She stepped back, and he rose suddenly and collected her in his arms.
I allowed my spurs to ring on the stone steps.
The king turned but did not see me. ‘Begone! This is not for you, Mézzières,’ he spat over his shoulder.
I cleared my throat. There was plenty of light left in the sky to see Emile’s relief.
‘Your Grace,’ I said.
‘You may walk on,’ he said without turning.
‘Your Grace, I live here,’ I said.
‘Your presence is not wanted,’ he said quietly. He looked at me, then. An expression crossed his face, an indignation annexed by a secret amusement.
‘Countess?’ I asked. Of course I was pray to rage and jealousy, but also to good sense. Was she the king’s lover? I would have to fight for him, either way. And her look …
‘Sir Knight,’ she said. ‘I would be most pleased … if you joined us.’
The king backed away as if I had struck him.
But I’ll give him this, he did not lack grace. ‘Ah … my lady countess, I had mistaken you,’ he said. ‘And truly wish you every happiness.’ He bowed to her, touching his knee to the ground.
She turned her head away, obviously mortified.
The king glanced at me.
I shrugged – a very small shrug.
He shook his head, a slow smile crossing his face. ‘I suppose,’ he allowed, ‘that I will have wine with the abbess as a consolation.’
He walked away and in that moment, he reminded me of Nerio. He was not defeated. And he turned his own disappointment to amusement, as Nerio did on the infrequent occasions he was balked.
Emile slumped back against the brick wall. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said.
I watched the king. ‘Shall I go?’ I said.
She put a hand to her face. ‘Do as you like,’ she said.
Then she burst into tears. They weren’t the loud tears women and children use to get their way, nor the sobs you hear with heartbreak. They were quiet tears, and they sparkled in the last light, which is the only way I knew for sure she was weeping.
I summoned my courage. Let me tell you, I can stand the charge of cavalry better than face a woman in tears, and I knew what I had to do without apparently being able to will my limbs to move.
Step by step I walked to her.
If I tried and failed …
I saw, in a levin-flash of the mind, that I had enjoyed my spring with her because it had no tension. Because I didn’t have to engage or risk her good opinion, or discover what she really thought, or what, or whom, she loved.
One more step.
It is one of the hardest moments in the Art of Arms, to make yourself step forward into a blow. Every sinew cries out for a retreat, with its guarantee of safety – a pass back, and the opponent’s sword whistles harmlessly through the air.
But you will seldom win a passage of arms by retreating.
If you pass forward and make your cover, you have your adversary at abrazare, the wrestling distance. The close distance.
I suppose it is risible to you gentleman that I saw that last step as a combat pass, but I drove forward on to my left leg with the same effort of will that I would make to face Fiore’s sword. I felt the tension in the muscles, and I raised my arms, and I put them around her shoulders, enveloping her.