The Cardinal's Blades

14

“Do I know enough?”

“You will always know enough, if your adversary knows less than you.”

“But would you say I’ve progressed?”

Having counted up his meagre salary, Almades tightened the strings of his purse and raised his eyes toward the very young man who, still sweaty and out of breath from his latest fencing lesson, was watching him anxiously. He knew that look. He had seen it often in the past year, and he was astonished that he was still moved by it.

“Yes, monsieur. You have indeed made progress.”

It was no lie, considering that a week earlier the man had never held a sword in his life. He was a law student, who had come one morning to this inn, located in the outlying district-known as a faubourg-of Saint-Antoine, seeking the courtyard where Almades received his clients. He had a duel to fight, and wanted to learn how to cross blades. Time was short. But wasn’t it said that this backyard, where the Spaniard taught, was a better school than the finest fencing halls in Paris? Paid for in coin, no doubt a few lessons, properly learnt and applied, would suffice. After all, he only needed an unstoppable flurry of two or three clever thrusts to kill his man, didn’t he?

Almades frequently asked himself, when faced with students like this, if these young men truly believed in the existence of such “deadly thrusts” which, once their secrets were mastered, were capable of guaranteeing success without any need for fencing talent. And even if there were such a thing, did they imagine this mysterious knowledge could be had for a mere fistful of pistoles? But it was highly likely that this student, terrified by the prospect of risking his life, sword in hand, would want to believe it to be true. Like all the others, he would be led by honour, pride, or stupidity to the meadow tomorrow. He was afraid and, now that he was committed to this duel, hoped for salvation from a miracle worker.

Almades had carefully explained that in the time available to them he could not do more than impart the basic rudiments of fencing, that the greatest swashbuckler ever born was never certain to carry the day, and that it was always better to renounce a bad duel than one’s life. But faced with the student’s insistence he had accepted taking him on as a pupil, for a week, on condition that he paid the greater part of the agreed fee in advance. Experience had taught Almades that novices, put off by the difficulty of actually learning to fence, were quick to abandon their lessons, and with them, payment of any tuition.

This one, however, had not yet given up.

“I beg you, monsieur, tell me if I am ready,” the young man pleaded. “I must fight tomorrow!”

The fencing master stared at him for a long while.

“Above all else,” he finally said, “what truly matters is whether you are ready to die.”

His full name was Anibal Antonio Almades di Carlo. He was tall and thin, clearly of a naturally slender build, but had grown gaunt due to long periods of hunger. He had dark eyes and hair with a pale complexion and a grizzled but still tidy moustache. His doublet, his shirt, and his shoes were clean, although discreetly patched in places, and the lace at his collar and cuffs had seen hard use. His hat was missing its plume and the leather of his fold-over boots was unpolished. But even if he had nothing but rags to wear, Almades would have worn them well. Old Andalusian blood ran in his veins, nourishing his entire being with a haughty austerity which shone forth from him.

Brutally confronted by the prospect of his own death, the student blanched.

“Your duel,” asked the fencing master to lessen the blow, “Is it to first blood?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s for the best. Rather than employing this science to kill your adversary, use it to ensure you’re only slightly wounded. Stay on the defensive. Take breaks to conserve your strength and catch your breath. Wait for a mistake; it’s always possible that your adversary will make a clumsy move. But don’t be in too much of a hurry to finish him off, as you risk exposing yourself. And hold your left hand high enough to protect your face if necessary: it’s better to lose a finger than an eye.”

The young man nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I will do exactly as you say.”

“Goodbye, monsieur.”

“Goodbye, master.”

They parted with a handshake.

Leaving the gloom of the inn, Almades went out into the open courtyard at the rear, a simple square of beaten earth where he supervised the exercises of his rare students. Hens squawked nearby; a horse neighed; a cow could even be heard lowing in the distance. The faubourg Saint-Antoine was a recent addition to the city, still very rural in character, made up of new dwellings and manors whose facades along both sides of the dusty roads converging on Paris hid the surrounding farms, fields, and pasture land from travellers’ sight. The faubourg began in the shadow of the Bastille, just beyond the Saint-Antoine gate and the city’s defensive moat, and the buildings progressively thinned out as one moved away from the capital and its stink.

At a table which had been left outside, exposed to the elements, Almades took out the rapier he kept for his clients’ use. Along with the sword which hung at his side, this comprised his sole teaching aid, and his entire fortune. It was an iron rapier of poor quality, doubtless too heavy, and in danger from rust. Sitting on a wooden stump, he began to patiently clean the notched blade with an oiled rag.

Footsteps could be heard in the courtyard. A group of men approached him, stopping a few metres away, remaining silent and waiting to be noticed.

Almades examined them from beneath the brim of his hat.

There were four of them. A provost and three apprentices. The first was armed with a sword, while his seconds carried iron bars. And they had all been sent by a fencing master who maintained a school close to the Bastille and who simply could not bear the thought of anyone benefiting from fencing lessons illegally dispensed by the Spaniard.

His iron rapier across his knees, Almades raised his head, squinting in the sunlight. He observed the four men with an inscrutable expression, and as he did so, idly fiddled with the steel signet ring he wore on his left finger, twisting it around three times.

“Monsieur Lorbois, isn’t it?” he said to the provost with a slight accent.

The other nodded and announced: “Monsieur, my master has warned you a number of times to cease laying any claim to the title of ‘fencing master,’ without which the practice of teaching fencing is illegal. You have persisted in spite of those warnings. My master has sent us today to assure ourselves that you will leave Paris and the surrounding area within the hour, never to return.”

Like any other trade, that of fencing masters was regulated. Formed in 1567 under the patronage of Saint Michel, the guild of Parisian fencing masters organised and oversaw the practice within the capital, and the status of its members was confirmed by letters of patent. None who lacked such a letter could instruct another in the art of fencing.

Almades rose, the iron rapier in his left hand.

“I am a fencing master,” he said.

“In Spain, perhaps. But not in France. Not in Paris.”

“Spanish fencing is as worthy as French.”

“Do not force us to deal with you, monsieur. There is to be no question of a duel here. We are four, and you are alone.”

“Then let us even the odds.”

Under the gaze of the provost, who did not understand the implications of this sentence, Almades placed himself in the centre of the courtyard, still holding the old iron rapier in his left hand…

… and unsheathed his own steel rapier with his right.

“I await you, messieurs,” he said, whipping both his blades around and up to the vertical three times.

Then he placed himself en garde.

The provost and his three apprentices deployed themselves in a semi-circle and pressed their attack at once. In a single flurry Almades pierced the shoulder of the first apprentice, the thigh of the second, ducked to avoid the iron bar of the third, straightened up and slashed the armpit of this last assailant while turning, and completed his move by crossing his rapiers to seize the provost’s throat in the scissors formed by his two sharp blades.

No more than a few heartbeats had passed. The apprentices were out of the fight and their provost found himself at the Spaniard’s mercy, paralysed by shock and fear, hesitating to even swallow with the blades placed against his throat.

Almades allowed a handful of seconds to pass and allow the provost to take full stock of the situation.

“Tell he who sent you that he is rather a poor fencing master and that what I’ve seen of his science, as displayed by your performance, makes me laugh… Now, get out.”

The humiliated provost retreated from the courtyard, along with his entourage of apprentices, one of whom, his thigh drenched in blood, had to be supported by the other two. The Spaniard watched them limp away, sighed, and heard a voice behind him say: “My congratulations. The years have not dulled your skills.”

He turned to discover captain La Fargue standing there.

A twitch of the eyelid was the only sign that betrayed Almades’s surprise.

They took a table in the near-empty inn. Almades ordered and paid for a jug of wine, which would deprive him of dinner later, then filled their glasses, pouring three times in each case.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked.

“I didn’t.”

“The cardinal?”

“His spies.”

The Spaniard swallowed a mouthful of wine while La Fargue slid a letter toward him. Richelieu’s seal was stamped into the red wax seal.

“I have come,” said the captain, “to bring you this.”

“What does it say?”

“That the Blades have returned to the light of day and they wish for your return.”

Almades took in the news with a slight movement of his head.

“After five years?”

“Yes.”

“Under your command?”

The captain nodded.

Almades mulled this over, keeping his silence while twisting his signet ring around, over and over, in series of threes. Memories, not all of which were happy, flooded into his mind. Then he gave his current surroundings a long sweeping glance.

“You’ll need to buy me a horse,” he said finally.