“If only you knew,” Bertand said in that same calm voice. 

As Marc continued to take the war to his instructors, the latter manoeuvred out the way at the last possible second. With a tree behind him, Marc first made contact with the trunk of an ancient tree. 

The sound of the impact was muted, flesh against wood did not carry as well as a gauntlet would. Still the pain did not dissuade the boy, blinded by the maelstrom of emotions within, he continued to pummelled the trunk until there were visible traces of crimson.

“ENOUGH,” Bertrand ordered.

“I HATE YOU!” Marc screeched, his voice cracking from the strain.

“You don’t mean—” Bertrand said. 

“YOU LIED TO ME,” Marc countered, his face red and distorted from all the range.

“I followed orders,” Bertrand replied calmly. 

Marc was too young to understand the discipline of a soldier and the solemn vow they took to follow orders. There was no way for this boy to comprehend how breaking their word took more courage than a general with an army at their back. 

“YOU TOOK THE EASY WAY OUT,” Marc yelled.

“If only you knew,” Bertand said in that same calm voice.

Anger boiled over like broth left on the flame for too long. Marc clenched his jaw to the point of his teeth straining while veins bulged from his neck. Without thought of consequence he turned in a snap and came out swinging.

Bertrand backed away with ease. He  anticipated this was not the likely outcome by giving him a glimpse of the truth. 

Marc connected with thin air, found his target and moved in for another shot. Every time he did so, Bertrand would back away and dodge, choosing to let the boy burn himself out rather than confront.

“I HATE YOU!” Marc screeched, his voice cracking from the strain.

The facial features on Bertrand’s face remained the same. He had seen battle, experienced first-hand the carnage that went with running a man through with a blade or blowing a hole through their chest with a musket. A boy who needed to be reminded of his manners held no sway.

“I think we would have both been surprised if I’d managed,” Bertrand replied. “Your mother—”

This was the third time this man brought up his mother, a woman he detested nearly as much as his father. There had been whispers in the hall, so faint that he nearly dismissed them as imagined. Still, he could not bring himself to broach the subject directly.

“My mother can barely stand to be in my presence,” Marc replied. “The only one who has been there for me has been Jeanne.”

“That’s why you need to pay your respects before she passes,” Bertrand said. “She may have been sworn to secrecy, but I was not!”

And just like that, his world view realigned. That explained the deplorable behaviour of both his parents and gave new meaning to those whispers. He had been left out of an inside joke for the bulk of his life!

“She did raise a fool after all,” Bertrand said after catching his breath. 

The man’s eyes had teared up from the laughter. Meanwhile Marc managed to stand, but the rocks beneath his feet were slippery and fell once more. He could not remember the last time he bathed, and doubted the algae-ridden waters of this stream counted.

Bertrand came to the edge, hand outstretched. Marc kept a straight face, took his hand with his right and followed through using his left. After that it was a case of letting gravity play its part, and watched as Bertrand learned first hand that he too could not be walking on water.

“Well played!” Bertrand said.

“I had to put your theory to the test,” Marc replied.

He dropped the reins, backed up five paces and ran towards the stream. Upon reaching the edge he jumped, soaring over the water until both his feet landed on the opposing shore. 

Filled with pride he turned around to gloat, but the dirt crumbled under his weight and gave way. He found himself falling backwards into the water. It was fortunate that he had been right, while he momentarily found himself submerged, the water was shallow enough that all he needed to do was sit up.

All he could hear was Bertrand laughing, he would have been tempted to join in until he realised that his horse was nowhere to be found. I must have spooked it with my splash.

“She did raise a fool after all,” Bertrand said after catching his breath.

“I’d sooner walk on water than count on the kitchen staff keeping a secret,” Bertrand replied.

“Would you care to try?” Marc countered. “The water is shallow here, you may not even get your feet wet.”

“Are you being smart with me?” Bertrand retorted in a raised voice.

Marc picked up on the threat behind those words, but the twinkle in those eyes told him otherwise. He had the choice of backing down or fully committing to the cause.

He dropped the reins, backed up five paces and ran towards the stream. Upon reaching the edge he jumped, soaring over the water until both his feet landed on the opposing shore.

“The kitchen staff and the echo through the halls,” Marc whispered.

He rarely came across the Countess, even at meal times. His father would offer up a plethora of excuses, but that stopped when he quit asking altogether. 

The few times they did cross paths, Marc would always feel an icy chill run down his back. The woman possessed a stare that could chill the mood at any festival. He also suspected the worst of it was reserved for him. For being the fruit of her loins, Marc had spent many a night crying into a pillow, struggling to find why his own mother rejected him.

“I’d sooner walk on water than count on the kitchen staff keeping a secret,” Bertrand replied.

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

They came across a stream, almost entirely concealed by shade. Bertrand dismounted and led his horse to the water, and Marc did the same. 

There was something about what Bertrand said that shed light in the dark recesses of his mind. Old memories that never fit the narrative, or things that kitchen staff whispered to one another when they thought they were alone. 

“The kitchen staff and the echo through the halls,” Marc whispered.

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?”