Fabien sidled up to Philippe and handed him the flower-embroidered handkerchief. Chevalier saw it and quickly pulled Philippe away. They continued to promenade through the crowd. Philippe took elegant steps, his head high.

Then several teenaged boys tittered behind their hands. This caused a ripple; adults began to whisper carefully to one another, confused and off-put. Neither Philippe nor Chevalier seemed to notice.

But then came a loud, throaty chuckle that quickly grew into roaring laughter. Philippe turned to face the man, a battleworn, middle-aged warrior with steely eyes.

“You mock me,” asked Philippe, pursing his lips.

The warrior smirked. “How can I not? You are an embarrassment to the King.”

Nobles gasped. Swiss guards stepped closer, watching, ready.

“Mock me,” said Philippe, “you mock my brother. Which makes you a traitor.”

“I defeated the Turks at Saint Gotthard in the name of the King. That sound like a traitor to you?”

“You sounded like one when you opened your mouth.”

“If I smite you, you will fall. Which makes me a dead man.”

“You have my word, you are free to strike. If you dare. Coward.” Philippe pointed at the guards to make sure they knew to let the men fight. The nobles stepped back. Tailors scrambled anxiously to protect their wares.

The warrior bowed mockingly then charged Philippe, grabbed him with both hands, and slammed him against the wall. Philippe coughed, struggled, pulled free. He drove his fist into the warrior’s jaw. The warrior stumbled but regained his footing. He took hold of Philippe’s arm, ripping the sleeve of the dress then hurling the King’s brother backward again. Philippe twisted about and landed a solid blow to the warrior’s face. The warrior clasped his fists together into a club and brought them down on Philippe’s head. Grunting and spitting blood, Philippe crashed to the floor. His face struck, hard, tearing a long gash into the flesh of his cheek. The warrior stood over him, panting, his yellow teeth bared.

Guards stepped closer but Philippe managed to lift his hand. “Stand down,” he coughed. “He has my word.”

The guards withdrew. Philippe wiped blood from his face, kicked off his shoes, and staggered to his feet. The warrior snarled, snatched an iron from a dressing table, and swung the thick metal block. Philippe ducked out of the way. He grabbed a long hatpin from the model behind him, jumped forward, and drove the pin deep into the warrior’s eye.

The warrior dropped the iron and bellowed. He flailed, unable to grasp the pin with his sweaty fingers, and collapsed to his knees. Philippe grabbed a halberd from a guard and approached the wounded warrior. With an expression of satisfaction and exoneration, he raised the heavy staff, ready to bring it down.