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A NOBLE FIGHT

L éon caught the flash of the one slim piece of steel shining in the lamps of the men setting in upon them.

And all he saw behind his eyes was Henry, dead on the ground in their wake, battered and bloody, trodden into the mud as they hunted Catherine to her grave.

It was the briefest hesitation while he dwelt on the image, but one that made Souveraine snap, “Léon!” half in urgent fright, half in indignant shock.

He assessed Catherine, sickly and trembling, Souveraine, eyes like a warrior, and émile, squealing and kicking against her vice-like arms. “I’ll only slow you down.”

His eyes were drawn irresistibly to Henry’s, burning into him.

Eyes that were bright and wide, with a mouth set sincere and determined.

He heard both Souveraine and Catherine shouting, émile screaming at him, but before he could say another word, Henry whistled.

It was a low and long whistle, with an odd vibration to it.

It wasn’t quite like any whistle Léon had ever heard, and it didn’t seem right somehow that it had come out of Henry’s mouth.

Even more disturbing was the way both horses, stolen and unfamiliar with them, responded to the sound.

The animals, as one, took off across the field for the woods, their riders very nearly being flung off by the sudden movement.

Both women screamed in shock, émile cried out for his brother, and they were gone.

Léon turned back to Henry, but now his face held an expression Léon had never seen before.

Guilt. Fear and guilt.

And something wary, like he’d just revealed his greatest secret to Léon.

And Léon didn’t doubt he had.

The word was fast on Léon’s fearful lips.

“Witchcraft.”

“It’s not how it looks,” Henry tried.

“You lied to me.”

“They’ll be safe.”

“What are you?” Léon searched the trees frantically for émile, who was already gone into the cold black of the night.

“Is she one?”

“No, Léon, I promise you, Catherine’s innocent. It was me. It was all me. The red rain, the tremors, the-the wave thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out all the money he had, shoving it into Léon’s hand.

“You’ll find them in Saint-Quentin.” He twisted the ruby ring off his finger, pulled Léon’s hand open, and enclosed the jewel with a firm press.

“Now please, go back inside. But whatever happens, don’t tell Catherine if I die. Tell her I’m coming. Always, always, tell her I’m coming. And if she gets upset…” He glanced off into the woods where she’d disappeared, mulling over his words.

“If she gets upset, very upset, run.” He gave Léon one desperate and searching look to confirm he understood, then shoved him hard, back into the safety of the doorway, before stepping into the fray.

The sound of hooves descending on them snatched Léon’s attention.

He knew, just as Henry knew, Henry was all that stood between the men and Catherine.

And just as Léon would have died for émile, he found in Henry a sublime bravery and nobility in the way he was willing to lay down his life so easily.

Because that’s what it was.

Alone, he stood no chance of anything but slowing them down, buying his sister precious time.

And in that same moment, Léon realised that Henry had committed Catherine to his care should he not make it, the clearest mark he had ever seen of Henry’s esteem for him.

A spray of dirt erupted from the hooves of the nearest horses.

Henry lifted his sword, and with no thought for who the man pursuing his sister may have been, plunged his blade straight through his heart.

“The fuck!” Léon cried as the torso slapped down at his feet.

Henry swung the sword high, and the head of another rolled to a splat on the ground.

The two horses, dethroned of their riders, pulled up, one rearing into another with a loud whinny.

The next men tried to halt their horses, the dark and tight space creating confusion as one almost rode into another, the animals stopping so fast two more of the riders were thrown to the ground.

Henry moved for the fallen like death itself, silent and fatal, sliding his sword into one man’s neck, into another’s chest. The screams that ripped out of them drew the attention of the next.

“We’re under attack!”

The man drew his own blade, which flashed bright in Léon’s eyes.

Henry’s back was to it as he fought off a new assailant, his great shoulders in profile against the light of their lanterns, about to be sliced into.

Léon lunged. He ripped the man down from his horse, dislocating his arm in the process.

He cracked a foot down on his chest and punched him so hard he fell unconscious into the mud.

He turned, breathless, to see Henry’s eyes plastered on him, a fleeting look of surprise mingled with…

What was that look?

A whip came cracking down across Léon’s back, and no sooner did Léon shout in pain than the man who’d committed the offence screamed, his hand caught in Henry’s, his wrist snapped, and Henry, with all his great strength, wrenched him to the ground and stomped a foot down on his face with such force the eyes would never open again.

A fist came from Léon’s right, slammed into his stomach, and knocked him to the ground.

Henry’s sword swung around and straight through the man, impaling him from one end of the weapon to the other.

He lifted a leg, muscles tensing right in front of Léon’s floored face, and he kicked the man back with an unfathomably sexy movement that sloughed him off the bloody blade, dripping a trickle of warm blood onto Léon’s cheek.

As this last body slumped to the ground, Henry’s hand stretched out for Léon’s.

Léon hesitated. There, lying in the mud, his eyes flashed distrust.

Henry, breathing hard, his face half golden in the lamplight, didn’t retract the offer.

“You probably just killed a man to save my life, and now you won’t even touch my hand?”

It was ridiculous.

Even Léon had to admit that.

A grin fell across his face as an admission, and he grasped Henry’s hand.

Being pulled up by the strong arm so that his chest brushed against Henry’s forced a fierce blush across Léon’s cheeks.

He took a step back, though he let Henry retain the fingers he showed no sign of wanting to relinquish.

He glanced down at the pulverised face of the man who had hit him, trying to hide his smile.

“Thank you.”

“That’s okay.” Henry lowered their two clasped hands, but just before his touch slipped away, he pulled Léon’s back compulsively.

His other hand came over Léon’s fingers and the tips of Henry’s found the tips of his, tentatively.

“Thank you.”

Léon studied him—the scrunch of the brow, the slant of regret at his lips.

Then Henry dropped his hand, and Léon knew Henry had meant that as their final romantic touch.

“Léon.” Henry glanced around to make sure all their assailants had been properly dispatched, and seeing this was done, he placed two awkward hands on his hips.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you.” Before the laugh could burst out of Léon, Henry rushed in to quiet him.

“I’m serious. This time. I’ve been flippant, and I’ve been cruel, and in addition to all of that, I’ve embarrassed myself. Dreadfully.” He coughed out his own laugh, but the lines on Léon’s face had settled to serious.

He was really listening to Henry this time, really ready to hear him, and all that seemed to do was tie Henry’s insides back into the knot that had made him so hopeless at speaking his feeling earlier.

But Henry was determined.

“I want to thank you. You’ve done things for me and for Catherine that went beyond what I forced you to do. And I wish… I wish I’d just asked you in the first place. Because I believe now that you would have helped me. Because the last few days, I’ve seen a side of you that…” His eyes swept over Léon’s face.

Could he ever have loved him back?

Could those beautiful, troubled pink cheeks have lain on his pillow?

Could that tired head have rested on his shoulder?

The answer was irrelevant.

It was over and it was done, and Henry felt a crushing regret that restricted every last word he was going to speak to Léon.

“You have every right to hate me.”

“I know I do,” Léon replied, his words provoking Henry while easing some small part of him with the slight edge of humour.

“You do. I readily admit that. Which isn’t to say you didn’t make things worse by punching me.”

“You absolutely deserved it,” Léon returned.

“I did. But anyway, to get back to the point…” He met Léon’s gaze, earnest and kind, in a way that seemed to scoop out Léon’s insides.

“I’m sorry I did what I did. I’m sorry I made you feel the way I made you feel. And… what happened back there…” He glanced towards the door of the pub, the memory of their lips pressed together rearing high in both their minds.

“I had no right to do that. And what I said to you… I am deeply ashamed of it, and I’m eternally sorry. You’re…” With a blush and a bashful half laugh, “You’re so beautiful, it scares me. It unsettles me on a primal level, and it makes me… It’s a frightening beauty, not just the way you look on the outside, it’s everything. You’re too smart, and-and-and-uh-too…” He stretched a hand out to indicate all of Léon.

“You're graceful. You’re graceful when you move, and when you speak and-and in the things you do, and…” Casting his overwrought eyes to the ground, “God, Léon, I don’t hate you. Not even a bit. I never could. I think you’re wonderful. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re strong, and brave, and resilient, and I have so much respect for you. I just… I think it broke my heart to realise I’d messed this up so irreparably. To know that you’ll never look at me the way I look at you.”

But had Henry not been so caught up in his feelings, had he looked up from the mud just then, he would have caught the very same look in Léon’s eyes, bright and adoring. “Henri?”

His eyes flew up sharply.

“I don’t hate you either. Not entirely.”

“Not entirely,” Henry repeated with a chuckle. “High praise. Higher than I deserve at any rate.”

“Probably.” Léon’s smile grabbed Henry at the throat. “But after everything, I think, if you did come back to Reims, one day, and if you did still want me to sit on a chair next to you and drink something… I think I would.”

“I would like that,” said Henry, relief flooding every inch of him.

“And I think,” said Léon, quite sure Henry was about to walk out of his life forever, “if you did that again, now, after everything you’ve just said…”

‘That,’ they both knew, was the kiss, and Henry’s heart leapt like a dog on hot coals. “If I did that again?”

“If you did…”

“If I did, would you hit me?”

Léon laughed on a blush that slipped around Henry’s heart, trapping it permanently. “No. I wouldn’t hit you.”

Grinning wider than he had in years, “Do you promise?” Henry stepped a little closer.

With a nod, and another chuckle, dipping his head, “I promise.”

But he still didn’t take the liberty. Henry reached soft fingers beneath Léon’s chin and tilted his face up, his sweet breath ghosting over Léon’s cheek. “May I kiss you, Ange?”

The way he said that word. How it had gone from insulting to infatuated. Henry’s hand was on Léon’s hip, and Henry’s thigh was against Léon’s thigh, and he pressed his pelvis into Léon’s, and “Please,” Léon begged.

Two sets of long lashes closed on all the world but each other, and Henry touched his soft lips to Léon’s.

Léon leaned his head back, curling fingers into Henry’s waist, silk slipping over skin as he dug his fingernails in. Henry pressed harder against his midline in response, and Léon’s lips parted in eagerness for Henry’s tongue. No tentative and tender kiss now, this was the one—this was the kiss to remember all kisses by—this was the kiss that was going to last the two of them a lifetime, to never be replaced or outdone by any other man or any other kiss, should fate divide them permanently from that day on.

Léon knew no other raised eyebrow from across the bar could have drawn him out of the misery of his life. No brushing of fingers in the street, no love letter or handsome face or fleeting daydream could ever have broken his world apart the way Henry had. And just for that moment—that brief and infinitesimally small flicker of time in all the years upon years upon years—Léon knew what freedom was. He knew lightness, and he knew life, and he knew the tender touch of a man who wanted to catch his fall. Who wanted to take him away from it. He never needed to say it. Léon felt it in the urgency of Henry’s touch and in the desperation of that kiss. He felt Henry’s heart grinding to a stop, the shattering of hopes at the inevitability of their parting.

They had found some piece of beauty, some rare and elusive thing. But both knew they were caught in webs of neither their own design nor making.

Léon dipped his head, breaking the kiss. His temple leaning on Henry’s cheek, he whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m not the one leaving.” He felt the slow shake of Henry’s head. “We can figure this out. You’re not happy there.”

The shimmering emerald of Léon’s eyes when he looked up at Henry dashed every hope he might have had. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. You matter. Don’t say that.” Henry cupped his cheek, as though he could force some understanding into him.

But Léon only shook his head. “Life is so tentative, Henri. It comes and it goes so fast. What I want…” He blinked away the tears that started to his eyes. “I love this moment. Please give me one last kiss. So I can remember we had this.”

“Ange…” Léon brought two fingers to his lips, and his heart turned in on itself when Henry kissed them. He caught his hand, gently, and kissed all along his fingers, over his knuckles, the back of his hand, then pulled his palm to his cheek.

Léon let his hands run free in Henry’s beautiful hair, and he pulled him in for one final kiss. There in the dark and the fire, in the icy night, two hearts pressed together, the air around them about to evaporate forever.

And that was when Léon heard it. Another voice—many voices—but one distinctly, that he knew well.

Léon broke from Henry just as the men came in sight of them. He saw that last love-sick flash of Henry’s eyes, desperately adoring, softly reproachful, broken-hearted, yet understanding. He saw the look that begged him, please, to change his mind, but the acceptance that the choice was made. And he saw Henry’s hand move for the hilt of his sword. And he heard Bernard DuPont, of all the people in the world, shout, “Over there!”

“Henri?” Léon said softly.

Henry paused, looking at him with complete and adoring faith, a smile, just as though he was sure Léon was on his side.

And Léon curled his hand into a fist, gathered all the power of his great muscles into his arm, then punched Henry square in the jaw, knocking him flat on his back in the frozen dirt. His sword clattered to the ground, and before he even realised what had happened, Léon had his boot on his chest and that sword at his throat.

The complete and unadulterated horror of Henry’s eyes could only be matched by the sense of betrayal written in every feature that Léon had come to adore. As the beat of another ten horses’ hooves pounded towards them, Henry uttered, “How could I have been so wrong about you?”

“You weren’t,” Léon whispered, but Henry never heard it.

“Léon? Is that you?” DuPont exclaimed, jumping down from his horse.

“I caught him,” Léon said, staring deep into Henry’s devastated, hate-filled eyes. “I had to follow him all the way, but I got him.”

Half a dozen men surrounded him, drawing their weapons. He knew most of them, especially that filthy bastard Mollard, who stayed on his horse, an unnervingly suggestive grin on his face. “And the girl?” he asked.

“She didn’t come this way,” Léon replied. “Or if she did, I haven’t seen her.”

“Good lad.” DuPont squeezed a familiar, loving hand over his shoulder, and Léon pulled the blade slowly back from the neck of the man he had just kissed.

“Be careful with him,” Léon warned. “Tie him up. Keep a gun on him. And don’t let him out of your sight, not for one second.”

“Slippery, is he?” DuPont replied knowingly.

“No,” Léon replied. “It’s so much worse than that. He’s incredibly dangerous.” Drawing heavily on all the respect and authority he’d garnered over the years, Léon looked DuPont dead in the eyes and declared, “He’s a witch.” Before DuPont even had time to reply, Léon instructed, “Don’t take any chances. Carry him back to Reims and lock him in the old Witches’ Tower.”