he said. “Most call me Maxx. I hold the title of a minor noble.”

“DeSilva,” Marion repeated. “That is not French.”

“No,” Elise said at once. “It sounds Spanish, does it not?”

Maxx inclined his head. “My father’s people came from the southern kingdoms.” He did not say which southern kingdoms. Or how long ago. Best not to unravel centuries before supper.

Adèle stepped closer, studying him with soft but perceptive eyes. “Have you been to court, Monsieur DeSilva?”

Maxx gave a quiet chuckle. “More than once. Though each was more dangerous than the last.”

That earned him matching looks of intrigue.

“Where have you traveled?” Elise asked, leaning forward with open fascination.

Maxx pondered the question. He couldn't reveal the full story—the vast continents he traversed, the roads he traveled before they had names, or the empires he witnessed rise and fall. Instead, he offered a simpler truth.

“I’ve seen the Pyrenees and the plains beyond them,” he said. “I’ve ridden through Aragon, Navarre, and Toledo. I fought once in a border war near the foothills.” He lifted a shoulder. “And I’ve crossed France from south to north more times than I can count. I suppose I have been searching for a place to rest.”

Marion’s expression softened. “Few find peace on the road.”

“No,” Maxx agreed. “But sometimes the road offers a brief kindness.”

Adèle smiled gently as her daughters stole small glances at the stranger who spoke like a soldier and carried himself as if he were something more.

Before the conversation could drift deeper, heavy footsteps sounded outside. The farmer appeared at the barn entrance, his breath puffing in the cold.

“Girls,” he said, “give the man space to eat. You’ve chores yet to finish.”

Elise frowned. Marion rolled her eyes. Their mother offered Maxx an apologetic smile.

Maxx inclined his head to the family. “Your hospitality humbles me. Truly.”

The farmer shrugged, awkward with praise. “A traveler in need is still a man. And this land hasn’t forgotten mercy yet.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Come along, all of you.”

The twins gave graceful curtsies—Elise with a bright smile, Marion with a smaller but sincere nod—before leaving with their mother into the night.

Their lantern glow faded, leaving Maxx alone with the stillness of hay and the soft shifting of Brun in his stall.

He sat on the straw pallet and lifted the bowl of stew. Barley, carrots, lamb, and herbs fresh from the garden. It was simple fare, but to a half-starved traveler like himself, it might as well have been a noble feast. He ate slowly, savoring the warmth spreading through his chilled body.

Above him, the rafters creaked. Crickets chirred. Outside, the wind moved through the vineyard rows like whispered secrets.

When the bowl was empty, Maxx set it aside and crossed to Brun. The gelding leaned into his touch as Maxx checked the injured leg once more.

“Rest well,” he murmured. “Tomorrow we will see what fortune brings.”