Chapter Four!

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHEN I find that coward, he will regret this day,” Victor muttered as he shoved a young couple out of his way. The man spun around. His expression flashed from anger to fear as recognition set in.

Maurice laughed and pushed him again, harder, knocking him completely off-balance. The young man tried to remain afoot, but the uneven cobblestones defeated him, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his lady’s arm and hurried her away.

The day after the ill-fated soirée, Victor and Maurice scoured Bordeaux searching for René. As each hour passed with no sign of him, Victor’s anger increased. “The coward must be hiding in his room.”

“He cannot stay there forever,” Maurice said. “’Tis hot and all this walking has made me thirsty.”

“I know what I thirst for, and ’tis not wine.” Victor grasped his sword’s hilt. “I intend to disfigure this one. The fool is far too pretty and will surely thank me for giving him the look of a man.”

Victor barged into a couple returning to their carriage from the day’s shopping expedition. Overburdened, the man’s packages spilled from his arms onto the unforgiving street. Crash, the familiar sound of breaking glass. Heads turned. A blood-red liquid seeped into the gravel between the stones.

“You clumsy oaf! Look what you have done. You will pay for that wine and everything else you have damaged.”

“Do you dare to insult me?” Victor stepped closer, his smirk inches from the luckless individual’s face.

Eyes widened as the man recognized Victor. He stammered, “Uh, I meant that…”

“What did you mean by ‘clumsy oaf’?” Victor smiled with brutal anticipation as his hand again moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. Sweat beaded on the man’s now pale forehead, his breath came faster in gulps. “Why, monsieur, I was swearing at myself for being such a clumsy fellow. I often get in my own way.”

Victor joyfully glared down at the now shaking man. “I notice that you carry a sword, sir. Are you prepared to use it?”

“I am sure that will not be necessary. No harm has been done here.” The man stepped to his left.

Victor moved to block him. “Oh, I beg to differ. You have accosted my sense of propriety. Even were you not speaking to me, my sensitive nature has suffered from the roughness of your tone. I demand satisfaction, monsieur. If you will send your seconds to meet with Maurice here, we can arrange to settle this debt.”

“Surely no duel is warranted. I beg your pardon if I have offended you, monsieur. S’il vous plaît, accept my apology, and let us be on our way.”

“If only I could. But I have been sorely unsettled, and all of these fine people witnessed that offense.” Victor glanced at the crowd that had gathered for some afternoon entertainment and nodded. “I doubt if even first blood will satisfy the empty feeling I am experiencing. But…” Victor let the word hang there.

“But what, monsieur? I am most disposed to agree to any compensation you might require.”

I will have your sword.”

“My sword?”

“Oui, your sword. Clearly you have no use for it, and I want to make certain that you do not injure yourself with it.”

The man withdrew his sword and handed it to Victor, hilt first. Victor pretended to study it. “Not a bad weapon, but I am certain ’tis made of inferior steel. Much like its owner. I must test it.” He touched the tip of the sword to the ground and smashed his boot into the blade. The blade bent into an L shape. “Non, I must have been mistaken in my appraisal. An inferior blade would have broken. This one did not, so I am more confident you will not harm yourself with it.” Victor handed the bent sword back to the man. “See that you are more careful when you are out walking, or you may find the next man less gracious and forgiving than I.” Victor smiled. “Come, Maurice. Now I am thirsty.”

The Sun God's Heir: Return Chapter Three

Here’s chapter three. Only one more week until the official launch of The Sun God’s Heir: Return Book One. It’s been a wild ride getting this book out. That’s cliché, but it so has. I hope you enjoy the read. On January 18^th, the book will go FREE for five days on Amazon. It’s up now at .99 for anyone who wants to get a jump on the story and perhaps add a very welcome review. Thanks for reading. 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MS3RCE0

Elliott

CHAPTER THREE

AN ARMY of tall young men costumed as Orpheus returned René’s glance as he passed through the mosaic of mirrors in the château’s entryway. He smiled at his personal collage of mirrored reflections. The multicolored troubadour’s blouse, over black pantaloons with a midnight black cape, fit in well with the riot of color visible on the moving crowd. René attached his mask, tying it in the back. Turning toward the mirrors, he was jarred by the mask’s reflection. Like most masks that depicted Orpheus, it portrayed a caricature of a face with a large nose and downturned mouth meant to express sorrow. This particular mask, however, was a Venetian work of art. Despair radiated from its features, transcending the human condition and evoking the artist’s intended response.

Straightening the mask, René entered the atrium and continued along a light filled hallway. Crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling along its length caused the light of innumerable small flames to shimmer their reflection from the intricate patterns of gold filigree along the walls and the polished Italian marble floor.

Once through the hallway, René encountered the first of a series of open spaces, each promising to be more elaborate than the previous. He paused in the entryway of a courtyard whose columns were floor to ceiling cages filled with hundreds of singing birds. René had been in his share of Bordeaux’s palaces and châteaus, but this one surpassed them all in its attempt to outdo its neighbors. The parade of historical and mythical beings flowed around him.

A voluptuous woman, barely clad in a Cleopatra costume, staggered forward and fell into his arms. She glanced up and giggled. René blinked as he breathed in her stale alcohol breath. He turned his head to find more acceptable air.

“Your pardon, monsieur.” She made no attempt to stand. “My, what a muscular young man you are. Are you available?”

René disengaged himself, yet continued to hold her upright, his hands firm beneath her arms.

“Madame, may I escort you to a seat?”

“You may escor… excor… take me to a nice dark corner.” She hiccupped, and then clamped a hand over her mouth to contain another round of giggles.

René scanned the room. “Are you here with someone?”

“You will do fine.”

René signaled to one of the servants to assist him, but before the servant could arrive, an overweight, elderly gentleman accosted him.

“You, monsieur, unhand my wife. How dare you? Do you not know who I am?” The man barked “I demand satisfaction. Who are your seconds?”

René turned his head to his right to meet the man’s glare. If he released Cleopatra, she would fall to the floor. Keeping her at arm’s length, René lifted the lady until her feet no longer touched the floor and then gently deposited her in her husband’s arms. “Would you mind holding her for a bit? I am afraid she has had more to drink than her constitution will allow. Forgive me, as I intended no offense. Your wife tripped. I merely prevented her from injuring herself. She did ask for you, sir— numerous times. You are most fortunate to have such a doting wife. I wish you both a merry evening.” René nodded and then moved off through the crowd.

René breathed in a deep breath and exhaled, grateful he had avoided being ‘called out.’ Dueling was illegal, but that fact had not dented its popularity. Duels rarely ended in death. More often, they stopped at first blood, or ‘touché.’ This would satisfy the honor of the offended. Tradition called for the insulted party to choose the weapons and the degree of danger the duel involved. Although hiring an alternate was permissible, René had found avoiding offense the wiser choice.

So far, by trading on his youth, he had escaped difficult situations. This had given him a reputation as unusual, perhaps, but he hoped, not cowardly.

René approached a lovely young woman who happened to be wearing a Eurydice costume. By her height, he knew she wasn’t Clarisse. Even though she was masked, René had a good idea who the mystery woman was. Still, there remained some doubt, which only added to the spice of the moment.

“I am so glad to have found you.” He bent low sweeping his arm before him as he performed an elaborate court bow. “Though I would have gone to Hades for you, ’tis much more convenient to find you here. Will you join me in this next dance?”

“’Tis a good thing I was not in Hades, where you would certainly have encountered greater difficulty rescuing me,” she said. “I would be honored to dance with you.”

The young woman introduced herself as Aimee de Montrochez, and she proved to be a vibrantly intelligent Eurydice to his Orpheus.

As the party progressed, some of the revelers had dispensed with their masks. René spotted Martin, who had removed his. Dressed as Apollo, he had his arm around Aphrodite who had to be Clarisse even though she had yet to unmask.

“I see some friends,” René said to Aimee. “Will you accompany me to greet them?”

“I may be willing to share you for a minute or two.” She broke into a smile.

“We should keep our masks on and see how long it takes them to recognize us.” René wrapped his arm around her waist and led her through the milling crowd.

“I have never seen a lovelier Aphrodite, although I must say your Apollo leaves something to be desired,” René said in his best imitation of a stentorian boatswain he knew.

“Bonsoir, René.” Clarisse nodded at Aimee. “And who is this lovely creature on your arm?”

“How did you recognize me?”

“I have an excellent sense of pitch. Once I hear a voice, I recognize it, especially if ’tis poorly disguised.” Clarisse released her mask and smiled. “Sorry to have spoiled your illusion.”

“Well, you fooled me,” said Martin. “I was about to challenge you for being so insulting.”

“Given your overwhelming skill with the sword, you had best keep the challenges to a minimum.” René smiled down at Aimee before he glanced at Clarisse. “May I present Mademoiselle Aimee de Montrochez? My friends, Martin Devereaux and Clarisse du Bourg.”

“Both your costumes are quite marvelous,” Aimee said.

Martin wagged his eyebrows as he flared open his gold cloak, exposing the shin length white and gold chiton that hung over his lean frame. Clarisse turned to René. A revealing bit of white gauze defined her as Aphrodite.

René swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off Clarisse. She glanced at Aimee. A long moment passed as the two women considered each other and then exchanged artificial smiles.

“René told me all about this afternoon’s ride. Must have left quite the impression.” Aimee sniffed into her kerchief.

“Martin redeemed my honor.” Clarisse’s painted smile widened.

“I will always redeem your honor, my lady.” Martin bowed low. All three turned toward René.

“I, ah, thought the macarons were terrific.” The stilted silence grew more uncomfortable until the music began.

“Ah, a cotillion,” René said with gratitude. “Shall we?” The dancers took their places on the crowded floor. The cotillion required each dancer to change partners throughout, bringing René to stand before Clarisse.

“You have never looked so beautiful,” René commented when they faced each other.

“You saw me this afternoon.” She twirled under his hand. “Oui, but you had on riding clothes—or maybe I never looked closely before.”

“’Tis necessary to look that closely in order to see my beauty?”

“Ah, no, of course not.” He missed a step and stumbled back into the correct footwork. “What I meant was…well, what I mean is…”

“Oui?”

“There is no way out of this for me, is there?”

“Not that I can see.”

“What I mean is that you are lovely. Today, tonight, and all the days to come.” He stole a glance to see if he had talked himself from the hole he had dug. “And that I am an ignorant buffoon without any sense at all. Will that work, do you think?”

“’Tis not Molière, but ’twill do for tonight.” She laughed as he spun her again.

As the dancers prepared to move to their next partners, René surprised himself when he blurted out, “I hate to let you go.”

“I hate to be let go.” Clarisse batted her eyelashes as she gracefully moved in front of the next man in line.

The round changed again and René found himself in front of Aimee, who wasted no time in asking, “Are you serious about her?”

René missed another step. “Serious? Although I have known of her for a few years, I did not meet her until this afternoon. What makes you ask?”

“Oh, nothing much. The field is open then.”

“Sounds like a hunt of some kind.” René stepped around her. “Should I be concerned? Are there weapons involved?”

“Depends on your definition of weapons.” Aimee glanced down her nose as she curtsied low.

“W-what?” René stammered. Aimee’s costume slipped a bit showing more décolleté than was polite. “I mean, what were we talking about?”

“Exactly. Do you think you could escort me home tonight?” She curtsied to him once more.

“Well, I…why, of course. ’Twould be my pleasure.”

“It might, it just might.” She winked as she moved on in the line.

What had just happened? The next few minutes went by in something of a blur, René moved through the dance steps and partners by habit until he heard a loud slap and a curse. Clarisse stood in front of Victor Gaspard. Apparently the fool had once again done something inappropriate, and Clarisse had rewarded him for his trouble.

René pushed his way through the dancers toward Clarisse. Gaspard was a couple of years older than René. A natural bully, rumor had it that he hurt people for pleasure. As a child Victor had been heavy. Now an adult, his height had caught up with his girth, and he was just big. If the rumors were true, Victor had already killed two men in duels, perhaps more.

Clarisse held her gown together across her bosom. Martin scowled and stormed toward Victor.

“Not good.” René reached Clarisse and Victor seconds before Martin.

“What have you done now, you—” Martin started to yell.

“Clarisse, are you all right? Martin, see to her.” René caught Clarisse’s eye, and she nodded.

“Martin, I am feeling faint and need some air. Will you help me outside?” She draped herself over his arm and steered him away from Victor.

René turned to find himself face to face with the flushed Gaspard. The air snapped with Victor’s rage. He required a target, and fate or fortune had selected René.

“Who do we have here?  Why,  ’tis  our local coward, the snivel-ing pacifist. With all the heroes available, she must not be very good if you are the best she could find,” Victor snorted.

“Well, weakling, what do you have to say?” echoed Maurice, Victor’s habitual shadow. He edged nearer to Victor’s elbow, parroting the words of his god in a whiny voice.

The crowd, their eyes glittering like jackals awaiting a kill, pushed and elbowed their way closer to René and Victor.

Aimee watched with a focused expression.

“Gilbert, get on your knees and apologize for the woman’s actions. I have been grievously assaulted. Do you not agree, Maurice?” Victor folded his arms across his chest.

Maurice glowed with anticipation, a runt hyena posturing with the pack behind him. “Oh, I concur. Definitely on his knees.”

“Embarrassing, but there is no pain. You would gain more satisfaction by injuring me, especially in front of all these people.”

“Given your cowardice, you refuse to duel. What do you suggest? Fight like the lower classes, bare fisted?” asked Victor.

“Non. I was thinking more along the lines of a game. I hold my hands together out in front of me, and you smack my hands. For each time you connect with my hands, you may punch me in the face. You get five tries.” Victor considered himself a master swordsman, with lightning hands, an arrogance René counted on.

“Sounds like good sport, but what do you get?”

“If by some small chance you should miss all five times, I get to leave this soirée in one piece, with no offense taken on either side.”

“Done. Your smile will look different when this is finished.” Victor smirked. “Will you need someone to hold you up?”

“I think I can manage.” René breathed deeply and allowed that calm, centered focus to settle within. When he looked into Victor’s eyes, in that timeless interval between one instant and the next, a heavily muscled ancient Egyptian general stood in Victor’s place, armed and armored in bronze. René blinked and Victor’s habitual sneer once again faced him.

René’s iron focus remained firm. He would consider the vision later. This moment had no room for its examination. He stood easily, balanced, aware, his hands held out, palms touching. As he anticipated, Victor made the first attempt as soon as he extended his hands. René moved them out of the way, and Victor’s right hand passed through the space where his hands had been. So violent was Victor’s swing that he almost fell. René reached out to steady him. Victor knocked his arm away.

“That one did not count,” said Victor.

“Why is that?” René asked.

“Because you were not ready.”

“I am ready now.” He held his hands out again.

Victor tried once more to catch René before he was set. But as the Maestro had taught him, one must always be set. Circumstance rarely waits for us to be ready. Once again, Victor’s hand smashed through empty air.

“One,” the revelers called. René nodded to the onlookers, grateful they were involved. He had little confidence in Victor’s motivation to count to five.

This time Victor wound up with his right hand and swung his left. But again René’s hands were absent, and Victor’s angry swing met no resistance.

“Two,” the glittering audience shouted. More people joined the throng around them, vying for a choice location to see the action.

René had pulled his hands up every time so far. On the next attempt, he moved them down out of the way. Victor’s swipe missed by a league.

“Three,” the chant increased in volume. Victor’s face was a deep blood red growing darker by the minute, partly from the exertion but more from the embarrassment of not having connected.

There would be no good ending to this confrontation, but René hoped he could avoid Victor long enough to let the incident fade. He considered allowing Victor to punch him once, thinking that perhaps that would satisfy him. Again, he heard the Maestro’s words. Evil will never be satisfied. There is no bargain with the devil. Do not ever pretend that there is.”

Another attempt, this one turned Victor full circle like the dancing bear in the circus that stopped in Bordeaux the previous year.

“Four.” The crowd jeered louder.

For his final shot, Victor tried to secure René’s arm with his left hand while striking his outstretched hands with his right. Even thus encumbered, René easily lifted his hands out of the way. Victor only managed to slap himself.

“Five,” the throng roared, as hands grabbed René and carried him away from the contest. It was good they did, for René had seen only the promise of death in Victor’s bloodshot stare. René caught Aimee’s arm as the crowd hustled him along. “If you want to ride with me, now would be a good time to leave,” he shouted.

“Timing is everything,” she yelled back. They raced to where his driver had brought the carriage around.

“The young lady said you would be needin’ immediate transportation.” Marc gripped the reins tight.

Smart girl, that Clarisse.

The Sun God's Heir: Return Chapter Two

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.”