It had been weeks since Madame Villehardouin had written to the chevalier purported to be his father, to ask for his aid in seeking matriculation of the young Aymeric into the Academie des Chevaliers in Val Royeaux. And it had been weeks, therefore, that Aymeric had waited with the jubilant restlessness that tired anyone in his presence.
It had been all he could talk about for days. He had waited weeks for the letter’s return, but had waited far longer, years longer, for some form of communication with his father, some small acknowledgement, recognition. Madame Villehardouin had always assured him that the chevaliers were the most honorable men in the nation, in all of Thedas. That death before dishonor was their code and their creed, and that his father, among the chiefest of their number, would be proud to have a son who followed in his footsteps.
But he knew what sort of answer he’d received when the lady of the house had spoken dismissively of his father that morning. First a gentle redirection of his asking after the letter, then a flurry of unbridled revile that turned to full on denunciation. How chevaliers were an ungodly lot, brutes that deserved the flames of Andraste’s wrath and worse (her son excepted, of course).
His father had not agreed to the sponsorship. Nor would he acknowledge Aymeric as his own. Not as a trueborn son, nor as a bastard. It was a a devastation Aymeric did not anticipate, and therefore could not prepare himself for. It was inconceivable to him that the only blood family he had left in this world would choose to remain unknown to him, he who had been raised among the tight-knit Villehardouins to honor and love the blood of their blood.
But he was not a Villehardouin. He was a servant who lived off the kindness of that extraordinary family, and had more important things to do in that commission than wax pathetic about a father he’d never known. He had work, chores to do. And after the morning’s tumult, it seemed the best to take his mind off that particular complication.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked briskly, walking into the proving grounds where the little Lady Verity waited. Avoiding her scintillate eyes as he breezed past, he snatched up a practice sword from the rack. “My apologies.” He squared his shoulders, widened his stance, raised his blade. “At your ready, demoiselle. I beg you not to go gentle on me today.”
