Chapter 1 #2
Bryght drew on his training to act as unconcerned as his brother, but real worry churned. Rothgar practiced regularly with a master, and had insisted that all his brothers did the same as protection against just this sort of incident. A trumped-up excuse for a duel.
But was he good enough?
Fettler, his brother’s valet, was calmly folding the discarded coat and waistcoat.
The liveried footman who held his master’s inlaid and gilded rapier case looked unalarmed.
Clearly in the servants’ eyes Rothgar was already cast in the role of victor.
Bryght wished he had that ignorant security.
No match between skilled swordsmen was ever certain.
Rothgar turned to him. “Go. Do your secondary duties.”
“What are my primary ones?”
His brother twisted off his ruby signet and passed it over. “To take up my burden if things go awry.” With a slight smile, he added, “Pray, my dear, for my success.”
“Don’t be damned stupid.”
“You thirst after the marquisate?”
“You know I don’t. I meant, of course I pray for your success.”
“But I doubt either of us have voices heard by angels. Go, therefore, and make a last attempt at peace.”
“Is there any basis upon which you would?”
Rothgar was tucking his lace ruffles into his cuff. “But of course! Am I an animal? If he crawls over here on his knees begging forgiveness, he may flee into exile unharmed.”
Though his own terms would be exactly the same, Bryght felt like rolling his eyes as he walked partway between the two groups and waited. The chance of apology was nonexistent, but one must always go through the correct steps.
Sir Parkwood Giller minced forward to meet him, clearly enjoying his central role in this popular drama. He even produced a gaudy, lace-edged handkerchief to flourish as he bowed too low in a sickening cloud of cheap perfume. “My lord!”
Bryght cloaked his disgust and gave the slightest possible bow. “I come to ask if your principal has realized his error.”
“Error!” The handkerchief wafted again. It could constitute a secret weapon. “Lud, no, my lord. But if the marquess realizes that his offense was misplaced—”
“You jest.”
“Not at all. Everyone knows—”
“Giller, the days in which seconds engaged in combat are past, but I will oblige you if you insist.”
Handkerchiefs at twenty paces. No, make it thirty.
White showed around Giller’s eyes—or bloodshot pink to be precise. “No … not at all, my lord. I assure you!”
“How wise.” Bryght then stated his brother’s terms, at which Giller’s snub nose pinched and he stiffened in affront. “Then the duel goes on, my lord!”
“It is your duty to put the terms to your principal, as I will put Curry’s to mine.” With a sharp bow, Bryght returned to his brother.
“Complete acceptance that Chastity is a trollop, of course.”
Rothgar, warming and loosening his muscles, didn’t respond.
Bryght didn’t say more, knowing his brother had a way of settling and focusing his mind before swordplay.
It wasn’t something he himself had ever been able to do well, which was doubtless why Rothgar and Cyn could always defeat him in the end.
Come to think of it, fire-eating Cyn didn’t seem to do much mental settling before a contest either.
With him it was pure lightning brilliance.
Bryght wished again Cyn was here. He’d slice Curry to ribbons and enjoy every minute of it.
Six years of soldiering had hardened him to death-dealing to a remarkable degree.
Everyone was waiting now for Rothgar to indicate he was ready.
Bryght certainly didn’t want to rush him, but he wished they’d get on with it, get it over with.
Of course, it was quite likely this delay was designed to put Curry off balance.
The man had already stopped his exercises and taken to marching back and forth in obvious impatience, playing to the crowd.
The crowd, though restive, showed no signs of siding with Curry in this. When death hovered, impatience was gauche.
As if judging his moment, Rothgar paused, straightened, gave Bryght one of his rare smiles, then walked into the center of the space.
Gad, but he was magnificent.
He always moved with a fluid grace, but before swordplay it changed slightly, as if the balance of his whole body shifted a lethal fraction. Of course, he’d taken off his heeled shoes, but he’d also dropped the studied grace of the courtier and released the beauty of the predator beneath.
Tall, broad-shouldered, lean, and muscled—the truth was no longer disguised by the elegance and artifice of the fashionable nobleman. A hush settled on the crowd, and Bryght knew it was more than anticipation of the duel. It was awe.
Everyone was familiar with the aristocrat who wielded great influence in England without taking political office. Few, however, had previously seen beneath the manners, wit, and silk.
Bryght wondered if Rothgar’s reluctance to indulge in duels was not just that he had better things to do. Perhaps he disliked exposing this extra layer of power. It declared itself now in his strong body and lean features, still and focused on his deadly opponent.
Curry didn’t seem to feel the change. With an audible huff, he stalked confidently to meet his opponent, only then settling into fencer’s stance, and a rather rigid version.
Bryght relaxed slightly. Perhaps they were uneven after all.
Not enough. From the first click of the swords, Curry too changed, and it was clear he deserved his reputation.
More of a fire-eater than a scientist, he was still strong, quick and skilled, and had that advantage of being left-handed.
He even possessed some of the magic spark that took sword fighting beyond speed and mechanics, a separate sense that made him able to avoid the unavoidable, and take advantage of the slightest slip.
The light but lethal blades tapped and slithered, stockinged feet padded back and forth on the springy grass, agile bodies flexed and twisted, recovered, extended, retracted, lunged….
Attacking blades were beaten back, but not always without contact.
Soon, despite the cool morning air, both men poured sweat, and hair flew free of ribbons.
Both shirts were gashed red. No more than scratches yet, but Bryght’s heart was racing as his brother’s must be.
Plague take it but it was close. A slip could settle this, or it might come down to endurance.
The two men fought in silence to the music of the blades, all concentration in eye and hand, and on the sword—the flexible extension of the hand, arm, and body.
Agile feet and strong legs moved them back and forth with lethal speed.
Both must know it was even, for they pushed the risks now, hunting the falter.
Curry thrust high, forcing an awkward parry that still sent the point slicing across Rothgar’s shoulder. Curry was ready with an echo thrust to the heart, but by some miracle Rothgar kept his balance and knocked the rapier wide.
Both men stepped back, panting and dripping, then lunged forward again.
It could not go much longer. Then Rothgar parried another clever thrust and extended, extended almost beyond strength and balance so his rapier point penetrated Curry’s chest just below the breastbone.
Not deep enough to kill. Not even deep enough to seriously wound.
But instinct staggered the man back, shocked, hand to the wound, and the crowd gasped.
Perhaps they thought him killed.
Perhaps he thought the same.
With a rapid flick, Rothgar pinked him in the thigh so blood ran free. Curry tried to collect himself, to get back his balance and control, but Rothgar’s sword flickered past a confused defense of the heart to pierce deep into his left shoulder.
The maiming wound. Curry would live, but unless he was very lucky, he would not use a sword with his left arm again.
Bryght realized he’d stopped breathing, and sucked in air. All around, cheers and applause made this seem absurdly like a popular scene at the opera.
Curry, to give him credit, seized his fallen sword in his right hand and tried to go on, but Rothgar disarmed him in a few moves.
His sword rested at the man’s heaving chest, poised with intent over the false wound.
Still sucking in breaths, he said, “I assume you are now … resolved to sing songs that are up to date and in tune?”
Rage flared in Curry’s eyes, the rage of one who’d never been defeated, who had thought himself invulnerable, and in a way still did. “Singing be damned. Lady Chastity Ware was a whore, and still is—”
He died, his heart pierced, before more filth could spew forth.