Fencing.
Francis liked to fence, as long as he had a decent fencing partner. He’d grown up with brothers who liked to cheat, and Francis didn’t appreciate their dirty style of fighting.
Yusuf announced that the competitors would be paired up.
Francis glanced over to his right at Montferrat, currently engaged in some over eager flirting with the Count of Bellamarre.
“Please not Montferrat, please not Montferrat,” Francis uttered under his breath.
“Marquis de Montferrat, and Prince Hiro!” Yusuf called out.
Francis exhaled in quiet relief.
Thank goodness.
The relief was short lived, as Yusuf then called out Francis’s name paired with Wittensbach.
Francis groaned to himself. This was much worse. He would’ve preferred Montferrat to Wittensbach.
He wondered if anyone watching by telescope from the royal balcony could tell how miserable he felt.
Francis obediently went to the palace attendants offering fencing armour—far fancier than Francis had ever worn in Stormburg—a fencing sword, and cage front mask for his face. Francis accepted their help to put these on, then went to his spot on the lawn to face his opponent.
Wittensbach was there, mask not on yet, smiling in a smug fashion. “Fancy the two of us being paired up,” he taunted. “One might call it fate.”
“Or simply bad luck,” Francis replied.
Wittensbach’s smirk fell away. He said not another word, shoving the mask onto his face.
Francis assumed a side on stance, sword pointed out, and one hand behind his back.
They had to wait for the signal, as each pair of fencers lined up on the lawn. Yusuf called out to begin, and the duels began with clicks and clashes of steel upon steel.
Francis waited for Wittensbach to make the first move, knowing he would grow impatient and strike out. When he did, Francis blocked him and made a jab at his open side, rounded tip of his sword connecting with the armour in a scrape of metal.
The clerk watching them made an impressed noise.
Wittensbach was most certainly not impressed. He huffed in annoyance and made to thrust at Francis’s chest but Francis blocked it and jabbed the man’s exposed flanked.
Wittensbach grunted at the jab, and pulled back. “You are snob of the worst kind, Stormburg.”
It was such an absurd remark that Francis almost laughed.
Francis didn’t respond, intending to continue with theirduel, but Wittensbach wanted to talk.
“Did you hear me?” he taunted.
“Yes, I heard you,” Francis replied. “Are we duelling or not?”
“You think you are better than everyone,” Wittensbach accused.
“Do I?” Francis made to thrust, tired of waiting. They parried, and Wittensbach was letting his emotions get the better of him, losing his cool in the duel.
“Yes, you do!” Wittensbach bit out. “I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He made to jab, missed, and Francis gained another point by jabbing him. Wittensbach growled in annoyance. “You refuse to treat with me.”
Oh, there it is, Francis thought. The root of the matter. Because he kept to himself and didn’t tolerate fools, this meant he was the one at fault, according to fools like Wittensbach.
“I have been cordial with you at all times,” Francis reminded his opponent.
