CHAPTER
TWO
THREE YEARS LATER
1671, Bordeaux, France
“HENRI, WHERE
is my
red coat? I am riding today with Martin
and Clarisse. I need the red coat.
Are my boots polished?” René pulled open the drawers
of his dresser. “Henri!”
he yelled again.
“Here, sir, and not as young as I used to be,” Henri wheezed out after running
up the long staircase with a pair of knee length black boots that shone like polished mirrors. He coughed
and leaned against
the bed post. “Your red coat is in the armoire, sir.”
René flung open the carved cedar cabinet.
“Mais oui, ’twas here all along. Sorry for the urgency, but I cannot wait to get out there.”
“I quite understand, sir, ’tis a beautiful
day. I instructed the groom to saddle
Orion.”
“Merci. Now, if I can just get these boots on. Why do they make them so difficult? Is father around?”
Henri brushed a piece of
lint from the shoulder of the
coat and held it for René to put on. “I believe
he is in the sitting room enjoying breakfast. Shall I tell Marie to set a place for you?”
“Not this morning. I just have time for a sip of tea. But I wanted to speak with him before I leave.”
“Enjoy your ride, sir.”
René raced from the room, jumped onto the polished
mahogany banister, and rode it down the grand
marble staircase to the main floor.
He ran through the mirrored foyer with its pillars and paintings until
he came to a stop in the sitting room.
His father sat at a small table, his breakfast half eaten. Rene smiled. He was proud of the tall slender man who appeared younger than his forty-seven years. His close trimmed
beard held no gray, like his thick
brown hair tied back in a queue. With his
somber, well-tailored dark clothing, Armand Gilbert looked the man he was, a prosperous merchant.
“Father, I heard the Belle Poulé berthed yesterday. What does she carry? Is there something for me? How is Captain Coudray? Still the toughest
master on the seven seas? How about...”
“Slow down, son. Sit and
have breakfast with me.
There is plenty of time to hear all the news. The Belle Poulé will remain in port for quite a while. She needs to be scraped,
tarred, and refitted before she sees the open ocean again. And oui, Jacques made it back. I am sure he will be happy to see his star pupil. After your last trip as quartermaster, he told me you will be a hell of a pilot one day. S’il vous plaît, sit.”
“I am sorry, father,
but I am already
late. Promised to meet Martin
for a ride. Perhaps we can have tea this afternoon.”
A once outgoing and gregarious man, Armand Gilbert’s serious expression had rarely softened
since his wife’s death. Looking
at René, it did so now. “S’il vous plaît, hand me that ledger.”
René circled the table and brought the gray leather
bound book to his father.
“Merci. Is that how you are going out?”
“Oui. I look dashing, do I not?” René straightened his coat.
Armand swallowed a sip of tea. “Oui, you do look dashing, but you also look unarmed.
The world has become more dangerous.”
René’s smile drained away. “Father, we have had this conversation too many times. I refuse to carry a sword. I am sorry that it causes
you concern, but I will not do it.”
“René, it was self-defense.”
“I will never kill another man.”
Armand fingered his empty sleeve and his expression
changed to a rueful smile. “So many things on which I placed the word never that happened anyway. Just saying the word will not make it so. You are a grown man now. Be careful out there.
We shall have tea later.”
René leaned over and kissed his father on the cheek. “No need to worry about me; I am very good at getting out of trouble.
I will see you upon my return.”
René brought the giant black horse up hard. There over the crest of the hill his best friend
Martin and Clarisse
du Bourg waited.
“Orion, what say we make an entrance?” He patted
the coal black stallion’s neck. A seasoned
five-year-old, at seventeen and a half hands, Orion was the essence of power.
René leaned forward and released
the horse. For one brief instant,
horse and rider were motionless. Then Orion exploded into a gallop,
giant strides eating the distance between René, and Martin and Clarisse. His abrupt arrival
surrounded them with dust.
Clarisse’s horse reared, forehooves striking out.
“Keep him back!”
she yelled. Tall, statuesque, with one leg hooked over the pommeau
of her sidesaddle, Clarisse controlled her horse, backing him away from René and Orion. In a quiet cadenced voice she calmed the skittish
mount. René moved Orion to the other side of Martin, whose placid gelding stood motionless, refusing to acknowledge the angry stallions
now on either side.
“Perhaps you need a gentler horse?” René said.
“A gentler horse!” Clarisse snapped. “Perhaps you need better
manners. If I were a man, I would have already challenged you.”
“My good fortune, I guess.”
René smiled.
Before she could continue,
Martin interrupted. “Let it rest. No need to bicker. ’Tis a beautiful
day, and we have food and wine. Let us be off.”
“Except most of the day is already gone,” murmured Clarisse, her bright
blue eyes now dark with anger.
“What was that?”
René asked.
Clarisse bolted. The men were left in a cloud of dust. “I guess she was ready to ride.”
Martin grinned. “I have ten francs that says we cannot
catch her before
she gets to the river.”
“A fool’s wager. Orion can beat anything
on four legs.”
“Ten francs,” said Martin.
“I will take that bet.”
“’Tis not always the horse,” Martin yelled as they took off after Clarisse.
In a burst of speed, René left Martin behind. The air was crisp and warm. René leaned forward and spoke into Orion’s
ear. “Come on, boy, will you
let that insult
go unanswered?” Almost
as if he understood, Orion stretched out even more, and thundered after Clarisse’s horse.
The thought that chasing an angry stallion
might be a mistake passed through René’s mind, but it was lost in the excitement of the moment.
The river Garonne
shimmered in the distance. They were not gaining on her. This is absurd. There is no way
that horse
is faster
than Orion. One thing is for sure, that girl can ride.
René pulled Orion up and slowed him to a canter.
He hoped Martin
would have the presence
of mind not to mention
the bet. A long lock of hair fell over his eye. He tucked it back behind
his ear, and projected a casual
air.
When René cantered up, Clarisse was walking
her horse along the river, allowing him to cool down before she let him drink. Without
warning, her horse whipped his head around and reared,
forehooves striking out. Taken by surprise,
she fought to keep her seat. Orion screamed
and rose on his hind legs, iron tipped hooves striking
back. The horses
moved in close now, each trying
to bite the other.
René’s awareness had altered with such swiftness
that time itself appeared to pause.
He projected an implacable calm, its intensity
almost radiant. With his left hand, he pulled Orion’s head around, then twisted right and slapped
the other horse on the nose.
“Hold!” The world seemed to obey him. For an instant both horses froze. Nothing in that space moved,
not even Clarisse.
“Clarisse, move him away.” René kept his voice quiet and measured.
The world started again. Clarisse regained control of her mount and turned
him as René moved Orion back, increasing the distance
between the two horses.
René’s mask returned—the feckless nineteen-year-old whose sole intent was to enjoy the day.
Clarisse’s eyes were wide, her face flushed.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Clarisse averted her face to cover the blush that betrayed
her. “Of all the stupid…what did you think you were doing,
sneaking up on us like that? They could have killed each other.”
“If you were paying
attention—”
“Attention?
Why, you idiot. If you had—”
Martin rode into the space between them. “What happened?” René and Clarisse
began to speak at once. “Hold on, hold on.” Martin held up his hand palm out. “Anyone hurt?” Both shook their heads. “I have never seen either of you like this. Why ruin the whole day?”
René returned Clarisse’s angry gaze. A year had passed since he
last saw her. They were at some obligatory social function or other that Bordeaux’s upper class crowded into their calendars. Something had changed. Perhaps the way the sunlight
shimmered from her long curly black hair whenever
she turned her head, or caused sparks of light to reflect from her deep blue eyes. Even her voice sounded
different, softer in its stridency. A sheepish
smile crept onto René’s face.
“I apologize,” he said. “I should have known better.”
She returned the smile. “Sorry I yelled at you. No one can predict
what horses will do.” Clarisse tightened her grip on the reins to hold her
horse well back. “Is there any chance you brought some of that wine your vineyards
are famous for?”
“I may have done just that. I see a good spot over there. Shall we tie up the horses and spread a blanket
out?” René dismounted and led Orion in the opposite
direction from the other stallion.
“Whoa, Orion, calm down. No more fighting today,” René said, his voice even and quiet, as he rubbed the big horse’s
neck. “That girl has spirit. Have to admit, not many could have controlled that horse.”
Orion snorted and bobbed his head up and down. René laughed as he tied Orion’s reins to a tree. “You agree, huh?” He removed
the satchel that contained the wine and walked over to where Clarisse
shook a blanket
out. “How can I help?”
“I brought some baguettes and cheese.
Would you mind getting them?”
“Not at all.”
René spoke in a low, calm voice as he approached Clarisse’s horse from the front and patted him on the neck. “Whoa, boy, I just want to retrieve
this satchel.” He studied
the lines of the stallion.
He was not so certain Orion could have outrun this horse from a dead start. This was a powerful animal and his estimation of her horsemanship rose.
Clarisse spread out the blanket on a grassy clearing beneath the shade of a copse of old river birch. Gnarled limbs reached out over the water and granted them shade. René carried the satchel to her, while Martin released a long, slim leather
box from behind
his saddle. “What have you got there?”
René called over to him.
Resplendent in gold brocade
and ribbons, Martin was the picture of a stylish well to do young Frenchman. He kneeled,
set the box on the ground, and then opened it. Nestled within a dark red velvet lining lay a slim, lethal shape. “A new rapier.
Came all the way from Toledo.” Martin freed the sword from its velvet embrace as if it were alive. He stood and slashed the weapon
down and to the side. The blade shimmered in the sunlight as it sliced through the air with a hissing
sound.
“Beautiful,
right? I thought I would practice a bit. Here, you want to feel the balance?”
Martin extended the sword’s
hilt toward René.
René jumped back as if Martin held a cobra. “Ah, non, merci. You go ahead.”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot, you have no affection
for swords. Come to think of it, I do not remember ever seeing you hold a sword. There are many good reasons to go armed these days.”
“Well, ’tis just that…” Clarisse stopped laying out the
napkins and
cutlery and
listened. “Y-you can get hurt with those things.”
“Kind of the point, is it not?” Martin slashed the blade through
the air again as if to emphasize
his statement.
René backed farther away. “I guess I am not that good around sharp objects. I like my fingers right where they are, merci,” he said, becoming very interested in what Clarisse
was doing. “Clarisse, ’tis been a whole hour since I ate. What do you have in that satchel?”
Clarisse took out cheese and baguettes and then dug deeper into the pack, finding
a few small pastries. “Will you open the wine?”
Martin moved away a few paces and began basic fencing exercises. René uncorked the bottle and poured a glass for Clarisse and one for
himself. Unable to ignore the weapon, he watched Martin out of the corner of his eye.
“You seem distracted,” Clarisse said. “If swords make you nervous, you could ask him to put it away. I am certain he would be happy to practice some other time.”
“Martin sees that sword as a shiny new toy to wave around.
I do not view swords that way.” Martin came to the en garde position. René called out. “Higher and to the right or you will get skewered.”
Martin paused. “Directions from the sword master
himself.”
“Uh, you know,”
René stammered. “I must have read it in a
book somewhere.” In that moment the wind whistled through the trees, opening a pathway
for the sun to shine into his eyes, and in the glare, he was back in the courtyard, memories like a wall of water rushed toward him.
The sound of metal rasping
against metal was ugly, frightful. Fear washed through ten-year-old René. The Maestro had, for the first time, picked up steel instead
of bamboo for their sparring practice.
René, on the other hand, had been practicing with a rapier
from the time he was eight. He expected it to be worse, paralyzing. Relief that it was not almost cost him an ear, for the Maestro
was delivering a vicious
cut to the head. At the last moment,
René brought his rapier over his head, the knuckle
bow pointed in the direction
of the thrust.
There was a loud grating noise as the steel connected.
The wind stopped. The branch
swung back to block the sun, and Clarisse
was offering him an almond
macaron on a silk napkin.
“René. René,” she said louder,
poking him in the arm.
“Sorry.”
Clarisse studied the young man seated opposite her. Tall and slim with sun bleached
hair, his green eyes seemed to change shade with each moment. “Where did you go?” She placed the delicate
confection in front of him.
“I, ah…was caught up in the beauty of this place.” He looked at her. “Amazing how beauty can be all around us, and how blind to it we can be.” There was a pause as if neither of them could think of anything
to say. The moment was uncomfortable and exhilarating at the same time.
Both began to speak—and then laughed.
“After you,” René said.
“I was wondering
if you might join Martin and me tonight. Antoinette is giving a masked ball, and ’twill be, well, excessive. ‘Tis last minute, but they always
are.”
“I would be pleased
to attend.” René smiled.
Clarisse straightened and took a sip of wine. She watched
him closely from the corner of her eye. “Would there be someone special you might bring?”
“Not at the moment. I think I would rather be surprised
and meet my destiny
as it plays out.”
“Martin, are you an expert yet? Come over here and sit with us. I have invited
René to come with us to Antoinette’s.”
Martin replaced the sword in its velvet
case and, still breathing in short deep gasps, found a seat next to Clarisse
on the blanket. “What? Is there no glass for me?”
“Given the skill
with which you
waved that sword around,” René said, “I fear intoxicating spirits will lead to your doom. Even in its case, you may find a way to stab yourself with your new amusement, and I would be at fault for your demise. But worry not, I will step up and drink your share.” He reached for the wine bottle, but Clarisse
got to it first.
She poured a glass for Martin. “I think you are downright
valiant—a knight. Here, monsieur, you deserve the finest wine available. ’Tis unfortunate this was the best we could find.” She laughed.
“Is that a slight on our vineyards?” René postured. “I must challenge you to a duel. But, alas, you are a weak femme and I cannot challenge
you.”
“Weak femme, am I? Why you…”
Martin jumped up and assumed
a martial posture. “You, monsieur, are a… a… Gorgonzola!”
“A what?” René jumped up, laughing.
“Are you calling
me a cheese?”
“I am.”
“Have at you, monsieur.” René tackled Martin, and they wrestled,
rolling down the hill toward
the river.
“Watch out, you are too close to the water,” yelled Clarisse
as she leapt to her feet.
They regained their footing, and each struggled
to take the other down when René slipped
on a spot of wet grass. Splash. They tumbled
into the cold water.
“Enough,” yelled René. “Touché, you have me. I hit the water first. I should
have known better than to duel with the deadly Roquefort, being nothing more than a common Gorgonzola.”
René emerged from the water, shaking his head. He knelt before Clarisse. “I am forced by the stronger
man to offer you my most humble apology.”
“Still, I would see you thrashed
for your insult.
Gentle femme, indeed,” she said. “Etiquette, however, demands that I accept
your apology, the proper
forms having been observed.”
Martin walked over and struck what he apparently believed to be a martial
posture. Clarisse bit back a laugh. His gold lamé clothing
had not fared well, its ribbons lay limp against the soaked fabric. The ruffled collar had come loose and now hung over his left shoulder. With both stockings around his ankles, he could not have looked less fearsome.
“I hope, for your sake, that you have learned your lesson, monsieur.” He placed his hat on his head. The large gold feather,
now drenched, lost its struggle to remain
upright, and then, as if to punctuate
his statement, fell across
his face with a wet slap.
All three fell to the blanket laughing.
“So what do you think, my brave young men? Shall we retreat to our domiciles after lunch, repair our wardrobes, and reconvene
tonight at Antoinette’s?”
“What will you go as?” René asked Clarisse. “You must join us to see.”
