A thundering crack of noise cuffed what had previously been a peaceful morning- and the sky, which had boasted a rich blue color, was now tainted by a chaotic haze of black smoke. A pair of pheasants, which had been flushed out of the high meadow grass by the din, had taken flight and made quick for the forest, away from the young man who stood, musket dropped to his hip. He stood and watched the birds depart, putting his free hand up to shield his eyes from the midday sun, and took some pleasure out of the perfect stillness that had accompanied his shot. The French countryside was rarely this peaceful, and his life had never been, and in that moment he was determined to enjoy the respite.
It didn’t last long, however- he was struck from behind- a glancing clout that was less force than noise. He almost dropped his matchlock in surprise, but caught himself at the last moment and used his other hand to steady the dense weight of the musket. His tutor came up from behind, his hands raised up as if to strike again.
“Mon dieu, Ambrose! What have I told you of the loading procedure? You weren’t being careful! You should be thanking God that he had the foresight to give each man more luck than he has sense.”
“The gunpowder didn’t ignite before I fired- what did I do wrong?” His voice carried resentment at the sting of being said to have no sense. The elder man heard it, and narrowed his eyes at the lad.
“By the sound of you, I would guess you to be a wounded woman, rather than the son of a noble house.” His eyes were filled with distaste. “If you can’t keep those childish pouts under restraint, I suggest you put down that firearm and go looking for the lady of the house, instead. Perhaps she has room in her retinue for another attendant.” Then he leveled his gaze at the young noble, daring him to respond.
Ambrose took his time with his answer, seething inside with embarrassment, anger, and a very real desire to keep those feelings from escaping. When he did respond, he had cooled his expression so that the only thing that could be read from his angular, gentleman’s features was a dispassionate stare.
“My apologies, Monsieur Mausapelle. My passions ruled me.” A curtailed bow followed- a tilt of the head and a sharp inclination of the spine. Any further would have been inappropriate according to standing, for although Laurent Mausapelle was due reverence and respect from his pupil, his rank reached only a Quartermaster Cavalryman in the Kings Army, whereas Ambrose was the son of an aristocrat. The bow, the words- everything that Ambrose had done- was a finely-tuned execution of his role in the ‘dance of the nobility’, a never-ending waltz between the ranks that was governed by a set of ancient rules and invisible (but formidable)… boundaries. Years of etiquette lessons had prepared Ambrose amply for his role, and it was second nature for him to slip into the stoic yet honeyed words of the court, citing an inflammation of his “passions” for what was more accurately a young boy, hurt by the judging eyes of his elders.
Laurent was not an old man- but in his life he had seen too much battle and too little satisfaction to allow him any of the comforts of youth. He had never been fond of his station or the years he’d had to put into one regiment after another to obtain his title. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and it showed on his face, creased with battle and years of a sour existence. Now that he had earned leave of the King’s Army, he was bitter to discover that his bęte-noir for life was not caused by his profession- he still awoke every morning to his self-hatred and dissatisfaction, though the battlefield now seemed another lifetime to him. In an age where a man’s feelings were a shame- the gentleman’s equivalent of a sin- he hadn’t much choice but to continue on in regular fashion. The only outlet he found, it seemed, was the preying upon his young pupil, in whom he saw a budding version of his own cheerless existence. Perhaps, in another time, or another place… he would have been able to turn into a mentor for the boy, and protect him from the onset of self-doubting. But it was not meant to be, and he instead helped perpetuate the circle of suppression, priming yet another generation to level off their passions with a harsh coating of gentleman ‘sophistication’.
Laurent accepted Ambrose’s curt bow with a slightly deeper nod, and put his hands out to take the matchlock from his student.
“Go home, Ambrose. I haven’t the energy to continue any further today. It’s tiring, to be so alert, anxious you’ll blow me to pieces.” He gripped the musket, and waved his hand to let Ambrose know that he was no longer welcome in his presence.
“Monsieur Mausapelle,” he said with another jerking bow. Then he turned heels and ran through the tall grass, not caring how unseemly it might be, towards the great house that peered above the thin veneer of trees. Laurent sighed, watching the boy go, and headed back towards the village, where he planned to drown himself in the nearest tavern.
* * *
If Ambrose hoped that was the end of his embarrassment and reprimand for the day, he would have been better to point his arms tutor in the direction of The Drunken Boar. For Monsieur Mausapelle had been unable to muster up the energy to make it on foot to The Golden Alms, the only drinking hole in the area he was familiar with, and instead had turned and returned to the Maurlias estate. Perhaps, if he’d known the location of The Drunken Boar- which was much closer than The Golden Alms (although perhaps a little seedier…) - he would have spent his afternoon elbows up on a bar. Instead, Ambrose found himself ‘excused’ from that afternoon’s scripture lesson by his father, vexed with an account brought to him by the peevish ex-Cavalryman himself.
Ambrose knew it wasn’t a good sign when the doors to the library flew open to reveal Andru Maurlias. Partially because he rarely interrupted a lesson unless it was to berate his son, but mostly due to the deep frown the Maurlias elder was pulling. With a motion, he dismissed the young cleric that came from the church every week to school Ambrose on the scripture, less out of a courtesy to the bumbling member of the clergy than of a desire to not involve people outside the family in what he firmly considered private concerns. Ambrose had leapt to his feet as soon as his father had taken steps into the library, and was standing at alert in the middle of the room when the two came face to face. Their features were similar, angular and distinct, and they were almost matched eye to eye, since Ambrose’s sudden spurt in growth. But there would be no mistaking which of these related figures held the power, and which was the desperate seeker of approval.
“Tell me, Ambrose,” he said, after a measure of silence, “what does this mean to you?” He held up his hand, palm towards himself. Ambrose knew it wasn’t a symbol of violence- his father had never struck him in his life- but he was so ill-at-ease that it might as well have been a hand raised in anger.
He stared at the calloused hand of his father, and the only thing he could think to suggest was, “Your ring, Father?”
“Yes,” the man said, gruffly, “What does this ring mean to you?”
Ambrose focused on it with an unyielding stare, studying even though he was intimately familiar with its contours, for he bore its twin on his own hand. It was a gold signet ring that bore the Maurlias crest. The proud emblem, a heraldic wolf rampant, was corned with Fleur de Lys, and Ambrose could have drawn its likeness entirely from memory, even though his illustration skills were sorely lacking. The familiar insignia emblazoned anything of value in the great manor, from the etching in the silver to the flags that were laid across the backs of their horses. Every member of his family wore the symbol on a matched ring, save Sebastien, not even two years his senior, who had given himself to the church and had renounced all ties to his former life. There had been no prouder moment in Ambrose’s life than when he received his own ring. To him, it cemented that he was recognized a member of his family, which was something this third son coveted greatly. Ambrose couldn’t possibly let forth this flow of emotion to his father, but he was still waiting for an answer.
“It’s the heraldic sign of the Maurlias,” he said, “the emblem under which our noble house is recognized and distinguished.” It was an old recitation, and he hoped it was enough for him.
His father put his hand down, and lifted his sharp nose as if to gain another inch’s superiority over his tall son. “Well, I am glad to know that it means something to you. I had wondered, in truth, if it was not so. Now answer me this, since you’re so adept at questions… why is it that I had to answer to the discredit of my third son this afternoon?”
“Father?”
“Your arms-master is not impressed in your progress- to say the least- with that of your training, or of your character. So I ask you again, Ambrose, why I found myself defending my family this afternoon?”
Ambrose knew that by ‘defend’, his father did not mean that he was skeptical of Monsieur Mausapelle’s accusations, or that he’d stood up for his youngest- not in any sense. The language of nobility was again in play, where words were coated with many meanings. His words spoke that what he had defended was his name, and when he’d said “his family”, he was speaking not of his kin, but of what ‘Maurlias’ stood for.
Ambrose was distraught, and struggled to keep control of the panic that welled up inside. He would have rather spent his entire life shooting that dreadful matchlock than to hear these harsh words from his father. He was not the typical adolescent who believed always of their own correctness, but instead a young man who, at the slightest suggestion of fault by his father, would find himself preyed upon by his own cruel conscience. He didn’t entertain for an instant that his offense hadn’t been so great to warrant this blame- he owned it. In Ambrose’s mind, faults and mistakes were seen as great wounds of weakness that would become scars if he did not take steps to improve. He tried so hard to never make a mistake and to be cool and composed and everything he was supposed to be, but it seemed that no matter how he tried, he would always slip and fall- and when he would, his father would be there to see it. In all the years Ambrose had lived, he had never made the connection that perhaps this meant his father found fault where there was none- instead, it secured to the boy that he was still imperfect, and that his father could not be wrong.
Swallowing his horror at these newest ‘wounds’, Ambrose concealed the existence of any of his passions, and wore the face of a reserved, penitent gentleman. “Father, I sincerely apologize that you were placed in that position on my behalf. I have no answer for you except my regret, and I vow to do better.” He used the words required by etiquette, but made painstakingly sure to keep that regret he vowed to feel from tainting his calm expression.
“See that you do. It’s not enough to me that I have one gentleman son.” He paused, and seemed to give his youngest one a small smile- although it was caused instead at the thought of his eldest, Dreu. “Work hard and you too will find a day when you will be able to proudly carry the Maurlias name.”
* * *
Ambrose ran. His father’s words bit to his soul long after he’d been dismissed from his presence and had made his way out to the sun, hoping to regain sight after being blinded by a wave of inadequacy. He doubted that he’d ever be able to fish the remains of his heart from his stomach- for he was sure that was the result of the sinking plunge in his gut that he’d felt at the final words of his father. To think that he believes I am not proud of my name, he thought, aghast and unable to pretend the stoicism of a gentleman. I am my name, he said to himself; I am Ambrose Vespasien Maurlias, and I am not worthy of how fulfilled and honored that makes me. …Miles away, his brother Sebastian was on his bare knees on a cold church chamber, confessing his sins to his God- but somehow, for all its penitent trappings, it could not rival his brother’s declaration of unworthiness as he ran through the rich grassland of Guillaume, the sun his only confessor.
He did not ask himself why he’d been compared to Dreu, or why the brother who was four year his senior deserved to be held so high in their father’s esteem. If his own faults were scars- he saw Dreu as being flawless, untouched by the battle of failure. He was the embodiment of everything Ambrose sought for- he seemed to be the perfect gentleman, and if he had any passions at all, they were not betrayed by his dignified exterior. And, most of all, he had what Ambrose coveted: their father’s approval, and love. (Although he hesitated to call it that, for in an age where love could be seen as the most excessive emotion of all, it was a weakness to admit how much he sought it.)
He may have continued to run forever, if he’d gone with his first impulse that morning and dressed in an earthen colored shirt that matched the hue of the dried rushes that were used to sweep out the kitchens. Instead, his second choice, which was to wear a white shirt, now caused him to stick out as a streak of light against a brown and green backdrop, and he was spotted, and called out to.
He still may not have stopped, if a turn of his head hadn’t revealed the owner of the voice as being a light-haired youth his own age. The boy beckoned him closer, seeing that he had Ambrose’s attention.
“Gino, what are you doing out here?” Ambrose asked, once he’d veered off toward the lad and ended his run three steps away from him. He hadn’t forgotten his own troubles, but they were temporarily shouldered at his surprise. “I thought you were supposed in De’Lacrois for the summer!”
The boy shook his head forlornly. “We were. Father changed his mind and we arrived home a fortnight ago. He said we’re spending summer here, now… although that could mean anything, really.” He mumbled the last bit, looking down at the ground as he plucked at the material on his sleeves- one of a number of nervous habits he possessed.
In general, he was an uneasy youth, and had been for as long as Ambrose had known him, which was a fair measure of their young years. They’d lost their milk teeth together, and learned to ride at each other’s sides with horses from their own respective stables. They lived not a stone’s throw apart from each other- Gino was a member of the Gambino family, who were the Maurlias’ closest neighbors, although not exactly their closest friends. Ambrose and Gino got along famously- but Monsieur Gambino was too forceful and flashy a personality to have any sort of connection with the stoic patriarch of the Maurlias family. And there were no others in the Gambino brood to soften out his brassy effect- Gino’s mother had died in his infancy, and there were no other children that either preceded or followed. Unfortunately for Gino, this meant that his existence was coupled solely with his father, and that he was the undisputed heir of the estate and the title- a position he would have done nearly anything to avoid. The elder and younger Gambino were as unlike in demeanor as night and day- where one was raucous and opulent, joyous and bawdy, the other was quiet and nervous, constantly carrying around on his face what seemed to be a permanent, unhappy frown.
Ambrose seemed to notice, however, that besides his friend’s normal, cheerless demeanor, there was an additional woe on Gino’s mind. The boy’s substantial, blonde eyebrows had been furrowed together as if to commiserate their fate, and that was an almost sure sign that there was something troubling him.
“There seems to be something else on your mind. What’s the matter?”
Gino plucked at the fabric of his sleeve again, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb in anxious repetition. When he freed it, Ambrose observed that the material in that spot had dimpled out by the constant aggravation, a molehill made of fine cloth. Gino was always decked out in the finest of clothing and trappings- again, much to his dismay- and at the insistence of his father, who himself was known for his fondness of gold and of splendor. On this day, Gino had been subjected to a fine white shirt which billowed out in sleeves made of a gauzy (no doubt ridiculously expensive) cloth. Those same sleeves were bound by cuffs that had been embroidered with gold thread to match the insignia that adorned the front of his belt. It was the Gambino crest- simple in its design and specifications- a mirror image of a ‘G’ that needed only to fill two requirements in any one of its copies: that it be large, and that it be gold. Rarely had Ambrose ever seen Gino without some manner of the emblem, whether it be a decoration on a belt buckle or embroidered into the shirts that were forced upon his back. And unlike Ambrose’s dedication to his own family crest, Gino almost seemed… embarrassed to tote about a constant reminder of his station.
“Father brought back a visitor. When we were in De’Lacrois, he was introduced to a man by the Viscount.” Gino said.
“A man? Of what sort?”
“A Musketeer.” And Gino’s eyes, a shade of blue so deep they were almost plum, spread wide with the horror of what he was about to say, “And Father brought him back to stay with us for a period! And tomorrow, he says, I’m to learn something from a true master, and he’ll take over for Monsieur Cricket!”
Monsieur Cricket was Gino’s master-at-arms, although Cricket was obviously not the man’s correct name. It had been given to him on the sly by the two boys an age ago, when they’d noticed that the old man’s thin, brittle appendages creaked like the legs of a cricket, and his eyes were popped out in a very insect-like fashion. Ambrose immediately understood why the old man’s replacement by a Musketeer would present a problem for his friend, who had never been handy with any manner of weapon. The old master-at-arms was mostly blind, and had grown increasingly senile since his days of training the older Gambino when he was a boy. So much so, in fact, that he had on many occasions reported to Gino’s father that his son was a fine swordsman and an expert with a musket. (When anyone with two decent eyes would have seen that the only target Gino could manage was the side of a still vegetable cart, and only then if he was aiming twenty yards away from it.) Having a Musketeer replace the old man for even a day would spell out sure disaster.
“Perhaps it won’t be so bad,” Ambrose said, searching for any reason at all that his statement might be true, but drawing a blank.
“No, I’m doomed. He’ll probably want to skirmish right off, and he’ll stab me clean through my chest.” He reached up to tug at his hair- another affectation brought upon by worry- only to find that he’d tied it up that morning, and there wasn’t a free lock available to distress. Ambrose put his hands on his friend’s shoulders- reaching down to do so, since he’d grown past his friend’s height by a number of inches- and looked him in the eyes to try and calm him.
“Gino, don’t frazzle yourself so. If you think it will help, I’ll be there tomorrow with you.”
The lad paused, hands still at his sides for once. “Would you?” Ambrose nodded, and Gino’s ever-present frown turned into, if not a smile, at least a horizontal, even line that didn’t suggest motion in either direction.
“Alright. …I just wish that I hadn’t already met Armec, so then we could pretend that you were I. You’re fine with a sword.”
“Armec?”
“Yes,” Gino said, “that’s his name.” With that, he took a deep sigh that released all the anxiety had been penned up inside, and made Ambrose promise that he’d show up no later than noon, so as to assure he wouldn’t be alone when “the Musketeer attacked”. Ambrose gave his solemn word, more out of the sake of calming Gino than thinking it would do any good, and the two friends went off their separate ways home, traveling on foot under an afternoon sky whose light was only beginning to dim.
* * *
When Ambrose arrived the next day, running the last steps to the training yard behind the Gambino stables, it was past noontime. By the look on Gino’s face, the boy had felt each minute Ambrose was late like a cramping pain. Either that, Ambrose thought, or he’s trying to feign consumption to be free of the ordeal.
“I’m sorry,” Ambrose said, coming up alongside Gino, who was decked out in fighting gear and had not yet unsheathed his steel, “I wasn’t mindful of the time.”
“Sorry? I could have been killed by now!” The boy did not look well at all.
“But you haven’t even begun. Why…” he looked around, “there isn’t even anyone here but you, except that man- and isn’t he one of your stable keeps?” He gestured to the squat, round-bellied chap who was walking around the side of the building with a leather apron about his waist.
“Yes. Jacques.” Gino said absently. He knew most of the servants in his household by name, and particularly those that worked in the yards or the stables- both of which were perfect hiding places that he’d been frequenting since childhood. More often than not, when there was a grand fete at the estate, or when his father wished to parade him out in front of raucous guests and he couldn’t be found, his whereabouts could be placed at the stables.
“Perhaps he decided he didn’t wish to waste his time fighting with you. …No offense meant, Gino.”
“None taken.” The boy sighed. “I wouldn’t want to fight with me, either. “But I don’t think he’d go so directly against Father. He may be a Musketeer, but Father… well…” Gino floundered for a word to describe the man, “He’s… immovable!”
Ambrose would have responded, except a glance out of the side of his eyes suddenly reminded him of an old saying that he’d heard from Sebastien, years before. ‘A devil spoken of is one who will soon be in your company.’ Monsieur Gambino was no devil, but it seemed the mention of his name was well enough to cause his arrival- for that had been what Ambrose had seen- Gambino himself and the man who must be the Musketeer, walking towards them.
He had no time to warn Gino, as both men towered over six feet tall, and the span of each of their steps was a gaping stride. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyhow- Gambino had seen his son, and a bearish grin took over the face of the colossal man.
“Gino! Ah, there’s the lad- all ready to fight, I see. Good lad, good lad.” He loomed over them, casting a shadow on the two young faces, and clapped his son on the back with a large, square hand, the force of which near knocked Gino to his knees. Then, for the first time, he saw Ambrose standing there. Ambrose hoped he wouldn’t find a place for his free one on his shoulders- Gambino’s hands looked like two steaks ringed by sausages, and Ambrose didn’t fancy nursing a new bruise.
“And young Maurlias! Here to see my Gino fight, I see, and learn some fighting tips.” He laughed to show the boy that he didn’t mean any insult, and then stepped back to allow the other man to come into view. It could only be Armec.
Ambrose
hadn’t known what he was expecting. In
fact, he’d not given it much thought at all.
Ever since he’d left Gino after his promise the day before, the entire
thing had completely slipped his mind, and this morning his promise had only
been remembered after his father’s horseman had called
Armec stood tall, which was especially something coming from Ambrose, who himself was but a hair away from six feet, and he stood with his shoulders set into an impeccable frame of posture. His features were rounded and broad above a square, chiseled jaw, and his chin boasted a red and brown beard that only served to pronounce the strong jaw line further. He almost looked to be of a peasant stock, reminiscent of the workmen Ambrose was only vaguely familiar with- but his eyes were that of an intelligent, aware man.
He was a right-handed swordsman, Ambrose noted, wondering if Gino had taken the time to assess this- his cavalier hat was tipped up on that side. He was also not a lesser Musketeer, as his mid-body length blue tabard was made of a material so fine that it couldn’t possibly be drugget, and it wasn’t lacking the embellishment of the silver cross or lacing, which was another sign of a lesser King’s man. Ambrose was slightly surprised, in fact, to see that Armec still wore a tabard at all- for it was recently becoming the fashion to abandon this traditional garb. There were those who believed that the short coat with its shoulder pieces were unwieldy and disadvantageous in a fight, and had turned to a blue justacorps, layered over a red foundation. However, if these claims were true, Armec seemed not to have heard them- he held himself with such ease, Ambrose almost believed that he could have been wearing a vest of rocks, and the Musketeer would have acquitted himself well.
During this ‘examination’, Gambino turned to speak to the still silent fighter, and behind him, Ambrose saw that Gino was gesturing furiously. Ambrose couldn’t grasp the subtleties of this makeshift sign language (if any existed), but he got the gist of it. Gino was petrified that his father had shown up, and now it would be all the worse- this way, the Musketeer wouldn’t need to fill the ‘tattler’ role- Monsieur Gambino would be able to see it all his own. Ambrose gave him a sympathetic look, but when he looked over at the two men, he was taken aback to see that Armec was staring at him full in the face over Gambino’s shoulder, and had raised his eyebrow. Ambrose averted his eyes, and as if on cue, Gambino turned on his heels back to the boys.
“Well, my little Musketeer, I would love to see you fight, but I have business to attend to.” …It was lucky that he chose the moment following this statement to take a look at his immense gold pocket watch, for Gino’s face lit up with what was clear, unsuppressed relief at what seemed to be a stay in his ‘execution’. Ambrose noticed, however, that Armec once again was privy to this exchange of expression, and that the Musketeer’s eyebrow remained raised. Perhaps, my friend, you’re not as lucky as you thought, Ambrose said to himself, sending Gino a silent condolence.
“Be sure to come find me when you’re through, though, so I can admire your battle wounds.” He said to his son, then laughed at what he thought was a grand joke, and returned back to the house without saying goodbye to any of them. No one moved until the imposing man was out of sight, and then the first one who did was Gino.
The nervousness returned, a side-effect of realizing that he was still set to fight a Musketeer, and Gino made to pull his rapier from the scabbard that hung at his side. However, he only had the time to place his palm along the edge of the hilt before Armec waved it off and spoke for the first time in Ambrose’s presence.
“Don’t bother with that, boy. I think you might shake yourself to death.”
“Mo…Monsieur?” Gino paused his shaking, his hand still teetering on the edge of his sword’s end. Armec lowered both his eyebrows into a low, reassuring line (another trick with them, Ambrose decided) and put his gloved hands up in the air in an easy gesture.
“There’s no need to pretend you’re keen on this idea. It was entirely your fathers, and when you thought he was to stay and observe, you dripped an ashen fear all about yourself.” He pointed one finger to the ground at Gino’s feet and twirled it in a little loop as if this ‘melted off fear’ was visible, laying in heaps around him. Ambrose found himself almost looking.
“So what will you tell Father?”
The Musketeer crossed his arms. He wasn’t a man who spoke excessively, but when he did, it was usually fraught with gestures.
“That you did not wish to fight, of course. …Now, see there again, the ashen drip.” He pointed once more, and this time Ambrose couldn’t help but glimpse down. There was nothing there, of course, but he agreed with Armec that there was no color left in Gino’s face.
“Monsieur, please don’t do that!” Gino said, tugging at his hair in dismay. “I’d rather fight you and be run through, than that.”
Armec sighed and raised his versatile brow again. “You won’t be run through, you silly boy, at least not by me. Here, let’s see how you fight.” He drew his rapier without warning, a quick and effortless pull to bring the steel to meet the sun. Gino recoiled, but Armec turned to Ambrose. “I assume you can do more than stand dumb. Here.” Then he tossed the blade, hilt down, to Ambrose, who extended his arm and caught it- more an automatic gesture from years of training than anything else.
It was a beautiful blade, forged with a true champion in mind, and Ambrose turned it in his hand, admiring its balance. He had trained for years, and while he was fonder of the sword than say, the musket, his master-at-arms had assured him often enough that fighting was not his specialty that he’d begun to believe it. Regardless, he had to admit that this rapier was unique. Tipping it towards the ground and spinning it, he was particularly surprised to see the manner of décor on either flat side of the otherwise rounded pommel- on one side, a swan had been etched, extending its neck gracefully, and on the other, a mermaid was curled around her own tail, hair flowing out behind her. He was still staring at the figures when Armec spoke.
“She’s to be loved, my boy. She is to be loved.” He meant the sword, which he’d tenderly named for the love of his life… but Ambrose, whose eyes were still at the pommel, thought he’d meant either the swan or the mermaid. He couldn’t be sure which, since it seemed strange to him that anyone would be able to love either. Perhaps, he decided, he means both, and he enclosed his hand over the hilt and tipped the blade back up towards the sun.
With Ambrose in this stance, Armec prodded Gino. “Well, boy, pull out your sword, and let’s see you fight. You’ll not get impaled this way, I warrant… unless your friend is prepared to surprise us with his fighting. Do you have your parrying dagger? Do you need one?” He asked Ambrose, who shook his head.
Gino pulled his steel, and with both at ready, they began their combat. Gino was still slightly on edge at being under the eye of a Musketeer and having to fight in the first place, but for what the situation could have turned into, he was reasonably calm, and fought… not too terribly. He had his rapier in his right hand and the dagger in his left, which he was under-employing, Armec noted. Then he took a look Ambrose and suddenly called out to the two.
“Stop, stop. Boy,” he said, addressing Ambrose, “I asked you if you needed a parrying dagger, and you said no. So why is your left hand bare?”
Ambrose sighed. He knew he should have accepted the secondary weapon. He was always getting reprimanded by Monsieur Mausapelle for not using one and because of it, his tutor was firm in discrediting his fighting ability.
“I don’t use a secondary, Monsieur,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to apologize for this in a moment, “I find that it leaves me more open to an attack.”
There was a definite pause, and Ambrose knew it must mean that the all too familiar wrath was to follow, and he tried to remember how high a Musketeer ranking was, so he knew how low to bow on his imminent apology. His thoughts were cut off, however, by a voice that didn’t contain wrath at all.
“Show me.”
“Pardon?”
“Show me what you mean. I don’t understand.” He crossed his arms and waited for his instruction to be followed. Ambrose shot a quick look at Gino, as if to see what he should do, but his friend was stock-still and seemingly grateful that the attention had been drawn from him. So Ambrose gathered himself and turned to face Armec.
“Well… when I fight with a secondary,” he said, keeping the rapier in his right hand and turning his left into a fist, mimicking a mailed glove, “I must stand like so, opposite my opponent, and facing him with my entire self in order to use them both.” He paused, but Armec did not speak, and he knew he must go on.
“But,” he continued, “if I sacrifice the secondary, I can turn like so, and there is less of me available to strike.” He eased his hand out of its fist and turned that side of his body away from the man and, as he’d said, there was a great difference in how much of him there was to strike at.
Armec, as usual, was silent for a good measure, and neither of the boys would have guessed what was going through his mind. He’d been employed in the court of the Well-Beloved Monarch for several years, but even before, there hadn’t been a time in his life in which he didn’t have a weapon in his hand. It was puzzling to him that he’d not thought of this boy’s arrangement before. He’d always been of the school of thought that the secondary object made a fighter superior, and gave the added advantage of a second weapon or a defensive object. But now he could see that sacrificing the use of ones off-hand could decrease the amount of target substantially. It might work, he thought, rubbing his gloved hand across his beard, but only if ones accuracy with the primary weapon was superb.
By this time, Ambrose had grown nearly as nervous as Gino, and the two boys stood, shuffling their feet in the hard-packed dirt of the training yard while Armec thought. Ambrose didn’t know whether to apologize, or speak, or what else to do. Finally, the Musketeer spoke.
“How are you with this weapon, young man?”
Ambrose turned the Musketeer’s rapier in his hand. “Yours, sir? It’s a fine thing.” Armec shook his head.
“No, the weapon in general. How are you with a rapier; what is your skill level?”
“It is my best subject in a matter of weaponry, Monsieur- better than say, a musket or a dagger. But my master at arms has often told me that combat of any nature is not my strong point.”
Armec took a step closer to Ambrose, eyes intent upon him, “Does he allow you to fight this way, of your own fashion?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Do you believe that you could improve if allowed to fight so unorthodoxly?”
Ambrose didn’t know entirely what this man, so intent and focused, was after- and a look at Gino offered him only the tiniest of shrugs. But trapped in that steady stare, he made a guess at what the man wished to hear.
“I… believe so.” And with that, the intense gaze was broken, and Armec clapped the leathered palms of his gloves together.
“Good. Then you shall meet me tomorrow before supper, out in that sweetgrass field, beneath that tree.” He arced his arm and pointed to the very tip of a massive elm that stood above the expanse of the Gambino estate, a sole tree in the midst of a meadow, flat with sweetgrass. The boys followed his finger, though they knew the tree well, and were stunned from speech by the entire transaction. Armec took his rapier from Ambrose, and sheathed it before turning to Gino.
“I doubt you will be too heartbroken if we do not get to your lesson,” he said, “but in compensation for the lack of it, I will tell your father that you acquitted yourself with grace and talent.” With that, he nodded at each boy in turn and walked back into the house. Ambrose and Gino were left there, stock-still in the training yard, staring at each other in bewilderment.
* * *
Ambrose was there the next day, as the Musketeer had told him to be, although he hadn’t known that he would until an hour beforehand. It wasn’t the case of the day before, when he’d not given thought to his guarantee of attendance to Gino. Quite the opposite- his mind could chew on nothing else from the moment Armec had departed, and he debated whether he should go or not… and what it meant, and why? …These musing were mostly to himself, since his first and only attempt at prodding Gino for help had yielded only a nonchalant “what you wish” response. The boy was just happy to have been so easily freed from what he was certain was worse than death, and now he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about anything- even Ambrose’s unanswerable questions.
But in that hour before, he finally came to the conclusion that it couldn’t hurt to attend, and just before the hour that supper was traditionally served, he walked to the great elm, armed with only a rapier. In all his wonderings of the day, it seemed the only thing he’d decided on was that Armec wanted him to bring it, for whatever the meeting was, it doubtless involved some manner of training. The Musketeer was waiting for him, as promised, and right away, without any beginnings of niceties or formal bows that traditionally began casual swordplay, had Ambrose work on a series of drills- parrying and deflecting attacks. They were typical beginner’s exercises, and Ambrose wondered at first why Armec would have him begin with such a childish lesson plan in mind. As the hour drew on, however, he realized that being allowed to fight without the use of his off-hand took him back to the beginning of his training. He had so little experience with this technique he was naturally drawn to- for although Ambrose would switch to a bare off-hand without thinking, he had always been thoroughly chastised for it and halted as soon as he began. It was as if a child had learned to walk with only one of leg, and had done so all his life- it would be more effective to walk with both, and he may even be inclined to do so- but to try and run with both legs as soon as they were put down would be impossible. He would need first to relearn to walk… quite from the beginning.
When the hour was up, the Musketeer nodded at Ambrose and said “I shall see you tomorrow.” It was a line Ambrose would hear every day for the next week.
Every day, Ambrose would arrive at the tree at the same time, and each day, Armec would skip the pleasantries and set him immediately to a task- sometimes it was an exercise, like the first day- he would parry while balancing his off-hand, or he would pivot and thrust over and over until Armec saw something he was satisfied. On other days, as soon as he would arrive, Armec would have some sort of task set up, and say something in the vein of “see if you can increase your accuracy by stepping out more with your foot” or “if you shifted your balance, and kept your sword arm slightly bent at the elbow, would that cause less of you to be open to a strike?” And then they’d test to see what was true. Ambrose still did not completely understand these training sessions, but each day he saw his abilities improve, and without the harsh, critiquing words of Mausapelle stopping him before he even began, he realized that he wasn’t a poor fighter- just an untrained one. If anything, the chance to work through this new technique, and to start again without the sour words and blind perspectives on combat, put an idea into his mind. Perhaps, he thought, if I am not a poor fighter as it has been said, other things may also be wrong. My character, my ability… perhaps they are not only ‘not poor’, but they could be…great. And it spurned him forward with a force he had never known himself to possess. He had been passionate always, though he hadn’t known it through the thick coating of gentleman’s stoicism that he’d built around himself. Now, through this idea that something could be for him, something could be his ‘great’, that passion was tapped into, and that heat and zeal which had been a prisoner for so long was now a heart that pumped a blood of power and intensity into Ambrose’s swordsmanship. He didn’t entirely understand what had happened, for he still denied that his passions existed beneath that cultured surface- but he could feel the difference whenever his hand touched his sword. It was liquid adrenaline, an outlet for everything that cried out to be released.
Armec saw it, as well. The entire training of the young Maurlias had begun as an experiment of sorts- the curiosity of a professional swordsman, to see whether the boy’s style held up to scrutiny. The ‘what ifs’ and exercises he’d put Ambrose through were his trial and error, a path of discovery which led him down two very disparate paths. For one, he realized that this manner of swordplay could be very effective- the boy’s skills were improving by the day, and although they were not quite polished, his progress was enough to sell him on the idea of abandoning the use of his off-hand. On the other… he saw a change in Ambrose, who had become in his eyes a sort of phoenix. His ashes were still a part of him as a visible shield of propriety that he wore with determination- but that bird of fire and freedom was born again each time his hand touched the sword. Armec wondered if the boy had always been so, but could not convince himself that this new, feverishly compelling countenance that emerged more every day was something old. He’d seen it created, hadn’t he? But it remained a puzzle to him, veiled in something deeper than he could have guessed on his own- until his last day in Guillaume.
On the eighth day, Ambrose walked to the now-familiar meeting place with a heavy hand, and a mind occupied with a day that had been hard and long. Not two hours before, he’d endured another heart-wrenching reprimand by his father for failing to receive top marks on his scripture recitation the day before. He’d fumbled over his Dio Meas, and forgotten the name of an Apostle. (It had been James, who for some reason was hiding himself from Ambrose’s memory. Judas, however, he’d remembered straightaway, and it had caused his poor, shaking tutor a small convulsion to imagine someone recalling this wayward disciple before any of the others.) He’d been ill-compared to both of his elder brothers on this occasion, which was rare, since Andru Maurlias had rarely spoken of Sebastien since his departure. It seemed that his second son returned to his memory just long enough to serve as a foil to his third, and then disappeared back to the depths of his father’s attention. Ambrose left the dressing-down with a general low and self-depreciating disposition, and upon arriving at the tree, found it driven even lower by the existence of a horse at the scene.
It was a fine steed, a grey mare that could only belong to Armec- his initials were emblazoned on its saddle, and the bags which were slung over its back boasted careful reproductions of the Musketeer silver cross. He’d forgotten that this was Armec’s last day in Guillaume, but even when his mind had not been occupied, he’d never known that the Musketeer had been intent on leaving so soon after their last lesson.
“You are leaving so soon?” He asked Armec, who sat upon this ground with his back casually against the bark. Armec tipped his hat up to view the boy, and thought he saw beneath those aristocratic eyes something occupied and perhaps even…sad.
“It is one of the last hours of light, after all. It’s as good a time as any to travel, especially as I have a stomach keen on an innkeeper’s ale. Gambino’s liquor is much too thick, and I find that a tavern’s own gin is thin enough to remind me of that of home. I’ll have time enough to ride into Von Marte before nightfall- there is a public house there of which I’ve heard good things.” Ambrose nodded, but said nothing, and Armec raised his flexible brow. “There seems to be something on your mind, Ambrose, and I doubt it is all for my leaving. Out with it, please- let us not spare words among gentleman.”
Ambrose found himself ill-prepared for this sort of command, as he’d never before been asked to truly divulge what was eating at him. However, Armec had phrased it in a way that it would have been impossible to not answer- as a gentleman, he was inclined to speak, and to not spare his words at this man’s sake.
“It is an old occupation,” he said, his words slow, unsure of how to continue, “My father is…displeased with me.”
Armec nodded and stood to face the boy. “Is he very hard on you, then?” He said it with all gentleness and in a tone that was free of suggestion, but it sent Ambrose’s wall flying up again, and he heard in the Musketeer’s voice a sort of accusation.
“No,” he said, putting as much force in his words as was polite, as if to make the man understand, “He only wishes the best for me. In studies, and fighting, and my character… I am to be a gentleman. It is I who disappoint; I’m still learning and I fumble. He is hard on me because it is what I need to take my place in the Maurlias family. He wants me to be as content as Dreu. Dreu- my brother- he’s found his place.”
Armec heard in his voice the fear and insecurity poignantly, since in his desire to assure the Musketeer, Ambrose hadn’t suppressed the feeling from his words. He also heard the reverence, almost adoration that this younger son had for both his father and brother, this… Dreu. Ambrose obviously saw in this brother who had ‘found his place’ everything that he was lacking, and it saddened Armec somewhat, for he realized that he knew this brother, and that he had met him, in a fashion.
It was the
second night that he’d come to stay at the Gambino estate. It had been past the
He didn’t tell Ambrose of this account- that he’d left the stable that night with the memory of Dreu, exposed both with in flesh and his actions, a green coat that bore the Heraldic Wolf Rampant thrown to the stable floor. He had heard the admiration in Ambrose’s voice at what he thought of as a paragon of a son. He is so innocent, for being so hardened, Armec thought, looking at this boy. He believes that he can win the approval of his father if he achieves perfection. He doesn’t know that this perfection not only does not exist, but his model of it is flawed. Dreu didn’t earn his place as a Maurlias any more than he’d chosen to be the first from his mother’s womb- both were bestowed upon him without any action on his part.
His dream, he thought, is suited only for his sleeping mind, for awake, he shall never be Dreu. No amount of patterning after his actions or his demeanor would equal the boys in their father’s eye- it was the older blood that ran through Dreu’s veins, and the name patterned after his own that Andru Maurlias sought, and loved. My boy, he said, quiet in his mind, men of the court do not live to the standards they claim. They are cruel, and they are proud of a son only if he hides his affairs well, and was given fortune’s blessing to be the first into this world. No matter how determined you are to improve upon yourself, no matter what your mission, my dear boy, your father does not wish you to improve for your own sake- but rather for the propriety, for his being able to say he has an impeccable son.
He said none of this. Better that the boy learned his values- improvement, and perseverance, honesty and clarity, at such a high price… than to become disillusioned with the truth. This soul was worth too much to humble at such an age.
“Well then, Ambrose,” he said, reaching out to put his hand on his pupil’s shoulder, “I have no doubt that you will find your place. Or rather,” he said, looking down at the youth’s sword, “you will earn it.” He gave the boy a last, meaningful look, and at the spark that suddenly lit in those eyes, he knew that Ambrose understood. Your salvation, he’d said, is in that sword. Towards what, he would not tell Ambrose. Better that the boy think it is to his father’s approval, than to what path it actually will take him to- a road of self-understanding, and an outlet that Armec hoped would give him peace.
“Goodbye, Armec.” Ambrose said, drunk with the possibility of what the Musketeer had said suggested. Armec smiled at the boy, and gave him a final clap on the back.
“Goodbye, my boy. Perhaps we will meet again, next time on an adventurer’s road.” With that, he mounted Adčle and clicked to the mare to ride off towards Von Marte, and away from these noble houses. As Ambrose watched the horse take its rider farther away against the backdrop of a sky that was quickly darkening, he whispered to himself.
“On an
adventurer’s road… or one of a Musketeer.”
His hand went instinctively to his side to touch his rapier, and for the
first time in a long while, he felt what peace might be like.