Chapter 17
The road widened as it rose. The wall took shape ahead, pale stone, unadorned. Leipzig. It would give him a name, a key, and a stamped reason to pass on.
He checked Argus. Behind, the carriage slowed. A guard stepped out, pike grounded. Fitzwilliam kept them to the gate by daylight. He did not enter cities unseen.
“Arrêtez.”
Villiers checked the horses.
“Vos papiers.”
Villiers handed them down. The guard eyed him, then the matched pair behind.
“Von wo?”
Villiers glanced at Fitzwilliam.
“De Saxe,” he said.
The guard nodded. “Et le temps—die Dauer?”
“Einige Wochen.”
The word held.
“Wochen,” the guard repeated. He returned the papers. “Logement—Quartier—non.”
He jerked his chin. “Der Bürger. Mueller. Stadtwaage.”
The guard stepped back. “Warten.”
Fitzwilliam urged Argus forward, the carriage behind. Stone passed close on either side; sound changed under the arch. Hooves struck harder ground. The gate closed behind them.
Inside, the road narrowed again. Ruts lay shallow, cut and dried by traffic. Houses pressed in, shutters fastened, doors shut. Villiers set them on at a walk. Fitzwilliam kept his eyes forward and his hand low on the reins.
A low civic building stood off the street, square and plain. A painted board marked the Stadtwaage. Villiers reined in.
“Ask for a house out of repair.”
Villiers inclined his head. “That’ll keep Tanner and Cooper occupied.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Villiers dismounted and went in beneath the sign.
Fitzwilliam stayed where he was. Argus shifted once, then stood. Heat lifted from his coat and fell away. The gate noise settled behind them. A bell sounded deeper in the town and fell silent.
A man passed and did not look up. Argus flicked an ear. Fitzwilliam rested his hand at the pommel and waited.
Time lengthened, though not enough to invite concern.
Villiers reappeared; keys lay heavy in his hand. He halted at Argus’s shoulder.
“Outside the walls,” he said. “House kept for travellers. Stables intact.”
“Anything of concern?”
Villiers swung up on Maréchal. “Tools are in the barn. Cooper and Tanner will be engaged.”
Fitzwilliam turned Argus from the gate.
* * *
The track took his attention first. It ran the length of the holding and bent back on itself, wide enough for a pair to pass abreast, worn shallow by years of wheels.
The ground lay hard underfoot, even, the fall slight.
It would take speed. He measured it without counting.
Nothing here invited injury. That was the point.
Beyond it, the field opened. Long. Clean.
Swept clear where the grass lay short. The fence line held straight, stone set low—three feet, perhaps four—enough to mark boundary without breaking stride.
No trees crowded the edge. No rise to hide a stumble.
He let Argus step onto it and watched the ground answer her.
The barn stood square to the yard. Doors wide. The threshold sat flush. He looked at the floor where the boards met earth—no sag, no crown. Packed hard. Smooth enough for footwork. Enough height to clear a blade. Light would come through the seams once the doors were thrown back.
Behind the house, the walls held neat. Stone stacked true. Shutters closed, but sound. The place had been kept, then shut. Not abandoned.
He rode the perimeter slowly. Let Argus place his feet. Watched for breaks in the surface—old divots, burrows, places where water might have stood. One or two caught his eye. They would be filled. He turned him back toward the yard.
A se’nnight.
Long enough to work the horses. And prepare the men.
He would not arrive as he had before.
* * *
The field lay open once in the early light. Fitzwilliam crossed it at a walk. Villiers followed with the shovel. Fitzwilliam stopped. He pressed his heel into the turf. It gave. Villiers stepped past him and cut the edge clean. He filled it, tamped it down, moved on.
They worked the line once. Then again from the other side.
At the far fence, Fitzwilliam paused. He marked a second place with the toe of his boot. Villiers nodded and set to it.
The ground held.
* * *
Fitzwilliam glanced down the field. Cooper and Tanner stood, a horse-width between them. The space read narrow and deliberate.
Fitzwilliam raised his hand. Villiers answered it at once.
The pair moved together, walk into trot, then gallop, the line clean and held. The distance tightened until Fitzwilliam’s knee brushed Villiers’ boot.
He did not correct.
At the next signal Villiers dropped back behind him, the space closing without sound. Fitzwilliam rode on. They passed through the file and re-formed beyond.
The second run held the same measure.
No ground taken twice. No drift.
He signalled a fraction late; Villiers checked his horse without sound and slid into place behind Fitzwilliam. Neither Cooper nor Tanner moved, though one of them gasped.
They set for the third.
Fitzwilliam raised his hand. Villiers answered. The trot broke and steadied. The compression came and passed. The line held, though a shoulder passed close enough to steal a breath.
They turned away together.
Fitzwilliam dropped his hand. Villiers brought the line to a halt. The field lay marked only by hoofprints that would fade.
The rise stood empty.
* * *
Dusk settled. Cooper and Tanner finished their work, put their tools away, and left the yard.
The moon stood high. Voices carried back later, broken by song. One man leaned on the other. The barn doors closed.
Quiet returned.
* * *
Villiers set the distance. He handed Fitzwilliam the second blade. Wood, scarred and darkened by use.
Fitzwilliam tested the weight once and stepped in.
Villiers swung. Fitzwilliam did not retreat. He closed the space and struck first—short, inside the arc. The blade landed flat against Villiers’s shoulder.
They reset.
Villiers came again, wider this time. Fitzwilliam stepped through it. The strike took Villiers across the ribs.
They reset once more.
Villiers drew back to strike. Fitzwilliam saw the space open and took it. The blow checked Villiers at the wrist. The blade fell.
Villiers bent and retrieved it. He did not speak.
Fitzwilliam waited until the breathing settled.
“Your arms are too long,” he said. “You give ground every time you swing.”
Villiers looked at the blade.
“Use the reach,” Fitzwilliam went on. “Do not surrender it.”
They went again.
This time, the point came straight.
* * *
They took the field at a walk. Villiers rode the left flank. Fitzwilliam held the line. The ground held as it had before.
Fitzwilliam set the pace. Villiers matched it.
They turned together. Not tight. Not wide. Fitzwilliam let the distance open, then closed it again. Argus lengthened her stride and settled. Maréchal followed.
They crossed once. Then again.
Fitzwilliam lifted his hand. Two fingers. Villiers shifted right and took position. The line straightened. They rode it out and turned at the fence, stone flashing past the knee.
Villiers pressed this time. Too far. Fitzwilliam did not look back. He raised his hand again—one finger now. Villiers checked, shortened, and held.
They took speed. Not full. Enough.
The ground blurred. Wind took sound. Fitzwilliam felt Argus gather beneath him and let her run. Villiers stayed where he was meant to be.
At the far end, Fitzwilliam drew them down. They turned and came back slower.
He rode the line once more, then eased Argus to a walk.
Villiers did not speak.
Fitzwilliam circled a finger once in the air.
They rode it again.
* * *
The tree bore old scars. Fitzwilliam set his feet and moved again.
Short strokes. No reach wasted. The blade never left the space before him. Thrust. Withdraw. Cut. Recover. His shirt lay at the base of the trunk, dark with sweat. Breath stayed measured. Arms burned and answered.
He shifted the angle and worked the line tighter. The blade brushed bark and came back clean.
“Herr Fitz—”
Fitzwilliam turned. The point stopped a hand’s breadth from the man’s face.
He did not move. For a moment, neither spoke.
His eyes shifted once—to the blade, and back again.
“You are English,” he said.
Fitzwilliam lowered the blade and stepped back. He wiped his forearm across his mouth. “Yes.”
“Sunday approaches.” The man adjusted his grip on his hat. “You have not been among us.”
“I am not Catholic.”
The man inclined his head. “Attendance is permitted.”
Fitzwilliam lowered the blade.
The priest watched the motion and looked away. “You will be expected,” he said.
Fitzwilliam nodded once. Expectation travelled. It always did.
* * *
Argus picked his way into the yard and slowed. Fitzwilliam saw them before he reached the gate—Villiers standing in the paddock with Mueller and another man beside him. The second held a folio against his chest. He was already closing it.
Fitzwilliam dismounted and came to them. Gravel shifted under his boots. Mueller turned and continued speaking.
“All is in order. The holding is returned as it was let.” He held out his hand. Villiers placed the key there.
“The road north is open,” Mueller went on. “The post-road is serviceable.”
He turned away. The other man followed without looking back.
Villiers waited.
Fitzwilliam took the reins. “First light.”
He walked Argus to the stable.