Vesterkamp looked again at the boy standing in front of him, hating him because he knew the rumors of his questionable heritage, and he believed deeply that all men not “pure” white were less than human and therefore worthy of contempt; admiring him because he showed courage and talent and for the first time in his life made Vesterkamp begin to question the validity of his deeply inculcated beliefs. Blood streamed down Nicolas’ nose, dripping from his chin onto the floor where it began to puddle. Still he made no complaint, but stood ready to fight.
“That’s enough for today,” the master said with finality, lowering his weapon and fetching a towel, which he soaked in the cold water.
“You’ve done well, boy. Not many of this lot have ever laid a touch on me,” he said, nodding dismissively toward Mauran before turning his gaze on the others who had also stood and mocked his young opponent. He walked over to Nicolas, who cautiously lowered his sword arm. Vesterkamp took the damp towel and began, almost tenderly, to wipe the blood from Nicolas’ face.
“Hold it there like this. That’ll stop the bleeding,” the arms master explained. “The cold stings, but it helps with the pain. Today you’ve passed the first test. Tomorrow your real lessons begin.”
**
Over the next several months, Vesterkamp proved true to his word, imposing upon Nicolas a relentlessly stringent regimen of training at the Colony’s elite Académie of swordsmanship, the Salon de Fer, which was located just outside the town of Ducos on Martinique. Known to his few old comrades and friends as Johan Peter, Vesterkamp was a rough old soldier with large whiskers, red hair, and complexion to match. The tropical sun was not kind to his fair skin, earning him the nickname of Lobster, though no one dared to address him as such to his face. Despite his sometimes comical appearance, he was given respect and a wide berth, being well known for his quick temper and his quicker blade. No friend of blacks, mixed-race Creoles, or nobles, Vesterkamp had originally agreed to take Nicolas into his salon only to erase a large gambling debt that he was unable to pay; Francis having satisfied the obligation for him in exchange for apprenticing his younger brother.
The routine of training each day was constant and demanding. Before the other members of the salon arrived for morning practice, Nicolas was already there, performing his drill and combat stances alone under the watchful guidance of his master. He was not allowed to join in any other activities until he had completed a precise series of a thousand prescribed cuts with each arm, a requirement that left his arms so sore over the first weeks of training, that he could barely lift them above his shoulders. Once he had completed his individual drill, Nicolas was allowed to join the general morning session, where he would observe the various fencers as they faced off against each other, carefully studying the movements and habits of each man; seeing much, understanding little, but doing his best to prepare himself for the day when he might stand in their respective places. After a brief mid-day pause to eat and rest, Nicolas began his afternoon session, where he was made to practice footwork by Vesterkamp for hours without being allowed to touch any of the weapons. The rest of the participants were dismissed at four o’clock, at which time Nicolas began again his personal instruction with the master using daggers and close-in weapons. He also practiced fighting from the saddle, which lasted until seven or eight o’clock each night. Only when darkness made it too dangerous to continue his training was Nicolas at last released for the day, making his way to the nearby Inn in which he had taken lodging.
At night, after a brief respite for a Spartan meal which Nicolas always took in his room in the Inn with his valet, he was visited by Monsignor Arnaud, who arrived with books under arm to begin tutoring him in preparation for his entry into the École Militaire. His studies were usually concluded by midnight, at which time he would step into the bath his valet had prepared for him, his nightly immersion the only unguarded period of relaxation he was allowed throughout the entire day. After leaving his bath, Nicolas would read any letters from Sérolène that had arrived. No matter how spent or sore he felt, Sérolène’s letters always lifted his spirits, providing the unquestioned highlight of his day.
Though her letters were less frequent than his due to the closer scrutiny she was under, they were longer and very richly detailed. This frequent exchange of unfiltered communication had the benefit of revealing gradually to each, the endless mundane assortment of intimate personal minutiae that no one except a lover desires to know about anyone else. Favorite colors, books, sweets, pastimes; secret dislikes, fears and nicknames; amusing things they could do with fingers, toes and ears; children’s names they preferred; heroes they admired and composers they adored. On the many threads of these small shared confidences, the greater force of their love was bound more tightly together, despite the physical distance that separated them. Nicolas took such pleasure from Sérolène’s letters that he often read them over and over again for the sheer enjoyment of it, enthralled with the many revealing glimpses she provided of herself and pleased that this new form of communication appeared to deepen their understanding and affection for each other.
Nicolas’ last act before going to sleep would be to write his promised daily missive to Sérolène, describing his day and when he could think of nothing else to say, telling her over and over how much he adored and missed her. Sleep came quickly once his task of writing was finished, and on more than one occasion his valet Julius found him asleep at his desk, quill in hand, having been too exhausted to make it the final few feet to his bed to sleep.
For more than three months, Nicolas endured the rigors of this grueling schedule, the requirements of the style of fencing that Vesterkamp taught only to him, being so physically demanding that he often ended the day completely exhausted; covered in slashes and cuts from the exacting training. His only respite was the time he was allowed to spend on the firing range to practice with musket and pistol, and in training and fighting on horseback, which he loved despite the difficulty of learning to guide his mounts with only the barest prompting of his legs and feet. In the saddle, however, he felt free of all worries and cares, whether putting his horses through the paces of the dressage, or riding in a ring over jumps and obstacles while firing his musket or pistol. There were no days off, not even on Sundays, which were given over entirely to the requirements of Monsignor Arnaud, and centered on Nicolas’ preparation for the École Militaire; the necessities of time and the work that needed to be completed, overriding customary practices in this regard.
In just a few months, Nicolas had developed a notable reputation at the salon, the steady accumulation of those he had bested having reached the point where there were few swordsmen capable of providing a real challenge to him in single combat. Vesterkamp’s answer to this dilemma was simply to pit Nicolas against multiple adversaries, starting with two and then increasing the number until he found the desired point of “battle equilibrium”, which generally was somewhere between seven and ten simultaneous opponents. Many, having been beaten several times and with no more excuses to make, simply refused to engage with Nicolas, unable to mask their resentment at his skill and the special instruction he received.
Led by Mauran and Montbatre, who was never far from Mauran’s side, this group of pretenders preferred to seethe from the sidelines, challenging Nicolas with angry looks and bold glances, but always turning away and making their excuses if they thought him about to approach. They trained sporadically and intrigued tirelessly, sowing division and discord among the previously close-knit group of swordsmen that attended the salon. Tired of the poisonous atmosphere that began to permeate the salon due to the whisperings of Mauran and his clique, Vesterkamp at last forced Nicolas and Mauran to engage in a bout in front of everyone, in an effort to settle matters between them once and for all.
“The bout is to be with sabers. Mauran, there is your weapon, you may wear full protection,” Vesterkamp said, pointing toward a rack upon the wall where a freshly sharpened cavalry saber lay oiled and gleaming.
“Nicolas, you may take your weapon from among those over there and you shall fight with nothing more than your shirt for protection,” Vesterkamp said, pointing to a rack of wooden blades against the far wall.
“In order to win, you must score sixteen touches. Mauran you need score only one,” Vesterkamp declared. There was a murmur among the men of the salon, newcomers and veterans alike, at the unevenness of the terms and the weapons.
“Surely such terms are excessive. This will hardly make for a contest, Monsieur,” Montbatre, who had become a close friend of Mauran’s and an avid intriguer against Nicolas, pointed out.
“Perhaps you are right, Montbatre. I should even things out a bit, shouldn’t I? Nicolas, sixteen’s too easy. Make it twenty,” Vesterkamp said, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he stared down Montbatre and the other skeptics. Curious looks were exchanged among the watching swordsmen but no one ventured any further comments. The newcomers weren’t sure whether Vesterkamp intended good or ill for Nicolas. Only a few veterans understood that by insisting on such uneven terms, Vesterkamp was announcing to all that he regarded both Mauran and his clique with contempt, though Mauran was not the worst of the fencers in the salon by far.
“You mock me, Monsieur, you and your special favorite. But since you are so confident, I will accept your terms. I will show you what I am capable of today. Your pet will learn a lesson in humility and you will learn the great degree to which you have neglected my talent, ” Mauran hissed, taking up his weapon and his stance. Nicolas did the same, saluting his opponent as he took up his position at the far end of the salon.
“En garde. Begin!” Vesterkamp called out. Nicolas immediately surged forward, smacking down Mauran’s blade and landing a thrust on his left shoulder just above the heart.
“First touch! Halt. Return to your positions,” Vesterkamp called out as both combatants complied with his orders.
“Begin!” Vesterkamp called out again.
The second touch took slightly more time to land than the first, the third slightly less. In under a minute, Nicolas had landed ten touches in all, despite the disadvantages of a wooden blade and no protection against a live one. The men of the salon held back their laughter though not their contempt, at the fool Nicolas’ skill was making of Mauran, who sweated profusely to try and land any touch he could to preserve his honor; his previous boast availing him nothing as the touches against him piled up. While Mauran sweated and labored with the exertions of trying to keep his opponent at bay, Nicolas himself moved so efficiently that he seemed to be barely breathing. At sixteen touches, Mauran asked for the favor of a brief respite so that he could relieve himself, making the excuse of having drunk too much wine with his mid-day meal as reason for his poor showing. When he failed to return after ten minutes, one of the men was sent to the privy after him.
“Our bird has flown the coop,” the man reported back.
“Nicolas is declared the winner by default. Mauran’s cowardice has brought shame to himself and his compatriots. He is no longer welcome here and neither are they,” Vesterkamp said, staring pointedly at Montbatre and a few others standing near him. All of the men turned disdainfully and made their way out of the salon, the blight of their presence now purged.
“If there are any others who doubt the ability of the chevalier, I invite you step forward to take Mauran’s place. Same generous terms as before,” Vesterkamp said. No one came forward or made any sound.
“Back to your drills, then. Nicolas, that was damned sloppy of you. I want a thousand cuts with each arm, diagonals across the chest. You can practice your two-sword technique. I can see there’s no more point in trying this lot in single combat anymore. Off with you boy,” Vesterkamp said, concealing his pride at how well Nicolas had done behind the punishment of more work. Nicolas moved to complete his labor without complaint, having come to understand that this was his master’s way of saying well done.
The days went on and Vesterkamp continued to watch Nicolas’ rapid progress, well-satisfied that his faith in his star pupil had not been misplaced. Monsignor Arnaud was equally satisfied with the progress of Nicolas’ studies, amazed at how he managed to devour the contents of his lessons but also concerned at how the young chevalier drove himself, as if sleep were something that was surplus to his body’s requirements.
The work and the exercise transformed Nicolas as the weeks went by. Gone was the boy who seemed at times more feet and arms than body. In his place a great thick tree of a man was growing. The daily work at the salon and in riding had given him a new physique, and the hours spent each day with his tutor had given him a new intellectual outlook and awareness. Only a few months away from his fifteenth birthday, he could easily pass -- save for the hairlessness of his face -- for a man of nineteen or twenty. His temperament had also matured as he threw himself into his arduous physical and mental labors. He became reserved and serious, as if he already sensed the great purpose he must put his life to and was doing his best to launch himself along the high arc of his destiny.
On the last day of May, Nicolas came to the salon to train as usual, but found it deserted. He went round the back to check for anything amiss, finding a note posted to the rear door that was addressed to him, directing him to an address slightly further up the narrow road from where the salon was situated. He mounted up and rode to the location indicated, which turned out to be a shabby one-story house with several broken windows and shutters that had not been patched. Tying his horse to a post, he knocked on the door, waiting patiently for someone to answer, at the same time looking warily around him at the run-down nature of the area he was in. Had he brought the docile mare Aemilia, he would have been rightly concerned that someone might attempt to steal his mount. He chuckled to himself, however, at the thought of a stranger getting anywhere near Scipio, let alone attempting to mount him. The large black steed was renowned at every stable Nicolas housed him in for his bad temper and surliness at being handled by anyone save his master and accustomed grooms. Nicolas heard a muffled shout from inside the building followed by the breaking of glass. A man swore loudly.
“To hell with you too, you shit!” a woman’s voice replied with a shout. The door burst open. A woman, half undressed and struggling to put the remainder of her clothes on as she exited, appeared in the now open doorway, almost colliding with him in her rush to leave. Nicolas bowed as a courtesy to her, though it was clear she was a professional plying her trade. She eyed him up and down with the experience of someone long used to immediately sizing up the worth of her potential companions, brushing back a stray lock of dark brown hair that fell loosely across her left eye.
“Hello there, sweetie,” she breathed huskily in an effort to sound alluring. Her breath smelled of cheap rum and rotting teeth. Nicolas turned his head slightly to the side to avoid the stench, the revulsion clear in his eyes.
“Suit yourself then!” she said in a huff, understanding immediately that he was not at all interested in sampling her wares. She teetered off into the early dawn streets, the gradually diminishing clatter of her wooden shoes the only remnant of her passing. Vesterkamp filled the narrow doorway with his bulk, an open bottle of rum in his sword hand.
“You’re early then. Come on. I have something for you,” he said, taking a long swig from the bottle.
Nicolas entered the untidy interior of the small house, amazed at the mess and the squalor. There were bottles everywhere: some unopened, some smashed, others tipped over and lying haphazardly about the room. The remnants of a meal lay on a worn and chipped table in the corner of the shabby main room, which was furnished only with a small bed with some very dirty-looking linen, a worn old sofa, and a single wooden chair.
Vesterkamp brushed aside the debris on the floor with his foot, making a path for them to walk through as he led Nicolas into the back room. In contrast to the squalid and unkempt nature of the first room; this room, though smaller, was very neatly kept. One of its walls was completely devoted to edged w
eapons of all types, a neat row of specially constructed shelves having been built to house the armaments, some of which appeared expensive and, Nicolas assumed, quite rare. Opposite to this wall was another devoted to firearms, which were kept in the same precise order and pristine condition.
At the end of the room was a large set of what looked to be armor, but of a type Nicolas had never before laid eyes on. It was lacquered and painted red with green trimming. The helmet sloped gently toward the shoulders like a pyramid, an iron mask with a long bristled moustache at its center. It was the most magnificent armor Nicolas had ever seen.
“It’s superb! May I ask where you came by it, Monsieur?” Nicolas asked.
Vesterkamp nodded, indicating to Nicolas that he should sit on one of the two stools that were the only other furniture in the room. Nicolas did so promptly, noticing a neat and precisely folded bedroll in the corner, of the type cavalrymen carried on their saddles.
“It’s from Japan. I acquired it during my years in the Dutch Marines,” Vesterkamp said. Nicolas nodded, waiting patiently for his master to continue. Vesterkamp had never before volunteered an ounce of information about himself and Nicolas was still not quite sure why he had been summoned, or what his master intended.
Love and Honor Page 24