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The Beauce stretched out before them, miles and miles of wheat fields, each of them indistinct from each other as they flew by the carriage in a whirl of gold. Above, there was a sharp, clear blue sky, only a few clouds to separate heaven from earth. And, ever present, there was the roll of the carriage as it skimmed over the dirt road.“Remember, Lazare,” the boy’s grandfather said, clutching at the black walking stick that he toted with him everywhere, the silver wolf’s head at the top of it gleaming in the summer’s light that leaked through the window. “The Duc is a notorious radical. Do not listen to anything he says. Really, if it weren’t for absolute necessity, I would not have anything to do with him. Let this serve as a lesson to you: Sometimes, it we have to deal with people we cannot tolerate for the good of the family.”“Yes, sir,” he said, fingers unconsciously tightening on the book he held in his hands.The Comte de Peyol scowled. “And put that old book down. Why my son was so obsessed with this sentimental tripe is beyond me. I blame the influence of that featherbrain, the Comte de Tressan.” The next he seemed to murmur more to himself than Lazare, “Not the worst of his influences, mind you, but a hindrance nonetheless.”“Yes, sir.” He put it off to the side, his fingers still occasionally tracing the letters outside of his grandfather’s line of vision.Lazare was quiet as his grandfather went on, moving the small curtains in the carriage so they blotted out the background. He knew better than to raise his voice. That was only done in company, and only when he was spoken to. Then, he was to speak politely, properly, with as little a monopolization of time as possible. His opinion did not matter, all that mattered was that the de Peyrol family appeared at its best. No scandals, no dark corners. A normal family with a normal son who was a Very Intelligent Boy according to his tutor, soon destined for a normal career in the army. He knew what his place was. He did not dispute it. There was no reason to.The carriage halted, the both of them lurching out of their seats. His grandfather stormed out of his seats to upbraid the driver for his careless stop, clutching hard onto the wolf’s head with gloved hands, (Lazare felt a jolt of fear before remembering the intended target), leaving Lazare alone with his thoughts.A servant led them to the drawing room while others worked to carry their luggage, Lazare taking off his hat, stopping himself from twisting it in his hands. It was a terrible habit of his, always being in motion, pacing or playing with whatever was nearby. He’d been told it gave him a weak, anxious appearance, unbecoming of himself. The room itself was a soft yellow color, trimmed with white along the sides, in contrast to the rich red carpet beneath his feet. Half the room was taken up by a large birdcage made of gold and mother of pearl twisted and twined into the shape of a large building, like a magician had shrunken a great manor into the size of a cage and the inhabitants went about their day to day lives in miniature, unaware of the curse over them. (Superstitious, romantic nonsense, his grandfather wouldn’t approve of it.) From his grandfather's descriptions and various drawings he'd seen, he recognized the place as Versailles. In the center, a large blue bird perched, looking at them with sharp amber eyes.At the center of the room, a man sat on a couch of cream silk along with a woman several decades his senior, rising to greet them with a dip of his head. “Monsieur le Comte de Peyrol.”His grandfather responded with a bow, longer than Lazare had ever seen his grandfather give. “Monsieur le Duc de Rouchefoucauld.”The man turned to Lazare. “And you must be the young Chevalier de Peyrol.”He bowed as well, carefully following his grandfather’s example. “I am, Monsieur le Duc de la Rochefoucald.”“And of course, you are familiar with my mother.” The woman stood up, stretching her arm out, and his grandfather kissed it, Lazare then imitating the gesture and getting a mouth full of powder in the process.“But, come! The two of you must be exhausted. Here, sit down.” His grandfather stiffened. “I will sit down…I suppose. The boy stands.” Lazare could see him pasting a polite smile onto his face, “You must understand, Monsieur de Duc: My grandson is destined for a career in the military, like his father before him. We have a very proud military tradition in this family.”The Duc’s brow furrowed. “As you wish.”Lazare stood off to the side, his hat in his hand, as they discussed business, his grandfather reclining in a seat of satin, walking stick resting by his side as he would alternate between gripping it and relaxing, depending on the mood of the conversation. Outside, he could see the sun shining through the large window that overlooked the gardens, another world of marble-paved hedges and topiaries and twists and turns peaking through. It would be warm, he thought, out there. Peaceful. Even here, he could almost feel the sun on his skin. And it would be interesting , to walk around, exploring the gardens. His grandfather’s chateau had no gardens. A servant once mentioned that his grandmother had kept one while she lived, but it had been left to die, the black, dead roots of it still filling the ground along the west side of the estate, tangled, rotten, weed-filled as they were.When he’d first arrived at the estate, it had been winter, the dead garden frozen over, and there was a brief resurrection, where ice formed along the roots, the small, frozen droplets that hung along the stems like the crystals in the bright chandelier that shone above them. He had thought it beautiful, at the time. It wasn’t until long after his grandfather had walked him away to the training ground where Lazare went through his first drills, his grip burning Lazard’s wrist, that he learned that the ice was just an illusion to hide the real rot, that he shouldn’t waste his time on such little things.With a small sigh, he decided that the Duc de la Rochefoucald’s garden was probably the same. Even if it was alive, it was a trifle, a distraction . What would he get from wasting his time for several hours, aimlessly walking around? Nothing. He tried to focus on the conversation of his grandfather and the Duc (though not too intently, as his grandfather would be furious if he decided that he was gawking. There was a balance to these things), but he found his attention increasingly drawn to the cage that shone in the sun that poured through the room and the bird who caught his attention with pale, alert eyes that seemed to meet his gaze head on.The Duc turned his attention to Lazare from whatever he and his grandfather had been discussing. “I see you’ve noticed our little master of the house himself.” His grandfather glared at him, but neither the Duc nor his mother, who watched with a softened, patient eye that Lazare did not recognize or know how to handle, seemed to share it. “Feel free to go nearer, he’s worth the look.”“Yes, please indulge my son,” the Dowager Duchesse said, eyeing Lazare as he hesitated, “He needs to feel validated in his pride. With our estate at Roche-Guyon, he receives nothing but praise all day, and I fear he withers on more neutral ground.” She smiled around her teacup, and Lazare didn’t understand why the Duc seemed so unaffected in light of the criticism. Though with his status, it was only natural to want praise and respect, so perhaps it wasn’t a criticism, not in the way it would be from his grandfather.Lazare cautiously approached the cage and, as he did, the bird flew down from his perch to crawl along the bars, so that they were the only distance separating them. They looked at each other, the boy and the bird, until the bird tilted his head. "Hello?"Lazare fell backward. The bird spoke to him! Was he going mad?From his couch, the Duc laughed. "He's a popinjay, I acquired him at a great expense.""So, he does not…actually talk?""Goodness no! He only repeats what you say to him enough. For example, Phineas, what do you think of the notion of American Independence?"The parrot flapped its wings and then, in a distorted, throaty voice, squawked, "Vive Washington! Vive Washington!""See? What I wish him to say, he says." He turned to Lazare's grandfather. "I get offers of thousands of livres for him, however I could hardly bear to part with him.""Does he not ever wish for freedom?" As he spoke, his grandfather scowled, and he knew that it was a foolish question. Better to keep his mouth shut. He had made enough of a fool of himself by believing that a lower creature could talk. It was not its place to have human speech."Freedom? Heavens no! He hardly knows the meaning of the term. All of his life has been spent here with us. He should hardly know what to do with himself. He is not human, see? He isn't like us.""He knows his proper place," his grandfather growled. "Which is a lesson many men would do well to learn.” Lazare knew not to shrink back or it would be worse, even as he internally cringed."You can stroke his head, if you wish to?"Lazare looked at his grandfather, unwilling to do anything that might displease him even as he imagined lightly running his fingers over the soft blue feathers. "Go on, boy," his grandfather said and Lazare, hesitatingly, turned and poked a finger between the gilded bars, only to pull back immediately, his finger covered in blood as the bird shrieked, flapping its large wings.He did not allow himself to cry. He knew his grandfather would call him weak if he did so. Other men made a mistake, grandfather said, when they said that crying was a sign of humanity. It only showed weakness, softness. Lazare's father had been soft and had been put in his coffin before the age of thirty for it. So, instead he swallowed the lump in his throat and waited for the pain to ease.His grandfather's hand fell heavy on his shoulder, gripping it like the parrot did his perch as he did so. "Even when it's in a cage, it still has a bite." He turned to Lazare, as if remembering he was there, and then said, quietly, so that their host wouldn’t hear. "You'd do well to remember that. A little caged parrot has more spirit than my own grandson, my heir .""Yes, sir," he said blandly, politely, even as his voice wavered slightly as he gripped the hurt finger, though he wasn’t sure whether it was out of pain or concealed rage, which he tried to be careful in quieting whenever it popped up. It wasn’t his place, he knew, to be mad at his grandfather. His grandfather was his natural guardian, his superior; it was Lazare’s duty to respect and fear him, and in return he would direct his life to its best proper use."That won't serve you well on the battlefield, not at all. The first time you get a scratch on your knee, you'll cry in front of your men, won't you? In front of a group of peasant's sons, brutes to a man?"He squeezed his eyes shut, steadying his breathing. “No, sir.” He did not cry, he would not cry.“No?” His grandfather’s voice took on an edge of warning. Lazare shook his head firmly.The Duc got off the couch and walked over to him, frowning. "My apologies. I am so accustomed to Phineas I had quite forgotten the bite. May I?" Lazare showed him his finger. He tutted. “Oh, this is quite a serious matter. You should have someone see to it.”Lazare's grandfather stiffened. "It is nothing to be concerned for. The boy is overly sensitive, a weakness of his mother."Lazare nodded. His grandfather was right. If he couldn't handle a little bird bite, how was he ever going to lead men into battle? He could be strong, he knew he could. "It is nothing.""Nonsense! It wouldn't take a minute! My poor Louise would have done it in another time, but alas, I have only my own skills to recommend now. Mother, could you please entertain the Comte de Peyrol while I tend to his grandson?”“It would be my pleasure,” the woman said, and Lazare’s grandfather was only able to protest for a moment before he was being lead into a discussion on a letter she’d been writing to the American, Benjamin Franklin, and oh what a brilliant man he is and Oh, surely you’ve read some of his works? He has quite the wit about him and I truly do feel for the Colonies in America, and the outrages which they’ve suffered. The Duc led him to a brightly lit room, where he sat him down in a green velvet chair. Lazare looked around, unsure what to do. This was the Duc de la Rouchefoucald, a man who his grandfather needed, but didn’t respect, but he was also superior to both of them in status; he was more important than Lazare would ever be in his life by his birth alone. What if he said something wrong? What if he disappointed his grandfather?He trained his face to be as impassive as possible, instead focusing on the carpet at his feet, at the shine of the golden threads that worked along the edge of it, at the three rectangles, all well aligned, with twining floral patterns in red and green and orange. Then, in the center rectangle, a box with several instruments in it.The Duc leant over, a bit of cloth in his hand. Lazare forced himself to look him in the eye. “You like my carpet, do you?”Lazare nodded. “The colors complement each other well, Monsieur le Duc de Rouchefoucald.”A slight chuckle from the man, which Lazare didn’t understand. Had he done something wrong?“You’re a very formal boy, aren’t you?” He wrapped it tightly around the wound.Lazare nodded, keeping his eyes averted from the little speck of blood that tinted the cloth. “My grandfather has taken every effort in my care and schooling.”The Duc gave a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure he has.” He paused, swallowing. Strange, Lazare didn’t think that men of his rank and age did such things. “Tell me, Monsieur de Peyrol, outside of your schooling, how does he treat you?”Was this a test? Some means of deciding whether or not he was an obedient child? It hardly made sense. What was he supposed to say? What did he want him to say?“He treats me well. I want for nothing. He has stepped admirably into his role upon my father’s death.” The Duc nodded, though it was more to himself than Lazare, who patiently waited for him to speak again. “And, outside of your schooling, what do you do?”“Do, Sir?” What was there to do? Just wasteful frivolities. His grandfather was wise enough, after the early death of his father, to discourage such things. Lazare was meant for the Army, anyway, and there wasn’t any point in filling his head with anything else. A man, barring a genius, could only be master of one occupation, and his life had already been plotted out and pinned like one of the maps that his grandfather kept in his study, all yellow paper and black lines and little points where a pin could be placed. Here he was born, here is where he learned to read and write, here he was old enough to carry a bayonet for the first time, here he would start his military career, here he would become captain and colonel and general, here he would marry, here he would produce an heir, here he would attain the rank of Grand Marshal, and here he would die, assuming that he had not already given his life for his country. In light of all that, there really wasn’t much else to do.“For your own amusement.”Lazare shook his head. “I do nothing of the sort.” And then, at seeing his frown, he added, quickly to correct himself from whatever error he’d made, “My greatest pleasure is to better my own future. Everything I do is to that end. I’m not like others of my generation, always going about doing nothing.”When his grandfather was pleased with him, he was happy. Sometimes, he would even pat him on the head after a particularly long drilling session, or his eyes would soften slightly from across the yard as he stood at attention. Sometimes, when the winter was too hard on his grandfather’s bones, they would sit together in front of a fireplace, his grandfather talking to him about the glories of the battlefield, of honor, of duty, of loyalty, of what it was like to feel an enemy’s blood on his hands when he served, of their place as the descendants of a warrior race, a race that had once even invaded the mighty Rome. (A degenerate society, his grandfather’d said, not fit for their place of prominence, which was why Lazare still didn’t know any Latin save for a little of what he’d caught at Mass.) They were the best—the only ones suitable to defend France, and his grandfather was simply trying to help him take his rightful place in such a way that, when he finally did it, he would not bring shame to the family.The Duc leaned over. “When I was a boy, I ran all around the Chateau de la Roche-Guyon. I knew every hill and every tree. Now, of course, I have my own small farm there.”Lazare’s mouth must have betrayed him with a twitch, as the man asked, “What’s so amusing?”He stilled, trying to think of the words that wouldn’t offend him. His grandfather would flay him if he managed to insult the Duc after only one meeting. “It is just…unusual, is it not? That one of the most well-connected men in the land should take such an interest in farming. I should think it would be beneath your notice.” He’d always understood the management of the estate as an unfortunate necessity, one of the long list of his future responsibilities that were to be carried out. The money from that would pay for his commission, as well as all the costs of maintaining a regiment. It wasn’t something to be enjoyed . Who would enjoy flipping around dirt all day? Surely they were born for something…more?“Oh, I would hardly be so sure about that. I do not boast a military mind like that of your grandfather, of course, but I have yet to hear of an innovation so great that an army is capable of sustaining itself without a stomach.”“No, Sir, there are daily and weekly rations. A pound of meat, or fish on fasting days. A pound loaf of bread, or something else. Grandfather says that it tends to run out quickly on campaign so substitutions are often made. And then to drink either milk or ale, though not enough to spread drunkenness.” Lazare felt his chest swell slightly as he recited them dutifully, one by one. His grandfather had been sure to list them out, even as he’d told Lazare that he would probably have little to do with anything as common as the day to day routines. It was important, as the officer, for him to know every aspect of the regiment, down to a single bit of corn meal. It would make it that much easier to detect and punish theft when it occurred, as the brigands who would be under his command were not to trusted, at least until he’d demonstrated that he could keep them under heel.“So, either beef or pork, bred and tended to on a farm, bread, from wheat grown on a farm, milk, from cows raised on a farm, perhaps the very dames of the unfortunate sources of your beef, and ale created from barley. And, of course, the uniforms of your men, wool of some sort, sheared from sheep. The wine that would be served to the officers, from grapes grown in a vineyard.You see? You will depend on the work of farmers far more than you ever anticipated, just to keep your regiment in order for a day. It is an incredibly important job, and it is one that we take so little notice of.”Lazare nodded, still feeling unsure about the entire business. He understood that farming had its place and its uses, and that for some people it probably gave some sort of fulfillment, but he had no interest in it, nor did he really understand why anyone would bother with it if they didn’t have to.“But I’ve probably bored you enough for one day. A boy your age is hardly likely to be interested in such things.”Lazare straightened his back. “On the contrary. I am interested in everything having to do with my future.”The Duc chuckled. “But believe me, young Monsieur de Peyrol, if I’d my way, I would talk of nothing but farming all day. But it is neither the topic of the hour or the audience, and so I will release you back into society.”“Thank you, Monsieur,” Lazare said, before realizing how his words had been misconstrued. If he was at home, he would have already felt a cane going down on him. As it was, he relied entirely on the Duc’s indulgence, adding quickly, “For your hospitality and generosity towards me. I promise I will not do anything so foolish again.”“Oh, think nothing of it,” he said, “And I am so sorry, once again, for Phineas. Once he becomes accustomed to you, he is perfectly charming, however in his own space he can be a little beast.”“I’m sure he is only defending his domain,” Lazare said.The Duc put a hand on Lazare’s shoulder as they left, and Lazare was able to successfully keep himself from cringing at the contact. “A strange thing, is it not? Defending a cage? But, such is the case of things.”His grandfather looked winded upon their return, hiding his face behind a large handkerchief that he would discreetly cough into whenever words like “liberty” or “natural rights” were mentioned. The Dowager Duchesse, for her part, kept a serene, matronly smile fixed upon her face, hands folded primly in her lap, rising to greet her son when he returned.“I had worried that some misfortune had befallen you!” She said.“Not at all,” he replied, in an easy, jovial tone, “I was just having a charming discussion with young Monsieur de Peyrol here.”“I trust he isn’t boring you,” his grandfather said, black leather gloves casually wrapping around the wolf’s head, his fingers covering the eyes, and Lazare tried to hide his nervousness behind a blank face. If he showed any emotion, it’d just be worse. “Oh, not at all! The boy is...beyond his years, in intelligence. He’s a credit to your name, you must be very proud.”Lazare looked at his grandfather, knowing not to show eagerness or to expect any sort of reward. Duty was its own best reward. But perhaps...His grandfather eyed him critically, moving his hand regretfully away from the cane. “He suffices, I suppose. I put a great deal of effort in his training, you know, with my own time and effort. Modeled after the practices of our École Militaire and the practices of the Prussian Army. Our own military has fallen behind in recent days, relying on boys softened by court life who are more busy in...” he looked to the Dowager Duchesse, as if suddenly remembering that there was a lady in the room, “Unsuitable places than in the fulfillment of their duties. France needs to become great again, and that begins in the home.”“Yes...” the Duc said, distractedly, though why Lazare had no idea. What could he be thinking about? Had he changed his mind about him suddenly? Had he said something, done something? Though it wasn’t his place to wonder, he knew. Then, the Duc seemed to come back to himself, “Yes, he told me of the great care you put in his training.”His grandfather rose up from the chair, gray coat flowing along the ground, and as he stood in front of Lazare, it was like he was looking up at one great shadow, and his eyes again locked on the cane, at those two red wolf’s eyes looking at him. His grandfather patted Lazare’s head slowly, looking down on him with subtle, muted pride and Lazare understood it. You did well . He allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride.“Yes, I expect great things from the boy. Very great."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next day, they sat there at breakfast together, all of them, Lazare quietly cutting a piece of ham to pieces while the adults made conversation. There was something to the movements, the repetition of them and the even cuts that made it satisfying for him. There was a security, a comfort that came in controlling it, in knowing that things would be
even
and
uniform
. No matter what came in the future, he could still draw a straight line, then another, then another, and everything could be reduced to its smallest part and safely sorted into its proper place.
“But this is no talk for a young person,” the Duc said, eagerly slathering strawberry jam (freshly made from his own produce, he’d claimed) over a thin slice of toast. “Why should he remain locked up here with us old men, hm?”
Thinking of the endless world of gold he’d seen outside, he allowed himself to wonder whether he would be allowed. Not that his grandfather would permit it. His entire life, the confines of his existence had been kept securely to his grandfather’s line of vision, his movements confined to the steady soldier’s march.
“It is useful to his future to understand the discourse of his elders.”
Even though it was expected, it was strange. All his life had been spent among adults. It seemed strange that this would make such a difference. But it was his grandfather’s decision. He would never dare question it. It wasn’t his place. It had been decreed, so he would stand by it without any complaining.
“I have no doubt that he does, under your own excellent care.” There was something off about the way that he said
excellent
, like he’d forced it out of his mouth with all the force he would use with a small boulder, “But, if he is to be an officer...should he not spend at least a little time outside, braving the elements?”
“You do me a discredit, surely,” his grandfather’s tone wasn’t like anything Lazare had ever heard before, cordial and cold in equal measures. “With all aspects of the boy’s education, I’ve not been remiss. I worry as to what could have ever made you suppose otherwise.” The brief glare he shot Lazare made him want to crawl under the floor, but he knew if he did that, then it would be taken as an admission of guilt. It was better to look unaffected.
The Duc kept the usual, polite smile that seemed habitual to him on his face as he looked his grandfather in the eye. “Nothing made me suppose otherwise, I simply thought that, since today is a fine day, the boy could benefit from the chance to take the fresh air and be out in nature. I am not a military man myself, but surely not everything will be all lines and drills? It might benefit him to have some a certain amount of unpredictability, without your own capable guidance to steer him, but not so far away yet that he is in any danger.”
His grandfather smiled, the faint, closed-mouthed smile that Lazare had long since learned he used whenever he wished to say something completely opposed to what he felt, and accompanied the movement by clapping his hand on Lazare’s shoulder, fingernails digging in out of the sight of the Duc and his mother.
“Mind yourself, boy.”
At first, he barely realized what he meant, expecting it to be a test or a trial of some sort, but looking at the glare in his grandfather’s eyes, restrained fury blazing, he understood.
No embarrassments.
This was a temporary stay, nothing more.
The Duc might have been able to assert himself on some things, but in the end, he was under his grandfather’s charge. He could not forget himself, even as he felt something strange in his chest at the thought of actually being allowed to go outside to do...whatever it was he was supposed to do.
As he took his first steps out the door, he could feel his grandfather’s gaze heavy on his back, and he kept sneaking glances behind his shoulder to the chateau to see if any dark silhouettes lurked in any of the many windows that shone like a bayonet in the day’s sun, but with each unsteady step forward, he found it easing, and instead he was submerged into a foreign world. No arm on his shoulder, directing him to one task or the next, no cane rapping along the floor, nothing that he needed to do except
be
.
The sky was somehow bluer than he’d realized from the carriage, blue and
sharp
, like the wings of the Duc’s parrot, free of any clouds, so that there was no respite from the endless skies and the glaring sun that warmed his face. Meeting the skies was flat land that stretched on for miles or miles, with the occasional tree or golden field being the only break in the pattern, and he suddenly realized just how
large
the world really was, outside of his estate, as it seemed to stretch out before him.
It was too much for him, the sight overwhelming him as he tried to take in everything, realizing just how small every step he took was in the broader scope.
There was a whole world out there, and if he set off now, he couldn’t walk the whole distance for it, even if he lived for a hundred years. And it would be so
easy
to take a step wrong, to go one field too far and miss the estate, and then he would be lost.
It would be tempting to walk back, tell the Duc and his grandfather that, really, he much preferred to stay with them and listen. His grandfather might even have been pleased. But…
He couldn’t imagine the
cowardice
of it. Having everyone know that he’d been too afraid of what was outside the door. (He thought of his book, of the knights of the Round Table and the time that Sir Gawain rode back to Camelot with the green girdle and all the knights laughed at him.)
And, anyway, he was going to be an officer, soon. His fourteenth year was rapidly approaching, and that was when his grandfather always said that he’d be ready.
It was regrettable that he should start so late, he’d said once, and Lazare had felt his stomach drop, knowing that he must have seemed a great disappointment. But, his grandfather continued, he wanted to be sure that Lazare would resist any...
temptations
(the word had seemed so strange, coming from his mouth, as if he only mentioned it out of necessity but would never have unless forced to).
Perhaps the Duc had been right, after all, even though he knew he was a very untrustworthy radical. What would they do with an officer who couldn’t even take one step out of doors without his grandfather’s guidance? He would be a laughingstock.
And then he found himself colliding with something solid.k.
That in mind, he resolved to set out, placing one foot firmly in front of the other, resisting the urge to look back at the great chateau again. There wouldn’t be a shadow there, anyway.
He
was too busy dealing with questions about land redistribution rights, and from what he’d seen of the Duc, he was unlikely to get very far, anyway.
He was on his own.
As he took one step, then another, the soil easily giving beneath his feet, he found himself gaining confidence, the chateau becoming smaller and smaller, and with each step, he felt a spike of energy.
The world was large and intimidating, and for once he had no hand on his shoulder to guide him, but he was making his way through it, foot by foot.
And then he found himself colliding with something solid.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“What the Hell? Hey, watch it!”
On impulse, Lazare cringed, reacting on impulse for the sound of a raised voice, only to realize that the source was far different than the usual.
The boy was younger than him, maybe by a year or two. A faded denim coat hung around his shoulders, several rips making their way through the rough fabric despite the presence of patches throughout it. There was no art to him, nothing in the way he held himself. He existed as he was and, for a moment, Lazare, bird bite still stinging through the wrapping, felt a brief moment of envy for him before remembering that the heir to the Comte de Peyrol should never feel envy for an inferior. The reason he was pushed as he was was because he was suited for a greater destiny, his grandfather meant well.
“If you had been paying attention, I wouldn’t have needed to!” The peasant boy had no right -
The peasant boy folded his hands across his chest in an attempt to be intimidating, which might have worked if he wasn’t a head shorter than Lazare. His grandfather might not have thought that he was ready for battle yet, but an annoying upstart of a peasant boy was another matter.
“
I
was minding my own business before you tore in.” Then, the hostility was gone, replaced by blank interest, tilting his head as he looked at him. He supposed that it meant that it was safe enough, now. At least he wouldn’t have to explain to his grandfather how he’d been mauled by a rabid peasant. “Hey, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before. My name’s Ronan. What’s yours?”
Lazare halted. This peasant boy was his inferior and his grandfather said that they should always put their inferiors in their proper place, but he was also a way out of the boredom of having to listen to one more discussion about maths and shares followed by his grandfather fuming afterwards about the insolence of that man and
How dare he disrespect the family’s honor like that, disrespect centuries of tradition, honor, duty
and
This is all your father’s fault, remember that. All his fault
. As if Lazare alone held the key to communication with the dead man and he was hoping to somehow send a message through.
“Lazare. Lazare d-Just Lazare. My family is...visiting for the summer.” There was something about this. A lifetime of instruction told him to put the peasant in his proper place, but another part of him started to inch itself out.
He knows his proper place. Which is a lesson many men would do well to learn.
He knew
exactly
who he was, he took pride in it. There was never a period of time where he held any dread towards his future, however-
“You move around a lot?”
He thought back to his father’s death, of the long trip to his grandfather’s estate that never seemed to end while rain splashed along the top of the carriage. “I suppose so.”
“I’ve never really been outside the village. My father’s a farmer!” There was a strange pride in Ronan’s voice.
“Mine is-dead. My father is dead.” He winced at the bluntness of the statement. Again, his impulse had been to give his father’s name, explain his proper social role, however that same growing feeling stopped him, causing him to accidentally replace it with the plain, blunt truth. This was the first time he’d had somebody care for
Lazare
, not The Heir to the Comte de Peyrol. It was the first time he’d even been allowed to talk to a boy his own age; most of his life had been spent in the company of adults, listening and participating in their conversations like he was one of them.
And, anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to see the peasant boy again. He would go on blissfully through his life without realizing exactly who he’d spoken to one summer’s day in his youth. The Duc had told him to experience life outside the chateau anyway, and surely this was part of that? The same as the Duc’s interest in farm animals and crops?
Seeing the way that the peasant boy eyed his coat, he added:
“My grandfather is in charge of my care now. He works in trade.” It wasn’t a
lie
, not technically at least. His grandfather did have an occupation, at least. Or had, once. (He’d never entirely forgiven England for that, though he had allowed Lazare an English tutor to work alongside his German one. It would help, to understand what his future enemies might say.)
“I’m sorry.” There was an earnestness to Ronan that was a little frightening; no airs, nothing that he wanted from him...or at least, nothing that he
asked
for, which was a different thing. He acted like he genuinely
cared
. “My mother’s dead, too. Now it’s just Father, me, and Solène--that’s my sister. But we manage. We always do. Where you from?”
Surprised by the suddenness of the question, Lazare could only stutter out, “Peyrolles. Peyrolles-en-Provence. We are here on business.” Was this how children usually behaved, asking impudent questions?
“Do they have any games over there?”
“I…I have no idea.” He was brought back to his discussion with the Duc. Why was everyone so interested in him spending his time in frivolous ways? Was it so completely alien to them, as a notion, that he was dedicated to his duties and his destiny?
The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “You have to do
something
. I’m breaking my back half the time and I still do something.”
“I practice for my future career,” Lazare said. “I’m going to be a soldier.”
“My mother always told my sister to beware of soldiers, especially the officers.” He looked at the ground, scratching at his head. Lazare wondered if he had lice. He hoped that he wouldn’t catch it. His grandfather would be furious. “She never said why, though. Do you know?”
Lazare mulled the situation over in his mind, grasping for something that seemed just out of reach. “Unless your sister is plotting an invasion, I have no idea. All I’m going to do is defend the realm from enemies. I don’t have any notion of anything else.”
Maybe it was some strange peasant superstition?
“I always thought it might be fun to be a soldier,” Ronan said, “You’d get to travel all over, go on adventures, send money back home, but I don’t think I could deal with some snappy officer telling me what to do all the time.”
“I’m sure they’re not all so bad,” Lazare said, carefully averting his eyes to make sure he wouldn’t give anything away. Eye contact was frightening at the best of times. Too much bared at once. “They only want discipline. If everything works well, there will be no issues.”
“But I don’t want
discipline
. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life marching in a line. What’s the point of that?”
He didn’t understand. Discipline held the world together. It was what put everyone in their place, so that society could work. If he didn’t want to take orders from a superior officer, who did he want to take orders from? Himself? Utterly ridiculous. If he’d had that thought, than his grandfather would have -
Well, there were some things he never liked to think about. Because they wouldn’t happen. He’d trained himself to make sure they wouldn’t.
“You have to listen to someone in your life,” Lazare said, “Otherwise, how will you know you’re doing it correctly?” He wouldn’t know where he would have been without his grandfather’s guidance throughout the years. He might have become one of the young radicals that were endangering France’s future with their dangerous ideas, or some immoral
philosophe
.
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess sometimes something just feels good, and sometimes it doesn’t. All that really matters is that you don’t harm someone else.”
“But who are we to decide that?”
“Who are
they
?”
The question boggled the mind. They were-they were their natural superiors, the ones that God had appointed to keep them in their places. It was perfectly
logical
. Millions of people, stretching from before the dawn of time to the present, had understood it, and yet somehow this peasant
didn’t
. Didn’t he have any respect, or at least a smidgeon of
fear
?
“Our superiors,” Lazare said.
“Why?”
…
Some things just
were
, simple things that needed no explanation, as evident as the sky being blue or the Earth being round. No one needed to ask why they were, they just were, and they always had been. (The boy would probably say the sky was red or yellow instead.)
“Because they know what’s best for us.”
“What if they don’t?”
“They do.”
“How do we know?”
“Because-” Lazare snapped, only to realize that the boy was
grinning
at him, leaning forward as if he was a monkey in a private zoo. (Not that he’d ever attended the things, but he had heard stories, at
least
. Not that it mattered. One dumb beast was the same as any other, that was what his grandfather told him. Though...giraffes did sound interesting, just to see if they looked anything like the pictures. So long as they didn’t bite like the Duc’s parrot.) “Are you...enjoying this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I am. And maybe I’m not.”
“Of all the impud-” When his grandfather said it, he always sounded very commanding. Servants tended to cower whenever he so much as passed through the hall, much less when he raised his voice. (He did his best to make sure that he never raised his voice. If he kept quiet and did his duty, it was easier, then. Even when his grandfather was in one of those moods, the ones that could be felt in the air, when it didn’t really matter what Lazare did, it was at least a
little
easier.) But, when he said it, the peasant boy only laughed, not a trace of fear in his features.
He would need to improve that one.
“You’re funny when you’re angry.”
Funny?
“I’m
not
.”
“You are.”
“Stop it.”
“Make me.”
“What?”
Never, in all his life, had he ever heard someone use that kind of response to him. Everyone else did as the Chevalier said, so long as it didn’t go against his grandfather’s demands. He’d never had someone ask him to
prove
his authority, it was generally something that was simply taken for granted.
The boy leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest, which would have been considerably more intimidating if he wasn’t at least several inches shorter than Lazare. “You heard me. Make me. You
did
run into me.” He picked up a stick and tossed it to Lazare, who instinctively caught it.
“That was only because you-” And then he realized. The boy was baiting him again. He was baiting him and he absolutely would not rise- “What do I do with it?”
“You use it to try to get at me. You know, like a sword. I think. But wood. And less pointy. It’s not hard, though. First on the ground loses.”
Lazare clutched at the stick, looking at it uncertainly. Well...it would be practice. It was not, in theory, shirking his duty. Though he doubted the peasant would be able to provide much of a contest.
“Why?” Apparently, it was his turn to be confused.
“I don’t know. To settle things, I guess. No one gets hurt, but it’s really fun once you get into it. Like a game. Though I know you don’t have those where you’re from.” And then, that grin on his face. “Or did they not teach you that in Peyrolles-en-Provence, either?”
A strange noise came out of Lazare’s throat. “On the count of three, then?”
“One…”
He crouched down into one of the dueling stances that his grandfather taught him.
“Two....” His body tensed, poising for the strike.
“Three!”
He wasn’t prepared, he realized very quickly on.
He’d been trained by an expert hand since he was five years old, and he could duel in any environment, whether it was pouring rain or hail, using any style of fighting that had produced masters to write books. From the Italian style to the German, he knew every single strategy of how to handle a sword, the glint of a blade in the sunlight as familiar to him as his own fingers. He was
born
for this. And, regardless of everything else, he felt himself drawn into it, his body energized with each hit as if a bolt of lightning had pierced through it. He wanted one more strike, one more clash, one more second where he was like
this
.
But he wasn’t born to fight a storm, a little whirl of denim and unpredictable movements that made no
sense
yet kept landing hits on him that someone with more of a strategy could never have made. And just as much as Lazare couldn’t defend against him, he couldn’t attack against him either, because he never had the time or the ability to see where he might be exposed. His grandfather had prepared him for a lot, but he’d never prepared him for a short, gangly peasant boy who didn’t even know how to hold his sword-stick properly.
And then the peasant boy landed a lucky hit to his legs and he found himself crashing to the ground, the ground slipping underneath his feet as his vision fell upside down.
He’d
lost
.
He wasn’t supposed to lose. Not to someone who was his social inferior. And…
He looked at his coat, the tailcoat of which was now finely dusted with brown.
He froze, his stomach turning inside out.
His grandfather was going to
kill
him if he came back in less than spotless condition. And he couldn’t explain how he got it, because if he did, then he would have to explain how he’d lost and if he had to explain how he’d lost, he-
He swallowed back the dread, even as hopelessness began to sink in.
“Hey, are you alright?” The peasant boy asked. “It was just a game. You did really good, I can see what you mean about practicing all the time.”
Lazare remained frozen, his jaw working back and forth as he tried to control the helplessness as best as he could. It was no good to show it. Especially not here, in front of--
“Lazare?”
In a second, all his rage directed onto the one person he could safely direct it onto, his fists beside him. “You stupid peasant, do you have any idea what you just did? Of course you don’t. You have no idea about anything. Anything at--”
In that moment, it seemed right. If it wasn’t for the peasant, he wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t have to worry about--
“Hey! I was just having a little bit of fun! It’s not my fault you can’t lose!”
Lazare didn’t hear the peasant boy shouting. He heard the words, he knew that they came from him, invading his ears with a harsh, sharp sound, but when he heard them, it wasn’t his voice, all his thoughts on the words he would hear later, that he had heard in the past.
Then, against his own will, he felt all those defenses that he’d set up crumbling, one by one, as the helplessness, the despair continued to draw him in, spiralling him back time and time again to
what his grandfather would do
. Much to his shame, tears began to prick at his eyes.
Just as when they’d first run into one another, the peasant quieted, but it wasn’t the kind of mindless curiosity from before, but something that Lazare was only able to realize after deliberation was pity. “Hey, are you alright?”
Lazare couldn’t answer, because if he answered, he knew it would be obvious, his mind already doing everything it could to fight his body’s urge to break, but unable to stop a single sob from racking through him.
“Hey, what is it? What is it, huh?”
Lazare shook his head. “Nothing.” Even then, he wasn’t able to keep his voice from wavering, and shame burned through him, along with pure self-hatred. He couldn’t even lie to this stupid, stupid,
stupid-
Ronan knelt down so that he was on his level, green eyes level with his and pleading. “It has to be
something
. You didn’t lose that bad. You were really good! Maybe next time, you’ll win.”
Lazare shook his head again, trying not to meet his eye. (It was humiliating, when he thought about it more, that that was probably the voice that Ronan used on farm animals. He would almost have taken the shouting over the
pity
.)
“Come on, I can’t help if you won’t tell me.”
There was nothing that he could do to possibly help him, but a pathetic voice that was not Lazare’s still croaked, “My coat.”
The peasant boy looked down at his coat, tilting his head. “It’s nice.”
“It’s dirty.”
“That’s it?”
Lazare looked at him, fighting his face to keep his lip from falling into anything else than a straight line, but the peasant boy must have seen a slight tremor anyway, because that grin was gone, replaced by something more serious than Lazare had ever seen on his face.
“Hey, hey, it’ll be alright. Come on, let me help you up.”
The peasant boy pulled himself up from the ground and then offered his hand to Lazare. Lazare debated it. It was unseemly for him to touch someone so beneath him. He wasn’t even allowed to touch dogs for that reason. (At least, from the time he moved in with his grandfather onward.)
But his grandfather wasn’t there. His grandfather wasn’t there, and if he could help…
He took the hand, which was all callouses and dirt but that he still found himself clinging onto anyway. (He didn’t remember the last time he’d touched a hand that wasn’t bound up in leather gloves that were cold to the touch and rigid, and against his own will, he found himself missing it.)
Then, the peasant
boy-Ronan
dusted off his coat, the dust falling off of it like it was sand. “See? Just like new.”
Lazare nodded his head. “Just like new.”
His grandfather wouldn’t know. About any of it. He wouldn’t know and that was what mattered.
Ronan shuffled in place. “It’s not the sticky type; we’ve not had enough rain for it in ages. I suppose that’s the one good thing about that.”
An awkward silence, as Ronan looked up at him meaningfully. What did he want? It took Lazare several moments to realize that he was asking for something more than Lazare had given to him. (Than Lazare had been allowed to show to anyone who wasn’t his grandfather or a direct superior.)
“Thank you,” Lazare said, the words clawing their way out of his throat. His grandfather would not approve of it, but he wouldn’t have approved of getting his coat dirty while sparring with a peasant boy either.
The boy puffed himself up, appearing twice his usual size. (Which was to say, roughly the size of the average boy his age. Or at least. What Lazare believed a boy his age should look like, having only himself to draw from.) “It was no problem, glad to be of service.”
Lazare rolled his eyes. “I have no doubt about
that
.”
“Hey!” Ronan said and, Lazare felt something strange bubble up in his chest, something he hadn’t felt for a long time.
Laughter
. He’d forgotten what it felt like, sounded like, breaking through his chest and throat, replacing the weight that had settled there since he’d found the dirt on his coat. It was a break of discipline, he wasn’t supposed to laugh like an undisciplined commoner, but Ronan brought it out of him and for the first time in years he felt
light
. Dizzy.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Ronan said. “Standing there so serious.”
“I had no idea as well,” Lazare said, honestly.
“I’m sorry if I don’t know how to do this right. I’m not used to meeting anyone new. It’s mostly just everyone at the village, and they’ve all known me forever.”
Unless he was much, much older than he appeared, Lazare doubted that they’d known him “forever,” but he understood the sentiment. Somewhat.
“Neither am I,” Lazare said.
“Let’s do this again, alright?” Ronan reached out the same filth encrusted hand that had hoisted Lazare up earlier. “I’m Ronan Mazurier.”
Lazare eyed the hand.
It was an absolute affront to centuries of carefully manicured tradition and discipline. His place was not shaking hands with a peasant, treating him like a peer, someone who’d been born in and would die in the same muck that coated his clothes and hands.
His grandfather would kill him if he found out.
But…
There’d been a great deal that happened that day that his grandfather would kill him over and…
Ronan did make him laugh. Not that that was important, frivolous as it was.
“Lazare,” and this time, he was able to stop his mouth before it could betray him by adding his last name. Hesitantly, mind already imagining the squelch of the dirt against his hands, the rough texture that it would take ages to not feel, he took the hand. It wasn’t nearly so bad as he had imagined it, the thing that registered more than anything else was the tingling heat of someone else grasping onto him, the treacherous urge to grip back.
“Pleased to meet you, Lazare.”
He held it until Ronan released him, the strange tingling continuing, hand still staying outstretched after, as if, in just the course of a few moments, it had molded itself to the other hand.
He jolted back, the touch a reminder of the time. “I have to go.” It had been….perhaps two hours. Maybe three, certainly that was past the time that they would be expecting him to be back, and if his grandfather found out, if his grandfather found out, and he didn’t understand
why-
“Wait!
Wait
!”
Against his own better judgment, Lazare stilled.
“You still haven’t told me about Peyrolles en Provence. I’ve never been outside the village, and you do owe me for before.”
“There wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t gotten me into it in the first place.”
“But I
did
get you out of it.”
Lazare glared at him, though he found it faltering. Utterly ridiculous. This is why his grandfather wanted him to keep them under control.
“Promise you’ll see me again. That’s all I want. And, look, after that, you can do what you want. But,” he grinned, “I know all the best places around here, anything you want. Look, there’s an old tree not far from here, with a bunch of letters and names on it. A baby crawling in the dark could find it. If it wanted to. Do babies do that kind of thing? It’s been a while since I’ve been one. Anyway, meet me there tomorrow. I won’t try to fight you or anything. Just have fun.”
He owed absolutely nothing to him, it would be far better for him to abandon this now. The little brat was an irritant, anyway, more trouble than he could ever be worth, quite possibly more than his entire village put together could be worth.
There was no point to it.
“
Please
.”
He was too distracted by Ronan looking at him, pleading, so that he didn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth as he said, “I promise,” just that he brightened.
“You won’t regret this!” Ronan said, “I promise!”
Lazare knew, then and there, that he most certainly would.