The Anvil of Navarre

By Craig English

Tristan Navarre is an alcoholic, veteran soldier haunted by torture. When his beloved nephew is kidnapped, Tristan is blackmailed into spying on his hero, the Duke of Arlienne, while on a diplomatic mission to prevent war. Tristan is torn between his loyalty and his secret assignment to discover whether the sword-wielding Duke is really a man, or a woman pretending to be one. If Tristan fails, his nephew will be executed.

Tristan's search for the truth reveals a plot to incite an invasion, assassinate a Queen, and usurp a throne. But who is it's author? Is it the pious archbishop who preys on children? The sleek and sadistic earl who craves power? Or is it the oh-so-reasonable younger brother of the King himself?

The tendrils of the conspiracy are far-reaching, entangling a one-armed girl surviving by her wits; a tailor's son who must prove his manhood by the sword; and a young Queen striving to save her country. Tristan's own journey brings him face-to-face with the torturer who has inhabited his nightmares since the war, and he is forced to examine his wounded life.

Leaping from the polished stage of a magnificent theater to the blood-soaked grass of a dueling ground, from the twisted alleys of a grimy city to the glittering throne rooms of three vying nations, The Anvil of Navarre is an epic tale of love, revenge and sexual identity.

A swashbuckling adventure story . . . with a twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig English
• Release date: Feb 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989065306

Craig English

Craig English, M.F.A., is an award-winning writer with extensive experience in both nonfiction and fiction. He is founder of the much-published "Commoners" writing group in Seattle, Washington. A dynamic lecturer, teacher, and workshop leader, he draws from the wisdom traditions of both East and West to deliver a message that is warm, tough, funny, and poignant. Mr. English performed as a professional actor for twenty-five years, with numerous credits on stage, television, and radio. He has cofounded such diverse projects as a groundbreaking Montessori middle school and a highly-regarded Shakespearean theater company. Among his interests, Craig counts hiking, kayaking, skiing, drinking tea, cooking, reading, and laughing.

Book preview

ACT I

Chorus

Since giving up wine I have turned to the sea for sustenance. There’s a chance I’ll drown on one of these morning swims, but it’s a cleaner death, and better odds.

The fog is thick this morning, and consequently, from my chair on the back porch I have a view of absolutely nothing. I find this ironic, given that I am one hundred feet from the ocean on a beautiful stretch of beach owned by the Duke and Lady Arlienne. I also find it comforting. I think I’ve had my fair share of horizons lately and this sense of enclosure is welcome, like being wrapped in a second blanket. The ocean’s morning breath isn’t bad, comparatively speaking—a little tangy, but fresh.

Wine breathes, come to think of it. There’s a half empty bottle of Arlienne Ruby on the table beside me. The wine of Arlienne is red as blood, the Ruby particularly so—tart to the fore, plummy to the aft and damnably satisfying. The secret is a rare combination of mineral-rich Orgundian soil and cold Jaxony currents—the ocean again, you see. On these estates of Arlienne, the soil is sandy and rock infested and smells of oyster shells. I can vouch that it’s hard to wash from your hair because I’ve lain in it—drunk—but it’s also ideal for growing grapes. The sea does the rest. Before dawn, she lifts her fog fingers up the swiftly rising ridges, caressing the curling vines, leaving them moist and cool, and thoroughly wetting the soil before she retreats.

She. Is the ocean a woman? Or is he a man? Perhaps tomorrow I’ll give you surge and spume, beard and balls. But right now, with no more protection than my sleeping gown and a blanket on my lap, I’m feeling vulnerable, and when I take that shivering plunge, I would rather be at her mercy than his.

I dreamed again last night and woke up weeping. The sea commits her bloody crimes down deep, then expels the guts and shells and wrack on our shore, as if laying out her beautiful broken children for burial. My brain commits its own acts of violence at night.

Forgive me. Let’s keep to what’s in front of us. There are two wine-rimmed crystal glasses on the table next to me. I did not drink from either of them. There is a deck of limp and salty playing cards. There is a little black cat named Pussy, short for Pussywillow, perched next to the cards, her tail wrapped neatly around a glass stem.

I scratch Pussy between the ears, where she likes it, and she starts to purr. The vibration travels through my hand, up my arm and into my chest. There is a heart in this chest. I have it on good authority.

I want to tell you how I got to this coast, to this porch, to this moment of gathering. I want to tell you how I got this heart. And when I’m done, I want you to tell me something. Is the sea a woman or a man?

Scene One

Tristan

Monday, September 3, Morning

Tristan Navarre sits in the dark, watching. The seats of the ancient theater are rotting and there is a heavy smell of mold, and of excitement gone stale. He has never had any use for theatricals—puffed-up peacocks strutting about. If a playwright were to ask his opinion Tristan would tell him that love does not end nicely and war is awful.

The theater belongs to Cyril who calls it an investment. Tristan calls it a piece of crap, but suspects that Cyril will eventually turn the crap into coin. The theater is part of a row of buildings bounded at the front by Ombre Street and a stagnant quay along the back. Three centuries ago, the quay was the main port-of-call for Boheme—capital and crown jewel of the Kingdom of Orgundy. When the first King Alain built the Port of Lights at the mouth of the River Roué, the quay was blocked and Ombre Street died. But business is good these days and warehousing scarce. So Tristan’s brother Cyril and the House Navarre, renowned for exotic imports, shake hands with House LaRoque, renowned for silver and gold, whose daughter then allows a peek of her snowy breasts, renowned for their abundance, to the Master of the Keys of the Port of Lights, renowned for his lechery, and voilà! The smelly quay will be re-opened to provide more warehousing because, as announced last week in the Tattle-Tale: Winter is coming and the beloved children of Boheme must be fed! Tristan wonders how much money it cost Cyril to bribe a writer at the Tattle-Tale. Probably not a lot.

In any case, until it becomes a warehouse, the nameless theater sits empty and Tristan is allowed to use the space to teach fencing. For this it is perfect. The stage is enormous, constructed of solid varnished beams, which fill Tristan with a desire to see the land where trees grow to such a size. Shifting to ease the bad hip, Tristan longs for a glass of wine. He scratches his chest just above the iron cross that hangs by a leather thong, finding the lump of the long scar that always itches.

The stage is as light as the house is dark. Sunlight splashes through holes in the roof creating a golden playground for dust motes and lighting the three sixteen-year-old boys who are his students. They are his nephew, Cyril’s only son Michal, and Michal’s two best friends, Jean Amis and Aramis Bell. They are in pain at the moment, because Tristan has them doing an exercise.

Not the bags! they would yell.

Yes, the bags, because why?

Because the sword can’t prick if the legs don’t kick, the boys would answer in unison, followed by groans and farting sounds and jokes concerning pricks.

Tristan has the boys assume the en-guard position—a deep squat. Then he straps sand bags, once used in the theater as counterweights for raising and lowering the scenery, to the boys’ legs. With these in place they must shuffle—front foot forward, back foot follows—across the stage and back, maintaining perfect fencing posture all the while. The boys hate this for many reasons, including that they look ridiculous, that they don’t have swords in their hands, that it’s boring, but mostly, they hate it because it hurts. At first they could go no more than a few steps without falling over. But now, after a year, they can traverse the stage many times, and today they are reaching their limit.

Reverse! Tristan bellows. And the boys switch their leading foot. This is unheard of in the best fencing schools of Orgundy, or even Hongrie or Tuscone—one leads always with the same foot, depending on which hand is prominent. Tristan thinks that the finer schools ignore their students’ best interests. He teaches his boys that, should the opportunity arise to break the leading hand of a well-trained fencer, they must certainly take it. And they must learn to fence with either hand.

Tristan’s methods are not questioned, because these merchants’ sons are not allowed in to the finer schools. Their wealthy parents are forced to hire teachers like that has-been Navarre who teaches fencing by day and makes love to a bottle all night.

As the Tattle-Tale said only last spring: In these lesser days, bloodlines are as crooked as a hunchback’s spine. When nobility can be bought, or married, or won like a woman or a prize pig, how long until we are no better than the squabbling Jaxons or the hairy Luscovites?

The merchants want land and title. The nobles want money. Tristan doesn’t give a rip who’s sniffing whose ass, but he wants to keep his boys alive; they are his only remaining responsibility in the world.

Jean is the oldest son of the House Amis (fruits and vegetables), of medium height, stocky and already growing a red down on his chin and chest. He is so far in the lead of the other two boys that he has lapped them and is pulling away again, brow furrowed in concentration, muscular legs shuffling rhythmically. Of the three, Tristan worries least about Jean. He is a solidly unimaginative fencer, strong and unflappable, with a fierce determination and a long fuse. Jean’s father talks of nobility, but in a wistful tone, and Jean himself shows no desire to do anything else but carry on the family business. Besides, Jean is a genuinely good natured boy and not prone to take offense.

Aramis, the first son of the House Bell (collars, ruffs, sleeves, and hankies), comes next and he is on the edge of collapse. His legs are simply too long for his body just yet and the exercise is hellish for him. But even at sixteen, Aramis is one of the most elegant fencers Tristan has ever seen; superbly coordinated and graceful, and with an innate understanding of how to use his length to advantage. The problem is, the boy thinks he’s in a dance class, and doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. Worse yet, he has a waspish tongue that is going to get him in trouble some day.

Michal is last today, though he usually finishes ahead of Aramis at the bags. He is golden-haired, handsome in a babyish way, and a natural born athlete. Of the three, Tristan sees in Michal the most promise as a swordsman. But the boy’s brain is a whirligig of ideas, fancies, pouts, and postures, each flaring and disappearing as quickly as the last. He is as apt to stupidity as brilliance, and Tristan fears it will earn him an early grave. Worse, the boy seems incapable of hiding his heart. Today he is in sulky, and Tristan guesses that Cyril is to blame. His brother rides the boy hard. Fencing lessons are a welcome reprieve for both Michal and Tristan.

Stop, Tristan barks. Good girls. Rest now. Then go get a pointy thing. Hold the other end.

The boys collapse, grinning, and begin to untie the bags. They wear breeches and boots, nothing more, for there is still some warmth in September in Boheme. Tristan feels a twinge of jealousy looking at them. Their muscles ripple beneath the skin with ease of silent fish beneath the surface of a pond. It seems to Tristan that every part of his own body moves with an accompanying sound—unwanted pops and gurgles. He can feel his belly fighting the buttons on his breeches, and knows that without their restraint it would be resting on his lap. Thinking to loosen his hat, Tristan reaches for his head, then remembers that he is hatless, that his head aches because he is sober. Sobriety is observed every Monday (today), Wednesday, and Friday mornings for fencing lessons. Although he bathed last night he can already smell his own sweat.

Tristan looks again at the boys. The buttery light softens their faces as they chatter and he finds them unbearably beautiful. I’m thirty-two, he thinks. It was not so long ago. But he can’t remember it; can’t remember a time when he was not in pain.

No morbid thoughts, he tells himself, not the day before Michal’s birthday. Tristan is not invited to the party, so he has brought a special gift today. He reaches down and unwraps the top of the bundle on the floor, revealing the hilt of an espada, an old fashioned sword perfected by the Sparanese. Long and heavy, the espada is now a relic, replaced by shorter, quicker, thrusting weapons. This espada is a beautiful thing, the weapon of a sea captain, an heirloom passed down from Tristan’s Sparanese grandfather. Its hilt is swept, filigreed with silver, inlaid with diamonds and pale emeralds. The knuckleguard, counterguard and arms are each thicker in the middle, tapering towards the ends, like the bodies of snakes, and indeed, the side ring is the open mouth of a viper, fangs of silver, eyes occluded emerald chips. It is the only thing of value, besides the Cross of St. Leland, that Tristan owns.

Tristan covers up the espada and looks up to see if the boys are ready. Aramis says something from behind the fall of his hair that makes Michal pout. But red-headed Jean gives a sudden laugh that makes Tristan think of a drunken owl, throwing back his head, as if he were drinking the mirth, not releasing it. Michal smiles despite himself. He wets a finger in his mouth and sticks it in Aramis’s ear.

Ah! Aramis shouts. I said I heard she was tighter than a nostril, not an ear!

You hear too much! Michal protests.

But perhaps, Aramis says, leaping up, you are no bigger than a finger, so a nostril will suffice.

Jean is trying to speak through his hooting. Are we talking about picking noses or ….

Or nosy pricks, Aramis finishes for him.

Michal springs to the pile of gear and pulls one of the blunt-tipped practice swords. I will defend her honor! He strikes a pose, standing sideways, feet drawn together at a right angle, the flat of the sword raised to his nose in a salute. I shall box your ears monsieur!

Aramis sweeps up a sword and dagger, striking a pose that to Tristan’s eyes resembles nothing so much as a gypsy girl with castanets "No, no, you mistake me. Her box was like an ear, not mine."

Aren’t you splitting nose hairs? Jean gasps. He tries to stand, but the laughter gets the better of him and he sits back down.

Tristan is about to break it up, but he doesn’t want these idiot children to see that he is smiling too, which is making his head hurt worse.

Michal walks solemnly to one of the shafts of sunlight and turns to the audience. He holds the sword pommel in both hands, and dramatically lowers the tip to the stage floor. Tristan winces—he has told the boys, over and over, never to let a sword tip touch the ground. He starts to get up when Michal begins to recite.

I will defend her virtue

My maiden and my maid

I will defend her boundaries

With my body and my blade

Tristan is bewildered by this outburst, but it is clearly familiar to the boys, a bit of some play they have lately attended. Jean’s expression sobers and he sits up straight. Aramis walks downstage and kneels. He whispers to the front row. My heart is all confusion. Is this my Captain to whom I have sworn allegiance? Or is this my fair Colette encased in battle-tested armor?

Michal raises his eyes heavenward and Tristan recognizes his mother’s eyes in the boy’s silky lashes.

This breast will feed her children

This arm will strike her foe

This head will be her conscience

This heart will bear her woe

Aramis drops his dagger and sword at the edge of the stage, as if they are too heavy to hold. This is she, Aramis says. And for an instant, Tristan is taken by the boy’s acting. He seems on the verge of tears—awe and desire strangling his voice. This is my Colette. But Colette no more. She is …

Boheme!

All the boys say it, and the word is a whip that makes Tristan start. Christ Jesus, he thinks, that’s not acting. Look at the way he stares. Aramis is in love with Michal.

Boheme! the boys chant. Boheme! Boheme!

Tristan stands; he has had enough. All right, my little gas bags. No more patriotic drivel. Play time is over. He claps his hands once as his first master, Zoltan von Szomogai, used to, as much to clear his own head as to get the boys moving. It can’t be, he thinks. They’re just play-acting.

"Get on your pads and en garde! Quick! Quick! There are stains in a Jaxon’s shorts more worthy of my time!

Bravo! comes a voice from the theater entrance. Bravisimo! as the Tuscones say. A lethargic clapping accompanies this pronouncement.

Who is it? Tristan asks. This is private property.

Ah, well, says the mocking voice in the dark, as much as private property is in stewardship for the crown and so belongs to his royal majesty, King Alain, and so therefore flows to the king’s brother, Gatineau de Nuf, who we may say is the right hand of the king, then thus it passes to me, your humble servant, nothing more than a fingernail on the right hand of the royal family. In the name of the king, then, I thank you for keeping the property private.

The man who walks up the side aisle is the Earl Piedmonde d’Orville. He looks Michal up and down. "By heavens, we must not let Brinsley La Rue know that there is a rival theater company in Ombre Street. And comprised of nothing but pretty children? Well, he shall be frantic. You would be surprised at what some people will pay to watch. And then, were he to hear that the Chevalier Tristan Navarre has called his latest play, The Lady of Boheme, patriotic drivel? The same play the king has pronounced a national treasure? Well. Well."

A silence falls on the theater. The earl stands and waits comfortably. He is a young man, whippet thin, and his clothing calls attention to his figure. His frock coat is a rich gray-blue, with no collar, close-fitted at the waist, and a minimum of flair to just above his knees. From the right vent flap a sword hilt protrudes, glittering with silver inlay and diamonds.

Tristan has never met the Earl d’Orville, but already he dislikes him. First, he is a nobleman and therefore not to be trusted. And second, the economy of the earl’s cuffs and ruffles reveal that he places great value on an optimal draw of his glittering sword, and since the man is obviously no soldier, he must be a duelist, a fast-rising pastime, which Tristan finds appalling.

I have not seen the play … I did not know the boys had seen the play. How can I be of service?

Lord Gatineau de Nuf, the king’s brother, requests your presence in one hour’s time at Madame Colbert’s salon.

Tristan is so taken aback that he can find no reply. He has never met the king’s brother and knows no reason why he should be summoned.

A slight smile touches d’Orville’s lip. He walks past the stage and turns up the center aisle towards Tristan. You refuse, then?

I accept, of course.

Of course. I shall relate that Tristan ‘the Anvil’ Navarre has accepted his lordship’s invitation.

As Tristan scrambles to his feet, he kicks the espada which clunks against the seat in front of him. He steps into the aisle and bows to the earl.

What is this then?

Tristan looks down to where the earl is pointing. The cover has slipped from the hilt of the Viper, revealing the dark glint of the emerald eyes.

A pretty thing, the earl says, and for a moment Tristan is afraid that the man will take a fancy to it.

But really, the earl sniffs, can you imagine fighting with it? Might as well use a club.

The Earl d’Orville turns smartly and sweeps back down the center aisle. I’d brush up on my niceties, Navarre, he says over his shoulder. You’ve got an hour to learn to bow.

The earl is nearly to the exit when Michal calls after him. My lord.

D’Orville hesitates; turns back.

My friends and I have a bet that we hope you might settle for us?

The earl cocks an eyebrow.

Jean says you are a Beau, I say a Buck, Aramis says a Spark. Will you settle us?

A long silence gives Tristan plenty of time to think of ten ways to make Michal’s life miserable if the earl doesn’t beat him to it. Michal is asking which social group the earl belongs to, an impertinent and dangerous question.

What you need to know about me, d’Orville says, speaking slowly and clearly as if he were addressing a group of idiots, is that I am Quality. Like intelligence, one is either born with Quality or not. I commend your practice here, for war with the Jaxons is coming, and we must all do our part. Perhaps, if you come back at all, you will come back heroes. Or perhaps you will come back broken like this— and here the earl waves a lazy hand at Tristan—and drink yourselves to death. But you will not come back Quality.

Tristan feels a flush of shame on his neck and hot air rushes out of his nose as he fights his anger.

The earl turns again to leave when Aramis says, I know you are a Spark by the cut of your frills and the sparkle of your diamonds. But should not a Spark address our teacher, the Chevalier Navarre, with more respect? For who knows not that a hundred sparks a minute fly from the anvil and are extinguished.

The earl’s jaw tightens. In the time it takes d’Orville to turn again, Tristan has sprinted down the center aisle and placed himself in front of the boys. He is not sure who feels more surprised at his swiftness, himself, the earl, or when he glances over his shoulder, the three boys. D’Orville advances on him. Out of my way, Navarre, I will teach this boy a lesson.

He is just a child. A foolish child who will now apologize to you.

The earl has moved to within striking distance of Tristan, but his sword is only half way drawn. No, that will not do. I will teach this merchant’s whelp a lesson myself. Get out of my way. There is gleam in d’Orville’s eyes that Tristan has seen in other men. The prospect of beating or killing Aramis is invigorating to the earl.

Would you beat an unarmed boy?

The earl shouts a laugh. Not at all, please arm him. I would rather kill him than beat him. I challenge you, shop boy, to a duel.

Michal steps up beside Tristan. I will take my friend’s –

You will do nothing! A rage, driven by fear and goaded by shame, rises in Tristan, and he turns it on Michal. You will sit down now, boy, and you will not open your mouth again. All of you, sit!

Michal flinches and all three of the boys sit down on the edge of the stage.

Tristan wills himself to calm. I would be grateful if you would accept the boy’s apology. To punish him you will have to kill me. And I am sure that our Lord de Nuf would be vexed to find you had killed the man you were sent to fetch.

I’m tempted, Navarre. You have a reputation from the Seven Year War. The earl glances speculatively at the dented sheath hanging from Tristan’s side. Though I expect the reputation has outlived the man. The earl wrinkles his slender nose as if he smells something unpleasant. No, my sword is not drawn and therefore needs no wetting. Carry on with the apology.

Aramis, apologize, Tristan commands.

My Lord d’Orville, I apologize for my remark.

Well, that’s done then, says the earl easily. Remember, Navarre, Madame Colbert’s Salon in an hour. And for God’s sake, change your clothes and bathe. As for you, shop boy, he studies Aramis. I think I recognize you. Bell’s Accoutrement, is it not? Where all the Sparks buy their cuffs and cravats? Very snippety-snip and uptown? Well, I have the ear of my Lord de Nuf in matters of fashion. So you had best tell your father he is in for a lean year.

And with that the Earl Piedmonde d’Orville walks briskly from the theater.

Aramis sinks to the ground and Michal puts his arms around him. The gesture reminds Tristan of what he saw in Aramis’s face when they were acting the play—love for Michal. Don’t touch him, Michal. Let him cry it out. He’s not a baby.

Michal throws Tristan a look of disgust. The earl will ruin his father. Then he wraps his arms about his friend and whispers in his ear.

Tristan finds he can barely breath. The smell of his sweat is bitter and it penetrates straight through his nostrils into his pounding head. Aramis, listen, we’ll talk this over with Michal’s father and your father both. We’ll get this taken care of. But there is a lesson here. Challenging a –

You’re going to be late, Uncle.

What?

You have been summoned, Michal says, his head buried in Aramis’s hair. You’re going to be late.

Shall we carry on with our practice? Jean asks.

Christ. I don’t know, Jean. Do what you like. Tristan’s head is ready to explode and thought of presenting himself to Gatineau de Nuf is unbearable.

Dammit, Michal, challenging an experienced swordsman is suicide. Your father wants you to become a live nobleman, not a dead one.

My father wants a title and he doesn’t care how he gets it.

Your father wants the best for you.

Michal lifts his head and looks at Tristan with such bland disrespect that Tristan feels his arms flinch with the urge to hit the boy or maybe embrace him, he’s not sure which. A bitterness infuses his mouth and the taste reminds him of when he was little and stood at attention as his father lectured him. As if to rid himself of the taste, he spits his father’s words from his mouth. To become a nobleman you must learn about politics.

I thought to become a nobleman I should learn nobility. The earl insulted you and he was threatening Aramis. What would I be if I didn’t defend your honor and my friend’s life.

Have mercy on me. Stop sneaking into plays, they fill your brain with rubbish. You would not need to protect Aramis if he kept his mouth shut.

And I wouldn’t need to protect your honor if you weren’t a drunk.

There is a long pause.

Time for truth, is it? All right. I’m a broken drunk. And your Father is a heartless miser. Jean here is a dim-witted ass. Aramis is a faggot. And you, Michal, are the worst of the lot. You’re a fool.

And then he is fleeing up the aisle, through the lobby, and out onto Ombre Street, where the air is heavy with the stink of ancient tar and decay.

Scene Two

Tristan

Monday, September 3, Late Morning

The Inn was always an inn as far as anyone knows. Fortunately situated on Houx Street, the main road south to Tuscone and Sparaña and other places warm and exotic, the Inn has mellowed, settled, and worn itself into the landscape. Through plagues and Jaxon invasion, through the rise and fall and rise again of Orgundy, and now through the pressures of land agents to knock it down and build another grand house like those that surround it, the Inn has remained. It occupies half an acre and includes the main house for lodging, dining, and cooking, a stable, a laundry room, a yard with apple and pear trees, and Mademoiselle Nicolette Rose’s ivy-covered cottage. An ancient plaque out front of the main house, covered in ivy, reads: Here began the reign of Phillipe the Blessed when one hundred and one Orgundian foot soldiers held this inn for three days against a thousand Turques. God praise the brave soldiers of Orgundy.

Tristan bounds up the front porch steps and through the door.

Ho, the chevalier is back early. What happened, Tristan, did you eat the boys for breakfast?

The General, as everyone calls him—he was in fact a Sergeant in the Sausage Wars—is at his station by the common room hearth, surrounded by more local color. Tristan hurries through the common room, up the stairs, and into his own room. What’s he on about? he hears as he slams the door.

Tristan starts pulling off his boots.

Why am I summoned? What does Gatineau de Nuf want of me?

Tristan has no connections, no enemies, no money, no anything. His only encounters with nobility were during the war when they were his commanding officers, and six years ago when the young Queen Margeaux put the Cross of St. Leland around his neck. He’s been quietly drinking ever since.

I shouldn’t have said those things to Michal. How am I going patch that up? Christ Jesus, just get dressed.

Tristan opens the armoire. He has not worn his formals in a long time, and pawing about unearths nothing but tired frocks and breeches. Then he remembers losing them on a bet; darts, blind drunk. Damn! He kicks the armoire and stubs his toe. Son–of–a–bitch! He hobbles to the chest at the foot of the bed and opens it. Beneath the extra blankets are his wigs. He picks up the good one and stares at a hole the size of large coin. A beetle crawls through and stops to examine his hand.

Tristan sits down on the bed. Damn.

There is a knock at the door.

Go away.

The door opens and there is Nicolette Rose, the owner of the Inn. Looking at her clears Tristan’s head as if he has stuck his nose in a bouquet of fresh-picked herbs. She wears a simple gingham dress with a petticoat beneath. Despite her high bodice and the fringed modesty piece, Tristan admires the lovely curve of her breasts.

Go away, he grumbles, trying to disguise the quick heat he feels at the sight of her.

Nicolette sweeps into the room and takes the wig from him. As she moves her apron pockets jingle with the various parts of each project she is working on around the Inn. What is going on?

My damned presence has been damn well requested by the king’s brother in a damned hour.

Nicolette is opening the window but this makes her pause. De Nuf? Interesting. She shakes several beetles from the wig. Then she bustles to the fireplace and tosses the wig into it.

I need that!

"Tristan Navarre, you might as well wear a dead cat on your head as that wig. I’ve been meaning to burn it. The General won your uniform back. It’s on the bottom left side of the armoire.

You . . . he . . . it won’t fit Nici, I’ve put on a little.

Nicolette clasps her hands together and laughs. Put on a little? Tristan you’re fat.

Tristan doesn’t have time to be insulted. He finds his old uniform—Lieutenant, First Rank, Boheme Regiment—neatly pressed, folded, and wrapped. He takes it from the armoire and brings it to Nicolette who unfolds it and lays it out on the bed.

I’ve had my girl let out the breeches and the waistcoat, and I think you will find that your belly gives you authority. And in case you haven’t noticed, officers don’t wear wigs these days. She turns to him and a strand of ginger hair escapes her simple mob-cap.

For three years Tristan has kept his desire for Nici at bay, but for some reason the stray hair overwhelms him. He reaches out and gently tucks it under her cap.

Nicolette blushes and Tristan realizes he’s blushing too. He thinks he should step back, should apologize, but he doesn’t want to. Nicolette’s emerald eyes are wide. Tristan sees the beginnings of crow’s feet and a girlish spray of freckles on her cheeks.

Did . . . she starts to speak, then falters.

What? he says, his mouth dry.

Did Michal like his gift? she says softly.

Nicolette’s mouth, Tristan decides, is delicious. I didn’t give it to him.

Why not?

We got in a shouting match. Damn! I left the Viper in the theater. I need to get it."

No, Tristan. Her breath tickles his mustache. You cannot be late for the Lord Gatineau de Nuf.

The sword is priceless.

I’ll send Pataud to fetch it. And I’ll get you something for your headache.

There it is, the reminder that he drinks. He takes a step back. He watches her capable business face return. It makes him sad.

Thank you, Nici. Center aisle, twenty-two rows back, on the floor under the first seat to the right. Aramis will have locked up, so here’s my key.

Nicolette takes the key, slips it in one of her pockets.

Christ Jesus, Nici, what do you think they want of me?

Concern shadows Nicolette’s face. The Jaxon Navy has outstripped us. The king must do something soon, everyone says so. You’re a war hero, and still young.

Tristan’s throat tightens.

They say that Gatineau de Nuf covets his brother’s throne. But, whatever he wants from you, ask for time to think it over. The queen herself put the Cross of St. Leland around your neck and that makes you a queen’s man, beholden to no one else.

Instinctively Tristan reaches up and touches the cross. It is iron and unadorned save for an inscription. ‘For highest valor in war. In gratitude and by her majesty’s command. Queen Margeaux.’

But most likely you’ll meet with an underling who wishes you to take part in the recruiting effort—for King Alain, Orgundy, and God! So, quick, quick, get on your uniform. Maybe they’ll offer you a salary and you can tell your miserable brother to sit on his money and spin.

* * *

By the time Tristan figures out that Madame Colbert’s Salon, while located in Madame Colbert’s house is in fact entered through Madame Colbert’s shop, he is late. Stepping through the door, Tristan is assaulted with floral smells and tinkling laughter, and rather than ask directions and therefore have to meet the eyes of the female heads that turn his way, he plunges deeper into the store. Immediately, he finds himself lost in a warren of towering and loaded fabric racks—alamode and alejah, belladine and birdet, dimity and damask—and he reaches a dead-end staring at a roll of something called pompadour.

He catches a glimpse of another soldier down a passage to his right and is about to ask his way when he realizes he’s looking at himself in a mirror. He is relieved to see that he doesn’t look a disgrace … at least at this distance. Realizing he still has his hat on, a smartly cocked Kevenhuller which Nici borrowed from someone at the Inn, he takes it off and tucks it under his arm. He adjusts his watch chain which is pinned inside his pocket because somewhere along the way he sold his watch. The only damned accessory on his person that he owns is his shortsword.

May I help you, monsieur.

Tristan startles and then looks sheepishly at the shop girl, embarrassed to have been caught gazing in a mirror. The girl is beautiful—her eyes Sumarian, her cheekbones Orgundian, her bearing regal. I have an appointment. Lord de Nuf. I am –

Chevalier Tristan Michal Navarre. Of course, you are expected. The girl curtsies prettily. It is an honor, monsieur, to meet a war hero. Let me lead you to the Salon.

She turns and glides through the tangled tunnels, no mean feat, given that her panniers, though nothing so wide as a lady’s, add an additional two feet to each hip.

At the back of the store there is a wide wooden staircase that turns outward on each side and continues back and up. The shop girl takes the right stair and sweeps past two men who break off a conversation. The nearest is a short, doughy fellow wearing a too-tight waistcoat and vertically striped breeches. His wig is a towering bag with vast side curls, and what with all the powder it reminds Tristan of a holiday sugar loaf. The fellow raises his fingers to his carmined lips and leers at Tristan. How d’ye like me? he titters.

At the top of the stairs a sound like a thousand starlings assaults Tristan’s ears. Don’t mind the girls, Allandra says, they torment every man who passes through. They have teased the king, himself, and it is now the custom of Madame Colbert’s Salon. Tristan follows her into an enormous room which is directly above, and the same size as, the shop. The space is filled with immense tables which are in turn filled with women sewing. The chattering stops as the women turn to look.

Hello Allandra! one of the women calls.

What did you bring us? asks another.

Oola, this one I remember. Hello, Chevalier Navarre!

He is too old!

You are too young. This man is just the right age.

Hello, Lieutenant, show us your hands.

Tristan waves at the women, not knowing what else to do.

What did I tell, a big thumb means a big sword.

Do you like to ride, Lieutenant? I don’t mind the saddle sores.

A storm of giggles follows this pronouncement, and Tristan gratefully follows his escort through the room and down a hallway to a door and a liveried servant.

Behind this door, Allandra says, is Salon Colbert. Turn right and continue to the Pepper Room. Monsieur La Rue will be with you shortly. It has been a pleasure to meet you.

And you, Tristan nods.

Allandra curtsies and leaves. The servant opens the door. Tristan enters an enormous waiting room crammed with love seats, chairs and pillows. On the walls are massive paintings depicting gardens of the estates of Orgundy, and in each garden strolls the mistress of the estate with her daughter or perhaps a lapdog, and on each mistress, daughter, and lapdog is a dress that Tristan assumes was designed by Madame Colbert.

It is only when the door behind him closes that Tristan thinks: La Rue? But I was to meet de Nuf. Brinsley La Rue, the playwright? What is he going to do, reprimand me for my remarks about his play this morning? Christ, I could use a drink.

The hallway is wide, the wood rich, the rugs plush, the chandeliers polished. There are doors on each side and beside each is an alcove with a bench and fresh flowers in a vase. On each door is a plaque—the Gascogne Room, the Seafarers Room, the Caspian Room, the Rapier Room, the Pipe Room, the Corset Room, and the Satin Room.

Tristan can feel his pulse in his head, as if his temples were bending slightly inward with each beat of his heart and he wishes that he were anywhere else in the world—in a tavern with a bottle or on the sandy bank of a river with nothing but blue sky overhead.

He finds the Éclair Room—a food name seems like a good omen—the Champagne Room, the Blueberry Room and, ah, finally, the Pepper Room. Tristan knocks and when he gets no response, opens the door and looks in. There’s nobody inside so he steps through and closes the door behind him.

The room is larger than the common room at the Inn; richly appointed; a bit too richly for Tristan’s taste. Laid it on with a trowel, he thinks, looking at the gold-plated chandelier which is shaped like a pepper grinder. Too bad I’m not in the corset room.

There is a fireplace with a fire already lit and a large collection of pepper grinders on the mantle. Next to it is a side table with a crystal decanter of golden brown liquid and six tiny crystal glasses. Don’t mind if I do, Tristan mutters, making for the side table. He lifts the decanter, but he is shaking so badly that he’s forced to use both hands to pour. He empties the glass in one gulp and pours again. The door starts to open and Tristan quickly downs the second glass and puts it back on the tray.

He’s here on the Lord d’Nuf’s business, says a man’s voice.

Shush, Brinsley, a woman replies, you’re driveling again. I wish to meet this Tristan Navarre and I shall.

This pronouncement is followed by a great deal of white and China-blue fabric, swaying sidelong through the door, which in turn is followed by the speaker of the words, and another expanse of fabric. So this is the war hero? The woman sweeps around the furniture toward Tristan. Brinsley has told me all about you and I have been longing to meet you. I have questions for you, monsieur."

Except for the brief appearance of her slippered feet, like pink tongues beneath her dress, the lady seems to float toward Tristan. He has an impression of a lovely neck and small bosom, of golden ringlets, a button nose and cornflower blue eyes. There are pearls everywhere.

Tristan looks to the door where he recognizes Brinsley La Rue, the king’s playwright and part owner of the Theatre Royal. He’s hoping for an introduction, but La Rue is busy helping a second lady negotiate the door.

I am the Countess Miranda Verignon, the approaching woman says with a quick smile. "I see kindness in your eyes, Chevalier Navarre. You may call me Miranda."

This is very uncomfortable for Tristan who learned from his tutors that the nobility are always to be named by their full titles. Calling a countess by her first name is an insult, and yet, one does not disobey the wishes of a countess.

I’m pleased to meet you, countess, ah, Miranda. Please call me Tristan.

Good. Now, tell me what you think. Brinsley here has aligned himself with the so-called Refinement school—Tatoulle, Manin, Gelard—all of those. He insists that the height of the evolved man is to leave warfare, and even aggression, behind, and to pursue with vigor the polishing of the soul. Have I represented you accurately, Monsieur La Rue?

La Rue, who is assisting still a third woman into the room, sighs. You have been quite accurate up until this point, my little terrier. However, I fear that in the excitement of the hunt, you are about to stray from your path and charge over a philosophical cliff.

You heard him, Tristan, he called me a bitch.

Tristan is appalled. A feud has come boiling up around his feet.

But La Rue is laughing. I didn’t specify the gender of the dog. I say terrier because you latch onto an idea and won’t let it go.

The countess’ eyes sparkle as she listens to the playwright. She cups a hand by her lips and mock-whispers to Tristan. These theater people don’t like assigning gender because they’re all unsure of it—boys dressing as girls, girls dressing as boys—very fluid and flexible apparently.

Her voice raises: "You will not throw me off the scent, La Rue. I will flush my quarry—which, being a terrier, is usually a rat—in this case a large theater rat. Oh, he speaks so eloquently of refinement while he is locked up with the other brandy-sipping, snuff-snorting, leather chair worshiping wig-heads of his kind. But what these bantam roosters mean by refinement is men polishing their souls. Never women, only men. Personally, I suspect that when they close those heavy library doors, it is not their souls they are polishing, but their –

Now, now, Medusa, hold your tongues. Have you considered that the Chevalier Navarre might have opinions differing from yours?

Well? The countess says to Tristan. Do you not think that the refinement of the soul should include woman, Tristan? Are you on my side?

Tristan feels like a child who has jumped the fence in a pasture and come face-to-face with a bull. To begin with, nobody has told him what polishing the soul means, so how can he know who should do it and who shouldn’t? For another thing, he suspects that the countess and the playwright are not so much interested in his opinions as his ability to entertain, and he hasn’t a clue as to what might amuse them. Tristan decides to do what any military man would do—defer to rank.

I am completely on your side, countess, ah, Miranda.

There you see, Brinsley. Here is a soldier, a man of action, and yet he shares my vision of the future.

I rather think he is trying to be a gentleman, countess.

The next few minutes are filled with introductions to a group of ladies—Tristan can’t quite remember when they all entered the room and he suspects that the whiskey he drained is not only expensive but potent—all of whom have numerous and complicated family names and affiliations, and most importantly, titles. Tristan does his best to murmur, the honor is mine, at what he hopes is an appropriate silence and with what he hopes is a genuine smile. He feels fairly certain that every one of these ladies is scrutinizing him carefully, and while several seem to like what they see, several others, the more astute he supposes, do not.

Now tell me Tristan, the countess demands, what makes a man a man?

Oh gods and little turtles, countess, La Rue starts –

Shush, La Pew, the Countess snaps. I want to hear Tristan’s thoughts on the matter.

What makes a man a man? The women and La Rue look at Tristan expectantly, and he feels a creeping panic. In the army, he knew his strengths and weaknesses, knew his enemy, knew when to be patient and when to act. But here he has left land, the water is rising, and the sharks are wearing very expensive clothing. What makes a man a man? Obviously an honest answer is not called for—he can’t just blurt out ‘a cock and balls’ in mixed company. Strength? he tries. Courage in battle?

Ah, but imagine what kind of strength it takes to give birth and raise children. What do you think, Daphne? What makes a man a man?

Daphne, a heavy young lady, the wife of a minor lord whose name Tristan cannot recall, clutches her shawl and blurts, Brutality? Piggishness? Lust?

Ah, now, before you gentlemen dismiss Daphne’s characterization, Miranda says, think about the men you know and see if the description doesn’t fit.

Tristan had known many men in the army who fit the description. But it seemed to him that those characteristics didn’t make them men, but rather less than men.

All right, Brinsley, before you explode. What makes a man a man?

Why, countess, I thought you would never ask. What makes a man a man is the search for the answer to that very question. True men never cease to search for meaning.

Oh, you artists. Always ready with a clever answer, so pretty on the surface, but what is underneath I wonder? All right, Lady Molina, what makes a man a man?

The Lady Molina is a tiny, brown woman with a faint mustache, who Tristan thinks might be the wife of a diplomat from Sparaña. She gives them all a toothy smile and says: The difference, Lady Verignon, is a cock and balls. It is a small difference, but important nonetheless.

There is a stunned moment of silence, and then the Countess Verignon bursts out laughing, and everyone else follows suit. Tristan is laughing as hard as the rest, but he is astonished that such language is spoken by ladies.

When the laughter subsides, La Rue says: Well, noble ladies and my dear countess, you have met the Chevalier Navarre and, I hope, satisfied your curiosity. But I did ask the gentleman here on business.

Everyone says their goodbyes—Tristan kisses far more hands than there seems to be women—and then they sidle out the door of the Pepper Room. The countess is last. I hope you will think about my question in depth for I am interested in your opinions. What makes a man a man? And what makes a woman a woman? When we speak again I will attempt to hold my tongue long enough for you to give your views. It is has been a pleasure, Chevalier Navarre.

Good bye, my lady. Tristan bows low and when he looks up, La Rue is shutting the door.

Well, that was exhausting, La Rue says, leaning against the door and grinning. Would you care for a drink?

I would.

La Rue walks to the decanter, examines the already used glass, then fills two more and hands one to Tristan.

From Corkney. Wherever that is. Jaxon import, very expensive, very illegal because of the embargoes. Nothing but the best for Madame Colbert.

La Rue downs his glass and pours some more. He raises the decanter toward Tristan who finishes his own and hands his glass to La Rue. For the first time, Tristan has a chance to get a look at the playwright. La Rue’s sword is plain and well cared for, and Tristan recalls that Michal and the boys have told him that the playwright won his share in the Theater Royal in a duel. He has a lot of wavy, dark hair and the kind of big eyes that women like. He’s in his late twenties, in good shape, and not sporting too much frippery, which Tristan considers a sign of character. But then there is the eye makeup, the Hussar boots—indoors for God’s sake—and a silly little turban on his head. Theatrical nonsense.

Monsieur La Rue, what am I doing here?

I am a king’s man, Chevelier Navarre, and more particularly at the service of the king’s brother, his highness, the Lord de Nuf. Here La Rue stops to take a sip of his whiskey and stares as if the mere mention of de Nuf’s name might set Tristan’s hair on fire. He has asked me to speak with you.

Another significant pause follows. Tristan notices that though his hands have stopped shaking, they have started to sweat. Christ Jesus, why am I here?

Tristan, in your time in the Luscovite war did you serve under the Duke Louis de Nouvelle Arlienne?

I did. Never directly. I took my orders from Captain Donat who reported to Duke Arlienne.

What did you think of Arlienne?

Relief floods Tristan; this isn’t about him. Even so, he doesn’t want to get involved in any kind of political maneuvering. And being questioned by some scribbling theater-mutt is rubbing him the wrong way.

Did you serve in the war, Monsieur La Rue?

The playwright looks uncomfortable. No. The king commanded that I stay behind. I had a popular comedy and, well—morale was the word he used.

Tristan nods. You served the king and that is what matters. But only a soldier can understand the necessities of war. From my viewpoint, Monsieur La Rue, Duke Arlienne was a fine commander and a brave man.

Did you ever share a tent with Arlienne?

No.

Did you ever speak to him personally?

Once.

Did you ever see the man piss?

What?

Piss. Did you ever see Arlienne take a leak against a tree?

No. What kind of nonsense is this?

La Rue sighs. The Lord de Nuf has reason to believe that Arlienne is not a man at all, but a woman.

Tristan stares at La Rue. That is bizarre. It’s not true.

How do you know?

I have seen Duke Arlienne charge into the heart of the Luscovy cavalry. I have fought beside him—he is a swordsman without equal. No woman could have done these things.

Yes, well, I share your opinion, but the Lord de Nuf will be satisfied.

Not by me, Tristan thinks. Duke Arlienne is a great man. That is what I know.

Nevertheless Lord de Nuf would like to offer you a position. Within the next few months we will be at war with Jaxony. Tomorrow we will be sending a delegation to Luscovy to negotiate an alliance. Arlienne will lead that delegation. You will be assigned as his personal bodyguard. You will keep him safe in Luscovy.

You want me to spy on him?

Simply watch him. The Lord de Nuf wishes you to keep Arlienne safe. But if you can verify his gender, then send word.

Why would I do such a thing?

La Rue stands. Another drink? he asks. Tristan nods and La Rue takes his glass and goes to the decanter. He pours another shot and then rummages around in a shelf underneath the table. One thousand gold alains to see the mission through, another one thousand if you and Arlienne return home safely, and ten thousand if you can positively answer the question of Duke Arlienne’s gender.

Tristan feels a flutter of nausea. He lives on a pathetic stipend from Cyril who refuses to give him more until he stops drinking. But twelve thousand alains? It is not only enough to liberate him from his older brother, but also to buy a house or open a fencing school.

And that is not the half of it. He has been miserable since returning from the war. If the army taught him a hatred for cruelty and killing, it had also imbued him with a love for the open road. To travel again, sleep under the stars, smell pine needles, wash his face in fresh, clean water—maybe that is what he needs. But none of that matters, because he will not betray a fellow soldier.

No, I cannot.

La Rue hands him the whiskey. Let me finish, chevalier. Along with the ten thousand alains, there is the matter of a small holding for your nephew Michal. He would squire for the Baron Aquisar until his majority, and then be gifted land and title by Lord de Nuf.

I … Christ Jesus.

Yes, I rather think the Son of God would be tempted himself. I wish I were you. But I don’t have the necessary qualifications.

Why me?

Duke Arlienne is one of only five men to be awarded the Cross of St. Leland in the last twenty years. Of the remaining four, one is dead in a duel and another seems to have disappeared. The third is nearly as wealthy as Arlienne and not likely to be convinced to run around the countryside trying to get a look at his rival’s pecker. You wear the cross, you fought with Arlienne, and we have reason to believe that he thinks highly of you. Lastly, the two of you know Luscovy.

Why does de Nuf care?

That, my good man, is neither my business nor yours. But I can assure you that the knowledge is important to our country’s safety. You would be doing another service for Orgundy.

I cannot, Tristan says, feeling the agony of the decision.

Listen, my friend, such matters should not be decided quickly. You are weighing your future and that of your nephew as well. La Rue has an unopened bottle of the Corkney whiskey in his hand. Give it the night. Come back tomorrow afternoon and let us know your decision. Just keep it to yourself, will you? You understand how quickly rumors spread?

Tristan is already shaking his head no, but then he remembers Nici’s advice: ask for time and think it over. I’m acting like a child, he thinks, yelling no and running home because I don’t understand the game that’s being played. He eyes the golden glass of the whiskey bottle in La Rue’s hand. What can it hurt to think things over?

All right, Monsieur La Rue. I will give it the night. He accepts the bottle of whiskey; takes La Rue’s offered hand and shakes it. I’ll come back tomorrow. But the answer will still be no.

Chevalier Navarre, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I am just the messenger in this matter, but if I may say so, the gratitude of the Lord de Nuf is a precious thing. Think hard before you let this opportunity slip through your fingers.

Scene Three

Tristan

Monday, September 3, Afternoon

Tristan sits with his elbows on his thighs, contemplating the bottle on the sill of his window. It’s stoppered, the whiskey unsampled, as yet. The late afternoon sunlight dances in its amber depths. He has just returned from Madam Colbert’s salon and is still in his uniform which feels stiff and uncomfortable.

I won’t do it. Spying on a man, a good man, trying to peek down his pants, for Christ’s sake. Not for any money.

Well enough, Navarre. What’s on your mind then?

Maybe I’ve had my last drink.

Uh-huh. Got your bottle in the sun like a goddamn shrine. Maybe my last becomes maybe not till after dinner becomes a little snort to tide me over. Next thing you’ll be crawling out of the bed in the morning with your head on fire.

Tristan tears his gaze from the bottle to look out the window. The autumn light is thin, glowing through the pear tree leaves, displaying each rusty vein. A breeze tags the three wind chimes hanging from the Inn’s back porch; starts them tinkling, clacking, and gonging. Tristan’s heart lifts. He has made a set of chimes for each of Nici’s birthdays since they met.

And there she is, carrying the stool she uses to reach the low hanging pears. Tristan leans forward to get a better look. He loves the way she walks, never in a hurry, but purposeful, her skirt swaying. She puts up a hand to block the sun, scouting for the ripest fruit, then places her stool beneath a branch and steps up nimbly.

Turn this way, he thinks, and she does. Sunlight bathes the side of her face—her alabaster skin, , the stray ginger curls—and once again he allows himself to know how much he wants her.

In the army, when he wanted something desperately—a warm bed or dry clothes or an end to the fear—he learned to concentrate on tasks; cleaning his saber, running to the next stand of trees, chewing bread. When it got bad he drank. In this same way, for three years now, he has managed to keep the full force of his desire for Nici at bay. It was something the General told him that he never forgot: Nici’s father used to give up the bottle for a week at a time. Didn’t make him any less ugly the next week. She won’t have you unless you stop drinking.

A hummingbird zips over the cottage roof and stops, levitating inches from a red ribbon in Nici’s hair. She turns her head and Tristan sees her lips form the words: Well hello. The bird looks like an emerald and burgundy cross suspended in the air. It darts to the garden where she has planted touch-me-nots, honeysuckles, and cosmos.

Tristan feels movement inside his chest, as if a tiny pebble, lodged in the gears of a monstrous machine, has slipped. He fears what might happen. He fears the rabid joy that sometimes possessed him in battle.

Once Nici made him a pear galette served with cream. They were sitting on a blanket beneath the tree when a wind swept up, blowing leaves. Tristan threw his body over the galette, declaring that he would sacrifice himself to rescue so noble a treat. Nici praised his nobility but wondered aloud if he would do the same for her. Of course! he proclaimed. But when the rain came, Tristan grabbed the galette, scampered into Nici’s cottage, and locked her out. When he finally opened the door, she was soaked and laughing so hard she couldn’t stand up.

What if I stop drinking, Nici?

His chest hurts; the pebble has slipped, but there are no gears inside, no terrible killing machine. What’s left is fear—the same sick fear he has felt before a battle. Christ Jesus, maybe I can do this.

He grabs the bottle. He flees his room, clatters down the stairs two at a time, opens the back door and there she is. She’s reaching into the branches, the fabric of her gown straining