The Point of Death

by Peter Tonkin

  Not the peacocks, swans and cockpheasants brought in from Elfinstone Park, stuffed, roasted and served in their full plumage on plates of beaten gold could tempt either of them. Not the pike, eel and dolphin culled from the river below and swimming in lakes of herb sauce and butter on massive silver chafing dishes heated from below. Not the woodcocks and partridges baked in pies. Not the great sallets of parsley, sage, shallotts, leeks, borage, mint, purslain, fennel, cress and rosemary. Not the huge green sturgeon, boiled and sliced steaming at the table. Not the crane served with every feather in place and standing on one leg with a trout in its beak, nor the broiled baby herons served with it. Not the haunches of venison, hart and hind, roasted, boiled and baked. No jellies, potages, dates in compost. No lech of sugar, wine and spices, no damask sweet of sugared rose leaves, no suttletie, tart or fritter of strawberries or almonds could make them open their mouths. No salmon served in gold foil, no roast boar filligreed in silver and stuffed with piglets and rabbits, no dragon made of marchpane, no conger, lamprey or red herring passed their lips.

  No wine of Egypt, Greece, Cyprus, Madeira, Italy, France, Portugal or Spain, chilled, mulled, syruped, sweetened, savoured or salted with dissolving pearls, could tempt their palettes. No mead or ale or beer or even water. If they talked to each other or the company, then none heard. If they laughed at the antics of the jester, the jugglers, the clowns, stilt walkers, acrobats, bears or apes, then none saw it. If they listened above the bustling hubbub to the pavanes of Peter Phillips, or the airs of Thomas Tallis or the boy who sang 'Greensleeves', then no one knew it. They did not eat, they did not drink, they did not talk, they did not laugh, they did not dance. Even under the questioning eyes of the laughing Constanza measuring a galliard, then leaping into a volte with Salgado as the music of Phillips was replaced by that of Dowland.

  Tom sat moodily watching the great lords upon their elevated seats eating, drinking and laughing, then stepping down to dance - ever and anon glancing back down at him seeming to share some secret, sinister jest. Lady Margaret sat staring silently but fixedly at the beautiful little blue-eyed, golden boy who served the Earl of Essex as his page; but the boy was assiduous to his task and did not see the lady watching him. They did not move until it was time for Romeo.

  For Romeo the room was rearranged. The tables that had made a great horse-shoe around three walls were carried away through the Great Door to be cleared else where. The seats were arranged before the newly positioned stage. The lords and earls remained upon their raised dais. Their servants and the page boy remained standing at their shoulders. The rest of the company was put into long rows across the hall. The candles, lit long ago to illuminate the dancing, were darkened at the east end so that Lord Outremer's gilded arms burned dimly in the shadows and the stage stood under the light.

  It was strange, thought Tom grimly, how the contrast between the light and darkness seemed to change the atmosphere. The Great Hall became a place of sinister whispering and shadowed scurrying even before Ned Alleyn heaved himself up on to the creaking boards and intoned the prologue to the play. Tom found himself torn. His eyes were keen to be exploring what was going on here, the increasingly worrying comings and goings; the thronging of the shadows with men who carried things that, like Lord Outremer's arms, occasionally gleamed amid the dullness. On the other hand, in spite of all the rehearsals he had attended and all the action he had staged, he had never seen the play. Even on a night such as this - in danger such as he stood in, with friends lost and enemies gathering and his death ticking nearer with every moment passing – he found he could become gripped by the simple power of the drama unfolding in Will Shakespeare's Verona.

  At last he sat enraptured, lost to everything except the terrible dilemma of Juliet and her vial of poison as she prepared to drink it and fall into apparent death - fearing all the while that she might awake in her tomb and run mad before Romeo could rescue her.

  'Is it not likely that I,

  So early waking, what with loathsome smells

  And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,

  That living mortals hearing them run mad-

  Oh if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

  And madly play with my forefathers' joints

  And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ...'

  And even as the words were spoken, at the very instant Juliet uttered them on stage, a flash of light caught the corner of Tom's eye. No one else seemed to see it for he was positioned right at the end of the front row with no one beyond him except those sinister, shuffling shadows. With the poor girl's desperate words ringing in his ears, he looked across at the light. And there, just for a second, there and gone as a door into another, brighter, room swung open and closed upon her, there was Kate.

  Kate was dressed in the very same costume as the boy playing Juliet - though she filled it more naturally. And she wore a gag of cloth across her mouth, above which her eyes rolled with a desperation close to madness indeed. For like Juliet in her nightmare vision, Kate was chained to a dead man. She crouched and he lay, green and mouldering like Juliet's slaughtered cousin might do in his tomb. Into Tom's mind flashed the vision of the open tomb he had passed in the grounds. The tomb he could see from his chamber window. The tomb in all probability he was destined to share with these two, if Cotehel's plans ran true.

  For a moment Tom thought the corpse was Ugo Stell and all was lost indeed. But then he realised. It was the late Julius Morton. Morton taken up from the Plague Pit so that he was gone when Poley came to look for him. Morton brought to Elfinstone as Cotehel's punishment for Kate, his contact. And punishment indeed, punishment beyond mere death, for Morton the intelligencer who had died trying to warn her with his dying breath. He tore himself half erect, but a hand crashed down upon his shoulder, pinning him relentlessly into his seat. There was a smell of oil and garlic lightened with a mouthful or two of sweet basil. Stunned and shaking, Tom looked back at the stage, thinking that the Lady Margaret sitting silently beside him, straining for a sight of the boy with the Earl of Essex, was probably the sanest person there.

  As the applause died away, the stage was cleared and the actors joined the people thronging the shadows behind the rows of chairs and the raised dais at their centre. Between the dais and the stage stood an area of granite floor. It was perhaps ten feet wide and stretched the width of the room. Here, at the feet of Baron Cotehel and the Earls of Essex and Southampton, their assembled friends, acolytes and hangers-on, Tom at last stood face to face with Domenico Salgado. The silence in the room was massive, a thing of weight, as though the air had been transformed to stone. A black shape stepped out of the shadows to second the Spaniard and Tom recognised the knowing, brutal leer of the murderous Baines. The Englishman helped the Spaniard shrug off his doublet and prepare for the bout as one of Cotehel's courtiers stepped forward to referee the match.

  Tom turned, alone, and tore off his doublet, pretending not to notice the stir as everyone realised he was without a second. Carelessly he wadded up the expensive velvet and threw it away to his left, up on to the stage. Then, after a moment, he followed it with the white lawn of his shirt. Naked to the waist, he unbuckled his sword belt and laid that on the warm pile of his clothes, then he eased the second belt that held his galligaskins and secured his money-pouch and dagger, tightening the black gloves that matched his kid boots so well. Pulling all his concentration in within himself, he eased his arms and shoulders, stretched his back, then tested the long muscles of his legs, ensuring his clothing did not hinder his movements and the grip of his boots on the granite floor was sure.

  When Tom pulled out his rapiers the whole room seemed to sigh and he turned to face Salgado, realising that chance had made the Spaniard unsheath his weapons at exactly the same moment. They faced each other in silence until the Spaniard turned abruptly to salute Cotehel and Essex. Tom turned with a grim smile and saluted Constanza who sat beside Salgado's empty chair on the dais, behind a table laden with pi
les of fruit and sweetmeats; bottles, bowls and glasses of wine. Her eyes were wide and almost as dark as Lady Margaret's, to whom Tom addressed his second and final salute. When Tom turned back, Salgado was awaiting him, already en garde. Baines was standing clear, behind him, and the referee was tapping impatiently with the staff he would use to control the bout. Salgado had chosen the Falcon, his right shoulder leading, rapier high, left rearing upward like a scorpion's tail. Tom, the slightly taller of the two, fell into the same pose, also leading with his right. The cane tapped the ground and vanished. Tom threw himself into the attack. Along the straight line of his progress he hurled his right blade. Down it swooped into the upper area of Salgado's breast, hissing in towards his collarbone. But the Spaniard riposted, securing the tip of Tom's sword with the solid base of his own and spitting it aside as his own deadly tip flashed in towards Tom's eye. Tom's right rapier was committed beyond recall and so he brought the left down, knocking Salgado's aside dangerously with the more flexible tip, knowing that Salgado too had another blade as yet uncommitted. And here it came, stabbing straight for his throat. Twisting his right rapier across his face, Tom caught the counter-stroke on his guard and stopped it short. There was an instant of stasis.

  In that minim beat before he stepped back, Tom broke one of Capo Ferro's rules and looked away from his opponent's wrist. He glanced down at the point held inches from the pit of his throat and saw the sheen of the Solingen steel was discoloured. There was something dark and oily coating the last few inches of the point. Salgado was using poisoned swords.

  'No score,' called the referee.

  Tom disengaged, stepped back, assumed the Iron Door, and waited. Salgado again assumed the Falcon guard. This time, however, the Spaniard reversed his position and led with the left-hand sword. Tom's unguarded back was now under threat and only the greatest confidence, governing the swiftest blade, was likely to turn the trick. Tom looked up and laughed. Then, with the mocking echo of it still ringing on the air, he attacked fast and hard. He crossed his enemy's newly positioned body with lightning speed and committed his right point to an upward attack on Salgado's chest, reversing the point to swing back in and testing the power of the Spaniard's wrist as the attack was riposted.

  He disdained to use his second sword when the slightly uncertain counter-attack came, using the strength of his own wrist and solidity of his footwork to step back out of range as the rapier sliced past his chest. He beat the half-hearted afterthought of Salgado's right-hand rapier aside like a herdsman directing a cow. An apt enough idea, for the Spaniard, unbalanced, staggered towards him like a bull to a matador. The casual mastery of it wrung a peal of laughter and some applause from his audience. The referee's cane whipped in between them and Salgado recovered, clearly resolving to risk the left-hand attack only in the final extremity. And in the meantime, to rely on the poisoned blades, thought Tom grimly.

  For his third guard, Tom assumed the Crown, sloping his leading sword up towards Salgado's head. But he had reversed his stance now, and this time his leading sword was his left. Salgado now felt his own back and neck at risk - while Tom's own lead sword was guarding his breast. The Spaniard froze, clearly thinking with feverish speed. But the calculated humiliation of that casual blow in the last bout stood well by Tom. Salgado was too proud to reverse his own stance now. Repeating the pattern of the last two bouts, Tom threw himself into the attack the instant the cane vanished. Unsettled by Tom's reversal, Salgado reacted too quickly. Tom's attack was a feint. He froze for a beat of hesitation. In that fleeting moment, Salgado became the over-committed attacker. Tom accepted his thrust and enveloped it in his own riposte. He gathered Salgado's point against his own blade's base, trapping it and twisting with all his strength. Tom's own lead sword leaned far out of line, its point sliding harmlessly through the air above Salgado's head - but Tom's objective was not to run his opponent through. Salgado's sword tore out of the Spaniard's grip and soared tumbling up towards the stage to fall with a rattling clatter beside Tom's clothes.

  But the bout was only half done. The Spaniard's second blade whipped viciously in towards Tom's face. His own lead sword uselessly extended, Tom slammed the hilts of his right hand sword across, only to feel the point of the Spaniard's blade slit through the wrist-guard of his glove and cut the skin on the back of his hand before it ground to a halt, trapped against the quillions above his basket guard. He disengaged and stepped back at once, leaving Salgado to recover under the protection of the referee again. He leaped up on to the stage and gathered Salgado's sword. Then he stepped down and reached into his purse to pull the little vial out. If anyone there understood why he wet his lips with the thick dark liquid it contained, no one said a thing. But the action was completed so quickly that few would have noticed in any case. Salgado was still straightening as he turned. Carelessly, Tom threw him one of the three swords he now held. Only when he picked it up and began to fit it to his hand did Salado realise. The new sword was not his.

  Face white, eyes and mouth wide and dark, Salgado looked at Cotehel and then at the courtier referee. 'He has my sword,' he said.

  'And you have mine,' mocked Tom. 'Solingen and of the finest. Not good enough for you, señor?' As he spoke, he assumed the most dangerous of all positions, the Posta Longa, almost fully extended, with only attack an option, defence out of the question, even with the left hand sword sitting immediately above his head like a steel halo. As he moved, he felt the deadly lethargy creeping through his limbs. The distracting urge to void themselves clamping at his belly and bowels.

  'Sir!' protested the outraged referee.

  Behind him, Salgado assumed the more defensive Crown position, leading, like Tom, with a poisoned blade.

  'Out, whoreson ...' spat Tom at the referee and launched past him. With a scream that revealed all too much, the referee sprang clear, blundering into the dais and coming near to upsetting the drinks upon the table.

  Poisoned blade sang along poisoned blade. As Tom had known he would, Salgado jerked back, fearing for his face.

  The Spaniard's own blade missed Tom's nose by a hair's breadth. The blade in Tom's fist wavered helplessly out of line. The two clean blades clashed above their heads, ringing like blacksmiths at work. The pair of them staggered over towards the dais and the referee, still squealing like a piglet, squirmed to escape the clashing blades. This time it was Salgado who disengaged, and Tom who staggered as they parted. But he remained erect, and he kept firm hold on Salgado's poisoned sword.

  'Here!' Cotehel was calling abruptly to the referee. 'The men are parched, sir. Give them to drink.' He raised a broad green goblet of the thick Venetian glass and pushed it at the courtier still hopping along the front of the low wooden platform upon which he, Essex, Southampton and their guests were seated. The referee gave a kind of squawk and hesitated on one leg, like one of the courses at the recent dinner. Constanza swept forward. 'My lord,' she called, 'allow me!'

  She took the goblet out of Cotehel's hand and stepped down off the dais. Between the men she paused and hesitated. 'God's my life,' she swore roundly. 'I do not know which one of you to feed first. Here's to both of you then, my lovers old and new!' And she toasted the combatants herself.

  Tom, careful of the poisoned blade, caught her round the waist, hurling her sideways on to the stage. Thick red wine sprayed all over the floor, some of it from the goblet and some from Constanza's mouth. The Venetian vessel itself span away to bounce off the wooden boards and shatter across the grey flags behind Salgado, causing Baines to skip back with a cry. Constanza hit the edge of the stage and folded into a sitting position like a broken doll. Her stomach heaved again. She looked up at Tom, her eyes huge. 'It was poisoned, caro,' she informed him, her voice blank with shock and surprise. Her words carried to every corner of the silent, shadowed hall.

  Tom ripped Villalar's vial out of his purse. 'Drink this,' he told her. 'Every drop of it.' Then he turned back to face Salgado.

  For the last time he assumed hi
s position. This time, again, it was the Posta Longa, but he led with the poisoned sword in the left hand. Shocked and shaken, but still caught in his bravado posturing, Salgado fell into the Crown position with the poisoned blade in his right hand, pointing at Tom's face. But the infinitesimal wavering of the point told Tom all he needed to know of the Spaniard's fear that Tom would cut his back, shoulder or neck before he could bring his envenomed point round.

  Tom feinted. It was a large move, clearly false. Salgado treated it with the contempt it deserved, but he shuffled sideways, unconsciously moving the line of attack and defence to the very front edge of the dais.

  His toe-tips almost touched it, but he did not see the danger because he was looking back over his shoulder at the left-hand long attack.

  Which came at once. His body numbing rapidly and the light in his eyes beginning to dim, Tom threw himself forward, tearing his arms into two immediate attacks. The poisoned blade struck straight and true, wavering not an iota from its line. The poisoned point went low - lower than Salgado had expected or could ever hope to counter - straight through the Spaniard's buttocks. Tom let go the hilts and pulled his hand free at once. His right sword, coming down over his head, collected Salgado's poisoned blade and threw it aside. Tom's left hand caught the reeling Spaniard by the shoulder and hurled him across the low dais, sword first. Essex and Southampton leaped wildly backwards, scattering fruit, bottles, tableware, tables. Cotehel was not so quick. He was still seated in the great, solid gilt throne he had made for himself when Salgado's poisoned blade sliced up the inside of his thigh to skewer his groin to the seat.

  Tom pushed himself erect and stepped back to pick up his clean Solingen swords. The whole room sat in stasis. Even the Earls of Essex and Southampton remained frozen, crouched in their attitudes of fearful retreat. Only Baron Cotehel, no longer destined to be Lord Outremer on the morrow after all, twitched and whimpered, his voice shrill and tearingly high, like that of an Italian castrato.