Old World Thunder, New World Fire

Chrétien de Parthenay

New France

Chrétien de Parthenay (though he wished he was Chrétien de Châtellerault) paced back and forth in his new chambers. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it all. Not just the room: the house, Quebéc, the “New World”. Everything was strange here. The “capital” of New France was hardly a city at all–more like an enormous fort, one that felt naked without the strong castle walls he was used to. His new “manor” was tiny in comparison to any in the motherland, clustered right in between the homes of other high-ranking officials of the Compagnies Franches de la Marine.

Everything was tight in this city, smothering. Including his room. What the homes here lacked in size they made up for in opulence. His room and every other in this house was decorated head-to-toe in all manner of finery. The glaring of gilded frames reflected through enormous mirrors and crystal chandeliers, causing the whole room to glow from the lighting of a single candle. It was almost blinding, and Chrétien found himself closing his eyes often as he paced just to keep a burgeoning migraine at bay.

In truth, these were all distractions from his real worry: his sister. She was such a frail thing, far too delicate for her age. She was always getting herself into trouble, and foolish enough to think she’d be rid of her worries if she flung herself into the sea. Chrétien wasn’t blind–It was obvious what Le Vicomte intended for his little sister. The lord’s wife had the misfortune of being barren, and could not grant him any sons, so there was no reason to keep her. Le Vicomte intended to be rid of her, and replace her with Anne-Marie.

But what his sister saw as an inevitable prison, Chrétien knew to be a fortunate opportunity. In his mind, they both had to be realistic. Their name meant nothing now, not in King Louis’ vision for the future. There was no room for ancient relics like the castle Parthenay, and certainly not for Huguenots like his father. Le Vicomte was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and didn’t care how he got it. But Chrétien knew that there were far crueler nobles that his sister could be promised to, and far poorer nobles, too. In his nineteen years on this earth, he had learned that this was the way of the world: marry for power and money, bow and scrape to whoever’s above you so he might look upon you fondly. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

Still, he did not wish his adoptive father to be rid of his old wife so quickly, and certainly not to make a new one in his sister anytime soon. Le Vicomte wanted a son born of his blood as soon as possible, and Chrétien would do anything in his power to delay that as long as he could. After all, Chrétien was a pawn in this familial game as well, disposable at a moment’s notice. Le Vicomte treated him well now because Chrétien was the closest thing he had to a son. As soon as there was a boy that carried Le Vicomte’s blood, Chrétien would be discarded like trash on the street, and he was not about to let that happen.

A knock on the door stole Chrétien’s attention from his troubling thoughts. He opened it to see Le Vicomte de Châtellerault, dressed in his full uniform. Speak of the devil, and he shall arrive.

“We’re leaving,” Le Vicomte said, an urgency in his voice. “Put on your uniform as quick as you can. I’ll be waiting outside.”

“Why?” Chrétien asked. “What of Anne-Marie?”

“She’s fine. Doctor says she’ll make a full recovery.”

“Then let me see her at least, just for a minute.”

“There is no time–we leave at once. Unless, of course, you’d rather miss a first introduction with Le Marquis himself? And on the savage front, no less?”

“Surely I can speak to her for a brief moment. She’s my–”

“She is my ward, as are you. And you’ll do as I tell you.”

“I just want to make sure she’s alright.”

“What did I just say? She’s fine. Do you consider me a liar?”

“No, but–”

“But what?”

Chrétien bit his lip in frustration.

“No, Monsieur,” he said. “I do not consider you a liar.”

“I would hope not, for your sake. Now get dressed.”

Chrétien wanted to shoot back with something, but he knew it was futile. So he did as he was told, closing the door and stripping his clothes to change into his military outfit. Normally, there’d be a servant here to dress him, but they had fewer servants than ever here in the New World, and all the ones in the house were busy tending to his apparently-surviving sister.

He really was glad she was alright–not only because he cared for her as a brother, but also because she was his key to remaining under the peerage of Le Vicomte. All he had to do was to delay her giving him a son until he could secure a proper place here in this wild frontier, after which it wouldn’t matter anymore. She could marry him if she cared anything about her own future, or she could throw herself into the sea again if she didn’t. Part of him hated himself for caring so little about his dear sister’s plight, but he had no choice. Every event in his life leading up to this point had taught him one thing: look after yourself, because no one else will do it for you.

Chrétien hurried to clasp the last buttons on his coat, inspecting himself in the grand mirror on the wall. All these years and he still wasn’t really used to the way he looked. Despite the military garb he wore, and the haunted look in his eye, he had never been able to rid himself of the face of a child.

Ready now, he opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

“You took too long,” Le Vicomte said, immediately turning and pacing down the hallway. Chrétien walked briskly to catch up.

“Sorry,” he said.

Le Vicomte stopped, turning on his heel to look at the boy.

“Sorry what?” He asked.

“Sorry, Monsieur.”

Satisfied enough with the answer, he turned back around and continued towards and down the stairs, though not before giving Chrétien a look.

“I trust you won’t forget your manners when we meet Le Marquis and the other Capitaines who might be present,” Le Vicomte said.

“I won’t, Monsieur. You can rely on me.”

“Clearly I can’t, as you’ve just proven. You’re lucky I’m so forgiving–a crueler man would have forbid you to come. Introductions are too important to spoil, especially with hosts such as these.”

“Yes, Monsieur. I won’t make the same mistake in front of them.”

“I believe you, which is why I’m letting you come in the first place. Don’t fault yourself too harshly–one cannot be raised by a jungle ape and expect to not beat his chest every so often.”

Chrétien took the man’s words and ground them into dust between his teeth.

An officer was waiting for them in the foyer, and saluted Le Vicomte as he drew near.

“Welcome to the New World, Capitaine,” the man said. “My name is Corporal Boucher. I am to escort you through the city to the river. A canoe awaits you there to transport you to Le Fort Frontenac.”

“A canoe!” Le Vicomte laughed giddily. “How quaint! We are surely in the New World now!”

“I understand you have arrived only recently,” the Corporal replied. “While we must make haste to the river, I will do my best to give you a tour of the city as we go.”

The three made their way down the large hill Quebéc was built upon. Chrétien studied the row of houses that he and the other nobles lived in. In time, he would need to learn the inhabitants of each one, and commit them to memory. The politics of French nobility was an intricate and complex game of etiquette, secret alliances, and unspoken rules, and his swordmaster had always told him to never play a game if you were not familiar with all the pieces.

“You can think of Quebéc as two cities,” Boucher explained. “We are now in the Upper Town, which is the military center of the city. Obviously, it is the site of the many homes of the town’s leaders and marine officers, but it also houses the Jesuit college and the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Le Vicomte asked. “So if I am wounded, I am to be treated alongside poors and savages?”

“Yes and no, Capitaine. There are talks of building another hospital for the poor, though as far as I am aware there is a lack of funding for such a project at the moment. For the savages, there are few inside the city proper. Many are traveling constantly for trade, and those that have chosen to stay tend to live outside the walls in their huts. The Canonesses of St. Augustine have built an outpost of sorts there to tend to the sick and wounded among the savages, of which there always seem to be many. That being said, those that are wounded or ill inside the city’s limits are admitted to l’Hôtel-Dieu, just as you would be if a doctor’s visit would not be sufficient.”

“Hmph. Let us hope we never fall ill, for we are sure to catch other plagues in a hospital with no standards.”

“I will pray for your health, Capitaine,” the Corporal said, though Chrétien could swear there was a light mocking in his tone.

Corporal Boucher led them through a gate in the wooden walls surrounding the Upper Town. The difference as they entered the Lower Town was immediately apparent–the city was bustling with people. Smells of all different kinds permeated Chrétien’s nostrils: meats, oils, perfumes.

“The fortifications here are… rather sparse, wouldn’t you say?” Le Vicomte asked.

“They are all that is needed,” the Corporal replied. “The Iroquois do not raid this far into our territory.”

Chrétien watched Le Vicomte’s reaction: his brow furrowing, his lip curling downward. He did not look convinced.

They walked through a large square, squeezing through crowds of busy people as they shuffled by. Finally, Chrétien witnessed something he had never seen before, the thing he looked forward to seeing the most in this New World: the ones everyone called “savages”. Upon looking at them here, he could not understand the moniker: they bartered with Frenchmen just like anyone would, and looked civilized enough. Some of them wore strange clothes, and painted their faces, but some of them dressed in French garb and wore French hairstyles. He could have sworn he even saw one wearing a wooden cross necklace, even though he’d been told the savages did not recognize Christ, and worshipped lesser things like beasts and plants. He would reserve his judgment though–he had often found first impressions to be deceiving.

“This is Le Place Royale,” the Corporal explained. “It is where most of the action is, you could say. If you are ever in need of something, you need only to send a servant to buy it. The markets here are host to all the splendors the New World has to offer.”

“I see,” Le Vicomte said. “Given all the gold the King is spending to maintain our settlements here, I expected something a bit more… grandiose.”

They passed by a stall of fine furs of all different sizes and colors, several of which caught Le Vicomte’s eye.

“Perhaps I have misspoke,” the lord chuckled. “I will have to visit upon my return for a rug to christen my new home.”

As they made their way to the river, Chrétien’s eyes were drawn to an enormous bust of King Louis in the center of the square. A not-so-subtle reminder of who really rules this place. The bust was the only thing in this part of the city that wasn’t completely filthy–it must have been built recently, then. Chrétien committed the image of that bust to memory best he could, recalling another lesson from his swordmaster: a puppet who cannot see his strings can never hope to sever them.

After their brief tour, the three finally arrived at the river, where two dozen long wooden canoes floated in wait. All but two were already filled with six soldiers apiece–Chrétien recognized most of them as the ones who traveled on the same ship as him, members of the new company that Le Vicomte commanded.

“Oh!” Le Vicomte clapped his hands in joy, as if the canoes were a zoo attraction. “This is simply marvelous–next we’ll be handed tomahawks instead of rifles.”

The Corporal helped the two into a canoe, then boarded his own next to them. At once, the soldiers began to row. Chrétien noticed the ones rowing were the only ones he didn’t recognize–I suppose they don’t want our new soldiers to make fools of themselves.

“I thought this would be akin to a Venetian Gondola,” Le Vicomte mused. “But we are traveling quite fast, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Capitaine,” the Corporal explained. “The savages’ vessels are far superior to ours in the rivers and lakes of their lands, and they have taught us to craft and row them in exchange for our lessons in musketry. We are fortunate as well, for the tribes of our enemies and the English do not know how to make them, and their canoes are hewn from heavier wood. For them, this journey would take them two weeks or longer, but our veterans have traveled to this fort many times, and we should be there in a manner of days.”

“It seems we have picked the right allies then,” Le Vicomte mused. “Though I am delightedly surprised to know that even savages can understand the value of naval superiority.”

Chrétien ignored the two men’s banter, looking out to the surrounding scenery. It was late fall, and most of the trees had shed their leaves, casting a blanket of beautiful oranges and reds upon the ground. Some others seemed to be evergreen, though, creating quite the contrast in the tapestry of the land–needles of green next to naked brown branches, both hanging above that autumnal sea beneath.

As his adoptive father prattled on about nothing, Chrétien wondered why some trees were forced to shed their leaves and grow them anew. It must be exhausting work, being reborn. He wondered if the trees ever missed a certain arrangement, if they ever tried to replicate how the leaves grew in a past season. No doubt every time the leaves regrew, something was lost in the transition–some pattern, some memory, some fragment of the tree’s soul, if trees had such a thing. Perhaps that was what the savages worshipped: that divine soul of nature, that hidden essence present in all living things. It made some strange sense to him, in a way. After all, in all his years on this earth, he had never once witnessed the grace or mercy of God.