By morning, they rode out of the village and followed the road toward Solymár, the cold air thin and clean, the last traces of winter clinging in narrow shadows. The sun rose pale above the fields, casting a washed light over the low hills, and the horses moved at an easy trot, unhurried but steady. Villagers stepped out of their homes as the Company passed, some shading their eyes, some murmuring prayers under their breath. Foreign knights were not a common sight here, and had it not been for the rumors of Remy’s work, they might have stayed hidden behind their doors.

  Sir Gaston placed Remy at the head of the procession. Morgan seemed to approve of this, flicking his ears forward and lifting his steps as though this position was no less than his birthright. Remy adjusted his reins and kept a calm hand, though he could feel the horse’s satisfaction through every movement.

  While they rode, Sir Aldred Hawkwell guided his horse closer until he rode beside Remy. Jehan, noticing the Englishman’s approach, shot him a glare sharp enough to cut cloth before turning her gaze deliberately away.

  Sir Aldred raised a brow. “Hw?t is tis cnihtes wieerweardnes mid me?” he said in his Old English, mostly to himself.

  Remy did not look at Jehan. “Jehan hateth ta Engliscan,” he replied evenly.

  Aldred turned to him with a grin. “And I see you truly are a man of many tongues, Master Valois. You speak it well.”

  “Pardon Jehan,” Remy said. “He has grievances with the English as all of France’s righteous do.”

  Aldred gave a low laugh. “And yet I hear no malice from you. Then again, this company, of so many foreign blood, cares little for where you grew up.”

  “Do you care?” Remy asked.

  “I do not.” Aldred’s smile dimmed, replaced by something older and heavier. “I left England… left all of that war because I thought it pointless. All that killing, for what?”

  “Then you are a man of wisdom,” Remy said. “No wonder you’re here instead of there.”

  Aldred looked away, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “How many years must such a war continue? You’re a man given godly wits, Sir. What do you think?”

  Remy answered before thinking, the memory of timelines and history too deeply etched into him to hesitate. “Twenty-one years from now.”

  There was no flourish, no emphasis, only truth spoken plainly. At least to him.

  The English knight grew somber. “You say it with conviction, and so I believe you. A shame, really.”

  Aldred fell quiet after that. The only sound came from the rhythmic thud of hooves on soft earth and the faint creak of leather. They continued at their steady pace until they crossed paths with a small party of five travelers who asked who they were, received polite answers, and moved on without trouble.

  Solymár revealed itself by midday. A settlement of modest homes, smoke rising from chimneys, the faint smell of livestock drifting lazily on the breeze. They located a patch of shade near a leaning oak tree and halted there to rest their horses. Sir Eamon ó Braonáin accompanied Remy toward the heart of the village to gather supplies.

  The headman proved a crafty one, smiling too often, eyes darting too much, hands rubbing together with eagerness whenever prices were mentioned. But the moment word spread that Remy would examine the sick in exchange for fairer trade, the man softened. The prices lowered to something reasonable, and Remy found himself ushered from house to house, checking on those who complained of pain or weakness or fever.

  He worked with practiced calm. He listened, observed, and instructed. A few had genuine ailments, others simply wanted reassurance from a wandering miracle-worker. He examined each without complaint, offering what advice or medicine he could spare, refusing payment except in herbs, roots, or dried plants that might serve him later on the road.

  By the time he stepped out from the headman’s home, the sun had shifted westward. Sir Gaston waited for him beneath the shade of the tree, arms crossed, and greeted him with a teasing smirk.

  “A nobleman being so close with the peasantry,” Gaston said. “You spoil them too much, Master Valois.”

  Remy wiped the sweat from his brow. “These hands were always meant for healing rather than killing, Sir Gaston.”

  “And yet because you are good at healing, you also know how to inflict pain.” Gaston chuckled. “Do you know how many hours I’ve spent telling your tales to these men out of worry that they’d pick a fight?”

  “You underestimate me,” Remy said flatly. “Do you think I cannot handle their challenges and grievances?”

  “No,” Gaston replied with an easy laugh. “I do not. I’d rather not have them be bruised or battered. They should already know you are a man who wears armor like skin. I hope they might test you one day, but knowing that you are our physician… do you think they would dare? You might hold grudges.”

  “That won’t happen,” Remy said. “But they are right to think I would not spare them from pain if it comes to it.”

  Gaston barked a laugh. “Aye. You speak softly, act softly, but they have not seen the feral wolf inside that I saw in our campaigns.”

  Remy only shrugged. There was no point debating a truth he had long since accepted.

  They mounted again, regrouping beneath the fading light, and made for Buda, the seat of royalty, the twin city across the river, the place where noble power braided itself with ambition and fear. The air carried a different weight as they approached, as though the land understood the importance of what lay ahead.

  The road broadened. Traffic thickened. Merchants hauling goods rattled past in carts. Travelers trudged on tired feet. Clergymen in worn cloaks murmured prayers as they went. Every few miles, a watchtower rose like a stern guardian, its stones darkened by rain and years.

  The knights rode in disciplined formation, their armor glinting like dull silver beneath the shifting sunlight. Civilians moved out of their path in cautious awe while children stood frozen with wide eyes. To them, ten armored knights might well have been a wandering host sent by God to judge their sins.

  Remy kept his gaze forward, but he felt the scrutiny. Jehan rode close by, quiet, her posture straight and composed. A few villagers stared openly at her, noticing the slightness of her build, the youthful cast of her face. But her cloak and hood did their work well enough, and the Company’s presence discouraged further curiosity.

  Aldred occasionally rode near them, though he remained careful not to drift too close to Jehan after her earlier glare. Raimund and Theophilos discussed the roads ahead, debating the best inns to stop at in Buda and which gates would lead them most directly toward the southern routes. Sir Bernat rode with restless anticipation in his eyes, his fingers drumming absently on the pommel of his saddle, as though already imagining the dust of battle at some distant frontier.

  Remy listened to all of it without comment. Buda came into view as the afternoon deepened, its walls rising pale against the sky, the river glinting beyond like a blade of light. The sight of it stirred something faint in Remy. Or memory. He had known cities more grand and more terrible, in another life and another age. Yet each new city always carried the same flavor of expectation and risk.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  As they neared the gates, the guards stiffened, eyes widening at the sight of armed knights approaching in such numbers. Sir Gaston nudged his horse forward and raised a hand, his voice carrying easily.

  “Hail, good sirs! We come with peaceful intent.”

  Remy rode beside him, Morgan steady beneath him as he produced safe-conduct passes, and letters. The guards’ suspicion faltered the moment one recognized him. A whisper spread among them, the healer, the knight in the blue cloak, and soon the gate was opened without further delay.

  They entered Buda, the sounds of the city washing over them at once, merchants shouting prices, iron striking iron from a distant smithy, the clatter of hooves on stone, the laughter of children weaving between the crowd. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the scent of river water and the faint tang of smoke.

  They found lodging near the upper district, an inn sturdy enough to house ten armored men and their horses without complaint. The innkeeper’s eyes widened at the sight of Remy and Jehan, and widened further when she took in the rest of the Company. But she bowed low and welcomed them in.

  The knights dismounted, stretching tired limbs and rubbing stiff necks. Jehan checked the horses, pausing often to whisper a quiet word to Morgan, who tolerated her attentions with a snort.

  Remy stood for a moment on the street, breathing the city’s air before finding rest.

  He was in no hurry to leave Buda, and Sir Gaston and his men saw the wisdom in this. The matter was not idleness but prudence, information traveled where cities breathed, and Buda, more than any village or roadside town, was a place where news gathered like leaves in quiet corners. If they were to push southward in the coming weeks, then it was here, in this city perched upon its hills and cradled by the Danube, where he might find what he needed.

  Buda’s Víziváros quarter lay low and humming along the water, thick with fishermen, artisans, and merchants. Germans made up most of them, though Hungarians mingled freely among the rows of stalls and workshops. He noticed, too, the Slavs and Italians who darted in and out of narrow shopfronts, speaking in fast tongues. The Jews kept to themselves in their quarter, cautious but industrious, and as always he somewhat respected their reserved nature.

  The food was plentiful and honest. Barley and rye bread, sometimes dense and sometimes soft depending on whose oven it came from. Beef stews, or mutton, or game from the surrounding forests. Fish too like carp and catfish pulled from the Danube’s cold current. He watched fishermen gut them on wooden boards, tossing innards to the street dogs while merchants haggled over price. The vegetable stalls carried cabbages, onions, and root vegetables. On one corner he found spices. pepper, saffron, cinnamon. A luxury in such a city, though not rare enough to be unseen. Buda’s hills produced wine of tolerable quality, and beer was abundant among the German quarters, where taverns were always full from midday onward.

  He observed the guilds and their domains. Goldsmiths, butchers, tanners, bakers, masons were mostly in German hands. Their signs, painted in rich colors, hung proudly above their doors. Midsummer bonfires, he noticed, had only recently been cleared. The smell of scorched earth lingered in some squares, though the city already moved past celebration into the slow necessities of everyday life.

  Because word had traveled of the “a knight in the blue cloak,” he found himself approached more than once by noblemen curious about him. Their fashion was unmistakably Hungarian with fur-lined cloaks, colorful silk kaftan-like coats, tall felt hats bound by ornate belts from which sabers hung. The German burghers, on the other hand, wore woolen tunics and hose, cloaks clasped neatly at the shoulder, and distinctive caps that showed their station. Women passed him in dresses of layered sleeves, and married women wore linen veils or caps, while younger maidens showed braided hair wound with ribbons.

  More than one nobleman introduced his daughter, sometimes with transparent eagerness. At first he found it amusing, the way they would invite him to join small games or clever demonstrations, as if such things would prompt him to courtship. But soon he got tired of it. He ignored those whose intent was clearly to have him wed their daughter and thus raise their family’s standing. Jehan, watching from a few paces behind, disapproved of these displays with a furrowed brow, though she said nothing of it and only showed clear disapproval.

  Beyond its people, Buda held a beauty of its own. The roofs were red and ochre tiled, glowing warmly when struck by sunlight. Church spires pierced the skyline, sharp and tall in the Gothic style. The streets curled and bent with the terrain, narrow, winding, and stepped in some places where the slope demanded it. Houses were built of stone, timber, or wattle and daub in poorer corners. Guild districts boasted brick buildings. Whitewashed walls glimmered where the sun hit them and elsewhere natural greys mingled with earthen reds and browns. Above many doorways hung colorful coats of arms, bold symbols announcing the craft or lineage sheltered within.

  It was a lively, vivid city, but like every such city he had visited, it suffered from poor sanitation. Dung collectors moved through the streets with carts, but mud still gathered in unpleasant thickness wherever the thawed ice had recently melted. He preferred, when possible, to mount Morgan rather than risk slipping through the mire. Morgan, for his part, seemed to enjoy striding proudly through Buda as though it were his estate.

  The royal palace crowned the hill. Its rebuilding continued under King Sigismund, and scaffolding clung to walls like skeletal limbs. Yet even half-finished, the palace showed grandeur as tall Gothic windows traced with delicate stonework, inner courtyards shaded by arcaded walkways, stone reliefs of kings and saints and heraldry carved upon the facades. Audience halls, he heard, were being fashioned with timber-beamed roofs. A new southern wing rose steadily, each day adding another row of stone.

  The churches and monasteries commanded his admiration more humbly. The Matthias Church stood not far from the palace. Its Gothic spire was already a proud sight, guarded by thick stone buttresses. Its roof was patterned with tiles, striking even from a distance, and inside, when he walked through one evening, he found frescoes and gilded altars that glimmered like hidden treasure in the dim candlelight. Franciscan and Dominican monasteries also dotted the city and these were simpler, built for prayer rather than display. Cloisters arched in quiet symmetry. Small chapels honored the royal family or wealthy guild patrons.

  He walked alone on the fourth day, taking in the city with deliberate patience. The air was crisp, though not unpleasant, carrying scents of smoke, baking bread, animal dung, river water, and spiced wine all tangled together. Morgan followed him closely when he chose to lead the horse on foot, nudging his shoulder whenever an unfamiliar dog or rowdy market boy came too near.

  He spent time gathering information in taverns and merchant houses. The German burghers were more than willing to speak of trade routes, taxes, and the troubles southward. Many feared the road to the Balkans, and travelers who had passed through warned of brigands, deserters, and roving bands stirred by the conflicts with the Turks. Others spoke of safe paths, few, but present, if one traveled with caution and wit. Sir Gaston listened to all of this flanked by his men, nodding grimly whenever danger was mentioned, but none of them suggested turning back.

  In the evening, Jehan sometimes accompanied him on walks along the quieter streets. She clung to her cloak tightly, wary of the bustle but steady enough beside him. Though she still gave side-glances to foreign knights, particularly the Englishman Sir Aldred, she behaved with greater calm now that they were settled, at least temporarily, in a place with stone walls that have a semblance of order. She asked him questions, about the monasteries, the guilds, the riverboats, the languages she heard. He answered patiently, finding her curiosity sometimes innocent, sometimes sharp.

  Sir Gaston, meanwhile, spent his days speaking with soldiers stationed in the city, and with merchants who had recently come from the south. At times he returned with tidings that left them all uneasy. “Roads are not what they once were, milord,” he would mutter. “Too many desperate souls with swords and nothing to lose.” But he never suggested they delay indefinitely. He understood, as the others did, that lingering too long was as dangerous as moving too soon.

  On the second morning, a nobleman invited him to a feast, and he accepted out of courtesy. The hall was warm, filled with light from torches and hearths, though the food was no finer than what he had already tasted in the city. The nobleman introduced two daughters, shy and well-mannered, yet he could tell their father pushed them forward with purpose. He spoke politely to them and refused gently when the nobleman suggested he stay longer to drink wine with the family. When he left, he saw Jehan waiting outside with a tense expression, though she tried to disguise it by adjusting her cloak.

  Sir Gaston found this amusing. “You attract trouble without trying,” the knight remarked. “Half the noblemen here think you a fine catch, status, mystery, a healer with the arm of a soldier. Hah! They smell opportunity on you like wolves on venison.”

  “I have no desire to be their opportunity,” Remy replied.

  Sir Gaston grinned. “A wise answer. But be careful, my friend. Too many invitations, and we may find ourselves tangled in obligations we did not ask for.”

  On the third day, he visited the Matthias Church again, this time attending a short Mass spoken half in Latin, half in Hungarian. The priest’s voice echoed in the vaults, solemn and layered with age. He lit a candle afterward, saying nothing, merely watching the flame dance while Jehan stood a small distance behind him, still as a carved figure.

  When they left the church, Sir Aldred found them outside and fell into step beside Remy. “You seem troubled, Master Valois,” the Englishman said lightly.

  “Only thoughtful,” Remy answered.

  “A dangerous habit, in our profession,” Sir Aldred laughed.

  Remy almost smiled at that. Almost.

  By the fourth day, he knew the city as well as any traveler could. He had walked its streets, spoken to its people, studied its churches and palaces, and judged its temperament. Buda was a city of colors and contrasts of wealth and mud, merchants and monks, German guildsmen beside Hungarian nobles, all tied together by the Danube that cut through the heart of their world.

  A beautiful place, but not a place to remain.