Two Stories

The greatest sword of the greatest swords

On one of the brightest, bluest days of summer, the most illustrious, prestigious blacksmith across the mountains felt the signs that his spirit would soon be sent by God Tengri to the underworld. He therefore decided to create one last work, one last sword: the greatest sword of the greatest he had ever made.

True that both the health and the mind of the blacksmith had begun to decline, yet no one in the region had come close to matching his forging skill, as proven by the dozens of weapons he’d made for dozens of khans, either those who had nothing left but legends and those who were still dwelling in this realm. The blacksmith himself was no longer sure of how many requests for “the greatest sword” had been granted by him; and when the news of his ultimate work spread throughout the region, unfurling from valley to valley, from hill to hill, from tribe to tribe, without delay khans of various tribes sped on their horses toward the blacksmith’s yurt, hoping to claim the sword.

The first to arrive was Khongkhai Khan, whose tribal dominion happened to be directly behind one of the mountains near the blacksmith’s yurt. Right after handing over all kinds of gifts and offerings—given by the khan’s associates and received by the blacksmith’s only servant—Khongkhai Khan conveyed the purpose of his arrival: “I want the greatest sword of the greatest swords that soon will be born from your hands.”

“Ah yes, my lord Khongkhai Khan. Look, if I am not mistaken, it was only two years ago that I made you the greatest sword—or was it three years ago? And now you want the greatest sword again?”

Next was Tomorbaatar Khan, who came from the peak opposite that of the first guest. This one expressed a similar desire: “May you, the greatest blacksmith for whom I have the greatest respect, entrust the greatest sword of the greatest swords to me?”

“Ohohoho, the wise and virtuous Tomorbaatar Khan, you’ve come to me twice: first, you asked for the greatest sword; second, you asked for a greater sword than the greatest sword that you’d asked for before. And now you’re asking for the greatest sword of the greatest swords, too? Wait a minute—was it you or Sukhbataar Khan? Wait, wait . . .”

The third was Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan, who had travelled across three valleys, two crests, three pastures, and four forests to appear before the blacksmith. “With respect for you, the grand and glorious blacksmith of the mountains, the purpose of my arrival today is none other than to hope that you will grant me the last work of yours, the greatest sword of the greatest swords.”

“Well, well, Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan, haven’t I ever made you the greatest sword? Let me first remember the precise request you made the last time you came to me: you asked me to create the greatest sword out of the greatest swords I’d made for you and for your opponents, right? And if rumors aren’t wrong, with this sword you’ve managed to vanquish your nemesis, Nugai Khan, whose sword was also forged by myself, or was it Nekhii Khan? Wait a minute, your mortal enemy wasn’t Oktai Khan, huh?”

Next came Mongolekhorniiugluu Khan, followed by Ulagan Khan, and the next morning came Turgen Khan, then Khunbish Khan. Then Batbayar Khan and Batjargal Khan appeared at the same time, and there was a fierce argument that would’ve ended in bloodshed had the blacksmith not stopped them immediately. Later on were Timicin Khan, Medekhgui Khan, Batuhan Khan, Naranbaatar Khan, Dzhambul Khan, Batzorig Khan, and khans from every tribe of the mountains, each with the same request and the same hope. However, the blacksmith himself hadn’t yet determined to whose hands this last work of his would be entrusted; in fact, he didn’t want to bother thinking about it.

Day after day, the blacksmith was relentlessly and meticulously forging his final work; then suddenly, one morning at the beginning of autumn, the servant entered the blacksmith’s workshop and found his master lying beside a sword. At first, he suspected his master had fallen asleep while working, so he tried to wake him, but he was wrong. He found a will near his master’s body. Quickly, the news that the blacksmith had died after completing his last sword spread.

The khans of the mountains raced to the blacksmith’s yurt, not wanting to arrive later than the others, and within days the yurt was crowded with people, leaders from various tribes who were ready to claim ownership of the final sword whatever the stakes were. The late blacksmith’s servant gathered all the khans, invited them to warm themselves around the fire, and delivered the last will of his master:

All my best wishes for you, each and every great khan of the region. All of my life you’ve come to me asking for “the greatest sword”: “greater than the one that you’ve made for any of your rivals” or “greater than any swords that you’ve made before.” In the final days of my life, all of you’ve come to me again one by one, asking me to entrust the final sword I’d make to you, “the greatest sword of the greatest swords”—that is what it’s called. But I can’t determine which of you is worthy of this final sword; one of you came to convince me that he was the strongest and bravest of all khans, another one claimed to be the most sagacious and sharp witted, another was the most gracious and virtuous, and many others came with other claims; yet it was still impossible for me to determine.

I continued to reflect on this problem while working on the sword, and one thought crossed my mind: as all of you already know, as a blacksmith, I’ve always tried to go beyond what I’ve ever made before; never once did I forge a sword that is weaker than the previous one—that’s how I always work and that’s how I’ve earned my reputation. But I’m old and my mind has begun to weaken. I started to forget many things, including the order of the swords I’ve made. I can’t remember which of the swords was created earlier than which, and the notes I made were so chaotic and irregular that reading them made me even more confused and crazy. So, I herewith decide that “the greatest sword of the greatest swords” will fall into the hands of the khan who holds the previous greatest sword of the greatest swords, or the next to the last sword, or simply the penultimate sword. Thus, each and every great khan of the region for whom I have the greatest respect, may this final work of mine be owned and used fittingly by the right hands. Farewell.

The khans fell silent after the servant had finished reading. Suddenly, Ganbataar Khan, who was sitting in the middle, exclaimed, “Gentlemen, forgive me if I am presumptuous, but one thing I am sure of: I am the one who held the last sword before the last sword.” Lkhagvasüren Khan couldn’t stand hearing that and immediately protested, “With all due respect, Ganbataar, but as I recall, my trusted men once reported that your sword was forged four summers ago while my sword was made two years after that; now, which do you think is greater according to your logic?” Then it was Otgonbayar Khan’s turn to deny the claims of his fellow khans. Arban Khan invited himself to join in claiming to be the penultimate sword’s holder, then Gantulga Khan, Bat-Erdene Khan, Oyuunchimeg Khan, and so the yurt was filled with the squabble of the khans.

“My khans, please listen!” the servant shouted, and after the quarrel shrank to silence, he continued, “Now please let me speak. Allow me to make a proposal, my honorable khans. What if each of your swords were tested, or let’s say put in a kind of match so that you could claim the ownership of ‘the greatest sword of the greatest swords’?”

“You want us all to slaughter each other, is that so?” Qutlugh Khan interrupted.

“No, that is not what I meant, my lord; there’s no need for bloodshed to find out which sword is the greatest among yours. We only need to put them in a match against each other—the blades and not the person. Just pit them, make them collide against each other—many, many times if necessary—until one of them cracks or breaks, thereby losing.”

The khans then whispered to each other, muttered to one another, and deliberated together, considering the proposal on every strength and flaw, every advantage and disadvantage, point after point, and a few moments later, they agreed with one voice to do the match.

They went down to the nearest valley, and in the middle of a vast grassland the match was held. The first opponents to be chosen from a random draw were Qadan Khan and Ulagan Khan. Both men set their position and hold of hands, both established their stance and concentration to swing their swords, both were breathing carefully and cautiously, waiting for the countdown from the khan appointed to referee the battle. One... two... three... clank! Both swords survived. One... two... three... clank! The sound was echoing loudly, yet neither fell. One... two... three... clank! One... two... three... After a total of six clanks, Qadan Khan’s sword broke, the tip bouncing backwards and almost hitting one of the khan’s men, who was swift enough to dodge it. After that, Batbayar Khan and Chaghatai Khan came face to face, and on the seventh blow, a crack appeared on Batbayar Khan’s sword. The crack got bigger on the eighth blow, and the khan was declared defeated. Then it was Dzhambul Khan and Chuluun Khan’s turn, and the sword belonging to the former was destroyed by the latter. Ganbaatar Khan’s sword conquered Erden Khan’s. Gansukh Khan’s destroyed Gantulga Khan’s. A fierce clash between Naranbaatar Khan and Mongolekhorniiugluu Khan ended with both swords breaking together. Ogtbish Khan broke Terbish Khan’s steel in one blow, as if the latter were made of rotten wood. Chuluunbold Khan came face to face with his nemesis, Timicin Khan, and the two would’ve been killing each other if Nekhii Khan weren’t vigilant as the referee. Oyuunchimeg Khan uprooted the blade of Turgen Khan, Oktai Khan destroyed Nugai Khan’s, Lkhagvasüren Khan wrecked Batjargal Khan’s... And so for several days, sword after sword clashed, crashed, smashed, and shattered, and khan after khan had to discard the dream of possessing “the greatest sword of the greatest swords.” Finally, there were only two khans left, or rather two swords that survived: Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan’s and Lkhagvasüren Khan’s. The two men were ready, their eyes sharp and alert, their grip firm. One... two... three... clank! One... two... three... clank! clank! clank! The two swords were thundering. Clank! clank! clank! The echoes rang through valleys and mountains. Clank! clank! clank! All eyes stared every time arms began to swing. Clank! clank! clank! No one knew how long they’d been fighting nor how many times the two blades had been colliding. Clank! clank! The air around them seemed to burst, shatter, and scatter. Clank! A crack appeared on the sword of Lkhagvasüren Khan. Clank! The crack widened! Clank! The sword could no longer resist, and then Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan proudly held his sword high and roared a long cry of victory. However, when the victor swung his sword in excitement, the sword that had been trying its best to withstand every hit and blow cracked, its sharp edge shattering, and Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan also lost his sword.

Nevertheless, after a lengthy and fiery discussion by the khans, Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan remained the winner.

Long story short, they returned to the yurt, and the servant handed his master’s final work to the legitimate winner. With eyes sparkling, Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan opened the buffalo skin wrapped around the sword and revealed “the greatest sword of the greatest swords.” All the other khans goggled at the weapon—observing each and every detail of the blade, remarking its dimensions, the shape of the grip, the precision of the point, the carvings on the ridge, the tang, the cross grip, the arch—and couldn’t help but feel both admiration and jealousy growing inside them.

Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan took the sword out, held it high, ran his fingers slowly from side to side, from the base to the tip, trying to feel the solid and sturdy iron on his fingertips. He swung it right and left as if assessing the weight and stability, demonstrated various techniques of stance and handling in order to seek a harmony between the weapon and his hand. At one point, he couldn’t resist testing it. He brandished it in every direction, then saw a log nearby, and bam! He cut the target perfectly in half, but of course, it was only a frail, rotten piece of wood. His eyes wandered, looking for challenging prey, and he found a lump of stone as tall as his chest. Sure the impact of his new sword could cause a decent crack in it, he waved his sword back, warming up, made sure his footing and grip were steadfast, and . . . clank! A crack appeared that widened within seconds, but not on the stone: it was his sword. “The greatest sword of the greatest swords” had lost to the stone.

Naimanzuunnadintsetseg Khan could not believe what had just happened in front of his eyes. The other khans were astonished and silenced watching it all, everyone wondering how the final masterpiece of the most skilled blacksmith could be defeated in one blow by a mere stone.

The khans flocked back into the yurt with the intention of asking the only person who was believed to hold the answer, but he was nowhere to be found. The late blacksmith’s servant had disappeared, escaped. The khans then ordered their subjects to comb through the surrounding valleys, mountains, fields, and forests, but it was useless: the servant couldn’t be found.

The night before each of them left and returned to his respective territory, the khans once more gathered in the blacksmith’s yurt, trying to solve the mystery of what had just befallen them. After an extensive and thorough deliberation, two possibilities were drawn: first, the blacksmith’s senility had affected his expertise greatly so that when he worked on his final sword, instead of creating the greatest of the swords, he produced the weakest; second, there was a purpose behind all this, a secret intention, a mysterious object, a mission, or rather, as some khans called it, a scheme. This was what made the blacksmith produce a sword so fragile and made them believe that it was really the last greatest weapon to be forged by his skilled hands . . . What was exactly the motivation behind all of this none of them could guess or imagine. One thing they could admire for sure if the second possibility were true was how the blacksmith could deceive them by forging a sword that looked so strong and solid on the outside yet was so fragile on the inside: that was the achievement of a true master.

Finally, the khans returned to their respective tribes. They brought home their broken hopes and swords. For the next few months, they would be busy searching for a skilled blacksmith in the region, one who would be able to create a new “greatest sword” for them. This meant that there would be neither war nor conflict for the time being, for who among those brave leaders would not feel ashamed to stand bravely at the front line without a sword?

Translation from Indonesian by the author

Chevalier d’orange

It wasn’t clear where it began, but all of a sudden the entire kingdom had its own speculations. There were two major sides: (1) Chevalier d’Orange was really a woman who had been pretending to be a man, and (2) the suspicions pertaining to the gender of the Chevalier were stupid, lies lacking in basis. How could a woman be that agile and swift when swinging a lance, a javelin, or a pike while riding a horse? What was even more mad was the suspicion that d’Orange did not reside in either of the two categories—was neither a man nor a woman.

The rumors began as a joke that became critical when more and more citizens became certain that Chevalier d’Orange could not be a man. The reasons were many and even had elaborate details.

“His face is too beautiful for a man. What’s more he has long, red locks— you have seen his face when his hair is untied, without a hat, without an iron helmet, right?” a girl said to her lover, who was none other than Chevalier d’Orange’s underling.

“Of course I have, my dear, but that reason is too preposterous. Just because he’s too beautiful to be a man doesn’t mean he’s a woman,” replied her lover, with a delicate tone so as not to make his girlfriend pout.

In truth, thinking “his face is too beautiful” was reasonable, as there certainly was no other young man in the kingdom who could be called “beautiful”—and not “handsome” or “good looking”—other than Chevalier d’Orange. In fact, his “beauty” exceeded the attractiveness of some women, who became jealous and would never agree with such rumors. It was as if the bones of his face were chiseled to be a woman’s; his body was tall and slender, his eyelashes tapered, his lips full and red, and the curve of his nose was not as prominent as the nose of most men. However, his mannerisms were far from womanly. Chevalier d’Orange was masculine, gallant, and brave; his melodious voice could become firm and resolute when he led his army to the war arena, and that was why no one called him a sissy even though his face was not manly. That was always the response of the supporters of Chevalier d’Orange, who were mostly young, virile men (and some teenaged girls infatuated with his toughness)—especially his underlings, family members, and colleagues, including all the men who sat in the cabinet and council of the kingdom.

Naturally, the men became plagued by the idea that the knight, who was a meritorious member of the kingdom, was a woman and not a man. In the barracks, a legion member who was led by the Chevalier often sneered at the rumors. “Could it be possible that our leader is a woman? Hahaha!”

They, too, would jokingly argue with their lovers. “It’s not possible that Chevalier d’Orange is a woman. Do you see any curves on his chest?” they’d ask. This, of course, was swiftly met with “Not every woman has a big and bulging chest, you know!”

In truth, not much was known about Jacques d’Orange, the Chevalier. His background information was fragmented, and all the blurry parts invited much speculation. It was no secret that he was born in a family of nobles without titles in a village near the kingdom. His father, a landowner whose name wouldn’t be famous if it weren’t for his son’s gender issues, had died when he was a child. Since he was young, Jacques d’Orange had been a landowner whose every need was met, though they were not abundant. He spent his days mostly with his mother, who had him study everything involving law and economy, especially those that concerned the ownership of property and land. Though young Jacques was studious and smart, he preferred to hone his combat skills or read about war tactics rather than take care of his inheritance. Because of that, at eighteen, when the army with turbans invaded from the south, he ran away from home and signed up as a soldier.

Within a short time, he displayed his prowess in every arena, making his name known far and wide. And when he succeeded in defeating a competing commander in a fierce duel during a war on the south coast, Jacques’ rank in the army rapidly rose. After the war ended and the kingdom achieved stability, Jacques was promoted to lieutenant. At the time, he was not yet twenty. Unfortunately, his mother died right at that time. Not long after reaching the age of twenty, he was a commander, and later, because of his merits in organizing strategies at every invasion, he became a general. He was barely twenty-five. Because of his triumphs in leading the cavalry legion, the King bestowed the title Chevalier on him.

More than that, not much was known about Chevalier d’Orange. The man was renowned for being reserved and very discreet, even in everyday conversation. Every relation and connection he had with other people was formal at best. There was no one who was able to socialize with him at a personal level, no one had ever entered his bedroom (even his maids were forbidden to do so), and because of that, no one was able to confirm whether Chevalier d’Orange was a man or a woman.

Some people had tried to peek from the ventilation hole on the toilet wall when he was defecating, but the hole was too small and high, so all they could get was the top of wavy red hair—other than, of course, the stinging sound and smell of defecation.

“He must be a man,” concluded one of the peepers, “no woman would defecate like that!” But the other peeper wouldn’t relent, saying, “When my cousin was pregnant, she defecated like that!”

Of course there were those who, without dallying in small talk or shaming, asked him bluntly, “M. d’Orange, are you a man or a woman?” In the face of a direct question, Chevalier d’Orange simply smiled and retorted, “Well, what does it look like?” Then he would walk away without caring how the person received his answer.

Though he hid his personal life firmly from the public eye, he was quite relaxed, even indifferent, about the rumors circling around him. He was more interested in maintaining the borders of the kingdom from attack by hundreds of leading legions of the Caballus from the north as well as protecting the southeast border from the troops of the Caballero and Cavaleiro from the neighboring country.

Even so, every day the speculations about his gender multiplied. Those who were loyal to him believed that he was a man but started to feel that they needed validation to silence the skeptics. Those who were sure that Chevalier d’Orange was a woman refused to be won over and disclosed a wide variety of theories.

One day, several young women who were fans of Chevalier d’Orange and certain that he could not be a woman marched through the market, the park, and the streets, dressed in men’s clothes. They bound their bosoms firmly, tied up their hair, and hid it underneath a hat or an iron helmet, acting and behaving like men and even teasing those they encountered with crude jokes more suitable for a pub. Many people were bothered and thought of the masquerade as evidence of decadence, and later the police officially banned the anarchic performance, even though several women still performed in the privacy of their bedrooms.

The King seemed to disregard the whole silly affair for a while, but was secretly curious. Even so, he didn’t have the heart to ask the Chevalier, who had served the kingdom so valiantly. Clandestinely, the King sent spies to follow the Chevalier. The first spy was unsuccessful in his attempt to slip in the private bedroom: it was heavily locked, and only the Chevalier had the key. To the King, the spy reported his conclusion that the Chevalier must be a woman.

Unsatisfied, the King sent a second spy, who also did not succeed in slipping into the bedroom. In his report, the second spy concluded that the Chevalier must be a man.

When the Chevalier fell in love with a woman from a small town on the south coast of the kingdom, the mystery of Chevalier d’Orange’s gender became critical, heated, even more intense. Rumor had it that he had been in love with the woman for years and had only then mustered up the courage to write a letter expressing his overwhelming love for her. Unfortunately, it was read by the snoopy messenger, who later spread the rumor.

As a result of this, the kingdom was in an uproar: knowing that there was a possibility of a woman disguising herself as a man and fighting valiantly on the battleground was a different issue from knowing there was a possibility that a woman was in love with another woman. The latter was a sin against nature that could not be forgiven. So it wasn’t strange that the story of the love affair between Chevalier d’Orange and the girl from the coast was discussed in the tones of a scandal, in near disgust. Many who were staunch believers that the Chevalier was a woman now feared the consequences of their faith.

In response to the scorn of the public, the girl and her entire family fled to a country far away. In the midst of the commotion, a new rumor appeared: in exchange for the masculine features he had, the Chevalier had sold his soul to the devil. A group of people incited by the rumors demanded that the authorities burn the heathen Chevalier at a stake.

In order to quash the rumor, the King asked Chevalier d’Orange to appear before him. In the meeting—which was witnessed only by a trusted advisor of the kingdom—the King asked, “O Chevalier d’Orange, are you a woman or a man?”

“Your majesty, if the kingdom wishes for me to be a woman, then I will be a woman,” he said as he kneeled in front of the throne.

“Does that mean you are not a woman?”

“Your majesty, if the kingdom wishes for me to be a man, then I will be a man.”

The King sighed, as if restraining his emotion, and then replied, “Oh, poor Chevalier, why don’t you declare what your gender is so this whole silly affair can end here?” The trusted advisor then whispered to the King, and an ultimatum was proclaimed: “Whether you want to or not, you must undergo a public hearing if you refuse to take off all your clothes right now. . .” The King coughed uncomfortably and continued, “To prove to us what you really are.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty, I love the kingdom and it is my duty to protect it, but I refuse to partake in this debacle and debase myself in this way.”

The King winced and lumbered at the unexpectedly uncomfortable situation.

The next day, the Chevalier faced the public hearing. However frequent and loud the questions, the Chevalier’s answers to the presiding judge were not much different from those he gave the King, and when the presiding judge asked him to take off his clothes—a request that elicited a rumble of oohs and ahhs from the raucous crowd—the Chevalier uttered the same objection.

Distempered, the presiding judge ordered three guards to forcefully undress him, but the Chevalier easily disabled them, and quickly pointed a dagger at his own neck—which also elicited boisterous oohs and ahhs.

“Your Honor, I would rather die than humiliate myself,” said the Chevalier.

Following the King’s orders that not a drop of blood would be shed in the debacle—especially one that would endanger Chevalier d’Orange, whose service was still needed by the kingdom—the presiding judge, who was already at a loss, asked the Chevalier to put down his dagger and promise that the hearing would commence without violence.

In short, as the last resort, the judge decided to call several wise men and great thinkers from every part of the kingdom. Chevalier d’Orange appeared before them, and those long-bearded men then inspected the appearance of the Chevalier and debated among themselves.

After a wait of one day and one night that stirred the entire kingdom, the court had decided: Chevalier d’Orange was a woman. The proclamation was received with a raucous round of oohs and ahhs. And because she was now officially a woman, the name of Jacques no longer befitted her, so the court decided to give her a new name: Jacqueline d’Orange. As women were prohibited from joining the military, let alone leading a legion at the front lines, regardless of how meritorious and prestigious in the past, the title Chevalier was repealed and she was retired with a pension for the rest of her life. Moreover, as the kingdom didn’t allow women to have rights to land and wealth, especially in abundance—including inheritance from their own fathers—she was obligated to quickly marry. Before she managed to get married, her wealth and land would be taken over by the kingdom; for the time being, for her own welfare as well as to honor her, the King offered her a high position in the household of the Castle.

After hearing the decisions, Chevalier d’Orange, who was now called Made-moiselle d’Orange, responded, “If that is the will of the kingdom, then I will follow them, as long as I don’t have to undress in front of the public and humiliate myself. I have only one request: I will only marry the man who is able to defeat me in a one-on-one sword fight.” The judges granted this request.

In closing, the presiding judge added, “Monsieur—I mean, Mademoiselle d’Orange, please try to speak with a more feminine intonation from now on.”

The next afternoon, Jacqueline d’Orange appeared in public as a woman for the first time. Her hair was tied up, adorned with intricate decorations, while wisps of her hair were let down the back of her neck. Awkwardly and still showing remnants of the masculine traits she had, she walked in a large and heavy gown, and though her body was wrapped in a tight corset, her chest was visibly flat. Still, as a whole, Mademoiselle d’Orange was undoubtedly a woman.

Her beauty mesmerized everyone who passed, as if there had never been a woman as beautiful as she. The women who saw her tittered behind their fans, some earnestly complimenting her elegance and wishing they could befriend her, some commenting bitterly on her attractiveness. The men, including those who were sure that Mademoiselle d’Orange could not be a woman—even some who used to be his men—talked about their wild fantasies of her.

Who could deny Mademoiselle d’Orange’s beauty and the wealth and land that would go to whomever was to be her husband? Many brave challengers came forward in a bid to win her hand in marriage, though they were warned, “Do not underestimate her combat skills!”

The first challenger appeared a week after she became a woman and was none other than her former right-hand man in the army. “I loved you even when you were pretending to be a man,” said the challenger while he took out his sword.

“Be careful, my friend. Doesn’t that mean you fell in love with a man?” answered Mademoiselle d’Orange as she took her stance with her sword. With merely half a dozen strokes, the challenger was stripped of his sword.

Afterwards, many men from inside and outside the kingdom came to challenge her. The tale of the beautiful sword fighter who was strong and wealthy and would marry any man who could defeat her in a sword fight spread all over the land, even to places across the sea.

Turbaned men from the desert, Eastern warriors with moves that had never been seen before, quick and sly corsairs and sea rovers—all were successfully defeated by Mademoiselle d’Orange. Their names were now on the long list of challengers that had been defeated by Mademoiselle d’Orange. She even succeeded in defeating one challenger while wearing a heavy gown, high heels, and an ornate hairdo. At another time, after an intense sword fight, the challenger killed himself on the spot, unable to bear the shame of having lost to a woman.

Two years passed. Mademoiselle d’Orange had defeated 578 men—she remembered them all and even made a list of the challengers—and was still unmarried. The King, and everyone else in the kingdom, was confounded.

“I bet she doesn’t even want to get married!” said a woman during a royal ball.

“I bet she is still pining over the girl she was in love with,” said another woman.

“I bet she is still holding a grudge, and this is how she will get her revenge,” said another one.

The King even summoned her once and asked, “Do you not want to get married? Don’t you want to get your lands and your wealth back?”

“I have made a vow, Your Highness, and the kingdom has acceded to my pledge that I will marry the man who is able to defeat me,” said Mademoiselle d’Orange.

The King winced and lumbered at the unexpectedly uncomfortable situation.

After a winter passed and Mademoiselle had defeated 1,235 challengers, a renowned Caballero from Zaragoza, who once was his rival during a battle, appeared.

“What took you so long?”

“I was waiting for the right time. One thousand two hundred and thirty-five men, tsk tsk tsk,” the Caballero said as he positioned himself.

Then came the clangs of the swords. For a few moments, the Caballero succeeded in cornering Mademoiselle d’Orange, but the woman was quick and calculating, and while the swords clashed, she gathered her strength and pushed the Caballero away. Even so, the Caballero ran towards her while she swung her sword. As he moved, the Caballero’s sword struck Mademoiselle d’Orange’s battle suit, sliced her knee, and made her bleed.

“I thought you were a gentleman who would never hurt women,” sneered Mademoiselle d’Orange.

“You’re an exception.” The Caballero again ran towards her, and this time Mademoiselle d’Orange chose to stand her ground and wait until she saw an opportunity. Instantly, her sword sliced the Caballero’s arms.

It was the longest and most exhausting duel Mademoiselle d’Orange had ever fought. For two hours they dueled, each side alternately winning. Everyone came to watch. Some even climbed the gates of the castle. Someone went around the arena to gather betting money, and those who bet on the Caballero were equal in number to those who bet on Mademoiselle d’Orange.

After several ferocious moves, the Caballero cornered Mademoiselle d’Orange, trounced her, and placed his sword on her neck. That was how Made-moiselle d’Orange lost, to the cheers of the people watching.

As promised, the Caballero immediately proposed to the woman. Their wedding was held in the castle church, with the entire kingdom celebrating even more lavishly than at the King’s wedding years before. Confidently, Jacqueline d’Orange said her wedding vows in front of the priest. As she walked out with the Caballero, who had now become her husband, she smiled at everyone in attendance. However, during the celebration in the house she was now living in, Jacqueline d’Orange was nowhere to be seen.

Confused as he waited for his partner to appear, the Caballero repeatedly asked the maids whether Madame was ready. Every maid whom he asked responded that she had not come out of her bedroom since the afternoon. The Caballero repeatedly knocked on her locked bedroom door and called her to come out, but she didn’t respond. He then ordered several men to break down the large door. How shocked the Caballero was to find his mate splayed on the bed, lifeless, with a half-empty bottle of poison next to her palm.

The news of Jacqueline d’Orange’s death immediately spread and surprised the entire kingdom. Everyone speculated on why she had killed herself. But what shook them the most was the fact that when the servants undressed her corpse to clean it, they discovered that she was, in fact, a man.

The thought frightened everyone who had watched. Those who were sure that she was a woman now felt guilty for forcing her to change her gender; those who were sure that he was a man now felt distress at the fact that he had changed his gender to a woman’s and married a man. Once again, the entire kingdom speculated.