Gypsy

The Englishman walked into the bar he so frequently visited after long days working over papers and discussing estates with his father and his associates. He ordered his usual bitter ale and drank it with despair, wondering, hoping that there was more in life than a piece of goddamned land. His mind wandered to the caravan of wagons that were still parked at the bottom of the hill of his father's lawn, the people it contained, specifically the woman that had captured every fiber of his interest. Those people, the gypsies as the English called them, lived a life he wished for. A life of necessity, travel, and danger. And yet, it was a life he feared. A life of segregation and prejudice. The Rom were hated in his world, barbarians, nothing better than dirt. But deep in his heart, the Englishman knew that there was more to the Rom than their palm reading and wagons.
He looked up as a few gentlemen entered the bar, somewhat dirty from a long day of smithing. They sat together at a round table, the bartender immediately bringing them drinks. Not a second later, the men were laughing obnoxiously, shouting their every word to each other as if they were deaf. The Englishman rolled his eyes, repressing a dramatic sigh as he realized he could not escape the indecency of men despite how hard he tried.
“Hey pretty lady,” one man drawled in a slow, slurred tongue.
The Englishman's ears stood up like a dog's, his interest now more keen than ever. He turned ever so slightly so not to be obvious as he observed what was going down. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw the woman from his dreams, the woman who lived at the bottom of his hill.
That woman tipped her chin defiantly at the drunken man, but he didn't get the point. A big hand held her shoulder as he brought her in for a kiss. With a twist and a hard kick in the groin, the woman was free from the big man's grasp. As if she hadn't just taken down a man, the woman brushed a strand of loose, curled hair from her face, one hand on her hip and she turned to walk briskly away.
However one of the man's friends stood up and shouted “Hey Gypsy, you can't do that!” Said friend stalked to the woman, taking her long hair into his fingers and yanked it so hard she went sprawling to the ground. The Englishman instantly shot to his feet, pulled out his sword, and pointed it at the base of the throat of the man.
“I wouldn't hurt the lady if I were you,” The Englishman growled, his obvious dislike, if not hatred, for the man and his drunken friends evident in his voice.
The man held at sword point narrowed his eyes. “Or what? You'll kill me?” The man gripped the woman's hair tighter, earning a small snarl from the gypsy and an attempted kick to the shins, although avoided.
The Englishman studied the man, looking him from toe to head. “Yes. You're mistreating a woman. That is unacceptable in this town, Hank.” The Englishman used the man's name for emphasis, squaring his shoulders.
Hank let go of the woman's hair, grumbling as he walked away, picking up his still mewling friend as they all left the bar. Sheathing his sword, the Englishman offered the woman his hand. She stared at him with her big, round eyes, admiration sparkling and then her jaw clenched and she stood up without his help, chin held defiantly.
“I was capable of handling that myself,” she spat, already headed for the door.
The Englishman frowned. “Obviously not, miss. He had you by your beautiful hair. I doubt that makes it very easy for self defense.”
She turned to glower at him. “I do not need your English help.”
A smirk twitched the Englishman's lips. “Is this about not needing help or me being English?”
The gypsy woman actually smiled. “You're quick, I'll give you that.”
“You're not going to answer my question?” The Englishman inquired after a moment of drinking in her compliment.
The woman peered up at him. “It's both. I don't need help and I especially don't need it from the likes of you.” She lifted her fingers up to her mouth and whistled. Before his very eyes, a black steed sprinted up the dirt path, skidding to a stop beside the woman. “But I will thank you for protecting a woman, despite her heritage,” She added once mounted on the horse.
The Englishman had to crane his neck to look at her. “Miss, a woman is a woman, no matter the color of her skin or the language she speaks.”
Again, she smiled. She has a wonderful smile. “Jaelle.”
“Jaelle?”
“My name is Jaelle.”
The Englishman simply smiled, however on the inside he was clapping and cheering in joy. “John Hoic.”
“Goodbye, John Hoic.”
The Englishman watched as the woman disappeared on her steed, his heart soaring into the clouds.