The Cardinal's Blades

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 semicircle 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-empry 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.