. . . Thomas made no sound. It was challenge enough for him to continue to put one foot in front of the otherforward little by little. Nom de nom! It felt good to allow himself to think in French again. He was old of a sudden. Or at least he felt abominably old. Too old to have buried four children and three wives and to have gotten himself into scrapes many a younger man would have fled from. At any rate, he felt far too old to perform covert services for his majest, the king and Compton; maybe he should have retired from the spy service years ago.

Stubbornly the aging spy forced any emotion or thought from his mind. His eyes rested ever so briefly on the hand that grasped his and through persistent tugs encouraged him to continue. A sigh escaped his chapped, weather-cracked lips. Hard to believe there had been a time when he had once been as determined as his son, a time when he had thought he could conquer the world and set all injustices right, not to mention live through it all. Life was even more fickle than society if one could believe that fine irony.

How long the odd pair trudged along in that wasteland neither had a clue. They simply walked in a rough quick shamble, though there was probably nothing simple about it.

After the interminably long period of wind gusts the boy looked up and squinted his eyes. "Mon Dieu," he whispered, not bothering this time to try to hold back the statement the Church might call using Gods name in vain.

Could it be? Could it possibly be what he thought it was? His labored steps took him closer, and the snowcovered wooden structure persisted to register to his senses. At that instant Christophe tugged his fathers hand and yelled at him to hurry, for there was shelter close ahead.

Thomas, Marquis de Langeacs head snapped up as his childs words finally registered. A surge of adrenaline rushed through his limbs, limbs suddenly awash with sensation after being deadened for so long. He dropped his sons hand, and both advanced more quickly than they had thought possible towards the only dwelling in the ice-covered expanse. A mere few steps ahead of his son, Thomas made it to the solid wooden door, and scarcely a second later he was knocking upon the portal.

Time ticked by, and no one arrived. Christophes father turned from the door, and his shoulders sagged; that door was too strong for him to break down in his present pitiful condition. Nor could his clumsy hands pick any lock until the warmth had been restored to them.

However, Christophe was not so complacent. Muscles worked at his jaw. One way or another he would find a way in. Christophe was not his fathers child for nothing. And with his temper simmering to the surface, that way in could well be anything. The boy slammed his fists against the door, yelling in German as he did so, spewing a long stream of virulent language that sounded out of place coming from such a young citizen of France. Nor was it marred by any trace of a French accent.

So absorbed in his tirade was the boy that he did not hear the bolt slipping from its place, and he was therefore caught off guard when the door creaked open. He tumbled forward a step before catching his balance and then found himself looking up into a pair of piercing eyes set in the face of a dark-haired man who was somewhere in his early thirties.

Had he been in a more temperate or less desperate state of mind, the boy would have cowered upon facing the imposing, evidently bad-tempered man. Instead Christophe plowed on in flawless German, apologizing briefly and then pleading for his father and explaining how sick Thomas was.

The dark-haired man glanced at the man the boy was speaking of, coldly assessing him. The older man did appear to be quite unwell and could die without immediate help. In all likelihood he would pass on anyhow. But Peter trusted no one during this turbulent time of war. Christophe saw the hardening in the Germanic mans face and knew that he was going to be condemned to be shut out in the cold unless he did something.

That was all it took. What was left of the boys frazzled control on his temper snapped, and he threw several choice insults at the large man, insults that made even Peter cringe. Boys did not speak that way. Nor did many men. If this were his boy hed

Peters hands snaked out to grab the wiry boy. Just before he could get a good grasp on the insolent upstart, strong hands stayed him. "Peter, nein," an attractive blond-haired man of some twenty years commanded. "I will handle this," the second Germanic man informed Peter with an authority that was unquestionable. The blond-haired young man surveyed Christophe and shook his head. "Qiara," he concluded so softly that only the boy heard.

Christophe froze as his eyes took in the young mans friendly face. "Pale," he mouthed without sound. It was Mickael. But the Prussian had left for England. Christophe had seen his ship leave. Yet here he was standing in front of the boy and obviously nowhere near England.

"Help the boys father," Mickael, better known to most of his countrymen as Erik, told Peter. "Ill take care of the boy. I know them," he added by way of assurance to the dark-haired man. Upon these words the marquis and his son were ushered into the warmth of the building and were attended by the two Prussians. . .

Kat Jaske www.forhonor.com 2006

Kat Jaske is an English and French teacher in Las Vegas, where her high school selected her swashbuckling fiction novel, For Honor, as the featured book for the 2006 Reading Incentive Program. If you cannot wait to read more of the story, order the book from the author's web site http://www.forhonor.com