P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 20
"Mr. Ridley has no wish to take the advantage over a wounded man," he said.
"Does Mr. Ridley offer a full and contrite apology for his insult?" I asked.
He glanced back to his friend. Ridley shook his head.
"Then let things proceed as before. He has no advantage over me."
He hesitantly returned, backing all the way.
"Are you sure?" asked Oliver. He was regaining some of his composure, I was glad to see.
"Exceedingly so." Though I'd been very shaken, my unnatural state was such that I was feeling near-normal again.
Or rather extranormal. It was true that Ridley had no advantage on me, but I had a hellish one over him. Unpleasant as it was, he could stab me as much as he liked, but sooner or later I would shrug it off and return to the fray. Not that I planned to give him the chance. I'd learned my lesson and would be more careful than before.
As had he, it seemed. Our next bout was slower, more measured, more cautious, each seeking to find an opening or to make one. I beat him back twice but did not fall for his favorite stratagem, instead pulling away well before he could strike again with his reach. When he saw that was not going to work, he tried to use his strength and speed, and found himself surprisingly outmatched.
I made a rapid high cut, was blocked, got under it, flicked left, right, left, caught his blade, beat it hard to my right, and lunged. It seemed fast enough to me, to him it must have been bewildering. He barely made his defense in time for the first attack; the last one—and it was the last—took him out of the reckoning. He gave a guttural roar of rage and pain and dropped his sword to clutch at his right arm.
Blood smell on the air.
His second rushed forward. Dennehy joined them. Then Oliver. I dropped back and silently looked on.
"Mr. Ridley is sore wounded, sir," reported his second to mine.
"Well blooded and disabled," added Dennehy. But not dead, I thought. I stalked forward to see for myself. Ridley wasn't going to fight any more this night or any other in the near future. With luck he'd be laid up for weeks.
I raised my blade and touched it to Ridley's shoulder. "I spare your life," I declared loud enough for all to hear. By ancient custom I could have killed him then and there, but the Code had stated once and for all that that was not strictly necessary. With my supreme advantage over him it hardly seemed fair to hold to such a tradition, and besides, to a man like Ridley, this was much more humiliating.
The dandy scrambled to present me with Ridley's dropped sword, and by rights I was entitled to break it. However, since it belonged to Brinsley, I was reluctant to do so. Instead, I handed both blades to him as he came up. "Thank you for the loan of 'em, sir. Uncommonly kind of you."
He began stammering something, but I had no ear for it, feeling suddenly awash with fatigue. My own blood loss was catching me up. There was no rest for me, though, for I found myself abruptly in the center of a cheering, backslapping mob determined to whisk me away and drink to my very good health.
"Best damned fight I've ever seen!"
"A real fire-eater!"
"By God, no one will believe it, but they'll have to or face my challenge!"
"Gentlemen! If you please!"
This last half-strangled cry was from Oliver, who had fought his way to me and seized my arm. I groaned—in gratitude this time—and leaned on him. With the immediate needs of the duel no more, my legs were going all weak.
"Back to the house, if you don't mind?" I asked him.
"Damned right, sir," he promised, an ominous tone in his voice. He threw my cloak over me, and I pulled it tight to conceal the alarming state of my shirtfront. We made a slow parade, but others ran ahead with the news, and as we neared the house, more came out to greet us and hear the story. Unfortunately, it grew in the telling, and nothing I said could stop it. As it was fantastic to begin with, it hardly seemed worth the trouble to try.
Enlisting Brinsley's aid to speed things along, we were soon in the relative peace of a small chamber. I allowed myself to be stretched upon a comfortable settee and disdained all offers of help as being too much fuss. What I wanted was solitude, but my earnest admirers took it as evidence of modest bravery. They held true to their promise and began toasting my health then and there, creating another problem for me since I could not join in their celebration.
Just as things were starting to become unbearable, Elizabeth appeared, pushing her way through the others to get to me.
"Jonathan, someone just told me that you—" She interrupted herself by giving forth a heartfelt shriek. My cloak had slipped open a little, revealing the alarming bloodstains.
"He's in no danger," Oliver hastened to assure her. "He just needs a bit of quiet. Gentlemen, would you please allow me to attend my patient?"
Easier said than done, what with all the crowd. I asked for them to leave, though it was a sore disappointment to my well-wishers. Brinsley, with his authority as host, stepped forward and persuaded them to be herded outside.
Throughout all this, Elizabeth pounded us both with angry questions.
"A duel? How in God's name did you get into a duel?" she demanded.
"That blasted fellow in the Russian costume insulted you," said Oliver. "If Jonathan hadn't challenged him, I certainly would have, the filthy bounder."
"Insulted—what on earth did he say? Jonathan, are you all right? Oh, why did you do such a thing?"
And so on. She said quite a lot in a very short time, torn as she was between rage and relief. I had to tell her over and over that I was fine, while keeping one eye on Oliver . . . who was keeping one eye on me.
Once the door was closed and we were blessedly alone, Oliver pulled a chair up next to me, and I did not relish the sick worry that so obviously troubled him. He reached toward me, saying he needed to see my wound.
I tried to wave him off. "This is not necessary. I'm fine. I just need a little rest."
Blinking and swallowing hard, he looked as if I'd slapped him. "I—I know what I saw, Jonathan. Please don't make light of me."
"What does he mean?" asked Elizabeth. "Just how bad is that scratch?"
"Bad enough," I muttered.
Oliver bowed his head, raised it, then quickly moved, and opened my shirt. He gave a kind of gasping sob, full of fear. Just to the right of my breastbone was a fierce-looking red welt, like a fresh scar, about as large around as my thumb. There was drying blood all around it, but the wound itself was cleanly closed. The rest of the area was tender like a bruise and about as troubling.
"It's not possible," he said, as miserable as any man can be on this side of hell. "Not . . . possible."
Elizabeth leaned close. "My God, Jonathan, what happened? What really happened?"
"I was careless. Ridley got through. A palpable hit, it was."
"You—"
"Should have killed me, but didn't. Thought I had been killed . . . then I was better. It hurt, though." My voice sounded rather hollow—little wonder when death comes so close. Even a mocking touch from the Reaper is enough to melt one's bones.
"How can this be?" Oliver pleaded. Fear again. Fear sufficient for all of us to have a share.
No more for me. I was weary of that dismal load. I straightened as though to shake it from my back. "Remember what I told you about Nora?"
Elizabeth knew the full story on that and understood of what I was speaking. It took poor Oliver a little longer. To be fair, he'd been rather drunk when we'd had our talk; he might not have possessed a clear recollection of everything.
Besides, being told something and actually witnessing it are two very different things.
"You were run right through the heart," he insisted. "I saw it. So did the others, then you—"
"Others?" Elizabeth froze me with a look. "How many others?"
"Most of the lot that Brinsley chased out for us."
"And they saw everything?"
"It was very fast and dark. They've already convinced themselves that they didn't see what they thought they saw." While she sorted that out, I turned back to Oliver. "There's no need to be upset about this. It's all part of my changed nature, and I can no more explain why it is than you can tell me what causes the flying gout."
"But for you to survive such a—for you to heal so quickly . . ."
"I know. It's one of the things that puzzles me as well. It's why I have to see Nora and talk to her."
"But it's just not natural!" he insisted. The little room went very silent, with none of us moving.
Finally I asked, "What do you want me to do about it?"
"I didn't know you could do anything about it."
"I can't."
"Oh." He sat back, a dull red blush creeping up his long face as the point came home. "Um—well, that is."
"Agreed," I said.
"Guess I'm being an ass again," he mumbled.
"No more than myself for forgetting all about what happened to Nora until after the fact. I was so damned angry at Ridley I couldn't think of anything except smashing his face in."
Elizabeth scowled. "Just what did he say about me?" My turn to blush. "It was that terrible?"
"Let it suffice that I doubt he will ever be invited to one of the Bolyns' gatherings ever again. He's a genuine rotter—and a Mohock."
"No!" said Oliver, aghast.
"Saw him myself on my first night here. He was leading a pack of 'em, drunk as Davy's sow—"
"And you said nothing of it?" Elizabeth's eyes were fairly blazing.
"Well . . ."
Oliver leaned close once more. "I think you should very quickly tell us about this business."
"There's not that much to tell."
"Nevertheless . . ." He glanced at Elizabeth's eloquent face.
"Nevertheless," I faintly echoed, needing no more prompting, but I was tired and in want of refreshment, so my recounting of my initial meeting with Ridley was straightforward and as brief as I could make it. I thought longingly of Jericho and his clever juggling with teapots, but that was not a luxury I could enjoy just now.
Just as I finished, someone knocked at the door, and Brinsley hesitantly put his head in.
"I say, won't you be wanting some bandaging or water or something?" he asked of Oliver.
It took a moment for my cousin to adjust his attention from my past exploit to his present dilemma. He gave me a wide-eyed look, a mute inquiry of what to do. I answered with a short nod, and he told Brinsley that he had use for those very items, if it would not be too much trouble.
"None at all, old chap. How are you doing, Barrett?"
"Very well. I'll be up and about soon."
"What a relief! Can I get you anything?"
"Perhaps you can spare an old shirt for me? Mine's a bit—"
"Heavens, man, I can do better than that!" He bobbed out again, eager to get things moving.
"It seems to be working," said Oliver. "Brinsley was right next to me and saw the blade go in, and look how he is now. He believes you."
I sighed. "Thank heavens for that."
God have mercy, if I'd had to influence the lot of them into denying the evidence of their own eyes, I'd have burst my own head from the effort. As things stood, the witnesses were apparently doing a much better job of it on their own.
"Incredible." Oliver was shaking his head. "And all this because you curtailed Ridley's drunken sport. If he was that far gone in drink, I'm surprised he was able to remember you."
"No more than I was to find how he moves so easily from the gutter to polite company. He's a very dangerous fellow, and you must do all you can to avoid him."
"He's got no quarrel with me, but we two are blood kin—I'll do my best, Coz, but I doubt that he'll be much of a problem for now. You skewered him properly, though killing him would have been better."
"I've had enough of killing, thank you very much." Yes, now. Now that I was cooled enough to think again.
"Still, he's a spiteful type, you can see that. It might be over for tonight, but he's just the sort to come after you later, though. According to the Code, he cannot reopen the argument, but that won't stop him from beginning a new one."
"I'll keep my eyes open, not to fear," I promised.
"I wonder how he's doing, anyway?"
"If you really want to go find out . . ." I began doubtfully.
"Not a bit of it! Just wondered is all. I suppose they've turned up another doctor to attend him or I'd have been called in by now. Just as well, I suppose."
Some of the Bolyn servants appeared, bearing the promised washing water, bandaging, and a clean shirt of very fine silk. Brinsley—it seemed—was in the midst of a very severe bout of hero worship with myself being the object of adulation. I was rather nonplussed to be in such a position, feeling neither worthy of the honor nor comfortable, but it could not be helped.
The room was cleared again, and this time Elizabeth went out to deliver a report to the waiting throng about my condition and to order Oliver's carriage to be brought 'round. It would have been too much to expect us to remain and participate in the rest of the evening's festivities after all this.
I cleaned the dried blood away, donned Brinsley's shirt, and bundled up my torn and stained costume shirt and waistcoat for Jericho to deal with. Perhaps he could work a miracle and salvage them in some way. Oliver, seeing that the bandages were unnecessary, stuffed them away in one of his pockets.
For the sake of appearance and to discourage questions, I leaned heavily on his arm on our way out, keeping my head down. Not all of my weakness was a pose; I was very enervated by the blood loss and would soon need to replace it. My energy came in fits and spurts; I'd have some lively moments, then sink into an abrupt lethargy as if my body was trying to conserve strength.
Though our concerned hosts were disappointed that I would not remain with them for my mending, they got us all to the carriage without too much delay and we piled gratefully in.
"I'm sorry to have spoiled the party for you," I said to Elizabeth as we settled ourselves.
She snorted. "After this kind of excitement a masqued ball, no matter how elaborate, is but a tame occupation by comparison. I shall be in need of rest, anyway, for there will be a hundred callers coming 'round to the house tomorrow to see how things are with you. I hope Jericho and the staff will be up to the invasion. I'll wager that most of them will be young ladies with their mothers, all hoping for a glimpse of you."
My heart plummeted. "You can't mean it?"
"I saw it in their faces before we left. There's nothing so stirring to the feminine heart as watching a wounded duelist stoically dragging himself away from the field of battle."
"That's ridiculous."
"Indeed, many of the girls expressed disdain for any man unless he's blazed away at another in the name of honor—or in your case taken up the sword to—"
"Enough, for heaven's sake!" I moaned.
"No, little brother, I think this is but the beginning. Like it or not, you've become a hero . . ."
"Oh, my God."
Oliver's eyes had flicked back and forth between us and now came to rest on me. His mobile face twitched and heaved mightily with suppressed emotion for all of two seconds, then he burst forth with a roar of laughter.
Had Oliver not been in sore need of the distraction, I'd have objected to his finding humor in my situation, but I held my peace and endured until he'd quite worked through it. By then we were home and trudging up to our respective rooms to prepare for bed, myself excepted, of course. I went to the parlor to rest a little while, until Jericho came in. Elizabeth had apparently told him about tonight's adventure, for he raised no question concerning the bloodied bundle of clothes I handed him.
"Don't know if you can salvage 'em, but it might be a good idea not to let the others see this lot. Might alarm them or something, and I've no wish to add to the gossip about this incident."
"I shall be discreet, Mr. Jonathan. You're certain that you are all right?"
"I think so, but for being wretchedly weak, and that will soon be remedied. Has the coachman finished with the horses?"
"He just came back from the stables and is having tea in the kitchen. The way is quite clear for you . . . unless you wish me to see to things?" he asked, referring obliquely to fetching the blood himself.
Tempting, but that would involve an additional wait. No, I was tired, but not that far gone. I told him as much and thanked him for the offer.
After he'd gone away to the kitchen, I traded the inadequate pirate cloak for my own heavy woolen one and slipped out the front door to walk unhurriedly around the house. The grounds of Oliver's property were limited, with barely room for a small vegetable garden, now dormant, and the stables, but at least he had no need to board his carriage animals and hunter elsewhere. With Roily added to this little herd, I had a more than adequate supply of nourishment for my needs, though other sources were available. London was positively bursting with horses, and should it become necessary, I'd be able to feed from them easily enough.
It was Roily's turn tonight. He'd filled out somewhat now that he was done with ocean voyaging. I'd been generous with his oats and had him groomed every day, and the extra care showed in his bright eyes and shining coat. We'd lately been out for a turn or two around the town when the weather wasn't too wet, so he wasn't snappish for lack of exercise.
I offered him a lump of sugar as a bribe, soothed him down, and got on with my business. He held perfectly still even after I'd finished and was wiping my lips clean. For that he got more sugar. Intelligent beast.
The blood did its usual miracle of restoration on my battered body. I felt its heat spreading from the inside out, though it seemed particularly concentrated on my chest this night. The skin over my heart was starting to itch. Opening Brinsley's shirt, I found the angry red patch around the fresh scar had faded somewhat. Very reassuring, that.
Since I was finally alone, though, I was free to take a shortcut to speed up my healing. I vanished.
Roily didn't like it much. Perhaps he could sense my presence in some way; perhaps it had to do with the cold I generated in this form. He stirred in his box, shying away in protest. To ease things for him, I quit the stables and floated through the doors into the yard, using memory to find the path leading to the house. Despite the buffeting of the wind, I was able to make my way back again to materialize in the parlor right before the fireplace.
