Goddess (5 page)

Y
OU WON’T BELIEVE
how content I was those first weeks on the road. How gorgeously, voluptuously happy I felt. I’d never experienced the like, and have rarely done so since. It had nothing to do with Séranne, I’m sorry to say, though I never let on. He was hopeless. All his talk of castles and titles turned out to be rubbish, just as I’d suspected, and we were more often hungry than not. He was worse than an old woman with his whimpering and whining, and he was hardly a god of love, either, if you don’t mind me saying.

No. It wasn’t him that made me happy. It wasn’t romance. Far from it.

It was the riding, the country lanes, the fields, the olive leaves and poppies and cornflowers. It was the air. The late-afternoon sun in the treetops. It was suppers at tables in village taverns. Singing at the top of my lungs to anyone who would listen. It was the breeches and my father’s hat and my boots. I imagined my life would be like that from then on—wine-soaked summer fruits, and tired muscles, and raindrops sliding down the back of my neck. A new place every morning—a cooking fire in a forest clearing, a village fair, snow on distant peaks. I swore to myself then that I would never again allow myself to be trapped, to be cornered—to be pawed at or punched or enslaved. Nobody wants that, do they? But I’m not like other people. I’ve chosen, many times, to do anything—anything at all—rather than be enslaved again, even if it meant harm to me or those I love. So I have kept my oath, more or less. But at such a price. Dear God.

I stray from my path. What was I saying? Those weeks—ah, yes! It was my first time abroad in the world dressed as a man. I relished every moment. Women’s clothes are annoying, let’s face it. All those petticoats. Skirts that catch every draught—honestly, Father, you have no idea.

Or perhaps you do. Look at you. You ask me why I dress as a man—I could ask you why you don’t. Look at that cassock. Your hem is muddier than a milkmaid’s. Why do you priests insist on hiding your legs from view? Do you imagine one glimpse of your spindly calves is going to send us all into a frenzy of desire? What must you think of us?

Don’t you long for the freedom of breeches? To be able to ride a horse like a soldier, not a maiden? To sprawl by the fire at the end of a hard day—boots on the hearthstone, sword at your side—without a care for your posture?

You call me vain, Father, and yet you disparage me when I say that I longed to cast aside the fripperies of womanhood and embrace the liberty of men.

Anyway, my ankles are much finer than yours. I cut a dashing figure, as they say in the romance novels, in my stockings and waistcoat. The wealthiest dandy and his wig-maker can only dream of hair as fine as mine. I never disguised myself as a man. Ever. I’m far too beautiful for that. Granted, it works at a distance: two horsemen against the sunset look less like prey to a bandit than one man and one woman—or, as it has so often turned out, a woman alone.

I’ll confess to having something of the dandy about me. Write that down, Father—I confessed to being the most handsome rake in Paris. I’m guilty of the sin of gorgeousness. I was fabulous.

I weep to think of it now.

Oh, don’t look so alarmed. It’s a turn of phrase, that’s all. I’m not actually going to cry. You should know that by now.

What would you do—O sole comfort on my deathbed—if I wept? Would you hold my hand in yours and whisper consolation into my ear? Would you tell me that I am loved, that I’ve done nothing wrong, that my life has been blessed?

That’s what people need to hear on their deathbeds. Believe me. I have sat by such a bed—a rather better-appointed bed, mind you—and held a hand and whispered and wept, yes indeed, sobbed and murmured assurance, knowing all the time there would be none for me. Nothing for me.

I’ll have to tell myself all those things, then. You go ahead and mutter darkly instead.

I will ignore you and go on with my story.

Where was I? Ah, yes.

So by this time, Séranne fancied himself as a professional duellist. He believed he could make his fortune showing off his prodigious skills. And me. He pictured himself as an adventurer, a glamorous Parisian chevalier who had narrowly escaped death and imprisonment in order to enable the good people of the south to enjoy his skill, his good looks and, of course, his freakish woman duellist.

He presented me as a fair-day folly—a sideshow—a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a woman dress like a man, fight like a man, drink like a man.

Which I did. If I felt like a whore, so be it. My body was his currency, to be sure, but not in the usual way. None of that. Not with those hairy farmers’ sons.

No, no. It was all quite innocent, I assure you. We would ride into town, attracting as much attention as possible, which in my case has never been difficult. He’d announce an evening show, wherever we could fit a decent crowd—in the tavern or the square. We’d offer them a few bouts, maybe a song or two. The men would all come and sometimes even bring their wives. We always made enough to pay for supper, for stabling, perhaps a night in an inn. We’d spar a little, he’d challenge the local lads to a bit of a brawl, and off we’d go.

There’s no such thing as a friendly duel, let me tell you. No matter how they begin, they always end in fury. Even if you pretend otherwise. Even when it’s all for show.

My father told me that if you take a blade in your hand, you take your own life and someone else’s life in your hands, too. Haven’t forgotten.

But it’s more than that. When I take a blade in hand, I know what has to happen, what it means. I understand my opponent’s intention and my own.

Everything is clear to me—outline, details, future, emotion. Not like the world, where everything is muddy and messed, and nothing ever works out the way you mean it to—no matter how skilful or how honourable you are, no matter how vile your enemy.

When I was a child, we had the finest teachers: the Rousseau brothers, Monsieur de Liancourt—you’d hardly credit it, would you? The finest swordsmen of any age and there they were, drilling us all day, sitting by the fire with Papa of an evening, recalling every bout, every mistake each opponent made.

That’s how I learned that fencing is like mathematics, like the logic of Socrates, the art of the ancients. There’s no luck, only genius and memory and slashed knuckles. It’s like music, with its own patterns and rhythm and inevitability. So is the body.

Art, music, fencing, love, mathematics. All genius. All lyrical.

Most of the men I’ve ever fought had no inkling of this—the deep mystery of it, the science of it, the intricacy—the intimacy—the knowledge that lives in your veins and muscles and soul.

The fencing masters adjust your pose, your wrist, just as singing masters try to rearrange your throat and tongue, as concert masters order the notes, the cadence. I’ve had many masters. I hear their voices. I don’t need to, anymore, but they still speak to me, through me. Always.

‘Your only enemy is fear,’ Master Liancourt used to tell me. ‘The man before you is simply a pretender. Measure his impatience with the blade—slide it, tap sharply, test his reserve, his courage.’

‘All your stealth rests in your fingertips, all your power in your thighs,’ Papa said, over and over. ‘The strength comes only from your mind. Fingertips. Wrist. Thighs. Brain. These are your weapons. The sword is merely a beautiful accessory.’

On Saturday mornings, Master Liancourt paid a string quartet to play in the corner. Our footwork drills pounded in time with the beat. If they played a long jig, our legs would be ready to fall off by the end.

‘Lunge, retreat, retreat, lunge,
flèche
,
en garde
.’ His voice loud over the music, me humming along
.

‘Lunge, lunge, and again, hold it there until I say, until the end of this gavotte. Straighten your back, d’Aubigny, head high now. Strong. That’s right. Hold it. No trembling. No falling.’

No trembling.

‘Straighten your arm—the movement is only in the wrist; your wrist is liquid, your wrist is steel.’

And look at me now—at my hands.

‘My dancers.’ He’d laugh. ‘My ballet. Let’s have a little divertissement. A minuet!’

Off we’d go again, grinning like madmen, groaning after a while, and eventually, one by one, we’d give up, legs gone to water under the intense pain, the boys all furious, despairing.

Not me. I don’t crack. I outlasted them all. Until now.

My father used to say, ‘Never let your guard down, never turn your back.’

Never did. I remember a time just outside Marseille. Séranne was there. Do you remember? The man with the scar and the missing teeth. Shouted out for me to show my tits. So I did. Shut him right up, didn’t it?

You weren’t there?

No, no, of course.

I forgot. My mind slips between now and then, you and him, me and … me and … I’m confusing you, Father, I see it in your face. You want a register of my sins that you can tick off—penance for that one, absolution there, eternal flame for item number seven. There is no time-beater here, marking the notes, keeping us to pace. There’s no such clarity, not here—you’ll have to learn to live with doubt, though it’s probably not part of your repertoire.

Bad luck. The only certainty I’ve ever known lies in the purity of the blade. I always understand exactly what to do and when—what will happen next and how to respond. I don’t think. I know it—in my fibres, in my blood and my bowels.

Just like the great masters, I remember every movement of every duel, as if they were all preserved in amber—frozen, perhaps, like trout in the Seine—but animated by memory. Every twitch of the blade, every parry—the foot tap, the blink, the drop of sweat on the end of a nose, the slight widening of the eyes just before pain makes itself properly known—a sleeve damp with blood, the howl of fury and defeat.

And, yes, hatred.

I never met a man who was delighted to be bested by a woman, except, of course, my darling d’Albert. Some laughed about it later; many became friends. But every one of them believed he would be the one to master me—even to kill me—and they all clenched disappointment in their teeth, no matter how chivalrous the handshake or how gracious the smile.

I can’t blame them. Disappointment has a horrible taste—I’ve never liked it myself—the way it burns on the tongue like sulphur and turns your belly to acid.

I can admit now that I made the most of every victory. I strutted like a courtier, always made sure my smiles were the more munificent. I love winning. Who doesn’t? Only fools or those who’ve never beaten anybody.

But I never saw duelling as a game. A duel is more like a very small, personal war. Nothing exists but the blades, blood pounding in your ears, breath and anticipation. Strategy and skill are all that matter—in fact, now I think about it, they are your weapons. Those and the reflexes honed by painful hours of training, the unbeatable instinct, and always the mind that remembers every word—every move—ever studied, discussed or witnessed.

I had my favourite strategies, but never a signature stroke. Too predictable, d’you see? It’s all very well being famous for a certain move—the La Maupin Manoeuvre, if you like. But your opponents always know it’s going to make its tired old appearance, like a Lully
tragédie
, every season. The crowds clamour for it, which is all very well unless you are fighting for your life.

As I so often did.

I
N A DARKENED CORNER
of a country tavern, the girl sniffs at the air—at the blood and the sawdust and the sharp whiff of sweat, damp wool and brown ale.

Dull light from a dozen lamps hanging in a low line from the beams. A cleared space. The crowd pressed close.

The first bout did not go well. Séranne pricked the youngest son of the local vicomte and he squeaked like a piglet. Now, disgraced, he sits bleeding and cursing in the corner. Hurls complaints of cheating, but this crowd’s never seen anything like Séranne. They can’t believe a sword can move that fast without witchcraft or treachery. And that was just the warm-up.

Wait until they see her.

She steps into the lamplight.

Peach skin, chestnut hair in a plait down her back. And there—look! Breeches. Ankles. Breasts. Here in Provence! Never seen such a—

Sword in hand, point trailing lazily on the floor. The other hand on a definitely feminine hip.

The men stare, silent, stranded somewhere between lust and distrust. Someone’s wine splatters on the floor. There’s muttering.

Séranne strides to the centre of the
piste
. ‘Gentlemen!’

Now silence. The gazes of fifty or so pairs of eyes slither over her body. She doesn’t flinch. They don’t matter.

Séranne takes a breath and shouts into the rafters. ‘The prodigy of Paris, the marvel of Marseille, the world-famous Madame de Maupin!’

She told him what to say, how to say it. She likes the sound, the symmetry of the words.

The demonstration bout is with Séranne, as always. She tries to make it seem dramatic, tightly fought, but the truth is that it’s months since he could get anywhere near her. The men won’t believe that, though. They need to think he can beat her—that they can beat her, any one of them. Or else they won’t play, won’t pay.

They’ll see Séranne as some kind of pigeon, when in fact he’s rather good. But she’s great—she knows it now; she truly has the glimmer of genius inside, a destiny beyond this moment, the beer, the sawdust, the blood.

But they can’t know that. Not yet.

The final score is five to three. Séranne winces on the last point but there’s no bloodshed, not this time. She salutes him, takes a step back. Séranne, panting a little, sends around the hat. It comes back empty. They don’t offer a single
sol
. He throws out the challenge. They stare.

Séranne is no salesman.

‘Come, brothers.’ He can’t keep the plea from his voice—feels it, too. Weary and plaintive, sick of the life, sick of losing every fucking evening, of pleading for a copper or two from men who witness his nightly defeat at her hands.

She stands still, waiting, staring back at the crowd, unsmiling—daring them to touch her, to try; hating Séranne for his pathetic shallow parries and the way he moans in his sleep. She will leave him in the morning, before he wakes up, farting and grumpy.

It doesn’t look like there’s anyone worth beating in this room. As usual.

Someone shouts. She can’t understand it—some southern dialect. She focuses her eyes, pinpointing the man who is still muttering—an old fellow, toothless, but big, a blacksmith maybe. Under her gaze, his friends back away from him.

He stands, enormous, looking at the floor, sorry now he ever opened his mouth but he couldn’t help it, thought everyone would laugh and they did but now here he is, alone and no escape. The girl is looking right at him, and that’s what he wanted, but now he’s changed his mind because it isn’t anything like he imagined.

‘What did you say?’ It’s a female voice, for sure, which makes his joke even more stupid.

The point of her sword rises from the floor.

She wouldn’t. Surely.

But she smiles at him. She knows what he said now—it’s somehow translated itself in her mind.

‘Tell me.’ Her voice is soft. ‘What did you say?’

He gulps. She watches the fear collect in his throat. But he’s brave enough, this old fellow, give him that. He says it again, right out loud.

‘Show us yer titties.’

Nobody moves, not for ages.

Then she slides the blade slowly, silently, into its scabbard.

She’s still looking right at him.

Her hands, those long silvery fingers, move to her throat, untie the cravat, drop it to the floor where it curls like an asp, and unravel the laces on her blouse.

Séranne’s mouth opens slightly. She wouldn’t. Surely.

She shrugs her shoulders and the blouse slides down her arms, rolls off her hips, nestles around her boots.

Séranne doesn’t move. Nobody does, nobody can, except for the girl. One hand on her sword, she circles the
piste
in bodice and breeches, shoulders and arms, staring into their faces. They can’t look away now—they all see how the muscles move under her glistening skin, how a strand of hair has escaped its ribbon and now caresses a collarbone. She is perfect. She is a golden statue come to life. A goddess within reach. She breathes softly—they don’t. They can’t. The old blacksmith is close to tears. Every man in the room is hers, all of them, all she need do is hold out one exquisite hand, except—

‘I’ll have her,’ the vicomte’s son, bandaged up and seething, shouts from over near the bar.

He has to challenge her—she sees that. He lost the first bout to Séranne, who in turn lost to a woman. He has no choice. He doesn’t see it that way, of course. It must be—has to be—some kind of carnival trick, some crooked set-up to fleece the village of its harvest takings. There’s no way the girl can be that good.

The crowd applauds politely. As he pushes through, the men touch their foreheads to him, as they always do, but this time they mean it. Everyone feels something tremendous is at stake—but what?

He doesn’t bother saluting her. Why should he?

She takes her time lacing up her blouse, then salutes him graciously, exaggerating the downward stroke so everyone can hear the blade slice the air, the power in her arm.

It doesn’t take long. He’s a slasher, trained by some old foot soldier in his father’s stables. She knows the sort. They think strength matters.

It doesn’t. It helps you endure, that’s all. It doesn’t win bouts, just causes needless wounds, mostly your own. He’s all over the place, open wide on every stroke. She toys with him a little until he yells at her.

‘Yield, whore!’

That’s enough. She nicks him gently on the cheek so he won’t forget her—ever—and then responds with a
croisé
so deft he doesn’t even realise for a moment that his sword is no longer in his hand and her blade is prickling at the base of his throat.

She looks into his eyes, searching, but sees nothing of interest there. He’s bewildered. Later he’ll be furious, humiliated, convinced he’s been cheated, will make up some excuse, some lie, that everyone will pretend to believe. It’s always the same.

She takes two steps back, salutes again, just as her father taught her, and walks away. Séranne can deal with the heaving, hollering crowd, with the coins thudding down onto the
piste
.

She steps through the door, into blessed darkness, and sighs.