A story forming

It has no title yet. I do know where it is leading, although it is nowhere near there yet.

Best title I have come across in a long time, a song sung by Capercaillie, translated from the Gaelic:
When you see a pretty girl you will be in pursuit of her for one night

The story begins itself

Once there was a fine young woman who lived just outside the walls of a mighty and somber castle. All her life she had tended to her chores and tasks, since the day when, because she could walk and talk and eat her supper on her own, she began to take the bread crumbs from the day’s meals out to the henhouse.

She longed to see what life was like behind the castle walls, but never could get more than a brief look as the gates were drawn slowly open to let guests in. Oh what wondrous parties entered through those gates: fine ladies in riding cloaks of velvet chased with threads of silver and gold; gentlemen with long pointed toes on their rich leather boots; sometimes holy men in rough woven robes, their sandals worn from days of walking from distant monasteries.

As she drew water from the well, as she milked the cows and swept the floor smooth with the feather of a seagull, she would imagine all that must be just beyond the glimpsed courtyard of passages in and out. She imagined rooms the size of the wheat fields that lay below the cottage she shared with her sister. The rooms had massive ceilings painted with the night sky, and the walls were hung with crimson velvet embroidered with golden thread.