"What do you think?" Arno said, beaming proudly at the two floored cottage which rested upon serene French countryside.
"It's beautiful," she said. It was good to hear something positive from her. They had argued endlessly about the cost. He had taken out quite a loan to pay for it, even with the money they had already saved from the sales of their horses and weapons.
They had fled East, to Dijon, rather than in the direction of either of their enclaves. They had married at the Saint Benigne Cathedral, and spent the fall and winter doing petty work for meager pay, each of them laboring at a different tavern. They had done so under false names, and employed other tactics for covering their tracks (learned from the Assassins), lest the Chobat residence try to hunt them down for horse theft or simple desertion. Now that it was the beginning of the planting season, they had purchased a small plot of land and house.
"It reminds me of..." she started, then hesitated. "...Normandy."
But Arno was not hurt by the mention of the past. He had changed, cleared his head by spending half a year away from that awful conflict and with the woman he loved. They would have a life away from that barbarity now, putting to use the farming skills they had learned doing their chores in Normandy and Orléans.
"I know we'll have to toil rigorously and live frugally, but we'll be able to give our children a life of peace," he said. Their lives had been a torrent of blood, fear, and hate. They had killed as a way of life. Now they would be free now: a life wholesome, simple, and peaceful.
Arno pulled his love closer. In her belly was their heir: Guinevere if it was a girl, Gustave if it was a boy.