The Dance, of Honor and Performance

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.