“I told that tramp this room was off limits. She has no place else to go, so I let her stay here. I suppose even a stone needs some company from time to time eh?” Vesterkamp said, looking down briefly as if ashamed to have to admit it. Nicolas remained respectfully silent in the face of this rare glimpse of humanity from his master.
“Trouble is she’s too stupid to listen when she gets drunk. That’s her room out there and you see the mess she makes of it. Mine’s in here,” Vesterkamp said in explanation. Nicolas merely nodded, not quite sure of what to say, but having gained an understanding at least, of the reasons for the marked contrast between the upkeep of the two rooms.
“Those swords are magnificent. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite like them. Are they from Japan as well?” Nicolas asked, hoping to divert the discussion to other less personal matters. Vesterkamp nodded, turning round on his stool to admire the collection of blades, some in full dress scabbards, the polished sheen of their lacquer shining in the light of early morning, and others in plain unadorned wooden scabbards.
“Yes, which brings us to the point of why you’re here,” Vesterkamp said, turning to face Nicolas again, tossing the now empty bottle of rum into the next room. It bounced along the floor, spinning wildly. Nicolas turned to look, expecting the bottle to shatter but somehow it came to rest against the far wall intact. Vesterkamp appeared completely unconcerned about the bottle or its fate. Turning toward the rack of swords, he took one of them down, drawing out the blade several inches to reveal the stunning quality of the tempered steel, the hardened edge glinting as the light reflected off of it. Nicolas was mesmerized.
“In Japan they say that a sword has a soul of its own. They know a thing or two about steel, those bastards. I’ve seen swords of theirs cut through armor, flesh, and bone and come out the other side without a nick. Nothing else compares to the best of their blades; even Toledo steel doesn’t come close,” Vesterkamp said, looking hard at Nicolas to make sure he had his full attention. Nicolas nodded his understanding, his eyes still focused on the unsheathed blade.
“The warriors in Japan make a god of death. They fear nothing but dishonor. The sword, which represents their honor, is everything to them. They believe a sword chooses its owner, not the other way round,” Vesterkamp said. Nicolas was interested but confused. This is all fascinating, but what does it have to do with me? He wondered.
“You’ve been the finest student I’ve ever had. I’ve driven you hard these past few months because I wanted to teach you the secrets I learned in Japan, and I knew time was short. You’ve now learned everything I know. The only thing missing is a good sword, one that will help you live long enough to gain the experience that you will need to put what I’ve taught you to proper use. The right sword will help you to truly master the forms you’ve been taught and yourself in the process,” Vesterkamp said, nodding toward the wall behind him.
“There are several blades behind me. Your last lesson is to choose the one that belongs to you,” he declared. Nicolas was completely taken aback. How could he possibly choose? There were so many superb specimens on display.
“Let your instinct make the choice. Only then will you choose wisely,” Vesterkamp guided him.
Nicolas stood, reviewing the various swords on the rack, many of them splendid in their colorful scabbards. But which should I choose? Which is for me? he wondered. He reached out toward a blade in a magnificently decorated scabbard, his eyes drawn to the lustrous colors of the lacquer; only to stop himself at the last moment, noticing a pile of swords in the corner of the room that looked to be used for spare parts, as many of the fittings on the sword guards and handles were missing. In the midst of this pile was a sword in a plain, unremarkable wooden scabbard that was longer and more curved than the rest. He felt himself oddly drawn to it. Vesterkamp said nothing, watching intently as Nicolas moved toward the blade. Nicolas reached for it, lifting it up out of the pile. It felt somehow right in his hand: the weight, length, and feel of it. He noted the superb balance and knew he had found his blade.
“This one,” Nicolas said, not really knowing why, but knowing he had made the right choice, the only choice. Vesterkamp began to laugh, but there was an edge to it.
“I might have known. The Muramasa,” he said, exhaling with a long sigh.
“The what?” Nicolas asked.
“The Muramasa. That’s the name of its maker. Legend has it that the swordsmith who made it was both a genius and mad. They say that he imparted part of his spirit to each of the blades he made. You’ve chosen well. The Japaners say there is nothing on earth that cuts like the demon swords of Muramasa. But be warned, they are also rumored to be thirsty for blood. Beware the power of their call,” Vesterkamp said solemnly.
Nicolas unsheathed the sword slowly, awed by the flawless quality of the steel, so dark it was almost deep blue. The pattern of tempering atop the razor-sharp edge of the blade looked like deep undulating waves. There was a carving on the steel toward the hilt. On one side was the head of what looked to be an eagle; on the other, talons clutched a spear. Nicolas felt a chill go through him, recalling the tale his brother told that an eagle had flown into the cellar where he was born – driven in somehow by the storm. It was as if the sword had been meant for him. He reached out to touch the carving, inadvertently cutting himself on the razor-sharp blade and drawing blood. Vesterkamp grunted, as if he had expected the accident to happen.
“Whenever a Muramasa is fully drawn, it must taste blood. Remember that always. I confess, I’ll be glad finally to be rid of it,” Vesterkamp said, handing Nicolas a strip of cloth to bandage his wound.
“I can really keep it?” Nicolas inquired with some doubt.
“Yes. My parting gift to you,” Vesterkamp assured him.
“Parting? What do you mean? Surely there’s more you can teach me?” Nicolas pleaded, reluctant now to be separated from his master. Vesterkamp shook his head.
“You’ve already learned the most important thing: not to be deceived by what your eyes see. You could have chosen any of those swords. All of them are in fittings a hundred times dearer than the Muramasa, but you looked beyond that, discovering the merit of what was inside – just as you looked beyond what you saw of me and trusted me to teach you. There is no greater gift in swordsmanship than seeing into the true heart of things,” Vesterkamp explained, his eyes locking on Nicolas, who held his gaze. They regarded one another intensely for several moments as if each were transmitting something to the other. Nicolas finally broke contact, lowering his head in respectful appreciation. Vesterkamp turned, walking back through the other room and into the soft morning light, Nicolas following closely.
“Your escort ships have arrived to take you to France. Everyone’s talking about it at the port. You’d best get to the docks and be on your way back home. When you get to Paris, look up Joseph de Boulogne. Everyone knows him as the Chevalier de Saint-Georges. You’ve much in common, both of you. Who knows, in a few years when you’re old enough you might even give him a run for it with the blade. When you get to France you should have that properly mounted so you can wear it on horseback. Don’t entrust it to just anyone, though. Make sure they’re up to the task,” Vesterkamp said, nodding toward the Muramasa, which Nicolas carried in a leather harness strapped to his back.
“One last thing. Have you solved the problem I posed to you on what constitutes the body of a rock?” Vesterkamp asked, his eyes boring in on Nicolas.
“Not yet. I confess it still doesn’t make sense to me,” Nicolas replied.
“Perhaps you should ask your friend the priest. If he doesn’t know, you’ll find the answer on your own in time. And when you do, you’ll then unlock the deepest insights of my style of fighting,” Vesterkamp said. Nicolas nodded.
“I shall not forget you or what you have taught me. Farewell, Monsieur; I hope we shall meet again,” Nicolas said solemnly, extending his hand. Vesterkamp shook it firmly, his visage as impenetrable as the a
rmored mask in his room. Moved by the unexpected gift of the splendid sword and deeply appreciative off all that he had learned from his master, Nicolas suddenly came forward, embracing Vesterkamp in thanks, before stepping back and mounting his horse.
“Off with you then,” Vesterkamp said with gruff embarrassment, struggling to hold back the unexpected surge of emotion he felt as he watched Nicolas ride away. Go on boy. Ride off into the light of your destiny and don’t look back. I’ve made a right mess of my own life, but you’re the one thing I know I can be proud of. A part of me will carry on with you now, and with what I’ve taught you, I pity any man foolish enough to make you his enemy.
***
Two days after leaving Ducos, Nicolas disembarked from his ship at the port of Cap François and was rowed the short distance to the docks in the ship’s launch. He walked tiredly down the ramp toward his waiting coach as his valet Julius saw to the offloading of his trunks and baggage. As he neared his vehicle, two well-dressed gentlemen, one of whom he recognized, approached him, both men doffing their hats in formal greeting.
“Good day to you, Monsieur d’Argentolle,” The taller of the men offered politely.
“And to you, Monsieur Montbatre,” Nicolas replied, eyeing both men up and down with guarded interest. Montbatre he knew from the Salon de Fer. He was one of those whose friendliness with Mauran had gotten him expelled. The other was portly with a licentious manner about him and entirely too much powder and rouge to suit Nicolas. He had the look of well-to-do salons and the scent of cheap brothels about him.
“May I present to you Monsieur de Noirmince-Vauginon, Baron de Ginestas. We are the friends of Monsieur de Mauran. May we have the name of your friends?” Montbatre said. My friends? What manner of nonsense is this? Nicolas thought, instantly on guard, understanding that this was the language of the duel and that these men had been dispatched as seconds to seek him out.
“What is the meaning of this and what the devil is Mauran playing at?” Nicolas asked, facing down both men intently, refusing to be cowed by the implied threat of their presence.
“He plays at nothing, Monsieur le Chevalier. He is the gentleman whose honor you sullied at the Salon de Fer. After a match in which you defeated him with a dishonorable ploy, you then proceeded to further add injury to his honor by commenting to others that he lacked skill enough to contest with you, when you knew that only illness on the day prevented him from being at his best,” the man alleged. Nicolas regarded Montbatre with barely concealed rage, incensed that he should be drawn into an affair of honor on such a blatantly manufactured pretext.
“What I remember, Monsieur, is that I had the pleasure of contesting with him in a special bout before the entire salon. I recorded sixteen touches and he recorded none. After the sixteenth, he excused himself on the pretext of taking a piss and instead took a pisser,” Nicolas said with a bemused smile, happy to remind Montbatre that on the pretext of having to empty his bladder, Mauran had instead simply run away.
“As to all that you allege, it is complete and utter nonsense. If your friend however, is determined to add another setback to his record of ignominy, I shall of course be happy to oblige him,” Nicolas said derisively.
“Your friends, Monsieur?” the Baron de Ginestas whined, his lips puckering obscenely as he spoke.
“I would not ask my donkey to stand up in such a farce. But as it seems you are determined to carry on, you may speak with the Comte de Marbéville who will act for me. Now gentlemen, I bid you good day,” Nicolas said, tipping his hat in the barest manner of civility as his valet Julius came up with his baggage.
Mauran’s seconds tipped their hats, bowing as courtesy demanded. Nicolas walked away, entering into his coach. As soon as Julius was inside he ordered the coach to set off. That damned fool Mauran. What on earth could he be up to? He’s no match for me and he knows it and I never made such a ridiculous comment as he alleged. I’ll have to have Francis insist on blades as this smells of another’s influence. But who would put him up to such a thing? Nicolas pondered intently.
“Excellent Montbatre, how well you played your part. You should take up acting as a side profession,” the Baron de Ginestas said, fanning himself against the heat as Nicolas’ coach pulled away.
“You think he took the bait?” Montbatre asked.
“Swallowed it whole,” the baron giggled. “He’s certain to be suspicious, and he’s clever enough to ensure that pistols won’t be used, which will unwittingly play right into our hands. He knows Mauran’s no match for him, so he’ll be certain of his victory, but he doesn’t know that the blades will be poisoned, and that all Mauran requires is the barest of nicks to seal his fate. It’s a pity you know, he’s even more beautiful than I’d heard. What a delight it would be to take him as a lover, but we’re being well-paid to put an end to him and put an end to him we shall,” the baron declared.
“You can bugger him when he’s dead, as long as I get my share of what’s coming to me. We’ll need to do the thing quickly though, before their ships sail for France,” Montbatre snorted.
“There’s a costume ball at the Montferraud Estate in three days’ time. All the elite society of the island will be there. It’ll be the perfect time to stage it. I know the place well enough; there’s a nicely secluded clearing behind the outermost stable wall that would suit our purpose exceedingly well. You shall prepare it with torches and the other necessary requirements. I shall confront him at the party, and bring him to the location. All Mauran need do is nick the fellow and he’s a goner for sure; though the poison is slow enough that he should be well aboard ship and away from here before it begins to take effect. He’ll die slowly at sea, which will conveniently absolve us of any blame,” the baron said.
“Damned clever,” Montbatre admitted, nodding his head appreciatively. “Who wants him dead so badly?”
“Never you mind that, sweet Montbatre. You have done your work well in infiltrating the salon and in befriending Mauran. I am trusting in your word that his skill is sufficient to carry out the task we need of him,” Ginestas said.
“I’ve been giving him some special lessons as of late. He’s much better than he was. Good enough to do the job reliably. He just needs a little confidence and I’m sure he’ll stick the bastard at least once. And if he doesn’t, I’ll nick him myself ‘by accident’ when he’s unawares,” Montbatre assured him.
“Good. I’m sure your poisonous whispers helped nurture the seed of enmity that jealousy had already planted in Mauran’s heart. Now the challenge has been issued and we have only to choose the appropriate time and place for the chevalier’s demise. Have you sent the letter to the marquis as I told you to?” the baron asked.
“It was delivered yesterday,” Montbatre replied.
“Good. He will know what it means,” Ginestas said with a wicked smile. “Now we watch and wait. Just be grateful that there is no business more lucrative or constant than death, and we thankfully, are to be the happy and fruitful purveyors of it.”
****
Nicolas arrived home late in the afternoon, to a household delighted to have him returned. He made his way quickly to greet his mother first, noting that there were many new faces among the household staff that he had not seen before. Perhaps they are here to help with preparations for the journey, he considered, finding his mother in the music room at the piano. Madame de Blaise greeted him affectionately, immediately noting the changes in his outward appearance, but with a mother’s intuition, sensing other changes in him as well.
“My dear boy, how strong and how driven you look. I hope you haven’t pushed yourself too hard. You seem tired, though of course I’m more than delighted to see you,” the marquise said in welcome.
“I must force myself on if I am to be worthy of the prize I seek, Maman,” he said simply. She nodded with resignation, understanding through her own exchange of letters with the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, the true value of what he wished.
“Nevertheless I wo
rry all the same. Come kiss me my beautiful boy and then go and see your father. He’s been so busy with all his plans that he scarcely has time for any of us lately. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you though. He’s in his study,” the marquise said, returning to her playing. Nicolas kissed his mother’s cheek warmly and went off to find his father as she had asked.
He found the marquis in his study as his mother had said he would, surrounded by several secretaries and even more stacks of papers and correspondence. Maman is right, Papa does look unusually harried and tired, Nicolas reflected. Without even glancing up in greeting, the marquis came right to the point with Nicolas, who stood facing him across the expanse of his large desk.
“Well, Nicolas, you are back. Monsignor Arnaud tells me he is satisfied with your progress. It seems you devoured mathematics and the sciences in the same manner as languages and history. He keeps trying to change my mind about the decision to send you to the École Militaire,” the marquis said hurriedly.
“Yes, Monsieur,” Nicolas responded rather stiffly, tired from his travels and expecting a warmer greeting after being away for several months than the formal grilling he was receiving.
Love and Honor Page 25
