Star-Crossed Sentiments: A Medieval Love Story

Clara
6 March 750 A.D., 10:30 A.M.

My mother once told me, “Never give your heart to a man who does not carry himself with honor.” Her words have echoed in my mind every dawn I have awakened to the cold breath of dawn on Lord Lanin’s lands. Ten years have passed since I last saw her, but I have kept her wisdom close, guarding it like the single polished stone I wear around my neck, the last gift she gave me before I became a serf.

Yet, when I look into Sir Rowan Peigne’s eyes, I believe my mother would have smiled in approval. Rowan is a knight of true chivalry, one who bows before the Truce of God, refusing to spill blood from Wednesday dusk until Monday dawn. His sword defends the helpless and his word shields the weak. He is my hope in a world of toil and mud.

Today is the first tournament I will witness. The manor is alive with laughter and whispers, banners ripple above the arena, and the scent of roasted meats carries on the cool morning breeze. I clutch my tattered handkerchief, trying to mimic the noble ladies, though my trembling hands betray my station.

The crowds gather, nobles and peasants alike, each soul waiting for the knights to clash. My eyes search for him, for Rowan, whose armor gleams in the winter sunlight, reflecting the blue of the sky and the hope in my chest. He rides into the arena, his lance poised, facing none other than Lord Geoffrey Lanin himself, a man whose pride shines brighter than the jewels on his armor.

Across the ring sits Lady Marsei Marchelagne, Lord Lanin’s betrothed, her eyes downcast as Geoffrey blows her a kiss. Her silks are as fine as moonlight, but I can see the weight of the world pressing on her slender shoulders. She does not smile.

The horn sounds. Hooves pound the dirt. The air holds its breath.

Their lances meet with the echo of splintering wood. Rowan falls, unseated. My breath catches, but he rises, brushing dust from his armor, and gives a respectful nod. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Lady Marsei’s eyes betray her tension.

The knights ready for a second charge, the arena falling silent as snow begins to drift, whispering of winter’s edge. The horn cries out, and this time, there is no sound of wood striking steel—only the sickening thud of wood piercing flesh.

Marsei
5 March 750 A.D., 2:22 P.M.

“My lady, have you given thought to my proposal?”

Lord Lanin’s voice drifts like cold wind through my chambers, pulling me from the window where the gray sky presses down on the stone towers. My silks feel like shackles around my arms, and the draft whispers of the world beyond these walls.

“My apologies, my lord, but which proposal do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

Lord Lanin’s jaw tightens. “Your father’s tournament is tomorrow, in honor of his fifty-fifth year. I propose that we announce our engagement and marry after the melee. A fitting celebration, don’t you think?”

I force a smile, each word tasting of iron on my tongue. “Of course, my lord. It sounds… delightful.”

Inside, dread gnaws at me. Lord Lanin is cunning, a man who trades favors and bargains for power, his lands a chessboard of alliances. My father trusts him, admires his ambition. I, however, see the cold gleam in Geoffrey’s eyes when he speaks of war and taxes, of how serfs are nothing but tools to be sharpened and discarded.

He continues, “I will ride tomorrow, facing knights and fools alike.”

And in that moment, my heart stutters, for his words have summoned a name I dare not speak aloud. Rowan Peigne. My Rowan.

He was my childhood companion, a boy with bright hair like sunlight and eyes that saw my soul. We played by the rivers, racing the winds and building castles from moss and sticks, vowing that one day he would be my knight in shining armor. But kingdoms and power are cruel thieves, and my father’s agreements with Lord Lanin stole that dream before it bloomed.

As Lord Lanin’s voice drones on, the door opens. Rowan enters, his presence like the promise of spring in the bitter cold. We meet each other’s gaze, a silent storm of memories and impossible wishes.

He bows deeply, his voice calm but strained. “My lord, my lady. I am honored to serve in tomorrow’s tournament.”

His eyes flicker to mine, and I mouth the words, Be safe.

Finale: Clara
6 March 750 A.D., 10:37 A.M.

The world turns red.

Red on the banners, red on the snow, red on the hands of those who rush forward. Sir Rowan Peigne has fallen, the lance of Lord Lanin having struck true, piercing flesh where steel should have been.

A scream breaks the frozen air. Lady Marsei, silks stained with mud, flies from her place in the stands, collapsing at Rowan’s side. The nobles watch in horror, while the peasants, unable to leave, press forward, their hands reaching to help.

I am among them. My feet move before I can think, and I find myself kneeling beside Lady Marsei. Her eyes meet mine, filled with grief and recognition of our shared love for the fallen knight. She grips my wrist, and we hold each other as Rowan’s breath fades, our tears falling onto the dirt and blood.

Rowan’s eyes close for the final time, the winter wind howling above as if to mourn him.

Epilogue

In the weeks that follow, the manor falls under a heavy silence. Lord Marchelagne, seeing his daughter’s unending sorrow, breaks the engagement to Lord Lanin, who departs with his pride wounded but his lands intact.

On the day of Rowan’s funeral, the bells toll for the knight who lived with honor and died for the whims of power. It is Marsei’s nineteenth birthday. It is mine as well.

In the soft dawn after the service, Marsei and I stand together, the frost glistening on the grass like fallen stars. We speak little, but the bond forged in grief becomes our solace. We remember Rowan not as the knight who fell, but as the man who lived with courage and love.

In the end, our shared sentiment for him may have been star-crossed, but the friendship we built in the ashes of our loss became a bond that even death could not sever.

🌹 Moral of the Story:

True love is not always destined to last, but the courage to love and the friendships born from shared grief can guide us toward hope even in the darkest times.