They carried on for another five or so minutes, by that point the woods had swallowed them up entirely. Neither feared threading through the wilds, but it was humbling to realise that the little more than thin filaments of light filtered in through the canopy of leaves.

“What do you know about your governess?” Bertrand asked.

“Death walks in her shadow,” Marc replied.

Bertrand’s head snapped back, which could have easily been explained away by studying himself on his mount. However, Marc knew better, there were few who could rival his abilities as a horseman.

“Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Bertrand replied. “How did you find out?”

“I’ll fetch us some horses,” Bertrand added. “Now get a move on.”

Marc sprung up from off of the rocky terrain no worse for wear. After taking ten strides, he turned around while continuing to move towards the keep.

“Meet you in the courtyard?” Marc asked.

“Were you thinking the horse would jump over the wall?” Bertrand teased.

“Beat you there!” Marc exclaimed before turning around in a single bound and ran off towards his quarters.

Bertand knelt down and reached for the sword a couple of feet away from his student. Marc watched on in anticipation, his dark brown eyes wide and aglow. 

“Fetch your horn and pistol,” Bertrand said. “Be quick about it.”

Upon hearing the two words in the same sentence, Marc’s grin transitioned to a toothy smile. Normally the Comtesse forbade firearms training within the keep, claiming it rattled her nerves. It seemed like Bertrand was willing to incur her wrath to his benefit.

“Really?” Marc asked, that word overflowing with hope and joy.

“I’ll fetch us some horses,” Bertrand added. “Now go on swiftly.”

In spite of the dim light filtering through the window, it felt as though Death was lurking about. His governess, Jeanne had a lingering cough for years, which sometimes brought up blood.

In the past month, her health has deteriorated. First came the night sweats, followed by fever and significant weight loss. While his father said it was nothing, Marc could tell there was something wrong.

“No,” Marc replied before adopting a wry grin. “It’s not like you to make it easy for me.”

Bertrand looked behind him and understood precisely where his student’s eyes had been focused. For a moment it appeared as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. There were limits to what staff could get away with, even as trusted advisors.

“If you only knew…” Bertrand replied. “Well, I’ve had enough of swords.”

“Correct, Marc,” Bertrand said with a warm smile. “Had enough for today?”

After taking a beating like that Marc would normally be chomping at the bit to head back. This time the contents of his stomach soured and his sunburnt skin lost a shade or two of colour right before Bertrand’s eyes.. 

Behind Bertrand there was the main keep that connected three towers. His eyes focused on a particular window, nearest to him, but furthest from the courtyard and quarters for the count and countess.

In spite of the dim light filtering through the window, it felt as though Death was lurking about.

“There are no rules in war,” Marc replied. 

In actuality there were tons of rules in war. There was an entire section in the family library devoted to them.  The oddest of which being that muskets had to be of a certain length when fitted with a bayonet.

However, history was filled with scores of examples of an opponent breaking the rules to claim victory. The dead were in no position to raise a complaint with the crown. The victor will invariably claim the vanquished fought dishonourably. 

“Correct, Marc,” Bertrand said with a warm smile. “Had enough for today?”

Marc had observed some of his cousins in similar situations. They would cry foul and have the instructor removed for forgetting their place. However, Marc had grown fond of Bertrand, who gave him plenty of reasons to avoid his father of late.

As a precaution he looked around and noticed they were still alone in one of the isolated quarters of the keep. The cool spring breeze was soothing against his cheeks, even if his nose radiated with heat. That’s going to be tender for a few days. 

“Quit that,” Marc ordered. 

Marc hated anything that reminded him of his father. Everytime the title Lord was used, he would choke back the urge to wretch. 

“There are no rules in war,” Marc replied.

“What happened?” Marc asked.

He forced all the air from lungs through his nose. There was a brief cloud of pink droplets before him, which cleared out the blood and restored his ability to breathe. 

“Your nose left an impression on my elbow,” Bertrand said with a grin. 

“Better than your sword,” Marc said absentmindedly, until a stray thought wandered into the forefront of his brain. “Wait. That was an illegal move!”

“It was,” Bertrand replied. “What about it, my Lord?”