The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows)

by Philippa Lodge

  “I wish my girl cousins were here. They’re a lot more interesting.” The girl sighed heavily. “Diane is just my age. Do you know Diane?”

  Catherine thought of the shy, pink-cheeked girl, Monsieur Jean-Louis’s daughter. “I do know her. I stayed with your Uncle Jean-Louis for a few days last week.”

  “Did you?” The girl sat up straighter and held onto Catherine’s arm, her little hand hot through the sleeve. “Did you meet Ondine? Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Catherine assured her that her cousin was beautiful, which was true, and also that the adolescent girl was charming. Françoise grew quiet, deep in thought.

  A boy came and sat on Françoise’s other side: Alexandre, who had shouted over the balcony at them earlier. “All done, Fan-Fan?”

  The girl sighed. “My arm is tired, and this is boring.” She leaned against her big brother, who patted her back.

  He scratched at a pimple on his chin and sighed. “I can hardly wait to go to Uncle Dom’s château-fort next year.” He switched his attention to Catherine and announced, “I’d like to be an officer. I’ll be a dragoon or a musketeer. Or cavalry!”

  “Maman said no, Alex,” the girl announced loftily.

  The boy slumped. “Papa also said no. He doesn’t want me to get shot. It’s ridiculous, I won’t get shot. I’ll ride too fast.”

  Catherine’s attention snapped back to the de Cantière men when they froze in place as a group of gentlemen approached. Her stomach clenched when she saw among them d’Oronte and some of his friends.

  D’Oronte didn’t seem to notice her, but she looked away anyway, trying to listen to the children. When Alexandre saw the new arrivals, he rose with an eager expression. “Finally, we’ll get to see real men spar.”

  Françoise sighed deeply.

  “If you like, I’ll walk you up to your maid.” Catherine hoped the girl would accept and they could slip away.

  The girl looked at her from the corner of her eyes. “Alors…I suppose we could stay and watch.”

  No easy escape, then.

  More young men arrived, some greeting the de Bures and de Cantière men as friends or with respect, others with a thin veneer of politeness. Lucas de Granville approached Emmanuel, looking a little cautious, they spoke into each other’s ear for just a minute, glanced at her, and shook hands. De Granville came toward her and greeted her politely before standing to the right of her bench.

  D’Oronte kept his distance as he and his friends talked and laughed and selected their weapons. Finally, d’Oronte glowered directly at her—he had known she was there all along. Her stomach curdled, and she felt a little lightheaded at his anger and contempt. His voice carried across the open area, rebounding slightly off the palace wall. “I believe it is a good morning for a rematch, Monsieur le Chevalier de Cantière. I mean, if you have any strength left for me after facing these formidable opponents.” He glanced at the boys, who stood up straighter, hesitating between believing the words and identifying the veiled insult to their uncle.

  The boys’ frowns were nothing to the men’s. Emmanuel’s father turned slowly to face the young man. Even in his dull, old clothing, he drew himself up to the heights of an imposing, influential baron, ready to defend his child. And yet his expression was nothing to the Comte de Bures’, who smiled with eyes so full of ice Catherine was surprised d’Oronte did not shatter. D’Oronte looked uneasy, but smiled back.

  Emmanuel bowed politely. “Of course, Monsieur d’Oronte. We are well-matched, after all. I ask only to have my sister’s husband oversee our bout. After all, he is a well-known sword master.”

  The enthusiastic agreement of all the gentlemen except d’Oronte and his friends meant Monsieur Emmanuel would have his wish.

  “I cannot counsel you if I am to oversee,” the comte said to Emmanuel as the younger man paced to the railing close to where Catherine sat.

  Emmanuel nodded. “I think more than ten years of your counsel shall have to suffice.”

  The comte smiled and clapped him on the back. “I hope you’ve been practicing.”

  “Mostly with a saber on horseback, but it’s coming back to me.”

  The comte shook his head and turned away to talk to d’Oronte and his friends. He checked over d’Oronte’s sword. The vicomte took off his coat, and his friends helped him put on a padded waistcoat. His shoulders were narrower than Emmanuel’s, but his lean strength made her shudder instead of dream. She shivered again as she remembered his hands squeezing her arms and her panic as he forced a kiss.

  The Baron de la Brosse spoke to Emmanuel in a low voice until his son laughed, his handsome face lit from within.

  Meanwhile, Monsieur Cédric shepherded the boys to the railing and took away their practice swords amid much grumbling. When he declared they would be going for a walk, the boys clamored to be allowed to watch the sparring. Monsieur Cédric called over to the Comte de Bures, who nodded his permission.

  “Merci, Papa!” shouted Dario, which made most of the gentlemen chuckle, relieving some of the tension.

  Monsieur Henri stood to her left, hands clasped behind his back, staring intently across the loose circle of men. She followed his gaze to d’Oronte, who was whispering to a friend. They turned their backs on the crowd and had a brief argument.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  Catherine startled, as did the little girl at her side. They looked up at Monsieur Henri, whose gaze still hadn’t moved from Emmanuel’s rival.

  His eyes flicked to her and then to his niece. “I’m the sneaky uncle, Françoise. If I say you can’t trust a man, you should always believe me. It is something you should remember for the future, ma petite.”

  Françoise stared up at her uncle with intense concentration. “Did you tell this to Ondine and Diane, Tonton?”

  Monsieur Henri chuckled, his smile tight and thin-lipped. “I have told them many times. So far they believe me, but if one day they fancy themselves in love with someone untrustworthy, I will have to break their hearts. And yours.”

  Catherine frowned. “Do you know d’Oronte, then?”

  Monsieur Henri’s gaze switched to her for several seconds, before flicking to her right, where Lucas de Granville nodded to him, then back to d’Oronte. “Not really. Will it break your heart if I tell you I am forming an opinion based on animal instinct? If I were a dog, my hackles would be up.”

  Catherine snorted indelicately. “Break my heart? Hardly. You are right to not trust him.”

  Monsieur Henri did not move his eyes toward her, but he smiled coldly. “I am rarely wrong.”

  The baron laughed behind her, startling them all and making Catherine realize how tense they were. “I am pleased to say all my children are at least as humble as you, Henri.” He grinned broadly at Catherine, who smiled back. “Though Emmanuel doubts himself, I see a bright future for him.”

  He means me. Heat and pleasure and love for this crazy family rushed through her.

  ****

  Manu smoothed his soft suede gloves firmly over his fingers and grasped the fencing foil’s hilt. Dom took a quick look at the guard on the point, nodding when he found it securely soldered on.

  Cédric approached. “What sort of attack does d’Oronte favor?”

  Manu opened his mouth to reply.

  But his brother snorted. “It’s ridiculous for me to give you advice when you know the man’s fighting style and I don’t.”

  Manu nodded grimly. He suddenly wished for his half-brother, Michel, who had worked the most with him with swords. “He favors the Italian style. He’s showy and sometimes loses focus in an effort to look better. But he is quite skilled.”

  “Not as skilled as you, eh?”

  His brother’s confidence made Manu warm. “We’re evenly matched, as I said. Not the best, but far from the worst.” He glanced at Catherine and got an uneasy, angry feeling in his belly.

  Cédric elbowed him. “You don’t want to lose in front of Mademoiselle de Fouet. Should I encourage h
er to take Françoise up to my apartments? The fighting might frighten them.”

  Manu stared at Catherine, who smiled and dropped her eyes bashfully. “I don’t think she’s easily frightened.”

  Cédric chuckled. “Then it’s an old-fashioned tournament, and you’re fighting for your lady’s hand.”

  Manu couldn’t take his gaze from Catherine’s pink cheeks. When she lifted her head so he could see her eyes under the brim of her hat, he had a sudden urge to kiss her. “I suppose I am. D’Oronte’s been bothering her.”

  “Ready, Manu?” called Dom from the center of the circle.

  He strode over, his sword clenched tight and pointing down at the ground.

  “This is not a real duel, you are just sparring.” Dom was not stupid; he knew full well this was as close to a duel as they would fight, unless one or the other completely overstepped the bounds of decency.

  “You will fight to the first touch, then rest, then fight again. There will be a third round as a tiebreaker if you have each touched once. I expect you both to behave as gentlemen.” Dom narrowed his eyes at Manu, who nodded, slightly angered that Dom thought he needed to be reminded to behave. But Dom’s head turned toward d’Oronte for the same length of time and Manu remembered many similar warnings from Dom and the sword masters he employed. He didn’t know if the constant reminders had been more effective from repetition, but here, in front of a small crowd of spectators, the blank windows of a wing of Versailles overlooking them, his nephews and niece observing, and the scrutiny of the woman he loved, he would behave perfectly.

  The woman he loved. He glanced at Catherine, who stood up, gripping his father’s arm tightly, flanked by his brother Henri and by his friend, Lucas. She nodded to him, but her face was drawn and frightened. For him. Perhaps she loved him, too.

  “Saluez.”

  Manu and d’Oronte stiffly tapped their knuckles to their hearts, foil pointing straight up, and nodded their heads, neither taking their eyes from the other. They stepped back into defensive stances, the voices around them subsiding to whispers.

  Manu could hear his own heart beating. D’Oronte swallowed and narrowed his eyes. Manu smiled slowly and coldly.

  “Begin.”

  ****

  Catherine had seen men fight before. She had in the past seen young men, and sometimes older ones, engaged in sword play. Typically, they were friends and would compliment each other and banter or pause in their sparring to help each other. She had heard rumors of duels fought out of sight of the palace, reputations won and lost in blood. She had never been to a war zone, though some of the court traveled with the king when he went to the battlefields.

  She imagined this was what a war looked like, in miniature.

  Emmanuel made the first flurrying attack and was parried and pushed back by d’Oronte. Finally, he stood firm and slashed at d’Oronte’s head. The entire exchange lasted three seconds and elicited some calls of encouragement. D’Oronte retreated to his original spot. Emmanuel smiled coldly and stepped forward, a wolf intent on his prey. A hush fell. Catherine realized she was holding her breath.

  D’Oronte attacked, and Emmanuel ducked, only to come up under the other man’s guard and send him jumping back out of reach. Another three seconds.

  D’Oronte adjusted a glove and grinned, baring all his teeth. Another wolf.

  Catherine shivered. The baron patted her hand, and Monsieur Henri placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Then there were no pauses. The two men pushed forward and back, circled each other, the swords flashing and twirling, blocking, parrying, swinging, jabbing.

  The children shouted in excitement. Catherine glanced at Françoise, now in her father’s arms, staring wide-eyed, her cheeks bright pink.

  When Emmanuel went for d’Oronte’s unprotected side, their swords locked. They shoved apart, d’Oronte spinning to attack his rival, snarling and feral. The men stepped apart, panting.

  “If Manu had a dagger in his left hand, d’Oronte would be dead already,” muttered Henri.

  His father nodded abruptly, fierce pride and fear turning his jovial face to stone.

  D’Oronte rushed in, and two clashes sounded in the space of a second before Emmanuel and d’Oronte both cried, “Touché!”

  Emmanuel had struck d’Oronte in the arm. Men cheered, and the boys jumped around. The fighters bowed and returned to their friends, Emmanuel striding toward her, his gaze still feral. One boy broke forward—Dario, the son of the comte—and Emmanuel stopped short of her, his family gathering around him, congratulating him and talking over one another, a rumble of men’s voices and a forest of waving hands. The boys squeezed between them, their heads no higher than their fathers’ and uncles’ shoulders, drinking in the masculine excitement.

  Catherine sat down, trying to catch her breath and erase the worry from her face. A minute later, a shadow loomed over her, and she jerked her head up.

  Emmanuel.

  He crouched at her knee and muttered, “I did not mean for this to happen, Catherine.”

  She nodded. “I know.” She stroked his cheekbone next to the bruise, fear for him churning in her stomach.

  He scowled. “I cannot say I am sorry.”

  His honor was in the balance. Hers, too, she thought. With more strolling nobles, mostly gentlemen but some ladies too, stopping to watch, his pride was certainly going to be affected.

  “I hope only to beat him.” He smiled into her eyes and stood up to glance at the nobles all around.

  She touched his hand and smiled, unable to say anything encouraging, her worry bubbling up. If she said she was frightened, he might lose courage.

  She watched Emmanuel’s wide back as he pushed to the center of the crowd, but she couldn’t see d’Oronte. The vicomte’s face as he had lost the first touch had appeared murderous, not merely angry or determined to win. If anything, Emmanuel, who had to be boiling inside, had more right to look angry. But then, he had only kissed her, not declared his love or sworn to fight for her and defend her from d’Oronte. He had been upset when she cried over d’Oronte and angry when the vicomte frightened her, but he protected all the women and children of his family, down to the maids.

  She shivered, wondering what d’Oronte would do if he won, what sort of rights he would think he had over her.

  She stood as the Comte de Bures called the men together. Emmanuel’s father smiled and held out his arm for her again, patting her trembling hand when she took it.

  ****

  Manu strode back into the circle as Dom and a couple of other men ordered everyone to step back.

  The Vicomte d’Oronte pushed through the other side and sneered at Manu, radiating confidence. Henri said he’s not to be trusted. Manu wanted to call off the bout until he could find out what the vicomte was up to, but it would mean conceding. They bowed again, Manu not taking his eyes from the other man, whose smirk was firmly in place.

  I will just have to win quickly.

  Dom told them to begin.

  He smiled slightly as he drove forward, using the so-called Germanic approach straight off and forcing d’Oronte to retreat in a flurry. When the surprise didn’t end with a touch, he backed away and waited for d’Oronte to come at him.

  D’Oronte’s smile widened, and he came in with an excellent feint, disengage, and thrust. Manu warded him off with a circular parry and riposte, sending d’Oronte dancing back. D’Oronte slashed at his head. As he blocked the hit, he saw something small flick past his ear.

  D’Oronte backed off, his eyes glaring directly into Manu’s. He came forward again and Manu pivoted away and stabbed. “Touché!” he cried in triumph, but d’Oronte did not call out or back away. He instead stabbed at Manu’s gut, surprising him in the moment after the bout was over. Instinct made him hunch backward and block the stab. He felt the sword tip slash across his arm. As he stumbled back, red soaked his shirt sleeve.

  “Touché!” called d’Oronte with evil glee.

  “Too late! Tr
op tard! You’d already lost!” Shouts from all around deafened Manu as he looked down at his arm, stunned by the red dripping to the sandy crushed gravel, only to be surrounded by his brothers and other men. Someone grabbed his arm and held it over his head, making him drop his sword. Some called for bandages. Other men turned their back to him, sharp court swords drawn. Someone shoved through with a piece of dusty sheeting used to shine swords, and someone else wrapped it around his arm, pressing hard.

  Men shoved him along until he arrived at the bench where Catherine had been sitting. He looked around for her as he sat down hard on it, spotting her pushing through the crowd to him, her face white and terrified.

  She sat on his right side, taking over the task of pressing the linen to his arm, her hands shaking as she squeezed firmly.

  Henri sat to his left, a dagger across his knees at the ready. Lucas had a dagger in his hand, which surprised Manu, as he had thought Lucas strictly peaceful.

  D’Oronte approached, gentlemen hissing at him and shouting. He bowed to Manu, his face a sneer of contempt. “Deepest apologies, Monsieur de Cantière. I did not feel your touch.”

  Henri growled, and Manu glared up at this treacherous man. D’Oronte had rocked back on his heels at Manu’s hit to his chest.

  “I did not realize my guard had fallen off. I have no idea how it could have happened. I will look into it, of course.”

  Catherine tightened her grip, and Manu flinched. The pain grew as the initial shock wore off. He wiggled his fingers, glad to still feel them. Glad he didn’t have a sword sticking out of his gut, because if d’Oronte had hit, he could have slashed through the padded waistcoat. If infection didn’t set in, he would heal.

  “And now”—d’Oronte’s voice grew louder, and Manu wanted to tell him to shut up and go away—“you have won the favor of the fair Catherine. Or a favor. She is generally thought to be free with them, after all.”

  Rage rushed through his veins, and he struggled to stand, but Henri was ahead of him, his dagger an inch below d’Oronte’s chin, within a fraction of a second’s striking distance.