Delormel was astonished.
“That news reached you? How?”
“Your daughter. The youngest.”
The fencing master smiled affectionately.
“The little devil. Nothing gets past her…”
Tall and broad across the shoulders, Delormel was a fencing master who had been a soldier and who regarded fencing as more of a practical experience than a science. A thick scar scored his neck; another traced a pale furrow down his face. But what one noticed first was his thick russet red hair, which he had inherited from his father and passed on to all his children: a Delormel was a redhead, or they weren’t a Delormel. Well groomed, he wore a modestly cut and perfectly pressed doublet.
“However,” said La Fargue, “you are more correct than you believe in addressing me as ‘captain.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The cardinal has secretly returned my rank to me. He wants the Blades to return to service. Under my command.”
“All of them? That is: all of the Blades?”
The captain shrugged.
“All those who are left and would like to serve, at least. And for those who do not, I have no doubt that the cardinal shall find some persuasive leverage. Letters summoning them have already been sent out.”
Reading the concern on La Fargue’s face, Delormel hesitated, and then asked: “And this isn’t good news?”
“I’ve yet to form an opinion on the subject.”
“Come, captain! The Blades are your life! And here you are! Soon those five years will be-”
But he did not complete the sentence.
Suddenly nervous, he looked to the left and right and then murmured: “I beg you, do not tell me you said no to the cardinal! No one says no to the cardinal, do they? Nobody. Not even you, eh?”
La Fargue had no reply.
His eyes flicked toward Martin and his student below and he said: “I thought you only opened your practice room after dinner.”
“It’s only a private lesson,” specified Romand. “That braggart you see there pays in gold.”
Calling him a braggart spoke volumes. The old gentleman, however, asked: “And how is he doing?”
The fencing master made a disdainful face.
“He can’t tell his right from his left, holds his sword like a shovel, believes he knows everything, understands nothing, and constantly complains, claiming that everything is badly explained to him.”
“His name?”
“Guerante, I believe. If I was Martin, I would have slapped him ten times by now.”
“And you would have lost your client.”
“No doubt, yes…”
La Fargue did not take his eyes from Martin’s student. He was a young man, very richly dressed and everything about him, especially his attitude, indicated that he was a wealthy scion with a head swollen by his family’s title and fortune. He lacked patience as much as he lacked talent, became irritated over nothing, and found a thousand excuses for his awkwardness. He was out of place here, where serious, practical fencing was taught; fencing which demanded hard work without sparing the ego.
“I didn’t say no,” the captain suddenly announced. “To the cardinal, last night. I did not say no to him.”
Delormel’s face split into a broad smile.
“Praise be! You are never truly yourself unless you’re serving the king and, no matter what you think, you never served him so well as you did during the years when you commanded your Blades.”
“But to what end? One death, and the treachery of a friend-”
“You are a soldier. Death comes with war. As for treason, it comes with life.”
La Fargue nodded, but it lacked the vigour that would suggest he truly agreed.
Clearly anxious to change the subject, Delormel took the captain by the elbow and, limping a little because of an old wound, drew him away from the balustrade.
“I do not ask you what your mission is, but-”
“You can,” interrupted La Fargue. “At the moment, all we have to do is arrange, with all speed and without attracting too much attention, the recall of the Blades. And perhaps find others… It seems clear that the cardinal has precise plans, which I shall soon learn. But why is he recalling the Blades? Why them, when he does not lack other devoted agents? Why me? And most important, why now, after all these years? There is a mystery behind all of this.”
“These are troubled times,” suggested Delormel. “And contrary to what you said, perhaps His Eminence does lack men capable of doing the things you and your Blades have achieved in the past…”
Below them there was a sudden outburst which drew them, surprised, back to the balustrade.
Guerante had just fallen, entirely through his own fault, and, furious, he hurled insults at the younger Delormel. Pale, the other withstood the outburst without responding: he was only a commoner while his student was of the nobility, and therefore both protected and permitted to do as he pleased.
“Enough,” said La Fargue after a moment. “That will do.”
He walked down the staircase with a determined step while the gentleman struggled back to his feet and continued to howl. La Fargue seized him by the collar, forced him out of the room ignoring his thrashings, dragged him across the courtyard in front of Justine, who watched with huge round eyes, and threw him out into the street. Guerante measured his length in a patch of mud through which one would hesitate to walk, to the great delight of passersby.
Livid, stinking, and dripping with muck and urine, the braggart pushed himself up and would have stripped off his soiled outer layers ready to fight. But La Fargue froze him in place with a movement of an index finger, pointing at Guerante’s chest.
“Monsieur,” he said to him, in too calm a voice not to be threatening. “I am a gentleman and therefore do not have to put up with either your whims or your poor temper. If you would draw your sword, do so, and you shall learn with whom you speak.”
Guerante hesitated, changed his mind, and returned the two inches of steel he had drawn in the heat of the moment to their scabbard.
“Another thing, monsieur,” added the captain. “If you are religious, pray. Pray that my friend Delormel does not come to any misadventure. Pray that no one bothers either his clients or his family. Pray that petty thieves do not come in the night and plunder his school or his home. Pray that he does not receive a beating on a street corner… Because I shall learn of it. And without any further consideration, I shall find you and I shall kill you, monsieur de Guerante. Do we understand each other?”
Mortified and covered in slurry, the other made an effort to recover his dignity. There were spectators watching and mocking him, and he did not want to lose face entirely.
“This business,” he promised, puffing himself up. “This affair does not end here.”
“It does,” La Fargue shot back, harsh and inflexible.
“We shall see!”
“This business is finished here and now if you do not draw your sword, monsieur…”
His terrible gaze plunged Guerante into the deepest pit of fear.
“Well?” he demanded.
Delormel and his son waited for La Fargue in the courtyard. His wife, pale and worried, watched from the threshold of the main building, Justine pressed against her skirts.
“Let’s eat,” said the captain, as he returned.
His rapier had never left its scabbard.
7
In the kitchen of the Vaudreuil manor, a woman in an apron and a large serge skirt scrubbed a series of copper saucepans.
Her name was Marion.
Sitting at the end of a large oak table worn smooth by old age and hard use, she turned her back to the hearth where small flames gently heated the blackened bottom of a pot. Drying herbs, a string of garlic, and some earthenware pots decorated the chimneypiece. A door which stood open onto the courtyard allowed tiny dust particles to enter which, carried by a light breeze, sparkled in the spring air. Pieces of straw were scattered on the floor as far as the threshold.