The first day of the autumn harvest was upon them. Golden sunlight streamed steadily from the cornflower blue sky. The day was unusually warm, despite the brief reprieve of the cooling wind that had flowed north from the Pyrenees. Snow would soon be upon them, blanketing all that lay before Bertrande in a haze of white, again making an impassable wall of ice and snow between the farm, and all that lay beyond. Seated beneath a small oak, the very same where she and Martin had parted ways. Bertrande watched young Sanxi, who had grown to resemble the sisters of Martin Guerre, rather than inheriting the distinguished countenance of his father, and his father's father.
She reached out, and lifted the small child to her breast, smoothing the thick chestnut locks not unlike her own. She gazed out onto the field before her. Stacks of harvested grass and grain stood like golden pyres blazing in the sunlight. A year had passed, almost to the day, since her husband's departure. Long had Bertrande yearned for Martin's return, undoubtedly he also felt a similar weight upon his chest from the ache of loneliness, disinclined to be away from his life for much longer.
Although, as the snow of the previous winter had melted away into the land, he did not return to her. Whispers from the surrounding villages had brought further unrest upon the house of Guerre. Many had believed Martin to be dead, caught amidst the conflicts in the north. Stirrings and unrest among the people of the north were common, in the multitude of states everlasting struggle for more land and power. Bertrande, indeed all of the Guerre household, silently prayed for Martin's deliverance, that no ill had befallen the future heir. To no longer be the wife, but rather the widow of Martin Guerre was an unbearable thought for her as it would be to relinquish the child she had begot by him.
She tightened her embrace on her small son, as if he were the only being that anchored her to the very earth. The child mewled with discomfort, twisting in her arms for release. Swiftly, she disengaged herself from her son, lest someone should hear his cries and relieve him from his mother's possessive hold. Bertrande laid the young son of the Guerre family amidst the generous folds of her skirts. She gazed at the young boy with a tender look upon her face. Her parti-coloured eyes softened with the love she felt for her son; the son of Martin Guerre. The son of the man who would soon stride proudly through the main gate and back into her arms as her heart so desired.