Two gentlemen approach the plaza of a small provincial town in Northern France, entering from opposite directions.

The first gentleman is alone, dressed in the finery of a noble, with vibrant cloth draped across his powerful frame, and a powdered wig of bountiful white curls crawling along the nape of his neck. As he passes, the murmur of the crowd dies away, and eyes linger upon him with each purposeful stride he takes. A rapier hangs from his waist, kept safely within its baldric, though everyone knows it will soon be drawn.

The second gentleman arrives with his page. Compared to his counterpart, he is dressed in a simple suit, the uniform of a provincial lawyer. A puzzling choice for someone, who in all likelihood, is about to violate the codes he pledged himself to. He is less well known than the noble across the way, but his reputation allows him an air of infamy. The gossip of his misadventures is carried by those around him. It is not a reputation he can afford, as he already bears the jawline of someone from across the channel. An enemy by right of birth and circumstance, no matter how much he pledges himself to France.

His page is an adolescent, the blessing of manhood yet to grace his small feminine features. Features which are framed masterfully by his long blonde hair, currently tied back in a ponytail. He looks deadly serious, seeming far older than his youthfulness betrays. His employer’s sabre is held firmly in his left hand, his fingers drumming upon it impatiently.

The crowd parts and the two gentlemen meet before the plaza’s expertly crafted fountain. Each is cold, serious, sizing the other up with calculating eyes.

“I see you’ve decided to accept my invitation, Monsieur Grey,” the first gentleman says.

 “It isn’t good for business to deny such a high-profile client, Count du Maine,” Monsieur Grey responds, dipping forward in a half hearted bow. “And may I ask why you have summoned me to such a public venue?”

The Count growls. “You know exactly why I have summoned you, you cur.”

Several in the crowd gasp and the murmur intensifies.

Out of the verbal miasma oozes harsh critiques. 

Adulter. 

Sister. 

Sinful. 

All of those things which drag a reputation through the mud, forever fouling a good name.

Monsieur Grey smirks, stepping closer. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord. However, if you’d rather take this somewhere private, I am sure we can reach an amicable agreement which will leave us both satisfied.”

Count du Maine laughs. It is a hollow and harsh noise.  “But Monsieur Grey, satisfaction is exactly why I have come.” He places a hand upon the hilt of his rapier to punctuate his point. “You have violated my household and the only thing that can atone for that is blood.”

The crowd grows louder, chattering freely about the Count’s reputation. He is a killer of men, a taker of lives. Someone who will have much to atone for once he reaches the gates of St. Peter. His elegance with the sabre is known to be unmatched.

Monsieur Grey holds his hands up defensively. “My lord, you can not expect me to engage in a duel when I don’t even know the circumstances of your displeasure.”

The Count’s face grows red with anger. “My displeasure is that you violated my sister!”

The gasp of the crowd is sharper, more pronounced, as rumours are confirmed.

The Count’s grip tightens against the hilt of his rapier. “You, a married man, climbed through her window three nights ago and took her as if she were your own wife.”

“I fully deny these accusations, my lord. I did no such thing, and if you’d be willing to see reason, I can provide proof and an alibi.”

The Count draws his sword in one smooth motion, the steel blade glistening in the midday light. “Silence! I will not fall for any of your legal talk. My sister fully confessed in her affair. She provided your title and familial name, Monsieur Grey. And since there are not many Englishmen within this town, it was easy to discern who she spoke of.”

“And I…”

The Count waves him off. “I will hear no more of your idle chatter and stalling. There is only one thing I want and that is to spill the blood of the man who stole my sister’s innocence.”

Monsieur Grey looks to his page. “If you insist, my lord.”

He tilts his chin towards the boy, who then draws his rapier. However, instead of handing it to his master, he instead steps forward.

The Count cocks an eyebrow. “Really Monsieur, are you so cowardly that you will send your apprentice to die?”

The pages grins. “I thought you wanted to spill the blood of the man who defiled your sister.”

The Count’s eyes widen. 

The voice is sweet, soft, womanly. Suddenly, it becomes clear that this is not a boy on a cusp of manhood, but rather a young woman, adorned in boy’s clothing, who will never grace it in the first place.

“Impossible,” The Count mutters.

The page laughs. “Why is it so hard to believe? After all, would a woman not have a better understanding of how to court your sister and properly take care of her needs.”

The crowd now stands silent, their chatter lost to the moment, all eyes looking to the sparring duo.

The Count blushes, his gaze falling away. “It…it can’t be true. It’s sinful, it’s wrong. She would never succumb to that.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Like you are a paragon of virtue. Your reputation would make a hangman blush.”

“I don’t…” His grip further tightens on the sword, the hilt biting into his skin. “I don’t believe you, this is a trick, an act of deception to throw me off.”

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“Oh, this is no game. If you’d like I could provide evidence. For example, your sister’s lover wore a burgundy blouse, which was strewn across the post of her bed.”

The page grips her coat, tearing it off to reveal the very same blouse. One which does a slightly better job of conforming to her modest feminine curves than the bulky coat which now flutters to the ground.

The page grins. “In fact, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the smell of her perfume still lingered this morning. It is such a lovely scent, reminds me of a meadow of lavender in season.” She pinches the fabric between her fingers and inhales. “Would you like to smell it?”

The Count shakes his head but otherwise remains silent, awestruck, frozen in place. Clearly, there was validity to her claims. After all, there are few in town who could afford the perfume described. In fact, within this township only one family can, his own.

“Oh, is that not enough,” the page teases. “How about the fact that her lover tore her trousers’ climbing to her room. You will probably find a patch of cotton in the bed of roses below. Though of course, all this evidence is about me. Maybe I could start to discuss your darling sister? I could tell everyone about the vibrant blue of her dress, and how tiresome it was to remove. Or maybe the paleness of her skin, the way she inhaled when I kissed her neck, the glee I felt when she climaxed from nothing but my hands and lips, or how about the gorgeous birthmark which colours her left breast.”

The Count snarls like a wild animal and lunges forward, thrusting his blade towards her throat.

The page side steps, deflecting the blow with little effort.

“I see I finally got your attention,” she teases.

The Count huffs loudly, the burst of animalistic rage rapidly fading. “But she gave me the title, monsieur, and the name, Grey. And you look neither male or English.”

The page smirks. “It is my husband’s name, so of course I took it for my own.” She dips forward, replicating a very familiar half-hearted bow. “Jeanette Grey, at your service.”

He gestures weakly, his attention shifting from Jeanette to her husband. “But she confessed that it was Monsieur…”

Jeanette chuckles. “In your sister’s defense, I provided the name Jean and it wasn’t until last night that her misconceptions about me were corrected. I can become a pretty convincing man with the right makeup and a little bit of…” Her voices deepens a few octaves. “theatrics.”

The Count’s laughter is feeble and tainted with disdain. “What is the world coming to?”

“I ask myself that far too often,” Jeanette says, gesturing to the Count with the tip of her rapier. “So, will I be a sufficient opponent? After all, you are not the only one hoping for satisfaction, my lord.”

The Count’s jaw clenches. “And how could I have possibly wronged you?” 

“You have denied me the company of a woman I am quite eager to court. A woman who I know shares the very same mindset, one who at this moment wishes to be with me. Every moment separated from her is torture and your greed and heartless nature have caused nothing but undue harm to the two of us. You and your philosophies are a pestilence upon us. That, my lord, is the trauma I have come here to address. Now I ask again, will be I be a sufficient opponent?”

The Court smugly looks to the growing crowd. “I was hoping for a challenge,” he says for their benefit.

“Then it is better than you are sparring with me, than my husband. I love him immensely, but the man is proficient with a pen, not a blade.”

 The Count shakes his head, gesturing towards her. “Then I happily accept your offer.”

The crowd gasps and a few bold citizens jeer at the Count. How could a man even dare to entertain the idea of spilling a woman’s blood?

The Count ignores them and prepares himself, adopting an overly aggressive stance. It reeks of overconfidence, of a man who assumes that he is about to put a woman in her place.

Jean takes a more passive posture, readying herself for the defensive.

Like a game of chess, the two parties size each other up, looking for chinks in their armour, flaws in their plans, and defects in their strategy.

The Count strikes first, lunging forward. Jean ducks to the side, her sabre arcing to intercept the blow.

A second jab follows the first, as the Count gives hardly a moment of preparation. Yet, Jean deflects it effortlessly with her handguard before throwing her shoulder into him. An unorthodox strategy, but one which sends him stumbling back.

The crowd watches in awe, and amongst the less reputable citizens, bets are made. The odds are firmly in the Count’s favour but there is an appreciation for the underdog. 

As the dance of sabres continues, it becomes apparent that Jean does not enjoy the same formal education in dueling as her rival. Instead, her style is less refined and more daring, like a highwayman or sailor. It is the style of a rogue, the style of a soldier, the style of a survivor.

The sabres rattle and blows are deflected. Soon, the Count’s relentless assault begins to weaken, as he realizes his opponent is not the pushover he suspected her to be. This leaves an opening for Jean to exploit, her sabre probing forth. The blow is parried, but her eyes catch the beads of sweats rolling across his brow.

He lashes out, the tip of his rapier catching Jean’s blouse and drawing a wet line of crimson across her abdomen.

She gasps and stumbles back, barely having the composure to raise her guard and deflect another potentially fatal blow.

The Count follows with yet another jab and Jean side steps, allowing him to glide towards her. However, instead of moving to avoid him, she rears back her guard and launches it into his nose. It lands with a satisfyingly meaty thunk, breaking cartilage and bone. An explosion of blood drains across his face and colours the bronze hilt of her sword.

The Count hollers like a wounded animal and the crowd cheers. After all, everyone loves a good show.

Jean moves to the side, avoiding a clumsily thrown strike. “Do you yield, my lord?”

“Never!” he snarls, throwing himself at her.

The refinement of his style devolves as he resorts to a more feral method of combat. However, this is new to him, while being a style Jean is well-versed in. The Count is like a hapless virgin, involved in his first tavern scuffle, while Jean is more comparable to the owner about to throw him out onto his ass.

For a moment they brawl in close proximity, their sabres rendered useless as fists are thrown and grapples attempted. Then Jean weaves to the side, slipping free of the Count’s grip. He is thrown off balance by her sudden retreat, sending him stumbling forwards, with his hands cartwheeling, attempting to find purchase.

Jean finds it first, managing to lash out, slicing through the back of the Count’s vibrant outfit and rendering a fresh streak of red to match her own.

The Count screams in agony and sinks to his knees.

Jean kicks out with a riding boot, knocking the rapier from his hand. She then holds her own against his throat.

“Do you yield?” she asks again, her voice deathly cold.

The Count blinks repeatedly, seeming to be beyond comprehension.

Jean sighs. “Do you…”

“I yield,” he meekly submits. “I yield, Madame Grey.”

She nods and pulls away her sabre. “Thank you, my lord. I do not like to make a habit of taking lives.” She frowns. “Now do I have your consent to continue courting your sister?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t…it’s…it’s adultery!”

“Adultery requires a breach of trust, my lord. My husband is fully aware of my affairs and gladly accepts that my love for your sister does not impact my love for him.”

Jean turns and smiles to her husband, who nods and happily returns it.

The crowd murmurs and eyes fall away, few really able to comprehend the boldness of this confession. A few offensive jeers even join into the mix, thrown by a more religious class of citizen. However, most remain silent, clearly still shaken by the sight of seeing the Count bested by a woman.

“God would never allow it!” the Count barks.

Jeanette laughs. “I believe it was his son who said that those without sin should cast the first stone. I hardly believe you deserve that privilege. Do you accept that, or shall we begin to broach the topic of bastards?”

The Count falls silent, his gaze turning towards the street.

“And,” Jean continues. “I know for a fact that your sister is happy with this arrangement as well. Will you really be so heartless as to ruin our love by forcing my hand to spill your blood?”

He sighs. “I…I will not, Madame Grey. You have my permission.”

She smiles and holsters her sword. “Then, my lord, I believe my satisfaction has been earned.”