Young Writers Society

Honor, Chivalrie, and Gentilesse

"If you are going through hell, keep going." - Sir Winston Churchill

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it wasn’t quite dark and stormy, it was more of a dark gray and windy night. But, Michael did not like that any better. He stalked along the Rue des Saints Pères, all the while grumbling about finder’s fees and how he wasn’t somebody’s bloody nursemaid. When he really should have cursed the old men for sending him on this errand like a dumb runner; he had ceased being somebody’s pageboy hundreds of years ago, or so he thought. The grip on his claymore was slick and frigid, and the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck were raised. A telltale sign magic was afoot.

Laughter snagged at his eardrums, and he watched as a young woman and two young men stumbled out of a doorway some meters ahead of him. As they bumbled down the street in front of him, he could see the woman, her curly hair the shade of cherries, swaying between the other two, grasping at them to keep herself upright. The men he gathered were just as faulty as she as they weaved and slipped, though never falling.

Michael tailed them all the way to Quai Malaquais before making his move.

As he approached he could smell the drink on them, like they had bathed themselves in a vat of it. Even when he rounded on the trio they were not apprehensive about his dress or the sword.

Michael brought his hand up to his hat and nodded once in respect, his fingers pinching the brim.

“Madame, messieurs.”

The woman’s eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell slightly open, her painted lips forming a perfect oval shape.

She sloughed off her partners. Michael fixed his gaze on her trying to gage whether she was as drunk as he previously thought. She flinched when their eyes met, and twisted away from the scrutiny.

One of the young men, the one blinking owlishly at Michael, lurched forward and prepared to speak, but the woman cut him off.

“Non, mon ami. Je dois aller avec lui. Je vous verrai plus tard, non?” [No, my friend. I have to go with him. I will see you later, no?]

The man shifted his gaze back and forth, and the other sensing his friend’s drunk confusion, stepped towards his, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Allons.” [Let’s go.]

The woman placed a hand on his chest. “Oui. S'il vous plaît.” [Yes. Please.]

The man seemed to like that, and he and his friend blundered out into the night.

Michael grunted. “I didn’t know ye knew French.”

The woman smiled softly. “There’s lots of things you don’t know about me, Michael.”

Michael looked at her; he always thought she was a pretty woman with her soft curves and a heart-shaped face. She wore a black dress tonight that was tight on the top, but flounced out from the hips downward. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Michael had to admit it was a flattering look on her.

“Come on.” He snagged her elbow and pulled her towards him, she squeaked in indignation.

He dragged her a few paces with her squirming in his grasp before, she dug her heals in. “Unhand me, you bastard.”

Michael crooked a smile, “I’ll have ye know my mother and father were properly married before my conception.” He paused, and turned to look at her. “Ye know ye have not any choice, Luce, so come on.”

She slumped in her stance, and permitted Michael to lead her onwards.

Michael easily entered the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Lucie de Bouillon following silently behind. She had not said a word since the first confrontation on the Quai Malaquais, and he was perfectly happy with that. When Michael had entered a cloying, damp, oppressive smell of musty church assailed his senses; he breathed it in. Hundreds of candles had been lit, and long shadows were cast in the spaces between the flickering lights. Resting his claymore not far from his reach, he knelt before the altar, and closed his eyes and hands in prayer. Michael could hear the clack of the Lucie’s shoes as she paced. It halted after a few minutes.

Suddenly, a rumbling sound jabbed at his thoughts, like the sound of a car motor.

Tell Lucie, I say hi, will you. Mmmm, that’s nice. …

“Andrev says hello.”

Michael got to his feet, and looked to where she had stopped pacing. Her hand was rubbing the ears of a stone gargoyle; he knew the stone was just an allusion.

She grinned. “At least he appreciates me.”

Michael grunted.

Her fingers stilled on one of Andrev’s horns. “Why’d you bring me here, Michael? I gather it’s not a date. Or is it? I know you’re a church man…”

“Funny, Luce. The old men are getting restless. They thought ye needed a watcher.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, and her lips were pressed tightly together. The hand on Andrev was clenching and unclenching.

Andrev’s voice broke into Michael’s consciousness again. Ouch! Tell her I am not a thing to be grasped at.

Michael gestured at her. “Ye’re bruising poor Andrev. He wants me to inform ye he’s not a stress ball to be grasped at.”

Her eyes widened and so did her mouth, beautifully, and she dropped her hand. She, then, patted Andrev on the head. “Sorry, Andrev. Blame Michael.” She seemed to be contemplating something. “The old men thought I needed a watcher, eh? And they sent you.”

Michael nodded his head.

“That’s rich.” The edges of her lips twitched upwards. “You going to beat up all my demons for me.” She grinned and showed off her pristinely, white teeth.

Michael breathed a deep sigh. “De Mournay and his clan are on the move. They—the old men—felt it best that you be protected.”

“What, cause I can’t take care of myself, or somethin’?” She scoffed.

Michael sighed again, and sat down on the pew closest to him. “I don’t think it is a question of whether ye can or not, Luce—De Mournay.”

“I heard you the first time.” She was rubbing her temples with her thumbs, in tiny little circles.

“Come here,” he gestured for her to sit down next to him. She walked over and slid in next to him.

“My company cannot be that atrocious; besides Andrev has been pressuring me for some kind of vacation. Paris is his city after all.”

He was watching her, probably for the millionth time. It has been a long time since Michael had been interested in someone. A mortal he would never impose his troths upon. After all, who would believe him? Not many. And, then there was that other factor, age. But, she knew what he was, who he was, and seemed not to care.

It had been along time since he has seen her, but he remembered how many years ago he had seen her in Africa, after the fall of Khartoum to the Mahdi army. He had been in hiding in Omdurman before smuggling out and her’s had been the first pretty face he had seen in months. It had made him feel better about the world, better about himself, better about being... whatever he was. But like a nervous schoolboy, after he recovered from the shock, he had run.

Now, here she was again, in his presense, and he was vacillating between kissing her or not.

She was rummaging in the kitchen – she had left him while she retrieved some things, refreshment, she had said – when the glass window in her sitting room shattered.

Michael was immediately on his feet, sword in hand. But, after the initial blast, the high pitch shatter of glass breaking, it was just eerie silence.

Michael wasn’t fooled. He glanced towards Lucie who was braced up against the sink in the kitchen, as if she was plastered there. He could see the frantic upward spike of her chest with each breath she took through her nose. He brought his fingers to his lips, in a motion to keep her quiet.

Keep your mouth shut, milady, or I’ll shut it for you.

Pure demons didn’t smell, you could not track them with scent, you could not detect the stench of hell on them because demon’s contaminated the soul not the body, but hell-spawn did smell, and Michael’s nose that become very perceptive over the years. At the moment, it reeked. And, though Michael could not see them, he knew they were there.

Michael took slow steps away from the window, bracing himself for an attack. “Come out ye nasty buggers, no use hiding, ye’ve blown the bloody door down.”

Michael smirked as the first creature appeared out of thin air, bared its nasty teeth – its mouth a cavern of darkness – and claws, and launched itself at him.

Michael made quick work of the hell-spawn, as soon as he gutted them, they would dissolve, and they did not leave blood like demons did which he was glad for. It would have been a much larger mess than a splintered window.

Michael braced himself against the sitting room couch, and took deep breaths. When he opened his eyes Lucie de Bouillon was staring straight at him.

Michael opened his mouth to say something but before he could, Andrev came tumbling through the place where the window glass once was.

Michael! I have been tracking them like you asked me to, they’re on their way, I’m sure of it.

He got the impression that the gargoyle was taking breathing sporadically. Michael mumbled something vulgar under his breath.

Lucie looked at him expectantly.

“Luce, ye’ve got to listen, De Mournay is on his way, he knows where ye are now. If ye’ve got a cloaking spell—”

He did not need to finish before she grasped her right wrist, whispered a prayer, and diffused into the air, like she had never been there to begin with.

Michael canted his head towards Andrev.

“How much do you hate Shifters, boyo? ‘Cause I cannot stand the stench of them.”

He swore he actually saw a grin on Andrev's stone face.

It was a fury of swords against teeth and claws, though some came equipped with their own glinting steel. Michael did his best to keep them occupied, to keep them focused on him, on Andrev. One rasped his claw across Michael’s shoulder and he hissed at the impact, but he did not stop – blood and adrenaline fusing in his veins. Another had him pinned against the wall before he jabbed it with his dagger.

Suddenly, it all stopped, and there just inside the broken window was De Mourney, he was sure of it. Michael had never met the man, and though he was hesitant to call him one, he could not deny the human likeness. From the edge of his vision, he spotted Andrev, who was stiff as the stone creature he looked like. De Mourney was a thin man, tall and slender like a reed. His complexion was sallow and his hair was ragged, and it looked like he had not shaved in days. From all Michael knew of him, he was surprised. De Mourney sneered at Michael before he spoke showing off jagged, yellow teeth.

“Who are you?”

His accent was soft, almost unnoticeable.

“I should be the one asking the questions,” Michael pointed the sword perpendicular to De Mourney’s chest, “seeing as this is my flat.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Where is she?”

“Now, what she would we be talking about?”

De Mournay growled, and raised his fist. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, “The… link.”

“Link?”

Before Michael could lunge, De Mournay had raised his arm and flung it outward, towards Michael. The impact of the psychic hit threw him back into the wall. It knocked the wind right out of him.

Damn, damn, damn…

Michael raised his sword just in time, and the second strike exploded when it clashed with the metal. Orange sparks shot out like confetti. It gave him enough time to get back on his feet again. Another shock, he raised his sword to block, and the energy of the blast jarred his arm. He shook his head to think more clearly. Why did everything seem so befuddled to him? Jolt after jolt came, and behind the array of orange sparks, Michael could see De Mournay and his flailing arm. Then, there was a slightly larger gap than before between the attacks, and Michael took his chance, he advanced on De Mournay, but the man fired back. The impact of the blast hitting his sword made Michael slip. As he tried to regain balance Michael dropped his sword.

Damn.

The affect was immediate. Michael momentarily stunned by falling on his back, felt his throat closing, at first he though it was fear, but then, he thought, I have dropped my sword before, me hands are just as useful. So it was not fear, it was just the pain of trying to breathe; he had to force the air out. The pain now extended to his chest, it burned deep like an old bone pain exposed to the elements. Michael turned his head to the side, he could see his sword, it looked like it was just within reach. Stretching as far as he could, pain tearing at his chest, throttling his airway, his fingers brushed against the hilt.

A sharp pain fissured his concentration and he convulsed. Just about the time Michael was wondering how long a man could stand existence without air, the pressure on his body lessened. He gasped for air, and blinked.

Above him, De Mournay was looking quite complacent, a rather serene expression on his face.

“I asked once, but it seems you have a rather thick skull, so I’ll ask again – Where is she?”

“I… have… no… idea… what… ye… are… talking… about.”

De Mournay’s hand was curling into a fist and again the pressure was forced upon him, Michael marshaled through the pain, he had to think.

Think. Ye have to think. Oh, God, if Luce gets any of her crazy ideas…

“Oh, I think you do. You know exactly where she is…” The man started to look around the room.

Michael! God, sheep-herder, do something. Andrev's voice broke through the pain.

“I am thinking…” Michael murmured.

“What was that?” De Mournay had glanced back at him.

There is plenty of time for thinking when you are dead, Welshman.

Michael forced out another breath, so he could answer Andrev. “Like he can kill me.”

De Mournay was staring at him now, eyes narrowed, lips in a snarl, but he didn’t say anything just pumped his fist. Michael convulsed in pain. If only he could reach something…

Michael rolled his head to the side, De Mournay’s foot was awful close.

Michael, came Andrev’s agitated voice, if you don’t bloody well do something, I…

Michael extended his hand towards De Mournay’s foot and managed to grasp the ankle with his fingers. Tightening on it, he yanked. Immediately, Michael could breath again, think again. He reached for his sword, clasped it, and swung to strike, but De Mournay was quicker. Michael dashed after him, but was too late when he launched himself out the broken window.

Michael gasped for breath, and sagged against the sofa, still clutching his sword.

Lucie, now uncloaked, rushed to his side, he smiled up at her. “Well, that was fun.”

“Fun!” she yelped. “This is your idea of fun?” A few minutes later, after she had calmed, and been asserted he was not going to die anytime soon, she muttered. “If this is what you call a date, no wonder there isn’t a flock of maidens after you.”

Michael was helping Lucie sweep up the broken glass, his body ached, but he was not going to let her know that. “Why don’t you just perform a spell and get your window back?” He gestured at what was left of it.

She smiled sadly, “Sometimes, magic isn’t the answer.”

He did not answer; similar thoughts frequented his own mind. He just dumped the last of the glass into the bin. She was standing at her broken window, arms crossed over her chest, looking out at the gray morning, shards of pink and yellow evident of a new day’s beginning. Michael went to stand next to her.

“You know, Godfrey always said, that the morning was the best part of the day. Ma petite chérie, il dirait, le matin est la meilleure partie du jour, certainement.” [My little darling, he would say, the morning is the best part of the day, for sure.]

“He would have said something like that,” Michael grunted.

Lucie let out a laugh, “He always liked you, Welshman.” She grabbed Michael and pulled him close, and before he could escape her hold, she placed a kiss on his left cheek. “That was for saving me once.” She kissed his right check. “That is for saving me twice.” She placed a warm kiss on his lips. “That is for…” She did not have a chance to finish her last sentiment.

END NOTES, FOR WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

1. The title – professed by Chaucer and the back bone of the Court of Love (primarily Eleanor of Acquitane’s court) honor, chivalrie (chivalry), and gentilesse (gentleness) were essential in becoming a Knight. Basically, to be a knight you had to be honorable, chivalric, and gentle.

2. Khartoum defended by the British under the general Charles George Gordon was besieged by Mahdi Muhammad Ahmad’s troops on March 13, 1884. The city fell to the Mahdi army on January 26, 1885. The battle of Omdurman was on September 2, 1898 in which British forces under Sirdar Horatio Kitchener defeated the Mahdi forces.

3. Godfrey de Bouillon: Lord of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine, Defender of the Holy Sepulcher (King of Jerusalem). He was born circa 1060, Baisy-Thy, near Brussels, Belgium – Died July 18, 1100, Jerusalem. He sold his castle and all his lands, left his home, and went on crusade. Defended Jerusalem from the Fatimids of Egypt, and did lots of other cool, Christian things. He is a Belgium super-star, his statue in Brussels (which I have seen) is on the Rose Line that runs straight through the city.