Michael, My Michael

He turned 73 on March 27. My first screen love. My only love, really. I’ve had brief infatuations and short term affairs over the past forty years, but he has been my one and only movie star, my enduring romance, my sentimental favourite.

Who knows why? Because I was fourteen when he played D’Artagnan. Because I was newly in pain and looking to escape. Because I loved a good story and he was the passionate if inept hero of a dandy. I wanted to write my own swashbuckler and The Four Musketeers got me started—but he’s played more than one character. He was busy in the 70s, too, playing everything from Shakespeare to science fiction, sometimes a bit of a miscast and other times a perfect fit, but always blond, handsome, and gifted with that golden syrup voice.

I could listen to him speak forever.

It was during something like the sixth or seventh viewing, in the scene where D’Artagnan finds Constance dead and sets out to avenge her, when all the requisite factors combined to awaken the giant. He was the catalyst that kicked my imagination into gear and started me writing in earnest. I wrote about heroes who looked just like him, but I started reading, too. Dumas and the Bard, and George Clayton Johnson—if his film was based on a book, I read the book as well. I saw every movie, staying up late on weekends to catch his earlier work in The Strange Affair and Something for Everyone on TV (the days before video tapes and DVDs). I went to the university for the Franco Zeffirelli double-header of The Taming of the Shrew with Romeo and Juliet. I kept a scrapbook of promo pics and articles and “seen around Hollywood” snapshots. I guess I was a little obsessed with him, with the movies, with the stories, with the fantasies of all three combining to ignite my true passion for the written word.

It was a magical time of intense contrast. Every day was a fight to get mobile, of physio treatments and medical appointments, but every day was also a revelation of new ideas, of literary discovery and expanding imagination. It was truly the best of times and the worst of times, and Michael York was in the middle of it.

I did all the stupid teenaged stuff, but four decades later, despite the aforementioned flings and affairs and rock stars notwithstanding, my heart yet leaps when I hear his voice or see his face. It’s more than the remnant of a schoolgirl crush. It is a comfy blend of respect, admiration and gratitude.

It is also—definitely—love.

My Hero

Swashbuckler (n) -   1:  a swaggering or daring soldier or adventurer

      2:  a novel or drama dealing with a swashbuckler

He started as a surly teenager; a bit of a bully with a sour attitude, but over the course of six-plus novels, Osmo’s Luko has evolved into the sort of character who might do justice to a Musketeer.

Nephew to my hero, Lucius Aurelius, he has found his swagger and confidently applies it at every opportunity. Witness his first encounter with the girl who will eventually wed his cousin, seen through her eyes after a day at the barracks with his uncle …

* * *

A squad of dusty soldiers returned from patrol while she stood waiting for Lucius to issue his final orders for the day; hearing the hoofbeats, she moved her mare clear and lost sight of him when the horsemen rode into the yard. They were dressed alike and mounted on dark horses—a sight to swoon over if a girl was so inclined. As it happened, Jannika was not so inclined, but she did appreciate the beauty of the horses cantering in step. They halted as one and their riders dismounted in kind, tossing reins at the grooms and good-natured jibes at each other. One of them spotted Fyr and elbowed another, pointing.

“Straighten up; the general’s here.”

“He’s not here to bother with us, idiot.” The elbowed one spat into the dust and scanned the yard through eyes narrowed against the sun. He did not see what he was looking for, but he did see Jannika. Squaring his impressive shoulders, he veered away from his mates and sauntered over to her. “Are you the new healer?”

She arched a brow. “What if I am?”

“I might have something for you to look at.” He hitched at his leathers, feigning the discomfort of an overly snug fit. Jannika almost rolled her eyes.

“Unless it burns when you piss, I’m not the healer you want.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could be anything and I’d still want you. So tell me,” he carried on, ignoring her badly-stifled groan, “has my uncle convinced you to tangle with Ni-Wahn?”

The urge to laughter fled. “Your uncle?”

“General Aurelius.” He spoke with pride and a certain amount of smugness. Such a handsome young man had no need to tout his family connections except as a deterrent to chastising him for his manners—or lack of them. At closer range, handsome was too slight a word for him. He was heroically built and very well-muscled, with curly brown hair cut short and angled eyes that gleamed like wet granite. When he smiled, he bared straight white teeth in a close-trimmed beard, but his eyes retained their predatory intensity.

“You must be Luko,” Jannika concluded.

His gaze narrowed. “How do you know my name?”

“I had supper with your family last night.”

“Oh.” He relaxed, but the wary tightness remained in her chest. No dumb giant, this one knew his strength and was not afraid to use it. He asked, “Will you be at the feast tonight?”

She nodded.

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Will you be on watch?”

He snorted, amused by her ignorance. “I’ll be off duty.”

“That’s a shame. I like the uniform.”

He moved closer than she normally allowed, dwarfing her in his shadow. “You might like it better on the floor by your bed.”

Jannika put up a hand, careful not to provoke him as she laid her palm to his chest. “That’s too bold,” she warned.

“For a Retahli girl? I don’t think so.”

“You should think again before you say something offensive.”

“Am I offending you?”

“Not yet, but you’re getting close.”

He leaned into her hand. “How close?”

“Do you truly want to offend me?”

“It’s not my first choice.” He leaned a little harder, forcing her either to submit or lock her elbow. She gave, slightly, and he smiled. Scenting victory, perhaps, or maybe just enjoying the chase. She was halfway enjoying it herself—the tricks she had learned but had no talent for seemed to be working on him. They did, on the ones who thought themselves irresistible.

She held him off with her fingertips. “I can guess what your first would be.”

“You’d be right.”

“What if I refuse? Would you hurt me?”

He bent his head, bringing his lips perilously near hers. “Would you like me to?”

“I doubt you could.”

She smelled the dust on his clothes, the sweat on his skin, and the smouldering lust beneath it. “I’m no gutless little boy,” he whispered. “I’ve killed a man.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. “So have I.”

* * *

Might be a bit of a spoiler in there, but oh well. Think what you will of young Luko, but I believe he has one redeeming quality, admittedly not shown here:

He loves his mother. 

Swashbucklers

The Musketeers 2014

Plumed hat—check.

Boots—check.

Cloak—check.

Sword—check.

Pistol—check.

Open sea—

Open sea?? Bah. Forget pirates. When my swash wants buckling, give me the King’s Musketeers.

My fondness for the elite among Louis XIII’s military began with Richard Lester’s movie version in the 1970s. I saw The Four Musketeers something like 14 times because my then best friend was crazy nuts for the actor who played Aramis. Subsequently, I fell for Michael York, who played d’Artagnan (but that’s another story). During the course of flowering hormones, I delved into the Dumas novels and discovered a world that I couldn’t imagine had existed, a world without modern convenience, where hats were plumed and pistols played backup to rapiers. The Musketeers were a joyride in writing and on film. My imagination never recovered.

Though other attempts have been made, I’ve stayed true to the Lester films. Thanks to his direction, and to George MacDonald Fraser’s scripts, they still number among the best movies I’ve ever seen, and feature what remains one of my favourite lines of dialogue—Porthos playing cards with Aramis and lamenting that, “Either your priestly intentions have got all the saints on your side, or you’re cheating.”

Whether or not Aramis seriously intended to join the priesthood I don’t recall, though the theme continued via Jeremy Irons in The Man in the Iron Mask some thirty years later. One thing’s for sure: Aramis is the most romantic in the group. I’ve always been partial to d’Artagnan because of Yorkie, but these days it’s hard to choose a favourite.

The Musketeers are back, this time in a TV series produced by the BBC. Ter an I caught it this spring on Showcase and, yup, we got hooked. It’s the best spin on the legend since the Lester films 40 years ago; the writing is quick, the delivery is quicker and the actors playing the iconic foursome have each made his character his own. Particularly good is Tom Burke as Athos, who was the least appealing Musketeer in my teens, but now that I’m older, has assumed the perilous allure of dark water—a deceptive stillness that could all too easily pull me beyond my depth. But truly, the whole cast is brilliant for bringing the characters to such vivid life that there are no boring moments.

Once again, I am inspired by a good story peopled by distinct and unique individuals set in a time that feels like home. I would dearly love to pay homage to my heroes, but how does one write a good swashbuckler without it turning into a hokey bodice-ripper?

As with all good stories, it starts with a character …