A destrier is a big huge warhorse.

Kampfringen is a European martial art that involved no weapons and 'Ringen Am Schwert' was armed close combat. All the teachers and masters were German, but there were many fechtbuchers (fight-books) and the style was all over Europe. Fior Di Battaglia means 'Flower of Battle' and is another book on fighting.

………….

It was more than an hour after dinner when Gaetan opened the door of Claude's house.

"Sir—oh, thank God, it's you!" Phoebus exclaimed, trying to whisper.

"He's not seeing anyone right now," Gaetan said as Phoebus grabbed her by her arms. "Sir, I don't know where the horse is. I'm sure you can find it yourself eventually."

"What? No, I'm here to get you out of here."

"Why, sir?" she asked, yanking her arms away.

"You can't possibly want to stay here! Look, don't give me any of that 'I'd have to get married' stuff! He's insane!"

"You work for him."

"I'm a grown up."

"Then you'll be tried for stealing someone's apprentice."

"No I won't," Phoebus said. "Nothing's official yet. No papers have been signed and not even he can get around that one. He told you you could leave when you wanted, so I'm helping you."

"I don't want to leave."

"He's not nice!"

"Living on the street isn't nice."

"He hits you!"

"It'd be worse if I were arrested for stealing grass from the stables."

"You're dressed in rags!"

"I already was."

"You threw up today!"

"At least he feeds me real food."

"You mean you want to stay here?" he yelled. He wasn't going to get her out of here, so he didn't care if he was heard.

"I live in a real house. I get to eat more than once everyday. I sleep indoors. I can have a real bath now and then. I'm not in as much danger from strangers now that I'm not a woman anymore. Goodbye, sir."

"But—"

"Thank you, sir." Gaetan closed the door, ending the conversation. Forever, she hoped.

Claude stepped out of the washroom, already dressed in his robes, hose, and shoes. It was cold in a stone house, especially with wet hair. He shook his head to toss some of the water out of his grey hair before using a towel to dry it. "Who was at the door?"

"Captain Phoebus, Master."

"What could he possibly want? I hope he found that horse already."

"He wanted me to explain something to him."

Claude rolled his eyes and sighed. Was she improving or was Phoebus getting worse? He'd heard so much about the man's abilities and achievements in the war. "Go clean up," he told her. He figured that Phoebus must simply be having the same problems he was having, but lacked the opportunity to tell her to go away or stay out of sight as well as the skill to assume she'd deal with any problems she had on her own or tell him if she couldn't.

For instance, having her draw his bath hadn't been nearly the disaster he thought it would be because she simply stayed out of the washroom after the tub was filled and that was that. Skirting around each other was proving a lot easier than he'd initially thought.

It was convenient that she was so dismissible, both from his mind and from his rooms. It was too early to speak with her of his confusion over the gypsy and having to wrestle with it on his own felt like some sort of divine punishment.

Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to meditate, every time he tried to concentrate alone, all he got were bits of a twirling skirt, clangs of bangles striking each other, green eyes, hair like a soft black cloud, and a delicate hand twisting and turning in strangely saintly positions. He could have dealt with all those images. He could have managed to shoo them away or let them play themselves out until they had nothing new for him, but they were intermingled in other images, more frightening images. Long bare legs, oscillating hips, breasts straining to free themselves from tight fabric, the outline of a navel showing through a dress that flowed like sweat over her dark body.

If only these images could be separated from each other, not intertwined in a Gordian knot he was unable to strike through. Her hair was for a moment a shower of soft silken strands with the curling grace of incense smoke that wafted through church halls, only to transform into a thick viscous mass he could feel slipping over his fingers like boiling lead, the imaginary touch setting his nerves aflame in some strange desire to be lost in that molten, oozing mass. He'd burn, but he felt he'd revel in the fire, his loss of the physical nothing compared to what he'd gain in the sensual.

He could see his hand taking hers and she'd drop that tambourine in fright as he forced her to the ground and pinned her, easily defeating her in a struggle to force her to stop her witchcraft, but instead of nothing more than a clean and simple match of two combatants, he saw an erotic tackle and heard her soft, feminine screams and cries of defiance slowly ebbing into those of submission.

He had realized earlier that day that he had kept her scarf that she'd left on his neck during her dance that felt like a siren's song in bodily motion. Now he was tempted to find a way to destroy the evil talisman, but fear of what evil magic he'd release by doing so prevented him. It had to be witchcraft. There was no other explanation he could find. He knew what he was commanded to do with witches, but this was a sly trick that he could not so easily smother. He had no proof and announcing what she had done would make the city think he was insane. This was not a straightforward attack on him by the gypsies, and he was sure that if they'd gone to such lengths, no doubt they had booby-trapped their little trinket they used to cast it upon him. He could not openly try to purify it, he could not give it to another person for surely it would find it's way back to him and probably kill them in the process, he could not burn it, and he could not toss it away, lest doing so would bring him worse luck. If it weren't for the fact that she barely seemed to acknowledge him at all—for she had paused in her dance for a moment that day and stared at him, utterly shocked upon noticing him, but only to shrug and go back to her dancing soon after, seeing no guards around to arrest her—he would have considered the thing a familiar through which she was constantly spying on him.

"Lord take it, I am distracted tonight!" he yelled at himself just before he heard the door to the washroom open.

To his comfort, Gaetan was not only dressed, still wearing the bodies that hid any evidence that she was female, but paid him no attention and instead focused on drying her hair, which was resembling a giant overstuffed mop that had been used years past its usefulness.

If only all women were more like Gaetan he would be having no problems. No curves, dishwater eyes that looked at you instead of asking you to look at them, and even if they stood in front of you, you could banish them from your mind whenever you wanted. There had to be some way to keep himself safe in the same way from his gypsy tormentor.

"The gypsies!" he suddenly whispered, a thought suddenly dawning on him. "Come. Sit," he ordered, seating himself in a chair and gesturing to the floor next to him.

Gaetan dropped her towel to her shoulders and immediately went to him. He moved the stool himself with the end of his crutch and she immediately set herself on the floor next to his chair.

"You may speak freely, but stay on subject. Now, you were out on patrol with the captain today. What exactly was going on that would warrant needing more soldiers in order to keep the peace and handle arrests?"

Gaetan remembered the discussion with Phoebus in the alley earlier. She owed the man much for his favor, even if he thought he'd thrown her to the pigs. She also appreciated the chance to be talked to by someone who just wanted a simple conversation to pass the time and if he ever got over his silly thoughts he would probably be very interesting to listen to. But keeping secrets from her master was stupid, especially when it was about the goings-on in the city, given his job. "There were many groups of gypsies throwing rocks, master."

"At?" Claude asked. "You are beginning to speak like the captain and I advise you to stop it. For all I know, they were juggling."

"They were throwing rocks at each other from across the street, mostly, master. Some attacked each other. Other people were getting caught in the middle of the whole thing."

"The gypsies are attacking each other under broad daylight? This is highly unusual, given how they act. They are secretive, all thieves, tricksters, and liars. But they are not the kind to sacrifice one of their own to achieve their goals. This is most strange." Secretly, Claude wondered if Esmeralda's spell of distraction was purely to keep him from known his enemies' solidarity was crumbling.

"None of them wanted to explain what the fight was about. They just hated each other and kept trying to fight even after they were arrested."

"If only I knew what troubles were causing such things! Oh, their heathen Court of Miracles must look like the inside of my Palace of Justice. What I'd give to see it just for a second. But what in the world could cause dissension like this?"

"Master?"

"Yes, what is it?" It was obvious he had to explain something to her. Well, if she had any stupidity in her, it was best to tear that weed out immediately by the roots.

"What is a Court of Miracles?"

"Oh, such a lonely, ignored child you are," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. His white eyes glittered for she was just as eager to learn from him as he was to mold her mind into a copy of his own. "The Court of Miracles is a sinister, evil place. It is a hidden lair where every gypsy in Paris gathers together to share their stolen prizes and slaughtered trophies. I have searched for that place for twenty years and it is the one thing they would rather go to the gallows for than do more than speak its name. I have sent dozens of spies to find it and all have been found dead weeks later, each in a different part of the city. What? What is it?" he asked in annoyance, squeezing her shoulder. His words had had nothing close to the desired effect on her and she was looking at him the same way he looked at her when he first laid eyes on her, having trouble believing the inconceivable ridiculousness of what lay before her.

"It sounds like a fairytale, master," she said quietly, trembling in his grip. "It sounds like a lie, a trick to distract you. Even my grandmother heard of elves."

Claude did not want to admit the Court of Miracles had become an obsession of his, nor did he want to admit he'd never consider it clever rouse, let alone an age-old one that made him look like he was demanding how to get gold from unicorns when questioning prisoners. But he could feel her shivering in fear, waiting for his hand to strike her like a spider who had already caught a fly in his web, but took its time as she struggled. She had a cynical, untrusting mind, and yet she met his words with a growing hunger for them, as if she wanted to dig sharp claws into his mind and never let go until she had learned all there was within it.

He loosened his grip for a second, only long enough to let her know he was not about to strike. He needed her to recognize his approval at her efforts before he corrected her or only the lesson would take, but there would be no loyalty and without loyalty she would have too much free will, which would only lead to her asking the wrong questions and going against his ideals. He gripped her shoulder firmly, but gently, similar to how he had petted his horse. She had to feel the gesture of affection and yet feel the strength he had within him, just to tell her who was pack leader. "The Court of Miracles is real," he said, using one finger under her chin to make her see the adamancy in his eyes. "It is a part of Hell that cloaks itself somewhere in Paris. Not even God's hands can reach within. It is my duty to bring His Great Benevolence and Justice to it. If you are alive a week from now, you shall share the honor."

……………….

If Claude could have seen the Court of Miracles, he would have laughed. Although the Court of Miracles was decorated so colorfully it dimmed the great rose windows of the Cathedral during a bright and fiery sunset, there was no gaiety happening today. What were many small incessant quarrels yesterday was one giant riot tonight.

Clopin's business with Giselle had caused a split between his people, but being united by ties of marriage, families, and friendships, the rift was an invisible river constantly changing beds, separating one solid army into dozens of groups, each with a slightly different opinion, all angry amorphous masses of people who were constantly changing sides due to culturally inflicted bonds, thus each person changed their mind at least twice a day. Now it was unclear as to whether anyone remembered any allies or even bothered with them anymore, or even if they had their own opinions anymore. People were fighting each other from across the vast hall, screaming, shouting, striking anyone they could reach and having no fixed target, resorting to throwing anything they could get their hands on at the other side of the crowd.

Their king, the man all their debates stemmed from, was close to wishing Frollo would find their secret sanctuary and take them all away. It was not out of hatred, but out of desperation and several bruises and one burn from the crossfire.

"Enough!" Clopin screamed. "I didn't even know there were this many rocks in Paris! Giselle is out of the picture! There was no reason for you to fight before, and there certainly is no reason now! Am I the only one who knew that there were twelve arrests today? The new captain has called in more soldiers and I think Frollo's finally lost any sanity he ever had! He's appointed an apprentice!"

The screaming tempest of people silenced and stopped, like a storm standing still.

Personally, Clopin thought the old man was bored being unable to ride and hunt people down himself, so he'd found a little boy to torment literally to death and that he only called the child his apprentice so that no one could take his toy away.

The first reaction anyone had was to demand that the boy be killed immediately, choking the weed out before it took over the entire garden. Clopin's first reaction was to lay down the rule that no one was to kill the child. It would be the perfect excuse for Frollo to go around setting gypsies on fire in the middle of the street. Clopin's second reaction was to explain how the metaphor made no sense and was more strangled than anyone they'd ever hung on the gibbet. His third was to ask if anyone had ever even seen the child before.

The crowd was nearly silent, a soft rumble of whispers and mumbles shaking it throughout, making the crowd look like a bubble shaking before it popped. Rumors began to sprout and before they could bloom into superstition, they were clipped away by the king. Some thought the boy was conjured as a pact with the devil, a demon in disguise. Clopin complained that even if a demon had a reason to be so tiny and skinny and to have allowed something to eat its hair for an hour, why was Frollo spending all day torturing it, for he had heard of stories of the boy's lessons that day. Besides, witchcraft was what Frollo accused them of doing, not what they accused him of. Thinking like him would just get them all killed, Clopin reprimanded.

If magic was out, perhaps it was the boy of a soldier. But no parent seemed to claim the boy. None of the French townspeople recognized the boy and seemed just as surprised that Frollo had an apprentice.

There was a theory that would have had more merit if there was a lot less giggling and snickering throughout the discussion of the boy being Frollo's own child. The only woman Frollo had spent more than five minutes around was his cook and she was at least twenty years his senior, for she reminded him that she was his elder a few times in the past. By now Clopin was sure that the people giggling like schoolchildren were the ones who spurned the discussion on, so there was a lot of debate as to whether it was possible he had ever conceived a child no one ever saw before with a woman who by now must be a million years old (Clopin in his younger days had thought up a prank to 'celebrate' the judge's birthday, but he never even learned what century the man was born in and soon gave up). The giggling only got worse and to Clopin's dismay some comments were a bit lewder. Then it was pointed out that the woman had been married, widowed only three years ago and had since mourned her husband annually. Eventually Clopin had to sit and wait the giggling and by now limerick-chanting out and when everyone was out of breath he said that because it was such a humorous idea, Frollo couldn't possibly have done it because there was nothing funny about the man, unless you counted his hat.

The only rumor that was given the chance to divide, multiply, and evolve was that Frollo had taken the child from the orphanage, though no one could settle on a believable reason as to why that particular child when there were more strapping boys of the same age still there. Eventually the rumors would die once the gypsies got wind of the matron of the orphanage angrily yelling that she had no idea who the child was and people should stop asking why she let what was happening continue.

Clopin ended the meeting, reminding his subject that he'd personally deal with anyone who killed little children, even Frollo's, that they were a better people than the minister made them out to be and to save energy for fighting the soldiers, not each other. He sighed as most people resumed giggling and trying to make their rhymes dirtier than they already were.

Clopin sat down, dangling his legs over the gibbet stage and began to sulk. Frollo had called the gypsies vermin, dogs, rats, mongrels, jackals, and philistines. He wondered what kind of animal a philistine was, but he was sure Frollo was wrong; all those animals were organized.

Sure, they were a monarchy, but he listened to his people, every one of them, even the children. Their king was a poor man who talked to a puppet to make children laugh. He had wandered off at last year's Feast of Fools so drunk he could hardly walk and had forgotten his name drinks ago and was draped in the arms of a lady of the night, despite the fact that it was still day. When the hangover left he returned, having had one of the best nights he couldn't remember. It was a romance between a fugitive from the law, harboring thousands of other fugitives and with no money in his possession, and a woman who was lucky to have all her teeth and hair and unlucky enough to have a daughter she had unsuccessfully tried to drown and a job she had unsuccessfully tried to leave. It was a sorry state for a sorry bunch of people. But that didn't give them an excuse to act like violent four-year olds…well, worse than that because Clopin had been able to control violent four-year olds to some extent a few times.

"Have you ever heard the story of the four ravens?" a female voice said behind him.

"Esmeralda!" Clopin exclaimed happily and leapt to his feet. Esmeralda's voice suggested good news and at least he could see her goat perform a trick or two and he'd be able to pet it before he felt he had to return to moping. "That's some sort of English story, I think. I have enough trouble figuring out how anyone liked these French ones."

"Something about a king who had children. A sorceress changed herself to remind him of his long lost wife and she married him. He was so in love with her, he couldn't stop her from turning his children into birds."

"I take it this wasn't because she wanted pets."

"The king was the only person who she didn't use magic to change."

"Wouldn't it have been easier?"

"But then it wouldn't be true love, and true love can break any magic spell. You know that."

He sighed. "Sometimes I doubt it."

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Esmeralda, sometimes I trust you more than I trust myself. You're a wonderful friend and so far you're the only person who has had no problems about Giselle other than sharing worries about how I'm going to get her money and you've completely avoided siding with any group of crazies." He sniffled and Djali butted him from behind. "I said person!" he yelped, rubbing his behind.

"I may have a plan."

"I don't think turning me into a bird will help. Not for long."

"Not you. And not for real," she said. She put both hands on his shoulders and her voice became serious. "I can't tell you, but I need you to trust me. No matter what, just trust me." Every time she spoke like that, there was a knife-like quality to her voice. Those who didn't know her well were often afraid they'd actually be stabbed.

Politics never came between them. They talked to each other as equals and treated each other as such. Good or bad, they treated each other's choices in life as nothing more than that: not a representation of the community or some ideal to uphold. His only concern over who she slept with was whether or not he had to chase them with torches and pitchforks later and her only reaction to him losing Giselle was to comfort his broken heart. "I trust you Esmeralda. I trust that whatever you're doing, you'll tell me when you're really in trouble."

"Thank you," she said. "I will, I promise. But don't do anything before then. No matter what!"

"Should I be worried already?"

"No, you shouldn't. Don't worry Clopin. Some day your prince will come."

"I hope you're—wait, I thought I was the prince!"