Quillons and Honour

Henri Castelmagne, the young Comte de Bastignone and one of the officers of the city watch, strode into the small tavern, doffed his plumed hat to shake the cold February dampness off and swept his cloak away from his sword hilt. He’d just come off from the four ‘til midnight shift and wanted his usual glass of wine prior to going back to the guard’s quarters for the night. 

He’d discovered the modest tavern and inn quite by accident. It was clean and quiet, with a friendly atmosphere about it and its cellar was surprisingly well stocked. None of the other guardsmen frequented the place and he liked the time to himself, away from the rough camaraderie of the barracks. He’d just gotten to the bar and given his order when a voice, with the accent of the nobility, called out from the shadows in one corner.

“That’s an Arkovado blade, isn’t it?”

The young Comte turned and his brows went up in some surprise. To most, well or ill made, one sword was like any other. It was unusual for anyone to recognize the work of that Spanish master-swordsmith; let alone to comment on the sword. It was hopelessly out of fashion, of course, a little longer and heavier, with straight cross-shaped quillons, but it had belonged to, and been carried with honour by his father.  

He picked up his wine and moved towards the corner table. Sitting slouched in a chair, a glass of the local rough red wine before him, was a road-weary looking man of about forty years of age in the worn remnants of what had once been a fashionable doublet. A battered, wide-brimmed black hat was hung on another chair back.

“You know your blades, sir.” Henri said. “I am Henri Castelmagne, Comte de Bastignone. May I join you?”

The man replied, “Anyone who carries a blade as fine as that one is always welcome. I’d like a chance to see it closer. I am ...”

The young Compte’s face went little-boy eager when he recognized the name and title. The man laughed a little at his expression. “Yes. That is who I am — or was. ‘The Black Death’ they called me, from the colour of my fine cloak and hat, when I was your age. May I see the blade, young sir?”

Henri unhooked the scabbard from the baldric, placed the sword on the table and drew six inches of blade. The man reached out and ran his fingers slowly, almost lovingly, over the hilt and quillons. 

Those like Henri, who lived by the honour of the sword, knew well that all trials by blade leave marks. The principle of ‘the winner is the one in the surgeon’s office’ is universal. Even the victor in such contests receives small cuts and wounds, especially on the hand and wrist of the sword arm. The young compte’s father had always said that one could gauge courage from the marks. Those who flinch leave crooked and curved scars. The back of the man’s hand and his wrist, where his sleeve drew back at his reach, looked like a well plowed field. 

“I haven’t seen a blade as fine as this in some years.” the man said softly. “This is a proper sword. Bell guards ... basket hilts ... fah!” he spat to the side. “One can do things with straight quillons that are impossible with those pretty-boy’s toys. They’re only good for the new ‘first cut’ rules in the Code Duello!”

“Has the local Duque not offered you employment sir?” Henri asked. “Your name is known. Men such as yourself, who know and follow the principles of honour and the way of the blade, would always be welcome.”

The man’s hand froze for just a moment, and his eyes gleamed when he glanced up. “I don’t do that sort of thing anymore, young sir. I gave it up some years ago. I follow another path now and no longer even carry a sword.”

“But — why?” Henri asked in some surprise. “Both my father and my uncle told me of your skill and courage. What could make one such as yourself give up the life of honour by the blade?”

“Courage? Honour, Monsieur le Compte?” the man replied. “Someone taught me what those words truly mean — let me begin to learn that they have little to do with blades and killing. It’s something I try to pass on to young men such as you; when I can get them to listen. Would you hear the reason I gave up the sword?” 

Henri nodded. His life revolved around the strictures of the honour of the blade and he could think of nothing that might make him abandon those rules. He had to know why a man such as this might change so.

“Very well then,” the man said, and began in soft quiet tones, forcing Henri to listen carefully. “It was a night a lot like this one; cold, foggy and damp. I was in the service of the Duque d’Albret and I was playing cards for small stakes in a tavern quite like this. One of the players was an English viscount, a little younger than you, off on his ‘grand tour’ of the continent. The bets passed back and forth across the table — nothing too large you understand — and the wine flowed easily; until most of us were more than a little drunk. 

“Late in the game, almost at midnight, the Englishman backed a quite good hand with most of the coins he had on the table, but my cards were better. It must have been the wine that made him say it. ‘You dare to cheat me, sir?’ he said.

The man shuddered at the memory. “Drunk or not, that’s a damnably stupid thing to say in a group like that; to a man such as I was then. He’d questioned my honour!” He shook himself for a moment, as if to settle a weight, and sadly said, “Hah! My honour!”

Pausing for a sip of wine, he was silent for a moment more, then continued. “We were on our feet and chest to chest in moments of course, angrily exchanging greater and greater insults. The taverner demanded we take the dispute outside, and so we did. Out into the damp and cold, down the street to a little square, and there we faced each other.

“It began as such things always do. Little testing passes, foible-a-foible, to gauge each other’s skill. I could tell he’d been well trained; he was quick and had courage. In just a few moments, though, I knew he was no match for me, and I think he knew the same, but he didn’t quit. No, he had his own honour driving him. 

“I don’t know if it was my honour, simple pride, or something darker but I — God help me — began to play with him. He couldn’t touch me, as hard as he tried. Pass after pass, parry and counter, I gave him little nicks and cuts; all the while hissing insults at him, but still he didn’t quit.

“That’s when it happened; while I was being cruel enough to play with him. I made a beautiful lunge, intending to give him a little cut in the muscle of his shoulder, and my foot came down on a patch of rotten ice. I was on my back in the wet with the wind out of me and I could feel death’s icy touch ... knew I was about to feel the blade’s cold kiss and watch the world darken away ...”

The man had paused again, staring at something distant and unknowable. Breathlessly Henri asked, “What happened?”. He came back to himself with a tiny start and continued, “I looked up and the Englishman was standing there, waiting for me to get up. Bleeding from a dozen small wounds and still giving me time to stand and continue. I’d never seen the like before. Why, I don’t know, but that courage, that much of what I knew was true honour shining in his young face, infuriated me.

“I picked myself up, crouched back into en garde, and ceased playing. I told you the youngling was good, and had some training, but I made short work of him. Yet still, with my blade buried in his chest, he managed to bring his sword up in salute to me before he fell.”

The man almost jerked himself back to the present and the tavern. His voice was even softer and blurry, sounding right on the edge of sleep when he continued, “Strange — but it all changed for me that night. I’d defended my honour and it was intact, but it was all ashes on my tongue. For a time, I tried to continue as I always had, but it was empty — so empty. The memory of that shining young viscount haunted me. A few years later, I sold my fine sword and haven’t picked one up since. I go from town to town, finding work, warmth and food where I can. I try to explain why when someone like you, my young Compte de Bastignone, asks and hope you can understand.”

Sleepier still, he almost whispered as his finger followed the line of Henri’s sword-hilt, “Have you ever noticed how much a sword, a proper sword like this, resembles a cross? I suppose, in a way, I died on mine.”

Henri paid the taverner for the man’s lodging that night and left him snoring in the dark corner of the bar room, face down in a puddle of wine.