Henri smiled
to the crowds and gave a salute to the occasional maiden who couldn’t help but
blush as his eyes met hers. They cheered as he passed through villages and
cities, handing him food, wine, small bags of coin, or scented handkerchiefs.
Merely coming into one of the local shops had minstrels scrambling for their
instruments and quills. He knew by heart the homes of many young women.
Fame had its
benefits.
This day
would be another opportunity to bolster his fame, but not only his. He would
travel to Missen, just by chance. In Missen he would also meet up with Charles,
also by chance. They had carefully arranged it so.
Charles put
it best: “My dear Henri, the best chance in life is the one most thoroughly planned.”
Both had
earned the respect of thousands in the region. Both were heroes and scoundrels,
but not even the most backwards town ever had the desire to arrest either of
them. Regardless of the odd shiny
trinket that turned up missing, the number of inns relieved of their best
bottled spirits, or the angry father who fortunately ran somewhat slower with a
pitchfork in his hands, there was no will to stop these two men. They were
celebrities.
They were
also touted as bitter rivals. Their clashes were things of beauty. Two men
crossing swords at every meeting, engaged in a dance choreographed and refined
over the years. Certainly one expected to best the other one day, when the
music stopped and the dance had run its course. But they were far from that
day.
Bitter
rivals? Henri chuckled every time he thought of it.
Oh, they had
to be discreet of course. Disguises worn, the curious misled. No one needed to
know just how close the two men were. Two halves of one man it seemed.
***
Henri
stopped and dismounted outside the Painted Courtesan, an inn of terrible
reputation and, consequently, Henri’s favorite.
“Why
do you always insist on the Painted Courtesan?” Charles had asked him one
evening as they sat together on a hillside outside Des Fille.
“Are
you serious? Have you ever seen the splendorous namesake?”
Charles
shook his head that night over a long pause. “What is she like?”
Henri
sighed. “As soon as I get a glimpse I will let you know.”
As Henri sat
sipping his wine, a stir arose outside. His heart sped up, his skin tingled.
The performance was nearing. He pretended only to notice the serving girl who was
doing her best to give him things to notice.
Soon the
door swung open and in stepped Henri’s dance partner.
Charles
always dressed more commonly than Henri’s purple and tan flowing garments. They
found it made the crowds more enthusiastic for they could take sides more easily.
There was a
gasp from the entering group, and suddenly the room was electric and
silent. Henri stopped mid-sip as the serving girl – Lisbet, Lily, L-something –
suddenly backed away from the table. Henri slowly sat his glass down and smiled.
“I do
believe there is a storm approaching. I feel the air has turned a bit colder.”
On cue the
innfolk turned for the response.
“I believe
the cold you feel is the sudden wane of the ladies’ interest in you now that a
real man has arrived.”
Oh, now that
was a good one. He needed to remember to ask Charles if he could use that line
next time.
Henri stood
and the two saluted each other.
“Do come in
and let me regale you and your entourage with tales of my recent travels.”
“Oh you have
my thanks. It has been a long while since we had a moment to enjoy fictions!”
The audience
roared. Henri could see the sparkle in Charles’ eyes. He was in good form. This
would be a wonderful show.
***
The morning
gave way to early afternoon, and by now the word would have spread throughout
the vicinity. Shops would be closing, households would empty, and the populace
would get a chance to witness the great dance in person.
A bell
captured the attention of the room. All turned to see a woman, most of her face
and hair concealed by silks, with only two swirls of dark brown hair in a braid
framing her painted eyelids.
Henri was
stunned. Charles’ first real stop at this inn, and the Painted Courtesan
herself made an appearance. This could not have been written better by the
finest bards.
“My finest
wine. A libation! To our two esteemed guests!”
She had in
her hands a tray with two cups, one made of hammered metal, one of carefully
blown glass. As she stood waiting, the crowds gave the two celebrity swordsmen
room to meet over a drink.
Charles made
a move for the elaborate glass but Henri nearly spilled it in his
effort to claim it first.
“Ah ah, dear
Charles. A fine vessel is only fit for fine gentlemen.”
Charles
swung back to the metal cup. “Fine gentlemen should remember that glass is as
fragile as it is beautiful.”
The room
cooed its approval, and the two drank down the contents of their cups. They had both been careful to sip their wine since they arrived to prevent intoxication's impairments. However the various women of company, who had been
encouraged to share their servings, were a bit wobbly.
The two
combatants placed their vessels back on the tray.
“My thanks
to the Lady for this honor,” Charles said to polite applause.
“And my
thanks to my esteemed opponent, for giving me something to best today besides
the Painted Courtesan’s wine cellar!” Henri got the laugh this time. They
shared the stage, as was only right.
“I dare say,
Charles, you seem a little uneven from the wine. Perhaps today we should not
contend but pass the evening in gentle reverie.”
The throng
nearly booed. Oh the delight they took in playing the audience like a master does
his lute.
“Oh I disagree
Henri. I believe the good folk of this fine town would like to see me give that
pompous dress of yours a little alteration with my blade!”
The cheers
and laughter made Henri’s ears ring, but he didn’t mind. He would gladly hear that reaction in his
sleep for nights to come.
The crowd
moved the two men out of the inn and into the wide street. They marched along,
chanting the names of their chosen contestant. A short walk and they came to a
large meadow with outcroppings of rock lined with children and others who
forwent the matinee at the inn for choice seating at the grand performance.
The anticipation grew as the onlookers
sat or stood in a wide circle to watch two masters perform their art.
Both men
drew their swords and began to warm up. A little swirl, a few lunges, and
repartee. Oh, always repartee.
“Charles,
tell me. How many contests have I mercilessly handed you a humiliating
defeat? Is it in the dozens yet?”
“If by some
miracle you do so today? One.”
Laughter and cheering.
“Oh, I see
the wine truly has addled your memory. Half of the country has watched you
admit defeat, and the other half merely waits their turn.”
“Henri,
there will not come a day….”
The people
stood expectantly, but no finish came. Henri turned slowly towards Charles.
Charles
rolled his hand to finish the thought. There was a smattering of confused
laughter, but while Henri was confused, he wasn’t laughing. When had Charles
ever not returned a volley?
“Ah, the cat
has your tongue. Perhaps I should thank the cat for sparing the crowds any more
of your dull wit. To business!”
The two
neared each other and stood, sword tips touching. The crowd was hardly
breathing.
A move, a
counter. A jab, a dodge. A pivot, a hop away.
Henri
stepped forward with a clean thrust. Charles parried it, and stumbled
backwards. The crowd sounded its surprise, but again they were not nearly as
surprised as Henri. As Charles regained his balance, Henri looked around the
ground for a shallow hole or a grass-covered rock. There was no cause for the
stumble.
They moved
in close, straining muscle and steel. Charles was already sweating heavily. Henri
noticed an odor on Charles’ breath. They whispered.
“Is
something wrong? Are you unwell?”
“Henri, I… I…”
They pushed
apart, Henri sheathing his sword and addressing the crowd with a forced laugh. “I fear this afternoon
heat has gotten the better of my esteemed opponent today. Perhaps we should
sleep this night and rally here in the morning.”
Before the
audience's displeasure could reach full force, Charles bellowed. “No,
scoundrel! Our swords will not rest until one of us is beaten! For honor!”
The crowd
roared in approval. Henri looked at his friend. Charles’ eyes circled the
crowd in explanation, and Henri knew he was right. If there was no clear winner this day there
would likely be a riot.
Henri drew
his blade quickly, determined to conceal his intent to hold back. Charles was easily his
equal in skill, but this day would have to be saved by the lead partner in the
dance.
The two men
circled, Charles clearly uneven on his feet but his sword steady. Henri was
afraid he would collapse at any moment. They would have to make this fast and
dazzling.
Henri took
to acrobatics and overplaying Charles’ weaker assaults.
“I say,
Charles! Have you been playing the weakened fool to lure me into a false sense
of superiority?”
Charles
laughed but it was so strained Henri almost winced. Again, the strong
odor on his breath made Henri worry about Charles’ health. As soon as this was
over, he would disguise himself and seek a doctor for his opponent.
A turn, a
lunge, and a gasp.
Charles’
sword fell to the ground, followed swiftly by his blood.
Charles fell
into Henri’s arms, stiff, shaking. No sound in the world except for Charles’
rasping attempts to breathe with pierced lungs.
“Charles!
No!”
Henri laid
him gently on the ground and held him tightly. The crowd began to applaud, but
Henri didn’t want applause. He couldn’t accept this.
Not like this, Charles. Not like
this.
A physician
came rushing to his side, but Henri couldn’t move. He could only hear the sound
of his own heart as Charles expired upon a bed of matted grass.
***
That night,
as he sat in the glow of a campfire, Henri looked into the sky and wondered how
this all could have happened.
The physician had remarked about the odd smell on Charles’ breath. Something in Latin, a poison
that renders a man increasingly frail until the body gives up.
And
conveniently, the Painted Courtesan herself had left town with all her
belongings while the town watched the final disastrous dance of the masters.
She headed west. Henri would follow her.
He
unsheathed his blade and began to sharpen it carefully. He had often talked
with Charles about what they would do one day, when the dance was over and they
put away their blades.
“I
do not know, Henri. But no matter what brings that day, we will always have us.”
Henri’s
tears stung. He knew that his blade was not ready to sleep over a mantle
somewhere. No, he would dance with it one more time.
Not for
performance, but for honor.
