“My thanks, Chuinard, whatever would I do without you,” the girl said flatly. She turned her blurry gaze on La Héron. “What is that?”
“They call me La Héron,” La Héron answered for herself. “You’re a nun.”
“That wasn’t my idea,” the girl said, and spat a red glob between her feet.
“A drunken nun,” La Héron said thoughtfully. “How old are you, girl?”
“Seventeen. Are you really a bird?”
“She’s twenty-three,” the canoness said, sighing. “You’ve said your vows, Sister.”
“Don’t remember that,” the sister muttered. She hauled herself unsteadily to her feet. “I can walk, if you’ll walk me out of here. What is it, then? You want me to plant carrots? Stitch up yer uniform? What’s the bird-woman for?”
“I need a second,” La Héron replied, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “Do you know anything about dueling?”
Sister Louise-Alexandrine stopped swaying and fixed a sober eye on the taller woman. Her gaze darted toward Chuinard.
“Dueling’s illegal,” she replied cautiously.
“I need a second,” La Héron repeated. “For the Black Bouts. Monsieur Chuinard has recommended you to me.”
The nun blinked hard and put a hand to her temple. “Chuinard, you hypocrite. I get into a few scraps and you drag me back here, but a stranger turns up for some back-alley brawling and suddenly the king’s law is by your discretion, is it?”
Chuinard turned red up to the roots of his black hair. “I dragged you back here to protect you from the blackguard with his boot on your face.”
“I don’t need your protection, ’sblood,” said Sister Louise-Alexandrine, throwing her hands in the air. “I can take care of myself better than—”
“I must beg your pardons, friends,” La Héron said, stepping between the two, who looked as if they might come to blows, “but I need a second. Tonight.”
“I’ll attend you,” Sister Louise-Alexandrine answered. She scowled at Chuinard. “You won’t find a better sword in this town. I’d charge you, but what does a nun need with money?” She guffawed at the irony. “Just get me out of here.”
La Héron looked imploringly at the gendarme, who threw up his arms. “I leave you with Madame La Héron until she is eliminated or withdraws from the Bouts.” He raised a warning finger at both women. “But she comes back here when you are done with her, madame.”
La Héron shrugged. “That is not my affair. I am but a stranger here, as you say.”
“How very fortunate for you,” grumbled Sister Louise-Alexandrine.
THOUGH THEY ENJOYED the unofficial sanction of the minor constabulary like Monsieur Louis-Ange Chuinard, the Black Bouts of Caen were still decidedly illicit affairs, and as such maintained a cloak-and-dagger ambiance. Matches were paired and scheduled by secret organizers, the participants informed with barely an hour’s notice by anonymous letter-bearers who appeared and vanished into crepuscular mists.
Having received their first such summons just after a dinner of oysters in parsley butter, La Héron and the nun who insisted on being addressed simply as “Alex” were crouched on the shaded side of a moat under the Porte des Champs, looking up at the great stone fortress that was Le Château de Caen. Soldiers appeared at intervals to march along the bridge over their heads, but the governor was in Paris and the castle’s remaining residents seemed inclined to take the month off. Rousing drinking songs and raucous conversations rang out from within.
“Music!” cried a cloaked stranger, emerging from shadows of his own. “I could not have asked for a more romantic setting.”
As La Héron and Alex stepped into the light, the stranger unwound his long cloak in one deft stroke and heaped it upon his companion, a dwarf in a bright red hat. The taller man was dressed fancifully in gaily colored silks and breeches, his waistcoat and jacket speckled with gemstones and draped with the same golden sash La Héron wore, marking him as a competitor in the Bouts. He had a dagger at each hip, golden buckles on his shoes, and a foxish smile. La Héron took Alex by the elbow when the woman stepped forward to make their addresses.
“Do not give him your true name,” she murmured, watching the man with shrewd eyes.
“Eh? I am known to every gendarme in town, madame. I have nothing to gain by hiding—”
“It is not the law we should be wary of, Sister.” She gestured with her chin. “That’s a fairy lord, or I’m a butter churn.”
Alex returned a skeptical look as La Héron released her arm, yet as she approached their brightly clothed opponents, her gait slowed with apprehension. The man had goat-like eyes and long ears which tapered to points amidst his golden curls. The man’s little second, upon closer inspection, was a toadstool.
“M’lords,” she bowed. “I am…you may call me Chant des Oiseaux. My companion is known as La Héron. May I ask whom we have the honor of meeting tonight on this field of battle?”
“Birds!” the man said, looking delighted. “Oh, this will be fun!”
“Mademoiselle Birdsong,” the toadstool said, its face little more than nicks in its stem, “I am Agaric, and this is my master, the Count of Hunter’s Fields. Well met. We hope you will do us the honor of setting the terms for this bout.”
Alex glanced over her shoulder at La Héron, who nodded. “Our thanks. I propose the duel be fought to the third blood—or until either person be unable to continue. Blades only, no blows nor child’s play. In the case of dishonorable conduct, the second shall take up the blade of the participant and conduct herself as she deems appropriate. How does this suit you?”
“Very well,” the toadstool gurgled. “Shall we inspect the blades?” Alex bowed in response. The count’s daggers were ornate but mundane weapons, containing no trickery that the nun could see. The inspection complete, the seconds returned to their masters.
“I don’t like this,” Alex muttered as La Héron removed her own cloak and hat. “These things have come from elfland to compete in honorable bouts? I don’t believe it. There’s bound to be tricks or treachery.”
“I know,” La Héron replied, “so we must be ready for that. They allowed Herlechin and his band to enlist. Whatever they are, we must defeat them if we are to win the purse.”
“Herlechin?” Alex looked startled. “Of the Hunts? I think I know that tale.”
“You should,” La Héron told her. “These are not simply bored wood sprites from the Forêt de Rouvray. Herlechin has led his Hunt through these lands since the time of the Conqueror, seeking souls to take back with him to Hell or fairyland or wherever he goes. Deal with this lot as if your soul depended upon it, Sister Birdsong. Keep your wits, and keep an eye on the little fellow.” La Héron removed her purse last and slapped it into Alex’s hand with a warning look.
La Héron took her place opposite the count and eased herself into a fighting stance. Despite her much greater reach, the elf looked unconcerned, spinning his daggers on his palms and humming along with the drunken soldiers in the keep.
La Héron was prepared to launch an all-out attack when the first strains of new music tickled her ears. This new tune wasn’t coming from the keep but the other direction, out in the fields. She skipped back a step into the shadows, lowering her sword a few inches and expecting the count to do the same. If they were discovered dueling, they would both be thrown out of Caen, and the Bouts.
But the count did not move even as the music grew louder, a chorus of pipes and whistles playing Norman peasant music. La Héron glanced askew, trying to see where the noise was coming from without turning from her opponent, but she could see nothing in the gloom beyond moonlit grass and tangles of heather. La Héron stepped deeper into the shadow of the bridge overhead and did not see the thrust of the knife that flew past her cheek like a mercury dragonfly.