P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 19
"I must beg your pardon, sir, and disagree. If anything I shall be even more angry tomorrow. His insult was too great. We will settle things tonight."
And with those words, a change went over the men around us, a kind of drawing together, as though they'd erected an invisible wall between us and the rest of the crowd. Those outside the wall seemed to sense it. Other men nodded; women whispered behind their fans to each other. Something Had Happened. And even better, Something Was About To Happen. I felt their eyes burning through me as our group left the ballroom.
The older man, whose name was Dennehy, took charge of things, having appointed himself to the position of seeing that all was done according to the strict rules of the Code. He'd heard everything that Ridley had said and been shocked by it, but was no less determined to stick to the rules of gentlemanly behavior, though Ridley had already proved himself to be no gentleman.
I was swept along by the others to a more secluded room. Brinsley Bolyn was sent for, rather than his father, for it was thought the elder Bolyn might have tried to postpone things. Once arrived, he was told what had happened and asked if there was a place nearby where a meeting might be arranged. This put him rather in the middle, being host to both myself and Ridley, but he promptly named an orchard just west of the house as a likely site. He promised to have lanterns brought to shed adequate light for the proceedings and said we could choose whatever was needed from his own collection of arms.
With those important points covered, Oliver was dispatched to speak with Ridley's second. He was back quickly enough. Ridley had decided on the smallsword as his weapon, which was not surprising considering the use he'd tried to make of it at our first meeting. In premeditated encounters like this, pistols were usually more favored than blades, since they tended to level any physical inequalities between opponents, but it made no difference to me. I knew how to use either one.
Though at the center of all their attention, I was also strangely apart from them. Even Oliver, who trudged close by my side on our way to the orchard, was silent, as if afraid to speak with me, yet wanting to very badly. A quarter hour from now, for all he knew, I might be dead.
For all I knew as well.
I'd survived pistol bullets, musket balls, and even a cudgeling hard enough to kill an ordinary man; perhaps because of my change I would survive the sword, but I did not know, nor did it matter one way or another to me. Words had been said, ephemeral words, yet they could not be forgiven or forgotten. That foul-mouthed bastard had grossly insulted my sister, and I was going to kill him for it or die in the trying.
"Oliver, you'll be sure to tell Elizabeth all that happens, should things . . . not go well? She'll not appreciate it if you try to spare her feelings."
"You've the right on your side. Everything will be fine," he said, trying to sound hearty for my sake.
I let him hold on to that. He needed it.
We arrived at the orchard. Apple trees they were, and under Brinsley's direction servants began hanging paper lanterns from the bare limbs. The wind was a nuisance; some of the lanterns went out and could not be relit. Ridley and I were questioned on whether we wanted to proceed under such conditions. We each said yes.
Ridley shed his gaudy coat and fur hat, handing them to someone, then stretched himself this way and that to loosen his muscles. He had a very long reach and obvious strength. Perhaps he thought that might give him the advantage over me, yet another reason for blades over pistols.
Following his example, I did a few stretches after getting rid of my now-ludicrous pirate disguise. Stripping away the mask, I took care to study his reaction, but he gave none that could be construed as recognition . . . not right away, that is.
He was inspecting the sets of blades that Brinsley had brought, plucked one up, and swung it around to get the feel of it. Then he briefly leveled it in my direction, looking down its length. Satisfied, he handed it back, but continued favoring me with that same annoying smile.
"'Fore God, I'll need some beer in me soon for the thirst that's coming. Have you any with you, Barrett?"
No one else understood what he was talking about, only I. Mr. Dennehy told Ridley's second to ask him to refrain from speaking to me unless he was ready to offer apology for his insult.
Ridley laughed, but did not pursue the issue. His point had been made.
"What's behind that?" asked Oliver, leaning close to speak quietly in my ear.
"He's letting me know that we've met before."
"Indeed? When?"
"I'll tell you later, God willing. Let it suffice that his insult to Elizabeth was on purpose in order to provoke me. He knew we all of us were together because of our costumes. He wanted this duel."
"My God."
"I must ask a promise of you should anything adverse happen."
"Whatever I can," he said, too caught up to gainsay my doubts.
"First, to take care of Elizabeth, and second, not to challenge Ridley. If he should better me, the matter ends here, to go no further. Understand?"
He was very white in the lantern light. "But—"
"No further. I won't have your blood shed to disturb my rest."
It ground at him, that was plain, but he finally nodded. "I promise, but for God's sake, be careful. The way he keeps smiling at you like that, he doesn't look right in the head."
"The fool's only trying to unman me."
Then the time was upon us. Swords were presented, the distance marked, and I found myself but a few paces from Ridley preparing to go en garde. Again, Ridley was asked if he was prepared to apologize. He said he was not.
"Gentlemen, en garde . . ."
Dropping slightly with legs bent in the prescribed manner, I got my blade up and at an angle across my body, its point even with Ridley's head. He mirrored me exactly, but from a higher level because of his height. I found myself noticing small things: how he placed his feet, the pattern of embroidery on his waistcoat, the strange way his sand-colored brows hooked down on the outsides.
"Allez!"
I let him make the first pass. As I'd expected, he was relying on his reach and strength. He swatted my blade aside with a powerful slap and lunged, but I backed off in plenty of time, and countered with a feint to the right. He was smart, backing in his turn, and was fast enough to block my true attack to the left. I drove in again on the same side, hoping he'd take it for another feint, but he seemed to know my mind and was ready for it. Damnation, but he was fast. I didn't see his blade so much as his movements.
Some say to watch the other's eyes or his blade or his arm, but the best fencing masters advise their students to watch everything at once. This had seemed an impossibility until my training had advanced to such a degree that I abruptly understood their meaning. To fix upon any single point put you in danger of missing another, more vital one. By focusing only on the blade, I could overlook some telltale shift of an adversary's body as he prepared a fresh attack. Instead, I found myself moving into a strange area of non-thought, where I could see all of my opponent as a single coordinated threat, rather than a haphazard collection of parts, each requiring a separate reaction.
Ridley had apparently followed the same school of training, to judge by his look of serene concentration. I took this in and left it at the door, so to speak. It was important, but only as part of the whole. My mind was empty of thought and emotion; having either cluttering up my actions could be fatal. As great as my anger was toward this man, I could not allow its intrusion, for it would only give him the advantage.
We danced and lunged and parried, playing now, taking each other's measure and comparing it to our own best skills. He was surprisingly fast for so large a man, but I knew myself to be considerably faster. I was also much stronger than he, though this was mitigated by the swords. Had we been grappling in the mud like common street brawlers, I'd have had the better of him without question.
Fencing is like a physical form of chess, requiring similar strategies, but executing them with one's body rather than the board pieces. Ridley knew his business and twice tried a gambit of beating my blade, feinting once, twice, thrice, retreating a step, then simply extending his arm to catch me on my advance. It worked the first time, but all he did was snag and rip my sleeve. No blooding, therefore no pause. The second time I was wise to it, but on the third attempt, he retreated an extra step, leading me to think he'd given up the ploy.
Not so. He grinned, caught my blade, and flicked his wrist 'round in such a way as to disarm me. Even as he began the move, I divined his intent and backed off at the last instant. If I hadn't frozen my hand to the grip, my sword would have gone flying out into the darkness.
He must have fully expected it to work; there was a flash of frustration on his face. He was sweating. It must have felt like a coat of ice on his skin what with the wind. I'd grown warm enough; it would be a while before any cold could get through to me, and by then we would be long finished.
He had an excellent defense; time and again I'd tried to break past it and failed, but he was starting to breathe hard. My mouth was open, but more for the sake of appearance than any need of air. If nothing else, I could wear him down to the point of exhaustion. As he began to show early signs of it, I played with him more, subtly trying to provoke him into a mistake. Not that I was resorting to anything dishonorable; all I had to do was prevent him from wounding me. For him that was quite sufficient as an annoyance. He was probably very used to winning, and as each moment went by without making progress, his initial frustration looked to be getting the better of him. When that happened, he'd defeat himself.
But in turn, my own great weakness must have been overconfidence. Or underestimation.
The wind tore the plume of his breath right from his lips, and he looked hard-pressed to recover it. The pause between attacks grew perceptively longer; he was slowing down. In another few minutes I'd have him.
I beat him back to tire him that much more. He retreated five or six steps, rapidly, with me following. Then he abruptly halted, beat my blade once, very hard, and as my arm shot wide, he used his long reach and drove in.
Catching me flat.
The first I noticed of it was a damned odd push and tug on my body. I looked down and gaped stupidly. His blade was firmly thrust into my chest, just left of my breastbone. Sickening sight. I also could not move, and so we stood as if frozen for a few seconds, long enough for the shocked groans of the witnesses to reach me. Then he whipped the thing out and stood back, waiting for my fall.
I stumbled drunkenly to both knees. Couldn't help it. The crashing impact of pain was overwhelming. It felt like he'd struck me with a tree trunk, not a slim V-shaped blade of no larger width than my finger. I let go my sword and clutched at my chest, coughed, gagged on what came up, then coughed once more. Blood smell on the winter air. Taste of blood in my mouth. My blood.
Oliver was suddenly there, his arm supporting me.
"It's all right," he was saying over and over in a terribly thin, choking voice. Lying to himself. He'd seen. He knew that it was most certainly not all right. He called for Brinsley and for more light to be brought. The others crowded close to see.
The agony was stunning; I wanted only for him to let me alone. I gasped, feebly pushing him off. He would not budge. Instead, he tried to hold me down, just as Beldon had done before him when I'd fallen into that soft sleep one stifling summer day, my last day. Not again. Never again.
Panic tore through me. "No! Let me up!"
But he was not listening and told me not to move, to let him help. To get at the wound, he pulled at my hand. It came away covered with blood. The stuff was all over my shirt and waistcoat.
"You must hold still, Jonathan," he pleaded. I heard the tears in his words. Tears for me, for my death.
"No!" I couldn't say if I was shouting at him or myself. It wasn't even much of a shout. I had little enough air left to spare for it. To breathe in meant more pain. I doubled over—Oliver kept me from falling altogether—and coughed.
More blood in my mouth. I spat, making a dark stain upon the dead grass, then the grass began to fade away before my fluttering vision.
Good God, no. I couldn't . . . not here . . .
I clung to Oliver, willing myself to stay solid in spite of every instinct wanting to release me from the fire tearing at my chest. It would have been so easy to surrender to the sanctuary of a non-corporeal state, to its soothing silence, its sweet healing. So easy . . .
I struggled to right myself, ignoring Oliver's protests.
"We'll take him back to the house," Brinsley was saying, "I'll have them fetch a cart."
"No," I said, raising a hand. The bloodied one. "A moment. Wait."
A pause. God knows what they expected of me. Momentous last words? They'd have a hard time of it, for my mind was quite bereft of anything like that. Still, they hovered close in hope.
The seconds passed in disappointing silence . . . and I became aware that my devastating hurt was not as bad as before.
Movement was easier now. Pain. Ebbing. I was able to suck in a draught of air and not forcibly cough it out again.
All I'd wanted was the time to recover myself.
Recover?
God's death, what was I on about?
Then as swift as Ridley's attack the comprehension came to me that I was not going to die. Too occupied by the present, I'd forgotten the past. Flashing through my mind was the memory of another dreadful night. I saw Nora once more, heard again her gasp of surprise when a similar blade had pierced her heart. I'd watched in helpless despair as she slid to the floor, thinking her dead—and so she was with neither breath or heartbeat to say otherwise.
But she had come back.
Somehow she had survived that mortal injury.
And by that, I knew I would as well.
With the very thought's occurrence, the raw burning in my chest eased considerably. I even heard myself laugh, though it threatened to become a cough. At least I was in no danger of vanishing in front of—
There they stood about me. Dozens of them. All to bear witness that I'd been run through and had bled like a pig at the butcher's.
And there was poor Oliver, tears on his face as he held me.
What in God's name was I to say to them?
If one lies often enough and loud enough, the lie eventually becomes the truth.
But for something like this? It seemed a bit much to expect of them.
On the other hand, there were few other options. I could play the wounded duelist and let them carry me back for a suitably long convalescence, or I could brazen it out right here and hope for the best.
The latter, then, and get it over with.
"Some brandy?" I called, summoning a strong voice from heaven knows where.
Brandy was offered from several different sources, all of them extremely sympathetic. Oliver grabbed at the nearest flask and held it to my lips. So caught up was he in the crisis that he'd forgotten my inability to swallow anything other than blood, but it was of no matter. I'd only asked for brandy for the show of it.
"I can manage, thank you," I told him and reached up to take the flask.
This caused some startled murmuring. Oliver nearly dropped me, but I straightened myself in time. It was difficult not to sneak a look at him, but I had to act as though nothing were seriously amiss. With my clean left hand, I raised the thing to my lips and pretended to drink.
"Much better," I said. "I am most obliged to you, sir."
"Jonathan?" A hundred questions were all over Oliver's strained face, and not one of them could get out.
"I'm fine, Cousin. No need to fear."
"But—you . . . your wound . . ."
"It's nothing. Hurts like blazes. Sweet God, man, I pray I did not worry you over a scratch."
"A scratch!" he yelped.
I might have laughed, but for knowing the true depth of what he was going through. "You thought me hurt? But I'm fine or will be. It just scraped the bone, looks worse than it is. Fair knocked the wind from me, though."
This was said loudly enough for the others to hear and pass it along. Those who had not seen the incident clearly took it as the happy truth, but the ones who had been closer were doubtful. Perhaps even fearful.
I noticed this, apparently, for the first time. "Gentlemen, thank you for your concern, but I am much improved." There, that at least was the absolute truth. Not giving anyone time to think and thus dispute the statement, I slowly stood.
Oliver came up with me, mouth hanging, eyes wide with shock. They dropped to my chest and the stains there, but I could do nothing about that for now. The effect on the witnesses was gratifying. The near ones fell back, the far ones leaned closer, but none of them could say that I was even remotely near death.
"Jonathan, in God's name what—?" came my cousin's fierce whisper.
I lowered my head and matched his tone. "It's to do with my changed state. Trust me on this, I am all right."
His mouth opened and shut several times, and his eyes took on the flat cast of fear. "Dear God, you mean—"
"Just play along and I'll explain later. Please!"
The poor fellow looked as if he'd been the one to take the wound, but he bit his lip and nodded. He understood my urgency, if little else.
That settled for the moment, I gave back the flask, then asked to have my sword.
Dennehy came forward, holding it. "Mr. Barrett, are you sure you—"
"I've business to finish, sir. If Mr. Ridley is up to the task, then so am I."
The man in question was not ten paces from me and, if one could tell anything by his expression, was the most dumbfounded of the lot. He had every right to be since he'd certainly felt the blade go in and had had to pull it out again. From the twinges still echoing through me, I got the idea the bastard had turned his wrist at the time, just to increase the damage.
He said nothing at first, his gaze going from me to his sword. The end of it was smeared with red for the length of a handspan. He murmured something to the white-faced dandy who was his second. The young man came over to speak to Dennehy and Oliver. I couldn't help but overhear.
