On the road to the bustling town of Maldon stood a middle-aged man, whose rather stern expression, although slightly softened by his round face was reinforced by a pair of steely black eyes and thin lips. He was on his way back to home, riding a hackney, discomfort etched on his wrinkled face rendered even more obvious by the stiffness of his hold on his mount's reins. At his side walked a young girl. Her jade, unadorned linen dress conservatively tied close at the neck, fastened by a golden belt, hugged the curves of her petite body. Her silky, wavy ebony hair was unbound, concealed under an untied wimple, framing her honey skinned face, adorned with a button nose and thin lips.
As always when in each other's company, a thick silence had settled between them, only disrupted by the clattering of the horse's hooves and the soft panting of the Molosser at her side. Rachel was trundling along, absorbed by her thoughts, unaware of her father's furtive glances, her tapering fingers stroking at the amber necklace adorning her neck, worn as an early token of her commitment to her betrothed.
Her betrothed. The word was familiar, but it sounded almost foreign when applied to her, and her mind was grappling with its very idea. She was to be married to a man she barely knew, and judging by her father's content smile earlier, as he concluded the debate he had shared with the future groom's father over the terms of the impeding Tenaim ceremony where the betrothal agreement would be finally settled, along with the dowry and other financial arrangements, it would probably be sooner rather than later.
She ought to be excited about it, ought she not? Everyone else seemed excited at the prospect, and for good reasons. At 17, it was time for her to marry. He was a reputable suitor who could provide her with a comfortable life, he wasn't displeasing to the eye, and more importantly, they shared the same faith. Yet, she couldn't shake off this apprehensive feeling, the remembrance of the uneasiness she had felt while the weight of his invasive gaze roamed over her, causing a crease on her forehead.
The sound of a sharp, single bark from Talbot, the black mastiff following on her heels, drew their attention. He wasn't an excitable puppy. Despite his intimidating stature, he was a calm and docile dog who very seldom barked, in addition to being well-trained, and Rachel immediately recognized his stance. He was on alert. She exchanged a worried glance with her father before turning back to the dog, who gave another low bark and rushed forward, ignoring the commanding voice of Rachel shouting after him "Talbot! Heel!".
Her dad, stood there, disconcerted at the dog's behavior before suddenly acknowledging the imminent danger they possibly faced. But as he opened his mouth to exhort his daughter to hush in order to avoid attracting attention from who-know-what the dog ran after, she had already taken off, chasing after him and quickly faded out of his sight.
But as soon as she turned the corner, she stopped in her tracks and gasped, her hazel eyes widening as she surveyed the scene before her, barely registering the anguished voice of her father growing louder as he neared her. A man was lying on the ground, a few feet away from her, a thick blood escaping the gash on his head. The dark-haired girl blinked, dismay twisting her delicate features, and having recovered from the initial shock, sprung into action, rushing toward him to attend to his wounds, hoping he was still alive. Without delay, she tore her veil off and swiftly wrapped it around his head, temporarily staunching the blood flowing from his open wound to the head.
"Rachel!", she flinched as the booming voice of her father rang out right behind her. She ventured an apologetic glance at the old man before returning her attention to the unknown man, and bent forward, pressing her ear against the cool metal of his chainmail, looking for a heartbeat, no matter how faint. Nothing. Biting her lips nervously, she leaned closer to his mouth, trying to detect a sign of breathing and sighed a silent prayer of gratitude in relief as she felt his breath brushing her cheek.
And pushing back Talbot, who was back at her side and had begun licking the blood off his body, she finally turned back to her father. Taking in the mixture of fear, disbelief and anger in his expression, she swallowed and breathed out "I-I'm sorry… I…" Her voice broke into a gasp as a slap stung her cheek, silencing her. "Don't you ever do that again!" he said, voice shaking.
She hung her head in shame, holding back the tears that she felt forming in her eyes, before resolutely cocking her head up as she met once more his gaze, which had lost its intensity and repeated, her pleading voice cracking under the emotional strain:
"I'm sorry… but, he's still alive, and he needs our help"
---
The sun had begun to set before the horizon, glowing dimly through the window, tinting the sheets of the bed where the bandaged form of the wounded man rested, and sitting on the bed beside him on her bloodstained dress was Rachel, her brown eyes darker than usual, betraying her weariness. She forced them open, as she dipped a cloth in the bowl.
"How is he?", asked her father, the sound of his familiar voice coming from the door frame making her freeze in mid-step.
"He's still fighting a high fever, but at least he's not bleeding anymore… from what I can tell anyway", she sighed and gently pressed it against the forehead of the feverish man, a short silence following her words. Sensing her father's gaze upon her, she raised a questioning gaze at him. And after looking intently at her for a moment, regret glimmering in his dark eyes, he murmured hesitantly "You did all you could. You should rest now". But no matter how tempting the comfort of a warm bed was, she couldn't bring herself to let go. What if he worsened while she was sleeping? No. She couldn't take the risk. "I can't", she answered softly.
The old man shrugged wearily and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
