Chapter 11 The Commander of the Troops
The next morning, Oscar was awake at dawn.
There would be no hearty breakfast by the fireside—no, he had other plans. After pulling on warm but close-fitting clothes, he headed with determined strides toward the garrison building. At such an early hour, even the soldiers were not fully awake yet.
When Oscar stepped inside, he caught more than a few of them by surprise. Some, seated around an old wooden table, hurried to their feet to offer a military salute; others merely looked up, startled—among them, Günther. The man broke into a wide smile at the sight of the young Lord and naturally came to greet him.
“Lord Oscar! You’re up very early, I must say.”
“The day doesn’t wait for the lazy—wasn’t that always your lesson?” Oscar replied.
“I see you’ve taken my advice to heart—that’s good!” Günther said, punctuating his words with a friendly slap on the back. “What brings you here so early?”
“I’d like to speak with the captain of the guard—to prove my abilities.”
At that moment, a man with a sharply groomed moustache emerged from behind Günther. Where the veteran from Rivière was a mountain of muscle with an imposing build, his counterpart from Wingfall exuded something elegant yet dangerous. The man, in his fifties, had a piercing—and severe—gaze.
With a single look, he appraised Oscar, then raised an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly.
“Lord Rivière, I presume? It's an honour to meet you. I am Antonin Rossi, commander of the Mulberry troops.”
In his deep voice, Oscar detected a faint accent and guessed the man hailed from regions even farther south than Rivière. He nodded in greeting.
“A pleasure, Sir Rossi. You’ll forgive me for not coming to see you sooner—I was finding my bearings.”
The commander inclined his head just a little.
“My Lord, you owe no justification whatsoever. Your visit honours us, and I am your humble servant for the duration of your stay among us. Now—tell me what I can do for you at so early an hour.”
“Sir Rossi, I would like to face you in a duel. Nothing formal, of course. Simply to prove that I am more than capable.”
Sir Rossi raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. He allowed a moment of silence to pass before replying.
“Lord Oscar, why do you feel the need to prove anything to me?”
“As I am to remain here for the long term, and because the protection of these lands matters to me—as the future Duke of Wingfall—it seems important that I prove myself to the commander of the troops, does it not?”
Though Oscar admittedly harboured a strong desire to explore the forest, he was being entirely sincere. After all, he felt responsible for honest citizens, regardless of where they came from.
Sir Rossi considered the request in silence, studying the young Lord closely. Oscar thought he caught a glimmer of interest in his gaze. Still, the commander eventually shook his head.
“I regret it, my Lord, but I cannot reasonably duel you. I might injure you, and—”
Before Sir Rossi could finish, or Oscar could insist, Günther placed a friendly hand on the commander’s shoulder.
“Rossi, let him prove himself. I assure you he knows how to defend himself—and he may surprise you.”
The commander shot Günther a sceptical look. Faced with the satisfied smile of the soldier from Eau-Claire, he finally sighed and relented.
“Very well, my Lord. I will face you—but with wooden swords.”
Oscar agreed to the sole condition.
“I would like the duel to take place as soon as possible.”
Sir Rossi, still far from enthusiastic, gestured to one of his subordinates, who brought them two wooden swords.
“If that is your wish, I must comply,” he said simply, handing one of the weapons to Oscar before leading the way to the training ground.
The young Lord removed his jacket, remaining in nothing but his shirt. As he followed the commander, the biting cold sank into his skin. The training ground was a bare patch of earth where three battered mannequins stood planted in the soil. Hidden by the tall hedges of the gardens, they could nonetheless see the palace’s upper floors' large windows. The weather was bleak; grey clouds promised rain. And yet, a crowd gathered around the two fighters. Far from the lively audiences of Rivière, there was a restrained interest here—a palpable reserve.
Still, Oscar felt his heart quicken. Apprehension, but also excitement, swelled in his chest. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Lighter than the one that usually accompanied him, it would have to suffice.
On reflection, Oscar wondered if this was a bad idea. He had never faced soldiers other than those of the palace. He had never faced real danger, either. Would he make a fool of himself in the dust of the castle grounds? Sir Rossi watched him, uncertain—perhaps seeing him as arrogant. Among the crowd, Günther and Frédéric smiled with confidence. Each had once been his sparring partner. Each was now encouraging him. For their sake alone, he had to do his best.
“Well,” Sir Rossi interrupted his thoughts, “the rules are simple. A hit to the head, neck, or heart means defeat. Agreed?”
“Perfectly.”
The commander tightened his grip on his sword and grounded himself.
“Then let us begin.”