ELEVEN

Thus did Pierre Giroux find himself amongst this amiable band. They gave him a drink. They gave him a strange sort of mockery of last rights. They then at last graciously bestowed upon him his corner and all with the same gentle concern one might have for a crazed jackal. Once he was at last left to himself and his sword he was at least thankful that he was no longer being moved about with such manhandling.

He looked across the ring the crowd had made for the combatants and saw the king of thieves sitting leisurely upon a chair propped on one leg with a stone to make up for where it was broken half way up. A woman behind him was messaging his shoulders, and he smiled back at Pierre with a sort of smug satisfaction as if he had already won.

To add to his expression he spoke out to the knight, "Before we begin, I would like to know the name of the man I'm about to have the honor of killing, but you are the new captain after Phoebus, aren't you?"

"A little overconfident?" demanded Giroux. "Unless you're planning on cheating."

"Perish the thought," gasped Clopin. "No one will interfere. It's man to man. Everything you got against everything I got! So! Name, if you please?"

"Pierre Giroux of the knights of France," said Giroux roughly, and no, he did not add that technically with the death of Phoebus he was the new captain.

"Enchanté!" said Clopin rising from his seat then and throwing his cavalier's hat aside for one of his subjects to catch. "A knight from the Crusades, no less, I suppose. I'll have you know I myself fought off a horde of Moors across the Moorish dunes and all for the hand of the sultan's daughter." He laughed. "Trouble was she didn't want to take the risk of running away to Italy with me in the end and won back her father's love."

Some of the others laughed with him this second time.

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Are you going to stop playing games and fight," he huffed. "I'd kind of like to get on with this."

"Right!" exclaimed Clopin unsheathing a very eastern looking sword—shorter and wider than Pierre's sword and with a dangerous curved edge—as though he might have actually stolen it from the Moors and that his tale might have actually have had some truth to it. "No more talk! Let's fight!"

A roaring cheer came from the crowd, and Pierre thought to himself what madness he had entered upon run by the Mad Terror himself. Diving into the fight with caution Pierre watched the terror's every move as they fought. Surprisingly it was fair to the rules of the Western World, but Pierre knew at any moment Clopin would unleash his madness upon him.

They were both swordsmen regardless of treachery, and Pierre would have said they were evenly matched even if their techniques were hard to compare. Honestly, Pierre had little desire to actually kill the lunatic. If he could he would simply disarm him and try to make his escape. Except that the more they fought, the more Pierre realized that Clopin might be just a little better than he was — at least if he could ever get over his theatrics which often got in the way, Pierre thought. But was it a distraction to hide that he was not as skilled at the blade as he was at his footwork? Or was it to merely imply the latter so that Pierre would be taken off guard when true skill was displayed?

All in all, Pierre felt incredibly unnerved.

He might have to fight to the death against Clopin, after all.

Then suddenly Clopin struck, not with the blade, but with his foot, tripping Pierre face-first into the ground. Pierre thought he was dead for certain, but the crowd cheered, and he swerved around on his knees only to face a smiling Clopin leaning against his chin upon his hands clutching the sword stuck into the ground.

"You said no more funny business," remarked Pierre getting to his feet.

Only experience on a battlefield had Pierre moving out of the way just in time at the sound of a whizzing blade. The dagger struck the ground behind Pierre and the knight turned angrily back at the still calmly grinning Clopin, but his hand was recoiling from the throw. The blade had come from him. "Everything each of them had," had another meaning, just as Pierre had supposed.

Clopin shrugged to the glaring Pierre. "My game. My rules. But you are good at this."

Pierre merely leapt up with a neat swing of his sword, from which, with a slight exclamation, Clopin just barely managed to leap out of the way himself.

Again they fought, and this time to Pierre's satisfaction, the theatrics were far less, and the true fight was now beginning. They fought hard and they fought long. Then at last Pierre struck well, and with a blade in the true tradition of a dual, but he had not killed his foe, merely wounded him and leaving a great rip in his clothes at which Clopin grabbed at before any blood fell. The crowd became ghostly silent as all watched with eyes wide in disbelief their leader falling onto his knees and breathing heavily. He attempted to get up but was unable. With an angry growl he threw his sword onto the ground and bent himself further towards the ground in his agony.

Standing before the fallen Clopin, Pierre could not decide what best to do. He could not kill the man in this condition, but if he turned his back, Clopin could still dish out some last move. He would not turn his back on him. Plus if he actually killed him, his men might kill the knight anyway. Thus he slowly backed up. The crowd was more interested in their king at the present.

Some people began to bend down next to him to see if there was anything they could do, but Clopin shoved them away, fire rekindling in his eyes as he glared at Pierre. Then clearing his throat, and closing his eyes calmly, he began to get up onto his feet. He would not allow help from his subjects but he still clutched his wound as he staggered upright.

Then addressing Sir Giroux, he said, "My sword. Please. I gave you yours. It's only fair."

"You don't seriously think you're going to fight like that," said Pierre distrustfully.

With a shrug, Clopin then made his way to his sword himself, and with a shake of his head, Pierre closed his eyes. Unfortunately, that was what Clopin was waiting for. Before he even touched his sword, he threw out another dagger, and although Pierre was expecting something of that nature to happen a second time, he had not been able to escape it this time. Though it barely scuffed him through his clothing it was apparently that same mere scuff that Clopin had received as well, for before Pierre recovered, the mad terror, like a swooping hawk, flew down upon him and kicked him down. Snatching Pierre's sword as well as his own, and as strong as ever he did not even wipe the sweat from his brow as he made to plunge both blades into Pierre's chest.

"NO!" screamed La Esmeralda.

Both fighters looked up in surprise as the girl came rushing to Clopin's side.

"Please! Stop!" she begged with hands clasped together. "He's my fiancé! That's why he followed me here."

Clopin leered at the girl a moment but seemed to consent, not that Pierre truly thought this was over.

As the roi des truands backed away he muttered, "Why didn't you say that before? You're usually such an outspoken girl."

"I tried," insisted Esmeralda, "but no one gave me the chance!"

Throwing down Pierre's sword and looking rather put out, Clopin began to walk away amidst the crowd opening a way for him. Yet at the brink of it he paused as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him; though Pierre guessed he had had the thought since Esmeralda had spoken her excuse. It was his theatrics again, of course, that caused him to wait with a dramatic pause before asking: "When's the marriage, ma chèrie?" And he turned to Esmeralda with a bright smile.

"Uh … well," said Esmeralda glancing at a most disgusted Pierre who actually was bleeding a little. "As soon as possible, sir."

Glancing doubtfully from knight to girl and back again, Clopin then let out a laugh and continued into the crowd.

Esmeralda helped Pierre the rest of the way to his feet, but Pierre did not feel overly grateful at the moment. With some exasperation he pushed her away.

"Then let us commence with the wedding, shall we?" said Clopin over his shoulder.

Thus again, Pierre Giroux found himself dragged into further madness, this time in front of a site of old Roman ruins since there was no church readily available in the court. Standing before the couple too was Clopin dressed in a ragged old black robe as though after the fashion of a priest, and clearing his throat, Clopin straightened himself and addressed the crowd.

"Dearly beloved," he said calmly. "We are gathered here before heaven this night to witness the union of a man and a woman although from very different backgrounds—one of a very stuffy family of French lords with stiff collars and shiny boots who kiss their crosses for luck they don't need and step on the heads of those they feel inferior; and the other from the humble and noble lineage of the homeless travelers known as the gypsies from the far off regions of the east and who herself is as poor as dirt, the poor delicate jewel, and who is thought to be a witch simply because she was in the same vicinity of Captain Phoebus' supposed murder! But!" Here he thrust up a pointer finger towards the starlit sky. "Both of these young people have looked past their differences in the face of death and have found themselves ensnared by the ever-powerful bonds of love!"

Slowly Pierre and Esmeralda exchanged glances, though none of these glances, a plethora of an uncomfortable and heated sort, were the passionate expressions of lovers, it can be certain. Overall Esmeralda looked embarrassed for herself and sympathetic for the knight whereas the knight looked for the most part thoroughly annoyed and certainly maddened.

"If anyone here thinks these two should not be united speak now or forever hold your peace!"

Someone from the crowd lifted his hand. "Sir, I think—"

"Good!" exclaimed Clopin, and turning to the couple he said, "Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

Esmeralda and Giroux merely stared for a moment as Clopin urged them on with a rolling of his hand towards each other.

"Go on," he said. "We're going to stand here until you do."

"You've got to be joking," muttered Pierre.

Esmeralda bit her lip, but Clopin seemed unconcerned. He leaned to Pierre and whispered confidentially, "I don't joke about love."

"Well, apparently you do," remarked Pierre.

Hardly had he finished his phrase however when Esmeralda quickly kissed him on the lips.

Clopin clasped his hands together.

"Ah, l'amour!" he sighed.

Pierre backed away from the girl in surprise.

Then clearing his throat again Clopin spoke with a hand over the couple as though to bless them most solemnly, "In sickness and in health, until death do you part!" as well as some other tidbits stolen from a Christian marriage before he said in the same tone, "Now that this is accomplished we must solemnly sit down to a supper feast for the luck and prosperity of the wholesome union."

"Here, here!" exclaimed the crowd.

"But!" said Clopin, and then he leaned once more grinning most dangerously towards the knight. "If ever you breathe a word of what has transpired here and where it transpired you will expire. You understand, of course."

Pierre frowned.

"I see we understand each other," said Clopin patting the knight on the cheek, and with that he slipped away.

Supper was underway.

During the preparations Pierre turned to Esmeralda.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded; he was holding his sword tightly at his side since Clopin had returned it after the performance.

"He would have killed you if I hadn't," retorted the girl. "You tried to save me from death now I returned the favor. I only did it to save you. I don't really love you. My grief for the love lost in dear Phoebus is too deep."

Pierre sighed. "I'm sorry." He paused. "It's not like it was a real marriage anyway."

"Not a Christian marriage, no," agreed Esmeralda. "Or a gypsy marriage, but it was for Clopin and that's all that matters."

"He's insane!" Pierre hissed. "You must see that. Why do you stay with him?"

"The same reason why everyone does except for some of the rougher people of the band who are just attracted to his power," said Esmeralda. "He took me in when no one else did. I'm an orphan. My aunt could no longer care for me. Anyone who is down on their luck can come to the Court of Miracles and Clopin Trouillefou will welcome them."

"Then why was he going to kill me?" demanded Pierre.

"Because you're not down. You're a French knight. Even your horse is higher positioned than most of the people here. Clopin makes miracles happen."

"I'd say more madness," said Pierre crossing his arms.

"Madness is what saves him, I suppose. Madness staved my own starvation, if you want it that way. Though, he was behaving madder than usual to make an impression on you. He's not what he seems."

"I know he's not." A second time the knight sighed and touched at his now scabbed wound.

"It's not hurt badly, is it?" asked the girl.

"No," said the knight. "I'll be fine… thank you, Esmeralda, for saving me. I guess my job here is done. I'm going to leave before his lordship Monsieur Trouillefou decides to do something else to include me in his merrymaking."

"Okay," said Esmeralda with a nod. "Take care of yourself."

Sir Giroux sheathed his sword.

"Just don't go near the square," he warned.

Then coming to the archway at the edge of the court where his horse was waiting for him, he began to ride off. He looked behind him one last time as La Esmeralda watched him leave from just inside the court. Turning ahead he shook his head sadly and continued on his way back to normalcy.