It had been several weeks since I overheard that argument, my mother pleading softly while Grandfather's voice, cold and unyielding, cut through the silence of the night. I'd tried to carry on as if I hadn't heard a thing, but inside, I was adrift. I always knew, in a distant, hazy sense, that I must've had a father. Everyone did. But I had long accepted that the man had no place in my life. Grandfather had stepped into that role with such commanding presence that I hardly missed what I never knew.
But now? Now I knew he lived. That he had abandoned us. That he may not want me at all. Worse still, by the world's judgment, I was illegitimate—a bastard child. It was an ugly word, the sort whispered in pews and shouted in drunken taverns, and now it followed me like a shadow I could never escape.
To those around me, nothing appeared amiss. I rose each day with the sun, dressed neatly, attended our lessons, exercised with Eli, and sat dutifully at family meals. But the spark had dulled behind my eyes. My laughter was forced. My appetite waned. And when Eli, in his usual blunt manner, questioned why I seemed so sluggish, I offered a half-hearted excuse about hay fever or sleepless nights.
In truth, the latter was not far from it. I tossed and turned, haunted not by specters but by the uncertainty of my own bloodline. I thought of speaking to someone, but who? A priest might offer biblical comfort, yet I doubted he would handle the issue with the delicacy it required. And besides, I did not wish to speak of my mother's past sins in the confessional. No, it was a cross I bore in silence.
Then, one afternoon, word arrived that the Frenchman, our long-awaited swordsmanship teacher, had finally arrived in the colonies.
The news stirred something inside me, something I had not felt in weeks: anticipation. Eli, on the other hand, was positively beside himself. If he'd spoken of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table once, he'd done so a hundred times. He fancied himself a modern-day Galahad and spent his spare moments swinging a stout branch at an old oak tree, all in the name of "strengthening his cutting arm."
I found the sight amusing. Silly as it was, Eli's spirit had a way of lifting the gloom, if only for a moment.
It was two days later, as I sat at the dining table nibbling on a coarse beef patty stuffed between stale bread—a crude ancestor to what might one day be called a hamburger—that Eli burst through the door like a cannonball.
"He's here!" he bellowed, cheeks flushed with exertion and eyes bright with excitement. "The Frenchman's arrived at last! He's down the road now—come, we must greet him!"
Even in my melancholy, the boy's enthusiasm was infectious. I set my food aside, brushed crumbs from my waistcoat, and followed him out into the golden afternoon light.
We stood on the porch, side by side, watching as a distant shape emerged on the horizon. At first, it was merely a dark figure against the amber fields, but as it drew nearer, details began to sharpen.
The man approaching us on horseback was no common traveler. He was perhaps thirty-five, tall and composed, with a clean-shaven face and well-groomed black hair that caught the sun in glints of blue. A deep blue cloak draped over his shoulders, fastened at the neck with a silver clasp. Across his back was slung a travel-worn satchel, and atop his head sat a wide, black felt hat, rimmed and feathered, more suited to a Parisian court than the farmland of Pennsylvania.
He reined in the horse with effortless grace and dismounted with the air of a man long practiced in showmanship. Stepping forward with boots clicking against the porch stones, he looked us over with sharp, discerning eyes.
"Are you the lads I am to teach?" he asked, his accent unmistakably French, though his English was well-practiced.
Eli stepped forward first and gave a slight bow. "Yes, sir. I am Eli Thompson, and this is John Carpenter."
I followed suit with a respectful nod. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."
The man regarded us both before offering a slight smile. "I am Alois de Armand. I have crossed an ocean to instruct you in the noble art of the sword. I shall speak with your grandfather now, but we shall soon begin your education."
With that, he ascended the porch steps and disappeared into the house without another word.
"Well," Eli said after a pause, "he's not lacking for confidence."
I chuckled, something I hadn't much done in days. "No, he certainly isn't."
We began our lessons the following day. But to our surprise, and mild disappointment, there was no swordplay. Not yet.
For the first week, and then the second, we trained with wooden rods under the hot sun. We practiced stance and footwork until our legs ached and our arms burned. Armand insisted that form preceded flourish, that the foundation must be strong lest the structure collapse. Though his tone remained calm, he brooked no foolishness. Sloppy form was met with stern correction, careless movement with long lectures on discipline and control.
"Balance," he would say, holding a yardstick between two fingers, "is the first virtue of the swordsman. A single misstep, and you invite the grave."
By the eighth day, our frustrations mounted. We longed to strike, to parry, to feel the weight of a real blade. Yet he still had us slashing the air with wooden sabers like children playing at war.
Then, without warning, Armand called Eli forward.
"You," he said, pointing with the tip of his practice blade. "Today, you spar with me."
Eli looked to me, uncertainty in his eyes. I gave a nod of encouragement, hiding the pang of jealousy that coiled in my chest.
From that day forward, Eli trained directly with Armand while I was left alone to repeat drills. I told myself it was fair, Eli had been the one to swing sticks at trees, after all, but after three days, my patience wore thin. On the fourth, I could bear it no longer.
I marched toward the training field where Armand and Eli circled each other, their wooden blades clacking like antlers in a duel. I stopped beside them and spoke firmly.
"Master Armand, why have I been cast aside? Have I done something wrong?"
The Frenchman regarded me with his usual impassive face. "Non. Your form is sound, your stance stable, your speed commendable. But there is no fire in your blade. You move because you were told to move, not because you wish to strike."
His words struck a nerve. "I want to learn! I've given all I have to these lessons—how can you say I lack desire?"
Armand turned to Eli. "Go inside. I must speak with your friend."
Eli glanced between us, then slipped away with a mutter, "Good luck."
When we were alone, Armand drew his blade and handed me another. "If you wish to prove yourself, duel me."
I accepted the blade, took my stance, and nodded.
What followed was no elegant ballet. I swung with power, but Armand parried each blow effortlessly. He dodged, he deflected, and when I lunged, he countered with the ease of a man swatting at flies.
"You strike, but without purpose. You move, but your heart is still. What burdens you, boy?"
At last, I lowered my blade. Sweat dripped from my brow. My chest heaved.
"I don't know who I am," I said.
Armand tilted his head.
"I mean... I know who raised me. My grandfather. My mother. But I know nothing of my father. He lives, yet he abandoned me. They won't speak of him."
Armand exhaled slowly. "Ah. You are a bastard, then."
The word stung, but there was no cruelty in his voice.
"I mean no insult. William the Conqueror was once called William the Bastard. Marcus Aurelius never knew his father. History is filled with men of greatness born of passion. But why does it matter who he is? "
I blinked. "But it matters. He made me. I have his blood."
Armand stepped closer. "He helped make your flesh, perhaps. But your soul? That belongs to those who nurtured it. Your grandfather. Your mother. Even your friend. Do not let the absence of one man define you. My father never knew his, he knew little of him apart from that he was a man in uniform who stayed in my grandmother's town for a month during a period of unrest."
He stepped back into stance. "Now again. And this time, fight for yourself—not for a ghost."
Something inside me shifted. I raised my blade again, and this time I fought not for approval, but for clarity. The duel was fierce. I even caught him once on the shoulder before he tapped my ribs in return.
When we paused, Armand nodded.
"Now, you are ready. Tomorrow, we begin true lessons."
He sheathed his blade and walked away, but his voice drifted back to me on the wind.
"Remember, John Carpenter—be not the shadow of another man. Be the maker of your own name."
And for the first time in a while, I believed that I could.