P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  "No, had to fly the country to avoid 'em. Heard he got into a card game in France, won a fortune, and returned in triumph to pay off everything. Still, I understand he's not given up looking for a rich wife. Bad luck for Elizabeth if he-no... she's too smart for him, and after that bad business she's been through, she won't be much impressed by a title."

  "Maybe I should go out and interrupt him before-"

  "Too late, the music's already started. Don't worry, old lad, it's just one dance. She can take care of herself."

  On that I could only tentatively agree; but once they're stirred up, it's hard to put one's protective instincts aside.

  The dancers fell into the patterns required of them and the stragglers cleared themselves from the floor. The Russian, who was heading in another direction, changed course when he spotted Oliver and apparently recognized him. He sauntered over to us.

  "Is that you, Marling? Thought so. Grand party, what?"

  "Very grand. Ridley, isn't it? Can't mistake you, two yards tall and then some, you great giant. You need to meet my cousin from America, Jonathan Barrett. Jonathan, this is Thomas Ridley."

  We bowed to each other. Ridley, red from the dance and sweating, untied his beard and stuffed it into a pocket.

  "He was a couple of years ahead of us at Cambridge, weren't you?"

  "At Oxford, Marling," he said in a near patronizing drawl.

  "Yes, of course. Haven't seen you in ages. Back from the Tour?" Oliver asked, referring to the popular fashion the gentry followed of exploring the Continent.

  "Something like that. London gets too small for me, y'see." He grandly stretched his arms wide as if to illustrate.

  That was when the now nagging familiarity I felt about him changed instantly to utter certainty. Ridley was the leader of the Mohocks that I'd bedeviled on my first night in London.

  Good God.

  "And how is America, these days?" he asked me, again with that almost, but not quite, patronizing tone. It was finely balanced, just enough so that he was unpleasant, but not to the point where anyone could take exception to it.

  "Fine, very fine," I answered, not really thinking.

  "Fine? You're not one of those damned rebels, are you?"

  "Absolutely not!" cried Oliver. "My God, but Jonathan's done his share of the fighting for our king. How many have you killed, Coz? Half a dozen?"

  "You exaggerate, Oliver." I had no wish to dwell on that part of my past.

  "Blazed away at a roomful of 'em, at least, only this summer."

  "How interesting," said Ridley, giving me a narrow stare.

  Damnation. Had he recognized me as the victim he and his gang had tried to sweat? Hard to tell if it was that or his reaction to Oliver's tipsy boasting.

  "Not very," I countered. "Just defending my family. Any man would do the same. Are you enjoying the Masque? That coat must be very warm." God, but I was babbling, too. Really, now, there was nothing to fear. It was unlikely that he'd remember me; it had been dark and he very drunk. Besides, half my face was obscured by my mask. The music and the great press of people were simply making me nervous.

  "Rather," he said, a lazy amusement creeping over his heavy features. Neither handsome nor ugly, but possessing distinct enough looks to make him stand out, he seemed to know how to use them to his best advantage. But moments ago he'd almost seemed dashing as he squired Elizabeth 'round the dance floor. Now he was decidedly base as he spoke more loudly than necessary to be heard over the music and other speakers. "There's plenty of other things here to make a man warm, though."

  "Yes, all the dancing. I may try a turn or two myself, later."

  "It'd be well worth the trying, I can guarantee you, Barrett. The ladies here tonight are of superior stock. Very lively." "I have noticed."

  "Now," he said, pointing out at the couples on the floor. "See that pirate wench with the red hair? There's a pretty slut who knows what's best for a man. It's the way she walks and moves is how you can tell. I'll give you seven to ve that I'll be pounding her backside into the floor within the hour. What do you say?" He grinned down at me.

  Oliver, for all the wine he'd taken, was just quick enough to get between us. I heard him shouting my name, trying to get through the blast of white-hot rage roaring between my ears. I fought to push him to one side to strike at Ridley, but our violent activity seized the instant attention of some of the other men present who had overheard, and they all leaped in to hold me back.

  "Have a care, sir!"

  "Calm yourself, sir!"

  "For God's sake, Jonathan, don't!"

  Through it all, Ridley stood with his hands on his hips, grinning. I wanted to smash his face to a pulp and knew perfectly well that I could do it with ease if only these fools would just let go my arms.

  "You heard the bastard!" I shouted. "You heard him!"

  "Aye, we did, an' there're ways for gentlemen to settle such things," said an older man with an Irish accent.

  "Let them be settled, then. I'm issuing challenge here and now."

  "First cool yourself, young sir."

  I stopped fighting them, falling back on my heels, but still searing inside and ready to tear Ridley in two at his next word. But he said nothing and just walked away with that ass's grin fixed in place.

  "That was a rare harsh insult to you, sir," said the older man with dark sympathy.

  "To my sister, sir," I corrected. "And thus making it a greater offense."

  "Then you're familiar with the Clonmel Summer Assizes?"

  "I am." Oliver had acquired a copy of the Irish Code Duello that autumn, and I'd studied it with interest, hardly dreaming I'd find so quick a use for its rules. "Are you cooled enough to properly deal with it?" I could not take my eyes from Ridley's retreating back. "Jonathan?" Oliver, looking sober, yet held my arm. "Yes," I snarled. "You heard him? You all heard?" Some three or four of them said they had. All looked grim.

  "I need a second," I heard myself saying. "Oliver, would you-?"

  "Need you ask? Of course I will."

  "Hold now," said the Irishman. " 'Tis contrary to the rules to deliver a challenge at night. No need for being a hothead. It can wait till the morrow."

  "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 ine
qualities 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.

  "Allezl"

  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 1 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 awhile 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 a
ttacks 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 breast bone. 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. Bloodsmell on the winter air. Taste of blood in my mouth. My blood.