Chapter 1
A Dark Figure From the Past
On the first Monday of April, 1625, in Paris, France, Monsieur d'Avaloy strolls into the antechamber of his apartment – it being well into the evening when the sun had but recently made his escape beyond the horizon. As he enters his small, but quaint antechamber, he is stopped short by the sight of a dark figure that is standing in the midst of his apartment, in the living-room area, just beyond. As soon as Monsieur d'Avaloy shuts the front door, and with an agility that is true to his nature, he quickly unsheathes his sword from its leather shoulder-belt, throws himself into the direction of this strange figure, and gravely places the naked blade near the throat of the unknown, who has his head covered with the hood of a black cloak. Then, with a ferocious gesture, he roars at the stranger with a rugged burst of his lungs, forming it into these words: "Speak! Who are you? Or, by all that you hold dear, this blade will be your ticket to another place – of which place, though, I know not where!"
"But, I know which place," calmly replies the stranger.
"Oh?" reacts d'Avaloy. "Well, then, you should be prepared to go there without much complaint."
"'Tis true : I will not complain – for I am confident that my Lord will accept me with open arms into Heaven; for, I shall then be in his presence."
With a slight disdainful grin, d'Avaloy replies, mockingly: "So, you think!"
"So, I know," forcefully implies the stranger.
At this, the swordsman's grin turns once more into an angry expression. "Enough of this! Who are you? And, why are you in my apartment?"
"I see that you have not changed in all of these years, dear brother." At this last sentence, the voice of the stranger suddenly changes from a low gruff, into a voice that is more familiar. The stranger then pulls down the hood of the cloak, revealing his features to the master of this dwelling place; and, what follows next from d'Avaloy is a good, hearty laugh.
"Oh, you are too much, brother mine!" he bellows out, placing his sword back into its sheath. Now, beginning to walk, d'Avaloy makes his way over to a small table, where there's a bottle of Anjou wine, that he begins pouring for himself. Then, asks: "Would you like a cup, Arnaund?"
"No, thank you, Charles," says Arnaund d'Avaloy, as he completely takes off his cloak, laying it over a nearby chair, revealing his priestly robes that were underneath.
"So . . . how long has it been?" asks Charles.
"Since we have last seen each other?" says Arnaund, finishing Charles' thought.
"Yes . . . Eight years, is it not?"
"Nine years, two months."
"Counting the months even?" he chuckles.
"Of course; for, I love you, brother mine."
"But why do you love me?" asks Charles, laughingly, as he looks squarely into the priest's eyes. "I haven't exactly been the ideal brother for you."
"I have endured," Arnaund replies, gravely.
"Well, if you love me as you say that you do, then why have you waited nine years – I mean, nine years and two months – before you came to see me again?"
"I admit that I have purposely stayed away."
After a quick gulp of his wine, Charles' eyes widen at this strange statement. "Stayed away purposely?" he repeats, questioningly. "And what, brother mine, do you mean by that?"
"Well, you have just said it yourself, that you weren't exactly the ideal brother to me."
"True," Charles admits, with a consenting nod, as he pours himself more wine. "But, what has made you come to me now of all times?"
There's a moment of silence while Arnaund's eyes survey his brother's countenance. After Charles empties his cup once more, as he did with the previously filled wine, he too begins to stare for a slight second at Arnaund. "Well?" Charles asks, while his shoulders rise in a questionable gesture.
"It is for your benefit, brother. It was because of you that I have come."
"Oh? And what for? What do you mean?"
"Your soul, Charles; I must try and give you the Gospel before it is too late!"
"Oh, is that what it is?" Charles says, as his body moves in a manner that indicates he's laughing strongly on the inside, while his mouth keeps the same grin that he's maintained since he found out his brother was behind that dark cloak.
"I hear rumors, of what seems weekly, that you have got yourself mixed up into another duel; and, I always fear the worst!"
"Well, you have no need to worry . . . My friend will take care of that for me."
"Your friend?" asks Arnaund, confused, knitting his brows slightly.
"Yes. My friend is strong, lengthy, and takes nothing from anyone! Here she is," he says, pointing out his sword. He then slowly unsheathes it, giving it a slithering sound as it makes it way out of its scabbard; then, he holds the blade directly in front of Arnaund's face once again.
"Yes," Arnaund says sadly, while frowning, "we have already met, her and I . . . But, I have a sword, as well; and, it is mightier than she!"
"Really?" replies the other, sarcastically. "You? A sword? Get serious, brother," he continues, whilst still holding his blade near Arnaund’s face.
The priest quickly pulls a small book from his pocket and places it against the naked steel of Charles' sword. "Touché!" boldly pronounces Arnaund.
"What!" bellows out Charles. "A Bible? Are you serious, man?"
"Quite serious."
Again, Charles bellows out with a hearty laugh, while dropping his sword arm downward toward the floor. "I think, Arnaund, that you have been drinking way too much religious wine!"
"Give in to God before you give in to death," seriously states Arnaund, while staring his brother directly in his eyes.
Charles' amused face quickly goes back to its serene look once again. Sheathing his sword, he returns to his wine cup – which he refills quickly – and, he downs it within a single gulp. "And, here I thought that you came to just say hello," Charles admits, while looking toward the empty, unlit fireplace.
"Hello, brother," Arnaund says, seriously. "Will you now accept Jesus?"
"Are you mocking me?" snaps Charles, angrily, quickly spinning his glance back toward Arnaund.
"Of course I'm not," Arnaund assures him, seriously. "I am very serious about what I am telling you. I do love you, brother – but, so does God – I just know it!"
"Well, then," says Charles, beginning to shout, "where was God when I was young and needed Him all those years ago? At that time I did call out to Him, but He did not answer! I really needed God, but where was He? You know how things were, Arnaund, for both of us. And, did He wield the sword that saved my life on numerous occasions? Nay . . . Did He give me the gold to feed my belly when I hungered? I think not, brother mine . . . I did all this with my own hard work – not His!"
"I see that you are hurting on the inside," Arnaund pronounces, unhappily, slightly casting his eyes downward.
"You've noticed that? What a genius you must be!" he concludes, sarcastically, while pouring himself yet another cup. "Sure you won't have some, brother?" Charles asks, in a loud, rough manner.
"No, thank you, Charles," says the priest, looking back up. "But, I know someone who can give you something better to drink; which will allow you to never thirst again."
At this, Charles takes his freshly poured cup of wine and slings it at the wall – which bursts immediately as it makes contact.
Arnaund stops short and stares at Charles with wide eyes. Charles also is staring at Arnaund, but his eyes have fire and anger within. And, what follows next is yet another moment of silence, which is finally interrupted by a low knock at the front door. At first, the two men remain frozen, continuing to stare at each other. But, then, a second knock sounds.
"Charles," Arnaund ventures to say, "I believe that there is someone at your door."
Charles' eyes slowly glide into that direction, just before a third, more pronounced knock echoes in the apartment.
"So there is," Charles merely says. He sets the bottle of wine back onto the small table, then starts walking into the direction of the door, just before there's a fourth and more hurried knock. Opening the door, while Arnaund remains where he is inside the apartment – yet, looking on in curiosity – Charles notices a dark figure standing tall and erect, being enveloped inside of a dark cloak.
"Another dark cloak?" Charles says, in a disdainful undertone, while shaking his head. Then, aloud: "Yes? Can I help you?"
There is no answer from the unknown, but the cloaked figure extends a piece of paper out to Charles. And, just as soon as Charles takes this rolled parchment, the person walks away. Charles then shuts the door, staring for a slight second at the mysterious piece of paper. Unfolding it, and walking over to a nearby lit candle, he silently reads the note to himself. After which, he quickly looks up and over at a curious Arnaund.
"Is this your doing?" Charles asks, seriously.
"Is what my doing?" asks Arnaund, confused.
Charles holds up the piece of paper for him to read. At this, the priest advances the same candle, and reads aloud:
"'I have been admiring your swordplay, and have been studying it for months. Your style is quite remarkable, yet so predictable. I know your moves, every one of them – and, it shall be your undoing! Meet me behind the Louvre at noon tomorrow, and I will take you to a spot where I can prove this to you . . . Your Murderer!'"
Arnaund, after reading it, looks up at Charles with bulging eyes. His brother, standing close by, eyes him with increasing anger: "Is this why God sent you here?" Charles asks of him, with a gruff. "To kill me? Yet, to insult me before doing so?"
"God is not like that, and you know it!"
"Oh? Do I?" Charles shouts. "First, my life is going fine; now, this mysterious letter arrives at the very moment that you show up. It's all adding up very prettily, I think!"
"Well, you are right about one thing: I can see that God did send me – but, not to kill you, or to announce your death – but, to give you hope, and to tell you that it is time to stop this madness!"
"Madness is this letter showing up when you did!"
"You must not attend that duel!"
"What do you take me for – a coward?"
"Well, if you insist on going, I shall come with you, then."
"You will most certainly not! You have caused quite enough damage as it is."
"Well..." says Arnaund, sadly, as he grabs his cloak. "I will keep in touch, then. But, Charles, I cannot let this matter drop."
"I think it wise if you did," pronounces Charles, gravely. "If you are trying to convert me, brother, then I think that you have picked a very bad way to start. If and when we meet again, let it be for other reasons . . . Adieu!"
"Nay, not adieu – say rather, Au revoir!" sadly announces Arnaund. "Adieu seems too permanent of a goodbye. Au revoir, till we meet again, dear brother."
At this, Arnaund walks to the front door, opens it, walks outside, and begins shutting the door. Yet, not being able to help himself, and just before the door is closed, he stops and takes a final look at his brother in a very worried manner. Charles doesn't even bother to look back at him.
"You know," Arnaund ventures to say further, "this lifestyle that you have chosen is nothing more than a life of swordplay against a life of priestly robes . . . a life of flesh that's opposed to a life of the Spirit . . . it is a sword against the robe!"
Finally, Arnaund shuts the door and leaves.
Charles remains standing where he is, then turns his head slowly toward the front door, of which Arnaund has just left. Charles now begins to roll many thoughts through his head, while feeling all types of emotions surging through his frame.
Indeed, a strange occurrence it was to have his brother drop in the very evening he receives a note in a fashion that he has never experienced before. Sure, there were duels galore for this man, but always delivered in a normal fashion, through acquaintances of his own. But, this is a bit strange, and far too curious as to being delivered the same evening that his brother suddenly comes out of nowhere, nearly ten years after they had last seen each other. Could God truly be trying to call him to a life of the Spirit through these strange circumstances?...
"Bah!" Charles says to such an idea. And, he then heads straight to bed – leaving his thoughts only to his dreams.
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www.TedAnthonyRoberts.webs.com.
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