A few weeks passed since John had overheard that late-night argument between his mother and grandfather. Outwardly, life carried on as usual, but inside he was unraveling. He had always known he must have had a father somewhere, yet it had never mattered, William had filled that role completely. But now that he knew the man lived, that he had apparently abandoned them, and that by the standards of society John was a bastard, something in him ached.
When Eli, his family or the household servants asked why he looked so tired or quiet, John brushed it off as hay fever or restless sleep. The latter, at least, was true. He barely rested at all, lying awake through long nights, replaying snatches of overheard words and wondering who his father was. He knew enough about the world, and his own time before this one, to understand what he was feeling. Depression, they would have called it centuries later. But in the 1760s, there was no one to speak to about such things. The closest thing to a therapist was a priest, and John had no wish to discuss his mother's private life with a pastor.
Another month crawled by before news arrived that the French swordsman had reached the colonies and landed in Philadelphia. Excitement spread quickly through the household as anything new was interesting news. It would take several more days for him to travel north to the Carpenter estate, but the knowledge that he was finally on his way brought some spark back into John's dimmed spirits. Eli, of course, was ecstatic. He had filled his head with tales of King Arthur, William Marshal and other knights. He would often be found some nights "training" by smacking a stick against a tree, claiming it would "strengthen his cutting arm."
When the day of arrival came, John sat in the dining room over a simple lunch, bread, ground meat, and a smear of mustard, something that could be called a hamburger only by an act of charity. He had just set down his cup when the door burst open.
"He's here!" Eli shouted, his face lit with excitement. "The Frenchman's here! Come on, John, we've got to go!"
John rose at once, straightened his waistcoat and followed Eli outside. The two stood on the porch, looking out toward the long road that cut through the wheat fields. A dark speck appeared on the horizon and slowly grew until it took the shape of a rider on horseback.
As he drew near, the man looked entirely out of place among the quiet farms and hedgerows of Pennsylvania. He appeared no older than thirty-five, his face clean-shaven and his hair neatly tied back. A deep blue cloak draped his shoulders, and a large black cavalier hat shadowed his brow. His posture was perfectly straight, his movements deliberate and sure.
He dismounted with the smooth grace of a man long accustomed to court, then looked up at the two boys.
"Are you my new students?" he asked, his accent unmistakably French, rich, deliberate, and just slightly amused.
Eli puffed out his chest. "Yes, sir! I'm Eli Thompson, and this is John Carpenter."
John offered a polite bow.
The man nodded once. "I am Alois de Armand. I have been engaged to teach you the art of the sword. I shall speak with my employer first. We will begin when I return."
Without another word, he walked past them and into the house, boots striking the steps with crisp precision.
"Well," Eli said after a pause,"he seems… pleasant."
John chuckled faintly. "Oh, yes. Positively overflowing with joy."
The lessons began a few days later, though not in the way either boy expected. For the first two weeks, Alois forbade them from touching a sword. They drilled stances, footwork, and posture until their legs burned and their backs ached. When they finally received wooden practice sabers, they were told to repeat simple cuts and slashes over and over until the motions became instinctive.
"Once you can cut properly," Alois said in his clipped tone,"then you may begin to fight, until then practice."
The endless repetition soon wore on John's patience. Eli took to it cheerfully, but John wanted to test himself, to do something. On the eighth day, Alois approached during their morning drill and pointed at Eli.
"You," he said,"will spar with me today. Come."
Eli looked uncertainly toward John, who gave a small nod. "Go on," he said despite his exasperation. "Don't keep the man waiting."
For the next few days, Eli trained directly with Alois while John continued alone, practicing thrusts and parries until the movements blurred together. At first, he tried to convince himself it didn't matter, that patience was part of the process, but after four more days of training in solitude, resentment began to build.
By the sixth afternoon, he had had enough. He tossed his wooden blade into the dirt and marched toward the small clearing where Alois and Eli were training. Seeing the two fighting while he was over alone caused the feelings inside to burst out of him with more vitriol than he expected,
"What is going on?" he demanded, voice sharp and directed at Alois. "Why have I been standing out there doing the same thing for days while you ignore me? What am I doing so wrong?"
Alois turned to him calmly, his expression still unreadable. "Nothing," he said. "Your form is good. Your stance, adequate. Your timing, acceptable." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "But you lack will. You move well enough, but I see no conviction behind your movements."
John's temper flared. "No conviction? I'm the one who begged to learn this! I've done everything you told me to. How could I not want to learn sword fighting, in what way could I lack conviction?"
Alois glanced toward Eli. "Young Thompson, go to the house and get something to eat. I need a word with your friend."
Eli hesitated only a moment before hurrying off, giving John a small glance before he turned a corner, leaving the two alone.
"Very well," Alois said, stepping closer. "You wish to prove your resolve? Then we duel. Use what you have learned."
John felt a thrill of both fear and excitement. He ran over to a nearby chest and took up a spare wooden saber. He then returned and faced the Alois who gave a slight nod. "Your move," he said impassively.
John lunged first, striking from the right. Alois parried effortlessly. John followed with a thrust to the chest, but his teacher sidestepped, knocking his blade aside with a quick flick of the wrist. A counterstroke sent John stumbling backward. Recovering, he swung again, this time from above, but Alois simply stepped aside, as graceful as a dancer.
The duel continued for several minutes, John attacking furiously, Alois barely exerting himself. Sweat soaked through John's shirt. His lungs burned. Each time he thought he saw an opening, Alois slipped away, turning aside his blows with maddening ease.
Finally, Alois struck the wooden blade from John's hands and stepped back. "This," he said evenly,"is your problem. You fight as if your body were awake but your mind asleep. You are quick, yes, but not present. Your thoughts are somewhere else, clouded by something else."
John stood panting, head bowed filled with feelings he could not properly explain. "I just…" He swallowed hard trying to find the words. "I don't know who I am. I know my mother. My grandfather. But not my father. And it seems that no one will ever tell me."
Alois regarded him silently, then said,"So. You are a fatherless bastard. That explains much."
The words stung like a slap with their bluntness, but before John could speak, Alois continued, his tone still even. "Do not mistake me for cruel. Many great men were bastards. William the Conqueror was called William the Bastard before he became king. Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, never knew his father. You dwell on what you lack, when you should think on what you have."
John frowned, anger mixing with confusion. "What are you saying? I shouldn't focus on him? He's still my father, he and my mother made me, and yet it seems like he wants no part in my life."
Alois stepped forward, his tone steady and deliberate. "Your father may have given you life, but he did not make you who you are. The ones who raise you, teach you, and care for you, those are the people who shape the man you become. Your father only planted a seed, nothing more. It's the hands that tend that seed, the people who nurture and guide it, that allow it to grow into something real."
He leaned in, his eyes steady. "You want to understand who you are? You're the sum of your choices, the trials you've faced, the victories you've claimed, the mistakes you've made, and the bonds you've built. Those are what give you shape and meaning. But never forget, don't let the things you can't control be the ones that break you."
For a long moment, John said nothing. Then, slowly, something shifted in his eyes, the dull gray of despair hardening into focus. He picked up his practice sword and raised it again.
Alois smiled faintly. "Ah. There it is."
John lunged. This time his strikes came sharper. The duel stretched on, and though Alois still held the upper hand, John forced him to block in earnest. When they finally stopped, both were breathing harder than before.
Alois rested the wooden sword against his shoulder. "Better," he said. "Tomorrow we begin true lessons. Remember this, John Carpenter: a fit body is nothing without a learned mind, and both are worthless without purpose. Take control of your life. Be strong and remember that only one person can control you."
For the first time in weeks, John gave a small but genuine smile, and nodded. "I will."