Morte de Fleur

He spotted her near the palace garden. Her frail form hovering over a bunch of roses, her paleness clashed greatly with the bright, vibrant red. He hated to do this, but she would gain him ten-fold of any other. Such a beautiful specimen, in all her glory, it would be easy to snatch her from behind, but to keep her would pain him so.1

Her eyes were like the emeralds his wanton heart so greatly desired. Her hair was like the million threads that made the clothes of angels. She was the embodiment of beauty in its most simplistic form. Her prowess was only matched to that of a cheetah and her grace matched to the great queens in heaven. He hated to scar innocence such as hers, but his true love was that of money.2

She did not scream one bit when he grabbed her. The thorn of the rose she held scratched into her arm leaving a trail of dark blood to dribble down upon him. It was a mere pinprick. He grasped at her rose and placed it in his breast pocket. There was no time to sweat the details now. He could not stop to clean up the blood that lay in the path; he would have to chance it. She did not scream as he picked her up and carried her into the small cottage. She only winced as the blood gushed from her arm and flowed upon his shoulder.3

He laid her roughly upon the bed and locked the door behind him. Her face glowed with a radiance that would rival the goddess Diana. He longed to hold her, but he could not be that bold. The curate at the chapel agreed to write the ransom note in return for some of the money. He had lost all his glory with heaven long ago, if it were not for the standing in the community he would have joined John in the kidnap and ransom business long ago.4

The letter detailed the plan in full, though John could not read it. He had not been taught to read or write besides for a few scant lessons from his mother on his name. The blood dotted path marked the way. Drop by drop created the trail. He placed the note upon the bunch of roses as the chaos marched on around him. The princess had disappeared was all the knights would say as they passed him on the road towards the cottage. He snickered as he watched them ride towards the castle, for the castle was the opposite way to her.5

A torrent of rain had unleashed itself half way home. John did not mind, for waiting for him was the fairest maiden in the land. What could be better? Her perfection harked by angels in heaven and her wit heralded by devils below. The curate was to check on her while he delivered the note and he was to meet them both at the chapel, what a fine place to hide a captive, then they were to go to the ransom spot. Without incident, this was a brilliant plan. He would stop by the cottage to remove a sword and mace, for incidents never seemed to avoid him.6

Against the cottage wall sat the curate deep in thought, allowing the rain to wash away the grief that surrounded him. John approached him, but the curate shuddered at another presence.7

"My dear curate, why are you not at the chapel? You will catch you death here in the rain." The words seemed foreign to John; he knew well that this was the incident he feared.8

The curate managed to work his limbs and find his way inside. His face was white and peeked and as he spoke, an eerie chill crept across the room. "She is in the room, yet she is not there. Her soul has left us."9

He had not understood the gravity of the curate's words.10

The curate pulled in a deep breath, the peasant boy before him had no clue what he had done. He had brought the wrath of the lord upon them. " She is dead. The wound she received bled her dry. Huntington's."11

The words struck him. She was dead. Bled dry as he said. This hemophilia was unexpected. "Where is the body? What shall we do?" The rose poked him through his shirt pocket like an omen to his doom.12

John was at a near panic. The rain-washed over the road as they trudged towards the ransom spot with the fallen angel. Knights waited at the wings of the clearing, waiting to strike the would-be kidnappers. Not expecting the white-faced curate and the peasant boy to enter with the princess's body. They laid her in the mud; a tear escaped the boy's eyes. Her angel thread hair wash over his feet.13

The curate looked to the sky, then grasped John's sword. He looked once at the angel at his feet and then spoke, " May the lord have mercy upon us both!" Then with a fowl blow, he felled the peasant and himself. For blood can only be met with blood, now the debt was repaid.14

Note Hemophilia is a disease that does not let blood lot to stop bleeding. In the olden days it was spread throughout royal blood lines.15