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High above, gliding on a warm thermal of air, the hawk remembers. She remembers the first time she saw him: the unseasonably warm spring sun beating down on her as she wandered the garden paths of the castle grounds, the cloying odor of the flowers that lined the trail that hung heavy in the still air, the cheerful song of the birds that called this garden their home during the early spring. She could almost hear the soft swishing of her thick black mourning robes as she and her cousin walked arm-in-arm through the garden, giggling back and forth as they gossiped about the goings on of the court.
She had only been in Aquila for a few weeks at the time, and the loss of her father was still fresh in her mind. When word had reached Anjou that her father, the Comte, had fallen in the Crusades, a piece of her heart had broken. True, he had been an ill-tempered man, known equally for his unbridled bouts of rage and his moments of wild unrestrained excess. But he was still her father, the man who had raised her by himself since her mother had died, and she had loved him. Rather than wander the halls of Anjou in a haze of grief, she had chosen to visit her dear cousin in Aquila.
Aquila was nothing like the quiet town of Anjou that she called home. It was never truly silent, here in the heart of the city. Even inside the safety of the palace, Isabeau could still hear the rumbling of the people outside, crashing against the walls like an ocean tide. The enormous monolith of the Church that stood in the center of the city dwarfed all other surrounding buildings, casting its shadow across the land. The only building that could compare to the Church was the prison, with its foot-thick walls and impenetrable iron bars, but Isabeau had only ever seen that building from a distance, as she stared out of the cathedral windows.
Because of the beautifully mild weather that day, she and her cousin had chosen to wander the cathedral grounds and revel in the promise of the coming summer days. They had not been walking long when she heard a terrible ruckus – the clashing of steel on steel and the grunting of men deep in combat. Though her cousin begged her not to, Isabeau could not resist her curiosity and made her way towards the source of the cacophony.
As she rounded the corner of the cathedral, she was excited to see a small group of guardsmen engaged in combat drills. The men stood in a rough circle, shouting and cheering as they watched two men spar in the center of the ring. The men seemed evenly matched, trading blows in equal measure, neither man backing down from the other. The larger of the two men, a broad-shouldered man with short-cropped blond hair wearing black robes over his chainmail, seemed to almost laugh as he swung his sword towards his opponent, a smaller man with messy brown hair and a short beard wearing the standard red cloak of the Bishop’s guard.
The man in black’s sword fell heavily against the other man’s weapon with the sharp clang of metal on metal, and he twisted the sword as it fell, pushing the man in the red cloak back one step, then two, until he was almost forced against the ring of shouting men. Then, as quickly as he had pushed forward the man in black spun away, falling back and making space between himself and the other man. Slowly, he lowered his sword until the tip touched the ground and inclined his head towards his opponent.
As if drawn forward by an invisible force, Isabeau stepped away from the stone wall, and moved quietly forward, until she could make out the words of the men in the ring. The man in black was smiling as she approached, holding out his hand towards his opponent, who reached out and grasped his arm in a friendly gesture.
The man in black’s voice was rough but held a certain warmth when she finally heard him speak, as he addressed the other man.
“Good job, Francesco. You’ve shown improvement.”
“No, Captain. You were just taking it easy on me this time.”
“I did no such thing, friend! You very nearly scored a hit on that last strike.”
The man in red, Francesco apparently, huffed a quiet laugh as he used the corner of his cloak to wipe a bit of sweat from his forehead. “The day I draw your blood, Sir, is the day they make me the Captain of the Guard.”
The man in black simply smiled, and clapped the other man on the back, before turning back towards the ring of other guards.
“Who will spar with me next? Stefano? Gaetano?” He stood in the center of the ring with his arms spread, sword still pointed towards the ground. “Marquet, surely you will enter the ring for a round?”
With a sharp nod, the man in question, Marquet, stepped forward. Smaller than the man in black, his dark beard was cut close to his face and his curly black hair hung loose. He too wore the red cloak and silver armor of the Bishop’s Guard. Isabeau watched as if transfixed as the two men moved to the center of the ring. Marquet pulled his sword from his sheath and held it with both hands, blade pointed towards the sky. The Captain stood across from him and mirrored his salute, before bringing his sword down in a slashing motion towards the ground.
For a moment, neither man made a move, each simply eyeing the other. Then, as if given a signal only they could hear, they began to circle each other. Slowly, their circle drew tighter as they each moved towards the other, until suddenly Marquet lunged forward with a grunt, his sword slicing towards the Captain with practiced speed. The Captain stood his ground, and swung his own sword down in a parry, blocking the first blow with the ring of steel on steel.
Marquet pulled his sword back, and stepped away, resuming his slow circling of the Captain of the Guard. Periodically he would move forward, feinting first to the left and then to the right. Each time he closed the distance, however, the Captain’s sword was there to meet his. They danced around each other for several minutes, trading blow after blow. Marquet was clearly fast, his preferred method of attack seeming to be short sharp movements in and then skipping back out before the Captain had time to repost. Despite that, the controlled movements of the Captain stopped every blow as they came, and it seemed clear to Isabeau that the smaller, darker man was tiring himself out faster than he was wearing away at the patience of his larger, lighter opponent.
With a grunt, Marquet attacked again, his strikes coming fast, his movements almost graceful, but Isabeau sensed an air of desperation behind his actions. Then, with a dark twist of a grin, Marquet swung hard with his sword in one hand, while his other hand reached behind him with practiced speed. His right hand swung his sword down towards the head of his opponent, who stepped back and brought his own sword up to meet the descending blade in a block. At that moment, Marquet stepped forward and his left hand swung up, sunlight flashing on the blade of a small dagger.
Isabeau’s hands flew to her face to cover her eyes, sure that she would see the handsome Captain’s blood spilled, but the Captain simply twisted his body, causing the small blade to swing wide. With a grunt of effort, he brought his sword around, striking at Marquet’s hand with the flat of his sword, and causing the dagger to fall from numb fingers. With a growl, the Captain grabbed onto Marquet’s shoulder, and shoved him away, back into the ring of guardsmen who all stood in silent shock.
“Cheating, Marquet? A man of your standing should have more honor than that.”
The smaller man straightened himself up, shaking his sore hand gently. “Just trying to keep you on your toes, Captain.”
“Indeed. I think that’s enough practice for today. Everyone, get back to the barracks and get yourselves cleaned up.”
With various mumblings of ascension, the guardsmen dispersed, splitting off into smaller groups and pairs as they discussed their training session. Finally, there was no one left but the Captain, and Isabeau. He turned towards her with a soft smile, and for a moment, Isabeau forgot how to breathe. His blond hair glowed in the sun and his blue eyes sparkled with an inner light. She felt her heartbeat stutter and a rush of warmth flooded through her. And then he was moving towards her, and she took a great gasp of air and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. He smiled at her and offered his leather-gloved hand to her with a bow.
“Hello, Milady. I am Etienne Navarre, Captain of the Guard. Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s impolite to spy on others?”
She finds herself smiling back at him and rests her hand on the back of his proffered arm, as he turns them away from the training grounds and begins to walk back towards the castle, where she can hear her cousin calling for her.
“Isabeau d’Anjou. The pleasure is all mine.”
100 feet in the air, the hawk glides, and she remembers. And below her, all can hear her scream.