A boy, still a teenager and young to many of those around him, pants heavily wielding a wooden sword and shield. A man, holding similar implements, stands opposite the boy stands ready for the attack whilst the boy can barely keep the shield up.
"Your Grace, it is your attack."
The two always practiced their skills together in the morning and afternoon. Despite the dropping temperatures outside, the practice was still held outside in a nearby meadow. The air was crisp and a brief breeze rose up from the north occassionally. Still, the boy's face shined a bright red and glistened from perspiration. He raised his head slightly to speak.
"Monsieur," The boy lowered his gaze again and reached up to wipe the sweat off his brow. The boy, Duke Louis and brother to King Charles VI, struggled to carry on the ceaseless sparring necessary of squires in addition to the endless stream of merchants, peasants, and vassals wanting something, just about anything. The man, sensing the boy's weariness, lowered his shield arm and began to close the distance between the two.
Seeing the opportunity presented, Louis jumped into action. Bringing both arms up for a successful strike, Louis bounded towards his regent and guardian. M. Mamont, suddenly on his guard, half brought up his shield but instead deftly sidestepped the charging boy. With the flat of his sword, M. Mamont slapped the duke's back with stinging cry echoing out the boy's throat.
The boy fell to ground. Both sword and shield were dropped and Louis struggled to relieve the welt on his back at the same time culling the moisture at the base of his eyes. The boy rolled around to face his elder, half-kneeling. His eyes spoke of rage and one recalls many such looks from boys his age.
"Monsieur, it is a crime to strike your superiors."
M. Mamont walked calmly back to the boy and offered his hand to pick the boy up from the ground onto his feet. Louis refused and grunted his back upright then cocked his head back again to look into the eyes of M. Mamont. The older man and knight of France spoke.
"Your Grace should know better than to surprise an unready foe. God in Heaven saw to it that your deceit was not rewarded. Remember that the next time you believe an advantage is to be had by acting sinisterly."
The two had begun to walk back toward the castle where they kept court. The two stayed silent, yet one was more brooding than the other. Finally, the boy spoke again, tone of voice light and to the point as if no slight or injury had been done.
"Any word from my brother, Monsieur?"
"None, Your Grace. Do you wish to visit Paris and see him personally?"
"No...is there anything else that we are to do during the winter."
"We write, Your Grace. France has enemies but allies, too. Should any marching be done when the snow melts, it is best that you are in line with Church and your peers. And it best be that those peers be favored to the cause of France as the defender of Church. Your Grace need not be alone in these matters. I have prepared a letter for Your Grace to the Kingdom of Castille-Leon should you choose to look over it. It can be sent without delay once Your Grace's seal lies upon the missive."
Louis appeared to be thinking about this some as the two made their way past the outer walls of Orléans with peasants already bowing and clearing a path for the two nobles.
"Very well, Monsieur. We shall look over this letter."
"Very good, Your Grace."