Chapter Four -- The Tournament

Chapter 4
The Tournament

Under a hazel tree in the graveyard of L'Église Saint-Georges, in Pouzauges, a man stood resting his weight upon an upturned shovel. To one side of him a hill of dirt partially engulfed the hazel's trunk, while before him gaped the hole from which it had been dug. A woman walked up to his side.

“You had to dig right down through that tree's roots,” said the woman.

The man nodded. “It was a terrible job. And I'm not as young as I used to be.”

“You probably killed the tree.”

“It had to be done.”

“And?” the woman asked.

“It is empty.”

“I had my doubts, I'll admit; but you were all ready convinced of that. What did you have to dig it up.”

“I had a dream, last night. Cendrillon was calling me from within it. Buried under all that earth. It felt so real, so terrifying. I had to help her. I can't explain it to you.”

The sexton's wife was silent.

“I know she's in trouble somewhere. The dream was true. Even if she's not under the ground, the vampire threatens her.”

“Why must you be the one to help her? You have your own family to protect. The vampire is here, not in Champtocé. And yet you would leave us alone?”

“I don't want to, but … I think that I am her family as well. She has no one else. All the old books in the church say tell us that vampires cannot enter a building without first being invited in. When I've gone, enter the house and lock the doors, and do not open them to any entreaty; you will be safe. Catherine is in danger now.”

“I have heard that men who search after demons often become demons. I am afraid for you, for what you will become. If you are captured by la Dame de Pouzauges, she will make you into a vampire like herself. Even if you are successful, you will be changed by the experience. You may not be my husband anymore.”

The sexton dropped his shovel and embraced his wife. “Mon amour! We are bound in Heaven.”

The woman disentangled herself from her husband and turned away from him. “And if you remain forever here on Earth?”

“That will not come to pass. 'I go with the Lord, my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer. In my distress, I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.'”

“I am jealous of this Catherine, for whom you forsake your own grandchildren.”

The sexton kissed his wife's forehead. “They will be safe. The vampire does not even know that they exist. Cendrillon is the one in danger. Can't you see we must help her. How can you not feel the same way? How can you call her, 'this Catherine,' when she's been a part of your life for so long. Cendrillon, who would bake you hot cross buns on Easter, Cendrillon who told so many pretty stories to brighten your day?”

“But of course, I do feel the desire to protect her, but she's already change so much. I saw her refuse my food. And she was not much better when she left our house. And that monster is not attacking her. It is tempting her. It's her test, not ours.”

“I think that you're right. But also I think she already has made her choice. Otherwise should wouldn't be calling out for me. She's made her choice and the monster is mad. It's no longer tempting, now it's hunting her.”

“You were wrong before. You thought she might be in that hole at your feet. Why isn't the dream just a dream? First no sleep and now all this digging. You look exhausted. We cannot help anyone if we do not first help ourselves. Stay for a while longer. Have lunch. Get Guilaume to help fill in this hole. It is dangerous to have an open grave; someone may get injured.”

The sexton shook his head. “It doesn't feel right to fill an empty grave. It feels a lie. The gravestone says that Céline de Montjean lies before it. I will not fill it until I have Céline's body to make that true.”

*     *     *

Béatrice sat on a bench before a large mirror of polished silver and pondered her dim reflection. She looked tired, and old. There were deep bags beneath her eyes. Frown lines at the corners of her lips. Gray hairs outnumbering the brunette. It could all be fixed. Her face powdered, her lips rouged, a wimple to obscure her mane. But this was how she looked. She thought of Catherine lying dead the night before. Skin so white, like alabaster. Youthful rounded features, full cheeks. She didn't need make-up to look perfect. She was perfect. Like a statue. How could anybody look at her lying there and believe she was anything else? A statue of Venus upset, to be mourned by the surrounding statues of angels. Had she ever been alive? It was more likely she was chiseled from marble, chiseled by some great master, Praxiteles, perhaps, or, more contemporary, Donatello – God had never made anything so perfect. The woman in the mirror shrugged. Perhaps it was better for Catherine that she had died. She would be beautiful and young and pious eternally in Heaven, while Béatrice would grow dry and hollow here to finally feed the fires of Hell.

The Madame de Pouzauges gestured to Agnès to come and apply her make-up, despite ruefully acknowledging to herself its ineffectiveness.

“Maman! Maman!” cried out Justine, bursting through Béatrice's door. “Juliette has locked herself inside of our apartment and won't come out. And I am just in stockings! My shoes are in there!”

Béatrice didn't respond. She gestured, rather, to her maid to continue. Agnès pulled on her mistress's caul and pinned her hennin on above it, overlaying all with a wimple.

“Maman!” Justine shrieked, afraid her mother had gone deaf.

Béatrice sighed and massaged her eyes with her left hand. “All right,” she said after she had taken her moment. “Take me to her, then.”

“She says she won't come out unless she can wear mourning for her sister,” Justine explained as they passed though the hall.

“Oh that spoiled thing,” Béatrice snipped. “She wouldn't have even thought of it if I hadn't specifically told her not to do so last night. What an idiot I am. It's this one?” she asked as they stopped before one of the doors off the hall.

Justine nodded. “You'll get it now, Juliette!” she called out.

Béatrice knocked, calling, “Juliette, are you getting ready for the tournament? It will be nice to see all the men showing off; perhaps you'll see your future husband down there!” – to no response.

“Juliette are you ill?” Béatrice tried.

And, “Juliette?”

Béatrice pounded upon the door. “Juliette, you open this door at once! You do not want to test me this morning!”

Some sounds of movement issued from within the room, until finally the bolt was moved aside. Béatrice threw open the door to see her daughter there dressed all in black. Behind her Thérèse could be seen trying to decide whether or not it was a good idea to hide behind a tapestry.

“It is time to go down to the tournament and you are dressed like this?” Béatrice erupted. “Explain yourself!”

Juliette's voice wavered, but to her credit she confronted her mother with shoulders back and her chin thrust forth. “I … want to go to Catherine's funeral.”

“Catherine's –” Béatrice stopped herself and turned around. She pulled Justine in from the hall and then closed the door behind them. “Catherine's funeral!” she exclaimed shocked.

“Yes,” Juliette replied firmly. “She was my sister. I want to go to her funeral.”

“Catherine isn't having a funeral. Catherine is back at home. Cendrillon is having a funeral, or have you forgotten?”

“I – I think Catherine's body should be taken back home to be buried alongside her mother.” After this pronouncement, Juliette took half a step back in apprehension.

“Dig her up, then,” Béatrice responded, coolly.

“What?”

“She's already in the ground. Dig her up. Carry her back home.”

“That – that's unfair.”

Béatrice didn't redirect her gaze from Juliette, while she addressed her other daughter. “Justine, go and retrieve your shoes. We'll head down to the tournament together. Juliette doesn't want to go down. She doesn't want to find a husband. She is too good for a life of ease and riches. She wants to end up in a convent, poor, and under the charge of some strict mother superior. She wants to eat bread and drink water, to scrub floors, to tend fires. She loves Cendrillon so much, she wants to be just like her.”

Juliette sat down.

Infuriated, Béatrice spun around and left. There just outside the door was Anne de Sillé.

“Maman!” she gasped terrified at what the old woman may have heard.

Anne laughed. “Are you surprised to see me, Béatrice? You did know I was here.”

“It is good to see you, Maman,” she leaned in to kiss her.

“And where are mes petites-filles?”

Béatrice broke a sweat. “In the room – ah here's Justine now.”

“Justine!” Anne greeted.

“It's your grand-mère,” Béatrice explained.

“Grand-mère,” Justine greeted, kissing the old woman. “I do remember you, I promise – if only just.”

“And you are the … youngest? The one who liked whipped cream,” Anne asked.

“No, that's Juliette. I'm the eldest. I'm Papa's heir.”

“His heir, yes,” Anne echoed. “I do try to come around,” she apologized, “but your maman always gives very good reasons why just then is a disadvantageous time when I write.”

Justine didn't know quite how to responded and so curtsied instead.

“You may run along to the carriage, Justine” Béatrice excused her. “I'll be along shortly.”

“What about the other?” asked Anne.

“Juliette is feeling poorly. I fear something from last night's meal didn't agree with her.”

“Oh. So that was why you were shouting at her as I came up, her sickness?” Anne observed.

“Oui,” replied Béatrice flatly, so challenging her mother.

“And Céline's daughter, you left her at home?”

Béatrice sighed. “Oui.”

“If you're not going to find a husband for her, you should send her to a convent.”

Béatrice glanced at the ceiling in annoyance. “Milet doesn't want to pay the dowry.”

“It's not an option.”

“She's not his daughter.”

“Isn't she? Oh I forgot, you said Céline was guilty of some indiscretion.”

“It was not a lie, Maman.”

“I was speaking to the irony, but what you said is interesting too.”

Béatrice closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment.

Anne changed the subject. “You think the older one would make a good wife for de Rais?”

“Oui.”

“Truth be told, d'Craon hasn't even considered her, but... I will do what I can.”

“Maman? Really?”

“We will be a bit busy today, but you should bring your daughters by, Béatrice, tomorrow. I should like to get to know them.”

“All right, Maman.”

* * *

The tournament arena was farther to the northeast of Champtocé-sur-Loire, on the gentle southern slope of Montbouille, which was really more of a hill than a mountain. Stands for the audience were set up to the east so that the sun would not be in their eyes, while the participants separated into two armies of dozens of men. To the south, at the foot of the hill, was that led by Jean V le Sage, the Duke of Brittany, while to the north, a considerably smaller army led by eleven men and their general, a resplendent baron de Rais, the rising sun glancing off his armor.

A fanfare rang out over the field and a crier rode out to address the crowd. “Mesdames et messieurs! Welcome! Welcome one and all to the Grand Tournament of Champtocé-sur-Loire.” Applause! Cheers! Hurrahs! “Today we fight in the honor of Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, the Baron de Rais!” Applause! “And let us not forget to show our gratitude to the host of today's events, the baron's uncle, Jean d'Craon, Seigneur de Champtocé-sur-Loire!” Hurrahs! “And now, I ask mesdames et messieurs to set their minds on earlier times. An age before the senseless civil war of Armagnac and Burgundy, before gluttonous Plantagenet set out to occupy our northern soil. Set your minds back to the age when the Frankish empire was the envy of the world! The conquerors of Europe! When Emperor Charlemagne, King of the Franks and the illustrious ancestor of our own King Charles VI, ruled not just Gaul but the world!” Cheers!

“For seven years, Charlemagne has been warring against the wicked Saracens on the Iberian Peninsula. The war has been hard but the great emperor is nearly victorious. Only one pagan fortress remains, the Moorish stronghold of Saragossa! Certain of eventual defeat, the insidious King Marsile sends a messenger to the camp of the emperor. He will be baptized as a Christian and accept Charlemagne as his liege. But mark my words, mesdames et messieurs, the Muslim's oath is worthless, for Marsile intends to break his promises as soon as Charlemagne's army has abandoned Spain.

“Unaware of the Saracen's duplicity, Charlemagne decides to send a diplomat to negotiate the surrender. His loyal and chivalrous nephew Roland suggests his uncle Ganelon, hoping to add honor to his kinsman's name. However, the suspicious Ganelon believes his nephew has nominated him to send him to his death at the hands of the wrathful Moors.

“Ganelon turns traitor and plots with King Marsile the death of his nephew. The two make plans to set upon and slaughter the rear guard of Charlemagne, led by Roland, as they leave the country.”

 The crier rode his horse farther out into the tournament field and turned to face the crowd again. “Imagine before you the Pass of Roncevoux, where the Saracens set upon Charlemagne's rear guard. To the north, in the role of Charlemagne's nephew, the faithful, courageous, Roland, Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, the Baron de Rais!” Cheers! “ and with him representing the remainder of the twelve paladins, may I present to you, Milet de Thouars, Seigneur de Tiffauges et Pouzauges!” Cheers! “Nicolas Paynel, the Seigneur de Hambye!” The crier continued to call out the names of the twelve knights on horseback, each accompanied by his round applause as he rode out to display himself to the audience. “And as Charlemagne, himself, Pierre d'Amboise, Viscomte de Thouars!” Once he accepted his cheers, Pierre d'Amboise, dressed head to foot in the most astounding plate armor, crested with purple horse hairs, rode off the field to join the reserved troops beyond. Afterword the crier presented the army to the south led by Jean V le Sage, the Duke of Brittany, in the role of the wicked king, Marsile, while at his side as the treacherous Ganelon, Georges de la Trémouille, Comte de Guînes.

Anne de Sillé sat in the stands alongside Jean d'Craon, his younger grandson, René, and Jeanne Paynel. “I see you did not segregate the combatants randomly,” she observed, privately to d'Craon.

“You can bet I didn't,” d'Craon responded, his voice edged with menace. “But you can also bet that this is not the design I authored. I'll murder Gilles. René will be my heir after this – if I survive the anger of Brittany and de Guînes.”

“Oh, look, Gilles' has given them Sancerre. They may win. He's just given himself his friends—regardless of worth.”

“I don't think winning will help them forget being asked to play the traitors.”

“Oh be fair, it's not entirely Gilles' fault, you might have chosen any number of battles to re-enact.”

“I had hoped choosing a battle so remote would help to make the tournament apolitical, fool that I am.”

The Saracens nearly three times outnumbered the Paladins. The crier only introduced the most noteworthy of them and then readdressed the crowd. “Mesdames et messieurs, may I direct your attention again to the Baron de Rais. You'll notice that at his side hangs a hunting horn carved from the ivory tusk of an elephant. At any point during the battle, the baron may use it to call fresh troops as reinforcements representing Charlemagne's main guard. The real Roland abstained from sounding his horn until even he had been struck down – will the Baron de Rais show the same restraint?”

The battle began in the traditional fashion, with the two rows of knights lowering their lances and riding out to meet one another. Those who were unhorsed continued to fight on foot, while those successful returned to their sides to ride again. The Paladins succeeded in striking down just seven of the Saracens before they were all on foot. Then they drew their swords and offered single combat to their opponents. Those Saracens on the ground were joined by more fresh from their horses, and the sword fighting began in earnest. Here Gilles' men fared better. Five Saracens yielded before the first Paladin. In these early combats, d'Amboise particularly distinguished himself, disarming Brittany and sending him back to the camp.

“C'est des conneries!” d'Craon exclaimed, jumping up.

Anne giggled.

“I shall murder him! I shall flay him alive! I shall cut off his testicles and make him eat them!”

“Calm down, Calm down,” Anne reached a hand up to d'Craon's arm, still laughing. “Please. You're in mixed company. Remember Mlle Paynel. Please. Sit down, please. It won't matter in any way.”

D'Craon sat, still fuming. A few seconds passed before the last sentence Anne had uttered registered with him. “What?”

“I'm sorry?”

“It won't matter? Why won't it matter?”

Anne glanced away. “Oh, never mind. I was just trying to keep you under control. You were frightening Mlle Paynel.”

D'Craon looked at her suspiciously. “Very well.” He stood up. “I must go and apologize to Brittany. Putain! If this is not the last birthday Gilles sees, it will be the last one I do!”

D'Craon stormed off and a few breaths after he left, Mlle Paynel moved over to his chair, to be closer to Anne. She saw Anne's poodle at her feet and leaned down to pet it, but it snarled viciously.

“Oh don't mind him,” said Anne. “He's just a bit protective.”

“Mme de Sillé,” Mlle Paynel began, “after Gilles and I marry, will we have to live here?”

Anne smiled weakly and patted her on the leg. “Oh, ma chérie, you don't have anything to worry about; Jean will be dead long before you are old enough for your wedding.”

“Oh! Madame! You misinterpret me! I would never wish the seigneur ill.”

Anne laughed. “Oh, you sweet thing.” She would have said more, but was interrupted by René.

“Gilles is going to blow the horn.”

“What?” asked Anne taken aback. “It is much too early for that.”

“He keeps fingering it,” René explained. “But gets interrupted.”

“But the Paladins are in good shape.”

“And perhaps he wants to keep them in good shape,” René concluded. “I don't understand this whole arrangement in the first place. Grand-père's set it up so that the Franks will win, but the twelve Paladins will all certainly be taken out of the fight.”

“It's how it happened in history.”

“I don't know that historical accuracy is what's desirable in a tournament.”

Taa-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-Tum-ta-ta.

“Ah. He's blown it,” René commented, uselessly.

Rushing onto the tournament field from the north, came the reserve of Charlemagne's army led by Pierre d'Amboise. The Saracens were unprepared, despite the sound of the horn, and many of them were toppled unawares from their horses by Frankish lances. Gilles grabbed the bridle of a confused horse leading it far enough from the fray that he could mount it and ride back into the fight.

“I don't think the Saracens have a chance now,” René commentated. “Really, I don't understand why the real Roland didn't do that. I don't see why there is more honor in dying and losing, than living and winning.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mlle Paynel. “My father is fighting the man from the joust again!”

“The Comte de Guînes,” Anne instructed.

“Oh, I hope he wins. He was so angry last night. Over losing, I mean. And the comte isn't a good man.” She watched eagerly, but the battle was short and de Hambye submitted. Mlle Paynel sat back dejected. “It didn't seem fair,” she said. “That other knight ran into him from behind and caused him to stumble.”

“It was my son. I don't think Jean meant it,” Anne said. “The battlefield is chaotic. It's a shame, ma chérie.”

“You know what I think Grand-père is up to?” asked René, returning to the previous topic.

“I think you give your grandfather too much credit,” Anne placated. “Historical re-enactments are popular now.”

“Gilles keeps asking for an army,” René said. “I think Grand-père wanted Gilles to lose to give him another excuse to say why Gilles wasn't ready for a command.”

“And what do you think, René? Do you think the Pays de Retz would be better served by military laurels, or by property and wealth?”

René heard, but intent upon the skirmishes below him, did not respond. Anne's dog chose to raise his head at that moment, and his mistress lowered her hand to stroke him.

* * *

 The Duke of Brittany sat upon a cot in his tent, fuming. His armor was half-on and half-off and the swearing at his pages could be heard throughout the camp. He stopped abruptly however, upon hearing one of them announce d'Craon. He took a breath, smoothed his hair, and then told them to let the seigneur in.

D'Craon entered uncharacteristically nervously. He hadn't quite planned out what he would say on the way here. “Seigneur, I am sorry –”

Brittany cut him off and, smiling broadly, exclaimed, “Sorry? Whatever for? For my having lost? Nonsense. Any honor taken from me in losing, returns tenfold in the honor of my kinsman!”

The suspicious d'Craon smiled tentatively in exchange. “What do you mean, Seigneur?”

Brittany stood up from his cot and walked over to d'Craon, his arms held wide. “Come now, d'Craon, I have not properly welcomed you into my family!” he exclaimed, and embracing the other lord.

“I maintain my confusion, Seigneur. Are you referring to some specific event of which I am unaware?”

Brittany stood back in feigned shock. “What? Are you mad? Where is your brain, Jean?”

D'Craon observed the other man with distrust.

“Well, the wedding, cousin! Don't tell me it has slipped your mind!”

D'Craon grew dark. “What wedding?”

“Why, your Gilles to my Béatrice, of course!”

“Béatrice de Rohan, your niece?”

“But of course! How can you not have heard? Surely you have been asked for your blessing.”

D'Craon laughed, but he was not pleased. “I have not been, and I must admit I am a bit at a loss for words – there were plans to announce Gilles' betrothal to the Mlle Paynel, the daughter of the Seigneur de Hambye, tomorrow night at the ball.”

“Who can explain the vagaries of a young man's heart?”

“Yes, who?” answered d'Craon.

“Béatrice may not be as rich as Mlle Paynel, but Gilles' marrying of her will welcome him – not just him, but the whole of the Pays de Retz – into the Breton dynasty.”

“Into the Breton dynastic war.”

Brittany shrugged. “Why bring that up? That was my father's war. The Penthiévres have resigned to their fates. I think you're just trying to agitate me now.”

D'Craon wasn't listening. “When did these plans get set in motion?”

“'These plans?' – oh! the wedding! Really Jean, you speak of it as some insidious plot.”

“Even so, humor me by answering my question.”

“Why, last night. Gilles came to visit me in my quarters to tell me of his devotion to my niece and to ask for her hand in marriage. I agreed, of course; I am so sentimental over young love.”

“Has he ever met her?”

“No, but he has heard of her charms, I am sure, and become inveigled by them.”

“And that is why he came to see you last night?”

“Oui. Well, not just. There was some other business....”

“Yes?”

Brittany grinned. “He was looking to sell Machecoul.”

D'Craon's visage clouded.

“We came to an arrangement.”

“I'm sure you did.”

“You look unhappy. It's not bad for you: the marriage,” Brittany said, seriously.

“It is not. He can marry Mlle de Rohan if he wants; he cannot sell Machecoul.”

“He can.”

D'Craon was silent.

“Don't look so poorly,” Brittany empathized. “The Pays de Retz was Brittany's anyway. Now it is just more Brittany's.” Brittany clapped d'Craon on the shoulder. “And Machecoul is Brittany's completely. Now, you must excuse yourself,” he said turning. “I have to get out of this armor. I'll see you when we announce the wedding, tomorrow at the ball.”

 * * *

Back on the tournament field, Jean Montjean, Baron de Sillé, squared off against Pierre d'Amboise, Vicomte de Thouars.

“My sword will find its way through that armor, d'Amboise,” Jean warned.

The Vicomte de Thouars stood silent. He looked to Jean a giant, a foot taller and twice as hefty, clad from head to foot in massive plate armor, appearing more a building than a man.

Jean grasped the hilt of his sword in both hands and ran at his opponent with a high guard. D'Amboise did not even bother to bring his sword up to meet it. Jean's blow came crashing down upon the man's shoulder and failed even to stagger him. The vicomte laughed.

“I have seen you without your helmet, d'Amboise, pale and sickly with your leprosy. You are no match for me; you should have stayed in your tent and your bandages.” Jean came again with a high guard, and this time d'Amboise brought his sword up, but again refrained from countering the blow. “I think your armor hinders you more than helps, if it fetters you from raising your hand above your head.”

The vicomte waited.

Jean came a third time with a high blow, but this time d'Amboise caught his adversary before his blow could land with a slash to the left side of Jean's legs. Jean's chain mail kept it from crippling him for life, but he staggered to the right and fell. On the ground, Jean's eye caught the stands: There, radiant with the sun was Béatrice – but their gazes did not meet; she was looking elsewhere.

Jean raised himself to one knee, but by that time d'Amboise had arrived. An iron boot kicked diagonally at Jean's jaw, and Jean fell back to the earth, for moment losing consciousness.

* * *

Throughout her entire morning in the stands Béatrice avoided watching Jean. Instead she watched Milet; she looked vaguely for husbands for Juliette – ungrateful girl; she smiled happily at the outcome of the second meeting of de Hambye and de Guînes. Jean could take care of himself. He could find someone else to worry about him, and he and his someone else would be happier than he and Béatrice. But gasps and shouts at her brother's concussion brought Béatrice back from rationality to emotion, and she clambered down from the stands to the side of the field to make sure of his recovery.

She arrived to see Jean's squire and another young man supporting her brother on their shoulders, already off the field heading into the camp.

“Oh, is he all right?” Béatrice called anxiously from behind the trio.

“He'll live, Madame,” the squire called out over his shoulder. “His jaw looks pretty bad though. We'll have the doctor look at it.”

Béatrice maneuvered around to in front of them so she could see for herself, causing the hobblers to stop.

Jean's jaw was open and slacking to left. He tried to greet Béatrice, but winced terribly when he tried to speak.

“Oh, it's out of joint,” Béatrice saw. “Snap it back in,” she directed the squire.

“I don't know,” said the squire.

Jean brought his own hand to his jaw, and then with an abrupt motion, used it to force his jaw closed. A audible snap could be heard from all around. Everyone shuddered. “Oh, mon Dieu!” Jean declared, opening his mouth widely and massaging the joints. “I swear that hurt worse than when I was hit!”

“You seem fine,” Béatrice observed, dryly.

“I could be worse,” Jean agreed, still rubbing his jaw.

“It was horrible seeing you hit and not getting up,” Béatrice confessed.

Jean nodded, and then he stood up more stolidly. “Ah, Denis, you can go back and watch the tournament, and you too, Edgar. Merci. I am all right now.”

The boys took their leave.

“I am all right, Béatrice,” Jean said, firmly.

Béatrice looked away from him. “I... If you're up to it, I need you to come with me to talk to the Seigneur de Hambye.”

Jean looked at her askance.

“If we want Justine to marry de Rais, we have to make sure that his betrothal to de Hambye's daughter falls through.”

“I don't see how talking to him will do anything.”

“I have a little plan. I saw you do as I asked last night and caused de Hambye to stumble when he fought de Guînes this morning. You trusted me then. For now, all I want you to do is to make him think that we're all the best of friends – and follow my lead.”

Jean sighed, looking at his twin. “I have always done so.” Then he remembered her not watching his battle. “But are you sure it's me you want helping you, Béatrice? And not Milet?”

“Stop it.”

Jean hung his head sheepishly.

Béatrice smiled.

“Come on,” said Jean. “Let us see if we can find de Hambye's tent.” Béatrice followed him into the Saracen camp.

The two passed by a group of four half-dressed women standing around a washbasin cleaning themselves. “There aren't really supposed to be ladies in the camp,” Jean apologized. “You can just pretend you're helping me to my tent. Act like you're worried about me.”

“Act,” Béatrice shook her head, and Jean put a hand on her shoulder. After a bit, he pointed out a tent before them.

“I think it is insulting,” Béatrice began loudly, “that men with Burgundian sympathizers were invited to compete. If we are to be fighting them, it should be to the death.”

“I tell you, if I'd have had the chance to fight the Comte de Guînes, it would have been to the death. I wouldn't have allowed him to survive to slaughter my countrymen in battle.”

“It's an insult to the loyal men who died defending Paris!” Béatrice complained.

The flap of de Hambye's tent was thrown open, and it's rotund seigneur strode through it, exclaiming, “But what is to be done? What is to be done? I spoke with d'Craon. I tried to convince him to throw de Guînes out, but the old fils de salope has refused. I met de Guînes twice on the battlefield in an attempt to embarrass him, but I am not the warrior I once was, and instead he gets applause!”

“It is so wonderful,” exclaimed Béatrice, “to find someone with sympathetic views. I have been complaining and complaining ever since I saw that traitor among us and no one takes me seriously.”

“You just watch,” added Jean, “here everyone is welcoming de Guînes into the fold; but when we need his troops, he'll save them back.”

“Like ghastly Burgundy himself at Agincourt.”

“Exactly. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing.”

“Someone must be the shepherd and protect the sheep,” Béatrice advised.

“But I don't see how to protect them, at least beyond voicing my protest.”

“Wolves are trapped,” said Jean continuing his sister's metaphor.

“But how do we trap him?” queried de Hambye.

“It is a puzzle,” Béatrice agreed. “But for now one you must solve yourself, Seigneur de Hambye. You must excuse my brother and myself. He was injured in combat against the Vicomte de Thouars,”

“Yes, of course,” de Hambye nodded. “I am sorry for interrupting you. I'll pray for your full recovery, de Sillé.”

“These tournaments, they are so dangerous,” Béatrice complained loudly to her brother as they walked away. “You might have died, Jean. It seems like somebody always dies. I can't bear to think who will be victim to them this time – surely they should be outlawed.”

* * *

Juliette had remained obstinately in her room throughout the morning. She'd prayed some, and cried some, but the hours of inactivity made her rebellion against her mother seem all the more pointless. Béatrice would not change her mind. Maybe Milet would be easier to convince, he was both Catherine and Juliette's father; he ought to care, but until Juliette could talk to him, everything seemed hopeless. Juliette decided to go to confession. A priest could at least absolve her for lying about Catherine's identity. As she was about to leave the room however, a knock issued upon the door.

“Oui?” she opened it.

A page outside bowed. “A message for the Mademoiselle de Pouzauges, mademoiselle.”

“I am she,” Juliette replied.

The page offered up the letter.

“Would you read it to me?” she asked.

“It is from the Baronne Douairière de Sillé, Anne de Sillé. She invites you to share the noon dinner with her and your host..”

“I don't want to go.”

“If I may, I was asked to specify that the invitation was just you and not for you sister, or the rest of your family.”

At first, Juliette wasn't sure what to make of that, but the idea that Anne wanted to speak to her alone could further Juliette's own ends perhaps. Could Anne be convinced to move Catherine? Juliette took the letter. “Very well, tell her I will attend.”

“Oui, mademoiselle, I will call a carriage for you.”

As the page closed the door, Juliette caught sight of herself in the mirror. She ran to the door and reopened it to call after the page. “Wait! Who else will be there?”

“Mon Seigneur, Jean d'Craon, the Duke of Brittany, the Seigneur de Hambye, the—”

“Very well!” Juliette closed the door again. The Baron de Rais would be there. But not her sister... Juliette would have to change.

* * *

Over the field, a fanfare of trumpets blared out over the tournament field announcing a cessation of the combat for the noon dinner.

The big winners of the morning, the Paladins, paraded off the field in high spirits, Roger de Briqueville and Gilles de Sillé carrying their friend and general, Gilles de Rais, on their shoulders.

“Congratulations! Good show! Let's hear it for the baron!” came the shouts of his companions. Most of the men returned to their tents to remove the heavier bits of their armor before heading in to the meal. But Gilles de Rais was famished and went straight on into the tent with the feast. Robert de Briqueville stopped outside it. “I'm going to go get my armor off,” he called. “I have to have a break of it before we go back on the field.” Gilles de Sillé mutely agreed and followed de Briqueville back to de Rais' tent. Outside it, a page waited. Gilles de Sillé appeared to recognize him. “What do you want, Pierre?” he asked.

Although, Philippe was foreign to the château, he had asked the other servants around the camp where the likeliest place was to find his master's son. “Monsieur, your father saw you on the field this morning and would like to congratulate you on your strong showing.”

“Fine,” Gilles de Sillé replied.

“And he would like to invite you for dinner in the main tent, monsieur,” the page added.

“He has some lecture he wants to direct at me, you mean,” Gilles de Sillé concluded.

“If you please, monsieur, I don't believe so, if you'll pardon my opinion. He came here all the way from Montfaucon to see you. He wants to mend bridges, so that you'll come home.”

“Well, I'm not going to do that.”

The page looked a bit pitiful.

“Come on,” Gilles de Sillé said to de Briqueville. “Let's get this armor off and get some food in our stomachs before we return to the battlefield.”

The men entered the tent.

“I think you should see your father,” de Briqueville said, as he lifted the chain mail off of himself.

Gilles de Sillé was too exhausted to respond to such lunacy.

“I think you should borrow enough money off him to put la Bête off until de Rais figures out something else.”

“Just no,” is all de Sillé could say.

“It doesn't have to be a noticeably large sum, you see. Your father doesn't have to know it is for a debt. If he wants to mend bridges; then he owes you your allowance.”

“Oh why? Why? You said this friend of yours would pay it. Isn't what I'm doing for that favor debasing enough?”

De Briqueville stood close to de Sillé in a challenging manner. “Don't be ungrateful, Gilles. If the baron overhears you, you'll be right back to worrying which hand la bête will cut off. Or maybe he'll skip them both and take your balls.”

“I didn't mean anything disrespectful. He just—he makes me uncomfortable. That's all.” Gilles de Sillé finished getting out of his armor and sat down, then laid down with a huff. “And we're going back out there after lunch? I'm so sore.”

“It doesn't mean you'll last long,” de Briqueville observed. He walked up to the side of the cot on which de Sillé lay and kicked it. “Come on, you need food more than you need rest. You'll sleep well enough tonight.”

“To my father?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Earlier in the week, tents had been erected on the north side of the river, across from the tournament field, for the purpose of the noon day meal. The guests arrived only by first crossing the field and then being ferried across by a non-uniform selection of boats. Once inside, however, they were greeted by a veritable mountain of food from the harvest. Salad greens, cucumbers, carrots, green onions, beets, peas in the pod, green beans, and on and on, cornucopias of grapes, apples, oranges, pomegranates, and melon.

Juliette was among the last of the guests to arrive, having come from the château. She wore a dark blue dress, that had been quite difficult for her to get into without any help. She felt she had been lucky she had at least already had her corset on under the mourning weeds. Still, she hadn't wanted to be untrue to her grief, and so maintained it by braiding a black ribbon into her hair. A footman led her around to the back of the main table to a seat beside her grandmother, who sat to the left of the central place.

“Bonjour, Juliette,” Anne greeted.

“Bonjour, Grand-mere.”

After exchanging further pleasantries, Anne introduced her granddaughter around the table. “Your host, the Seigneur d'Craon has not yet arrived, but past his chair you will find his grandson, René de Montmorency-Laval.” She gestured down the table to the boy, whom Juliette estimated at between ten and twelve years of age. He had been speaking to another still younger girl beside him, who looked dreadfully bored. He paused upon hearing his name, and looked up toward Anne. “René, may I introduce my niece, Juliette de Thouars.”

“Your father is Milet de Thouars?” René asked.

Juliette was a bit taken aback by his discourteousness. “That's right,” she replied.

“Yes, I know him. He commands the Vicomte de Thouars' men.”

Nonplussed by the boy's avidness, Juliette only nodded.

“He's giving a good showing on the field. I think he unhorsed a good six or seven men before he found himself on the ground. Only the Comte de Sancerre unhorsed more, and it's almost not fair to compare anyone to him. He's just on a different level altogether.”

The girl beside René spoke up. “Your brother's doing very well, also.”

“Not as well,” René said dryly.

“And that is Jeanne Paynel, the Seigneur de Hambye's daughter,” Anne supplied.

“Oh,” Juliette breathed with recognition. “Salut Jeanne. I'm happy to meet you. You are betrothed to René's brother, aren't you?”

Jeanne blushed.

“Not yet,” Anne replied. “You'll have to wait until the masque for that announcement, Juliette.”

“Where is the Baron de Rais?” Juliette asked. “I thought I might have the chance to meet him.”

“He will be eating in the camp with his companions this afternoon,” Anne answered.

“Oh,” Juliette replied with an air of disappointment.

“Now, on your other side: I am not certain you've met your cousin, Herbert de Sillé?” Anne indicated a man two seats down from Juilette, the intervening chair yet vacant.

Herbert de Sillé was a man in his late forties. He had probably been fit once, and probably still thought of himself as such, but he had already begun to lose his physique. This was evident not just in his slightly protruding belly, but also in the salt and pepper beard that hid his sagging jowls and the shock of white hair above his temples. He greeted Juliette kindly.

“Likewise, monsieur,” she replied.

“Herbert,” he corrected. “We are family. You're a very pretty girl, Juliette.”

“Merci, Herbert.”

“I have son your age – a bit older: Gilles,” Herbert said. “Did you happen to notice him on the field this morning? He was one of the Paladins.”

“I am sorry,” Juliette replied. “I was unable to watch the morning portion of the tournament. I was...unwell. I promise to look for him this afternoon, however.”

Anne decided to intervene; this was as good an invitation to the topic as she was likely to get. “Yes, Juliette, I had heard about what had happened to your servant last night. It must be very difficult for –”

“Oh, and speak of the devil,” Herbert interrupted. “That's my son.” Herbert pointed out the young blond soldier just then entering the tent. Behind him strode a darker stronger looking man whose tight pants and codpiece, made Juliette more than a little uncomfortable.

“Gilles, mon fils! What a showing on the field!”

Gilles de Sillé was petulant. He waited until he had crossed round the table to his father to greet him. “I have only come for my allowance.” De Briqueville gave him a scowl; Gilles de Sillé didn't care.

“And who is this you've brought with you?” Herbert asked.

“That's Roger,” Gilles de Sillé said.

“Salut, mon seigneur, Roger de Briqueville. I've known your son for a few years now,” he shook the man's hand.

“Well, there's room for both of you at the table. Here, Gilles you can sit next to your cousin, and Roger you can sit on my other side.” Juliette silently cursed that it had not been the other way round. Herbert de Sillé continued without pause as the men began sitting down. “Roger, you have the military look about you, were you at Agincourt?”

“I'm not old enough for that, I'm afraid, mon seigneur – ”

“Just Herbert, my boy.”

“– but when we regroup to throw Henry back to his island, you can count that I'll be there.”

“I wish my Gilles had your attitude.” Herbert nudged his son. “You could learn a thing-or-two from this one, mon fils”

Gilles de Sillé slumped in his chair.

“You know, Roger, as much as I approve of your go-get-'em drive, I think that's part of what got us in trouble at Agincourt: overconfindence. When I was there...” and so Herbert began, with de Briqueville largely smiling at him, and nodding at him, and fully agreeing with the man at every full stop.

Meanwhile, Anne felt it best to greet the son of her cousin, unpleasant though he might be. “It is nice to see you again, Gilles,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Anne,” Gilles de Sillé replied. “I see your dog is as healthy as ever.” Caval was at the edge of tent licking himself. Juliette looked over her shoulder, and quickly turned back.

“Merci, Gilles,” Anne replied. “Have you met my granddaughter, Juliette?”

“I don't believe I have.” Gilles de Sillé regarded his cousin for the first time, she was very pretty, slight with very dainty hands. It might have been the makeup, but her lips pursed, a little heart in the middle of her face. He straightened up and smiled pleasantly.

“Juliette, this is your—well, he's my cousin's son, which makes him my first cousin, once removed; so he's your—I think he's your second cousin, once removed. Oui, he is your mother's second cousin.”

Juliette, had no idea how to respond.

Fortunately Gilles de Sillé saved her. “I'm glad to meet you, Juliette.”

“Merci.” Again she was unsure how to proceed. “Are you a soldier like your friend?”

“No,” Gilles de Silles replied at once. “God no. He's not a soldier either. He's just lubricating my father so I can get money out of him.”

“Shouldn't you have said more quietly,” Anne said. “You are sitting next to him.”

Juliette giggled.

“It's a lost cause. I don't know why I'm here. For food. Where's the food?”

“We're waiting on the Seigneur d'Craon,” Anne said.

Gilles de Sillé shrugged. The ensuing silence allowed Herbert's monologue to filter over, and so Gilles de Sillé asked the first question of which he could think. “And where are you from, Juliette?” he asked.

“Pouzauges.”

“Oh! That's where the dead girl was from. I heard about it this morning.”

“Oui. She was my –”

“I heard she got pregnant by her employer, and he killed her when she threatened to tell his wife.”

“What!”

But their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from down the table by Roger de Briqueville. “And who is that?”

Juliette, Gilles de Sillé, and Anne looked and saw a tall blonde of about 17 who seemed led toward their table by the full breasts which her posture thrust out before her.

“Bonjour,” she said. The men all stood. “My uncle and brother, are both eating down in the camp, and it seems like perhaps everyone else at my table is, as I'm quite alone over there. I was wondering if I might join you. I'm Béatrice de Rohan. The Duke of Brittany is my uncle.” Anne noticed that she directed her imposition toward Herbert, the oldest male present.

“Certainly, ma chérie,” Anne replied. “We have a few seats available. Perhaps you would like to sit down at the end by Mlle Paynel.”

Mlle de Rohan came around to the back of the table from the men's side. As she approached, de Briqueville stood and pulled out the chair next to him. “May I help you with your chair, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

Mlle de Rohan sat and the men introduced themselves. Although, her appearance did little to slack Herbert's continual advice on life, finances, and politics, with its frequent military-based allegories.

“Oh archery!” Mlle de Rohan exclaimed at an opportunity. “Oh, I love archery! Will there be a competition later on in the tournament? My brother even taught me how to draw the bow myself—not that I can hit anything.”

“There anything planned,” Herbert de Sillé replied. Just the remainder of the tournament and then the ball tomorrow.”

“Maybe we could arrange something for you, personally, mademoiselle,” de Briqueville suggested. “If there's nothing planned before the ball, we'd have time for a small private competition, among friends.”

“Oh, I'd like that,” Mlle de Rohan replied.

“What do you say, de Sillé?” de Briqueville asked. “We could get de Rais, Sieur Hugues and some of the others.”

“Oh, I don't care,” Gilles de Sillé drummed his feet against the floor. “I just want to get on with it. They're probably done eating down at the camp already and we haven't even started. The food is sitting right there!” He gestured to the sideboard. “I can smell it. Why can it not be on our plates!”

Juliette giggled, but others were less amused.

“I only invited you here, Gilles,” Herbert de Sillé said, disappointment rather than anger in his voice. “I did not force you to accept. You can go back to the camp, if you'd rather.” He turned his attention to Roger. “It was nice to meet you Monsieur de Briqueville, I hope you are the man I believe you to be. You'll be a good influence on my son.”

Gilles pushed his chair back and stood up. “Come on Roger,” he said.

Silence permeated the atmosphere for several minutes after they left. Finally, René began speaking to Mlle Paynel. Assured they weren't paying much attention, Anne turned to Juliette, “So, tell me, why this black ribbon in your hair? Is it in honor of someone?”

A few moments passed while Juliette considered different answers, and then she opened her mouth to speak.

* * *

Down in the camp the Gilles de Rais was in exceptionally high spirits. One of his companions pressed a flagon into the baron's hand, which he gladly accepted, opening his throat and downing its contents without coming up for air, enjoying the cool burn of the carbonation against his throat. “More, more!” he called out.

In came carts of food. All manner of fowl had been prepared for the combatants, duck, pheasant, doves, a pie baked with live blackbirds inside, and most desirable of all a glorious one-year-old swan whose feathers had been reapplied after its roast to suggest its living majesty. Immediately it was torn apart and the neck passed over to De Rais. He pulled the feathers off and began teasing the meat from it.

“Gilles!” the scorn of Jean d'Craon's shout could be distinguished by all above the revelry. The crowd quieted somewhat as many of the soldiers attempted to eavesdrop. D'Craon crossed to his grandson.

Gilles, for his part, tried to ignore the old man, leaning down to the table and ripping the breast of a chicken from its body.

Disgusted, d'Craon addressed the crowd. “You seem confused. Should I not be congratulating my grandson?” he asked. “After all, he is the hero of the day, is he not? The conqueror of Brittany and Guînes? Well, he may be so in this charade of a battle, and for that I give him the full extent of whatever laud such may deserve. Congratulations, Gilles. Glory and honor for your masterful victory over the counterfeit Saracens.”

Milet de Thouars, Gilles' comrade in the morning's struggle, stood up. “It is a victory, d'Craon! And if you side with Brittany, go to their camp. We are here to celebrate. Cheers for de Rais! Cheers for the Paladins!”

“Oh, the day is not done, Milet! You put your trust in him, but mark my words, what he has won in the morning, he will squander in the afternoon.”

“Will I?” asked Gilles, unable to keep up his pretext of disinterest.

But Milet spoke over him. “Oh, is it a wager you're here for, d'Craon! If it is so, I will wager on us.”

“I am not a gambler, Milet. I am here to reprimand my grandson. For while I slept, he plotted and lost the richest demesne in the Pays de Retz, Machecoul!”

Gilles thrust himself towards his grandfather. “Selling is not the same as losing. I have turned Machecoul into an army!”

“You thought it a good idea to gain an army at the cost of all you own? How do you keep it going? You are not the owner of an army; you are a conscript of Valois, now just a slave of his to send here and there.”

Sieur Hugues now spoke up. “There are men here who are conscripts of Valois. You call them slaves that serve our king?”

D'Craon redirected his attention to the Vicomte de Thouars' soldier. “You make an interesting point, monsieur. But is it not true that you do not provide for yourselves, but instead that your seigneurs must pay for your food and shelter? That I call a slave; and what do you think Charles would rather have? A slave he must support, or a friend who supports him?”

“You cross a line, seigneur,” Milet interjected. “A king's worth is measured by the size of his army.”

“And the army's size is measured by its purse. That is why benefactors are kept safe at home and soldiers are sent out to die—but I speak too harshly, for a man with money and an army is more valuable still, both inspiration and action. But my grandson has given up his inspiration, traded it for action alone, and become, as I have already said, a slave.”

“A slave now, perhaps,” Gilles agreed. “But if money is what you're worried about, trust that I will not always be poor,” suggesting of d'Craon's death, “and in the meantime I will have gained prestige.”

“No! You will always be poor! You will always be poor because you do not know how to keep money. Because what you want is always more important than what you have. And I do not exaggerate because you had control of Machecoul for all of a day—less than!—and you threw it away for a mere fraction of its value!”

“I know the value of Machecoul. It would not have been my choice of properties to sell, had I control over all of my properties – had you not stolen them from my father.”

“So I should be content that although you fleeced yourself, you at least did so knowingly!”

“You could have sold any château, any piece of land and given me my army. Châteaux and land that would be mine eventually, regardless!”

Milet intruded again. “Why did you not give it to him, d'Craon? Holding back resources in a war is –”

Infuriated at the intrusion, d'Craon opened his mouth to attack Milet, but Milet's eyes flared, and the older man checked himself. “– traitorous,” Milet finished.

The disapproval of the camp weighed down upon d'Craon, and he felt compelled to a different path. “Gilles is not ready to command an army. He is intemperate; he is short-sighted; he is not trained, or at least not well enough. You saw him last night: he was so drunk he could not hold up his lance. Drinking! All he knows is drinking. And whoring. And things I do not like to name. When he shows me he is responsible, that he is capable of commanding men, then I will buy him his army and he can go and join the war.”

“He's been doing fine today. He commands us capably.”

“If he goes off to war the way he is, he will die.”

Milet took d'Craon by the shoulder, which caused d'Craon to look at him as though he were a snake. “I was at Agincourt, Jean. I was there with d'Amboise, with my brothers. With your son. I saw your son, Amaury, fall, struck down by Henry's own sword. Gilles might die too. But his presence will help us to send Henry back across the channel. To revenge Amaury. Then we will have peace. And then our sons will stop dying.”

'This from one who has only daughters,' d'Craon appended silently, but then he looked around, saw all the soldiers gathered round, felt the hand upon his shoulder, its grip not wholly compassionate, but also subtle with threat. D'Craon thought for a moment, and composed himself, all the while staring straight into the intruder's eyes. “All right, Milet,” d'Craon said, “I will propose a wager with you after all – if Gilles will approve. If he wins today – if he and all of you Paladins win today – I will sell what I must to fund his army. But if the Paladins lose, then Gilles will trust my judgment in this matter. He will admit that he is not ready to lead men, and will give up this campaign of his to ruin himself, until I have determined he is ready for the responsibility.”

Milet nodded. “Very well.” He held out his hand. “I will take that bet, Seigneur d'Craon, for we will win this afternoon, you can count on it. And later we will see Gilles at our side at the liberation of Paris! And either way you will be happy because Machecoul will be safe!”

The two men next looked to Gilles for his approval. “For my part, I assent,” Gilles nodded. “But what of Brittany? The contract is already signed.”

“Leave him to me,” d'Craon replied. “I know the kind of persuasion he requires.”

*     *     *

After feasting, the guests returned to the stands. Béatrice entered her box followed by her eldest daughter, to find Juliette awaiting them. She was dressed appropriately, although Béatrice notice the black ribbon through her hair.

“Where are Thérèse and Agnès?” Justine demanded. “They were gone when we went to dinner and they aren't here, now.”

“I don't know,” Juliette, replied, taken aback.

“Bored of protesting already?” Béatrice drawled, as she sat down. “If hunger drove you out, you've missed the dinner.”

“That's all right. I ate with Grand-mère,” Juliette replied, simply.

Béatrice regarded her daughter warily. “I don't believe you. You've never met the woman.”

“I have now. And Jean d'Craon, and Herbert de Sillé, his son, Roger de Briqueville, the Seigneur de Hambye, Jeanne Paynel, and the poodle, too.”

Béatrice grabbed her daughter's shoulder. “What are you thinking? What did you –”

“Shouldn't we talk about this later Maman? There are so many people to overhear.”

Béatrice sat back angrily and stewed. Below her in the field, the crier rode out to reintroduce the remaining combatants.

Justine leaned toward her sister and hissed, “Juliette, I swear if you mess up this wedding for me I will hate you for life. You are so spoiled!”

“What wedding are you talking about? Mlle Paynel and her papa were quite chummy with Grand-mere and d'Craon. There's no question they are going to announce Mlle Paynel's betrothal to the Baron de Rais tomorrow. Maman has done as much to secure you a husband as she has for me.”

Béatrice responded here. “Is that what this is about, Juliette? I have someone in mind for you You must just wait for the ball. I shall have everything in order by then.”

“Who, then?” Juliette asked.

Béatrice scanned the battlefield. “Well, I was thinking one of the baron's friends. That way you and Justine could still see each other often even after you are both married.”

“Why would I ever want to see her?” Justine sneered.

“Justine!” Béatrice snapped.

Conversely, Juliette brightened up. “What about Roger de Briqueville?” she suggested.

“I don't know who that is,” Béatrice replied.

“He's one of the baron's friends. That's him down by the baron now, the darker one.”

“I don't know, Juliette, maybe. I'll ask about him at the ball.”

“He's a very good archer, and rider, and he intends to be an officer.”

“I said, I'll ask about him. Look, Juliette, you know you have to trust me. I have so much to consider and so much to work out. I promise by the time we leave here both you and Justine will be engaged, and soon after you will be married, and then, if what you really wish is to be rid of me, then you will be, and you will be much happier besides. But we can't have any more of these theatrics like we had this morning. Do you understand.”

Juliette sat silently.

“Juliette!”

“I want Catherine to be brought back to Pouzauges and to be buried alongside her mother. And I want her to have a proper funeral. It's not right what you're doing.”

“Mon Dieu! Does it ever stop?”

“I told Grand-mère,” Juliette said quickly.

“What did you tell Grand-mère?” Béatrice asked, almost horrified.

Juliette privately deliberated on how she should answer. “She kept asking about the girl in the cemetery and what I knew. I did her put her off at first, but she kept coming back to it and needling me. Don't worry, ultimately, I told her that the girl in the cemetery was my maid-servant, and that I didn't even know her name, that I just always called her Cendrillon.”

“She bought that?”

Juliette clenched her fist. “She stopped asking.”

“Thank God. Thank you, Juliette—though you've about given me a heart attack.”

“If you want to thank me, then please Catherine a real funeral. If you do that, I promise I won't be any more trouble.”

Béatrice nodded. “I'll think about it,” she lied. Down below the crier rode out to announce the resumption of the mêlée

* * *

Gilles de Rais led the charge of the Paladins gleaming in silver armor. The two battlelines crashed together like surging waves, the impact taking many men from their steeds while others who missed their mark spilled over beyond their enemies and were left to manually rear in their horses. The remaining knights turned about and reformed, while those on the ground pulled themselves to their feet and began fighting in earnest.  

 Among those, Milet de Thouars was first up and instantly aware of his surroundings. He walked as swiftly as he could in his armor to the nearest Saracen. “Pick yourself up, you hopeless bastard. There's no time for recovery. If I were a Briton, I would have taken your head already.”

The soldier swiftly raised himself to standing, and furiously drew his sword. “And I promise that would have been the only opportunity for you to do so!” he said striking Milet's sword away from him.

Still astride his horse, Gilles surveyed the results of the opening charge. There was Roger de Briqueville clashing with the Comte de Vendôme. There, Milet de Thouars fighting with Jean Tournemine de la Hunaudaye. Even Pierre d'Amboise, Vicomte de Thouars, had been unseated and was with two soldiers of little account. Gilles threw his lance to the ground, then turned his charger back the fray, drawing his sword. Once there, he began striking to this side and that side pummeling the Saracens upon their helmets and shoulders, staggering them and making them easier pickings for the Paladins on the ground.

Elsewhere, Georges de la Trémouille, the Comte de Guînes, found himself forced back and back across the field by a puissant assailant whom he could not recognize due to unfamiliar armor and a lowered visor. The comte deflected blow after blow, but his limbs fatigued and ached. His mysterious opponent, contrarily, seemed all the more vigorous, his blows ever increasing in fury and alacrity. De Guînes knew he must find an opportunity soon, or he would be finished. When one first defends the battle is half lost. Attack! He must attack! De Guînes raised his forearm and allowed a blow to dangerously land upon his person, freeing his sword to take a swipe at his attacker's legs.

Across the field, Gilles finally caught sight of the Comte de Sancerre trading blows on horse back with Girard de la Noe. De Rais maneuvered his horse around through the press of sparring men to reach the combatant who had so handily embarrassed him the day before. As he approached, de la Noe lost control of his horse and was carried away from the fight giving de Rais an opportunity to take on de Sancerre himself. Their swords struck against one another, but neither could find success. In frustration, Gilles leaned over and grabbed de Sancerre's shoulder with his left hand, trying to pull him from the saddle. De Sancerre beat upon Gilles' helmet, and Gilles let his sword fall to grab the comte with both hands. As the two horses parted, Gilles found himself pulled from his saddle, but his weight was too much for de Sancerre to bear and both came crashing to the ground.

In his booth, Jean d'Craon laughed. “Typical. A horse for a horse. Again he shows his incapability of making a profit. This early in the afternoon and already he's on his feet.”

“This morning he reclaimed a horse,” Anne pointed out.

“One cannot rely on luck. He won't survive till the end of the battle.”

“And this pleases you...?”

D'Craon did not respond.

Further down the stands Béatrice was joined by her brother.

“Bonjour, mon oncle,” Justine and Juliette greeted.

“Bonjour, mes petites,” Jean said. “Juliette, I am glad to see you are feeling better.”

“Merci.”

“Where have you been, Jean?” Béatrice asked.

“Getting dressed,” Jean replied. “How is de Guînes faring?”

“Not well,” Béatrice responded. “At this rate, our little investments may not have the chance to mature.”

The Comte de Guînes' exhaustion was starting to show. His left arm was sorely bruised by the blow he'd allowed it to suffer earlier and as it turned out at no expense to his opponent. He panted. Sweat stung his eyes. Finally his arm gave in to weakness. It raised too slowly and de Guînes' opponent took advantage. He clobbered de Guînes across the helmet, sending the comte to the earth. The comte's adversary fell atop him, his sword pressed against the comte's neck. De Guînes made the sign of surrender. But then he felt a pain in his side.

Gilles and de Sancerre veritably wrestled on the ground of the tournament field. Both wanting for weapons, they had little choice. Their armor got in the way however, and the match amounted to each trying to find access to the softer parts of the other's person. De Sancerre was crushing Gilles' genitals with his knee, while Gilles' gauntlet had found its way into de Sancerre's visor and was forcing itself into the soft back of de Sancerre's mouth. De Sancerre gave up his attack and tried to roll away, but this was a mistake as it allowed the more lightly armored Gilles to leap atop him and from there to easily pound his fist down into de Sancerre's open helm, the iron gauntlet knocking de Sancerre out and grinding the comte's face into a gory wrack.

There was some confusion in the stands as to what had become of the Comte de Guînes. He had clearly been seen to make the sign of surrender, and his assailant had moved off him to be reabsorbed by the fray, but the Comte de Guînes did not rise to evacuate the field. He had not been observed to be seriously wounded. Squires were sent out to retrieve the comte. The dirt beneath where his body had lain was purple with blood. Béatrice watched with great interest and shared a pleased smile with her brother.

Those residing in the booth of the Seigneur de Champtocé-sur-Loire however, were far too invested in the fate of the Baron de Rais to watch anything else very closely. The baron had taken the Comte of Sancerre out of the contest and now seemed unstoppable. The Seigneur de Lohéac, the Baron d'Auvergne, the Seigneur de Verdun, all were handily forced under by de Rais' now proven more than able sword.

“I suppose I should be pleased he's not embarrassing himself,” d'Craon opined.

“He's tremendous,” René made clear.

“What do you know? He can't defeat the entire army single-handedly. And the rest of his comrades are a sorry lot.”

“I'm not so sure he can't.”

“Tell me why you are so prickly about this,” Anne demanded. “I really don't see how you can be anything but pleased with Gilles for this showing.”

Jean ignored her.

The battle continued savagely as afternoon turned to evening. To the eyes of the spectators no efforts were as tenacious nor as relentless as those embarked upon by Pierre d'Amboise, Milet de Thouars, and the young Baron de Rais. They seemed to only gain in energy and fearsomeness with each defeat before them. Surely they were blessed. The crowd was in a frenzy of applause and cheers.

The Seigneur de Hambye and the Comte de Guînes off the field, Béatrice diverted her attention to her husband. He was masterful, even comfortable. There was something in the loose way he held his body in which Béatrice could perceive a good humor she had rarely witnessed before. He called to his men, rallied them this way then that. He congratulated them on their victories and chided them for mistakes in the same breath. As for his own person, he always knew just where to be and how to press on. He could sense his enemies' weaknesses, and cut them out again and again.

“Béatrice,” Jean de Sillé asked, “hadn't we better go down and see how de Guînes has fared?”

“It doesn't matter,” she responded off-handedly.

“What?”

“The point is that the Seigneur de Hambye cheated. Whether de Guînes lives or dies, it will all come out.”

“But... we hope that he survives. It should not cost him his life.”

Béatrice turned from the field and smiled at her brother. “You go down,” she said, patting him upon his thigh. “At this point, I think it's best if I didn't insert myself unless I'm forced to. The Seigneur de Hambye may not be too bright, but even the stupidest among us can add two and two.”

Jean did leave, without saying another word; and Béatrice went back to watching the field.

A young man on the Paladin side was taken off guard by a Saracen on a horse. The Saracen was playing at much the same game as Gilles had been doing earlier and making attacks of opportunity upon men engaged in combat on the ground, prematurely ending their battles in favor of his own side. Milet saw this and did not find it sporting. Béatrice watched as he actually reached up into the Saracen's saddle and pulled the man from the horse onto the ground, despite thumpings upon his helmet that made Béatrice wince, but which Milet seemed hardly to notice.

He had been beautiful, Béatrice remembered. In an unexpected way. She had been flattered once to think that he might want to sleep with her. Perhaps his insulting manner had even fed that. She was nothing and he was a god. And really, she had been nothing then. Unmarried, but used. Forced to rely on her sister's pity, or else to become a nun. And so she slept with her sister's husband who had never said a kind word to her, but who was beautiful, and masterful, and wanted her.

But he didn't want her did he? That was what he wanted, out there on the field. There he was jovial and robust. Two words she would never have imagined using for her husband. Had he been like that with Céline? With Catherine? No. He wasn't like that with anyone. Béatrice, herself, was no different – no worse. He was made for killing. Béatrice watched him in the field and realized this, and felt better about herself.

* * *

At just sixteen, Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, Baron de Rais was the hero of the day! He was carried all around the field on the backs of his comrades to the roaring applause of all those gathered in the stands and around the field. Even his enemies congratulated him – at least those of them hale enough to be able did. It was a surge and a satisfaction through his blood. A validation and valediction. He was enrapt by it and bathed in it. He could almost feel and grasp the approval. It seemed a solid thing that he could hold onto and keep. He knew now he would be a soldier forever. He was tired and ached, but every ache, every wound felt like an empowerment. He wished he had been wounded more, even unto death. The blood was a crown. The bruises and welts, their warm pain, embraces. Could it never end? He wanted to fight more! To be cheered more! It was bestial, sexual, intoxicating. It was better than all those things! He caught sight of his grand-pere in the stands. He licked his lips provocatively in d'Craon's direction and winked. He realized that tears were flowing freely from his face. It was too good to be true, and he knew it. He was giddy and smug and in love.