by Jane Feather
There were renewed sighs and murmurs around the warm, fragrant kitchen, its vaulted ceiling blackened with wood smoke. "What we'll be doing if the viscount kills him, I don't know," Frederick commented dourly. "It's a fair bet he hasn't remembered us in his will." He gave a crack of sardonic laughter at such a novel idea.
Mathilde merely smiled and stirred her pot.
In a private parlor upstairs, Prince Michael was eating his dinner when the landlord knocked and entered the room. "Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord?" His little eyes gleamed with curiosity and the satisfaction of having such a celebrity under his roof. His taproom was doing better business this night than it had in months.
"Well enough." Michael took a forkful of his mutton chop braised with onions and artichokes. "But bring me another bottle of that claret."
"Yes, my lord. At once, my lord." The man picked up the empty bottle. "Will you require anything else tonight?"
"No, just bring me the bottle and tell my man to wake me at four o'clock with beef and ale."
The landlord bowed with some respect. The prince's legendary dueling record was clearly not exaggerated. It took a supremely confident man to face death on a dueling field with a full belly.
He went downstairs to relay these instructions to Frederick, who received them with a taciturn grunt. The kitchen would be up and running an hour before then, so he was in no danger of missing the call.
Mathilde settled back in her chair and prepared to doze the hours away.
Michael poured the last of the claret into his glass. He drank slowly, staring into space. His eyes were clear, his head was clear-he felt no effects from the two bottles of wine. But he hadn't expected to. He always drank deep before a dawn meeting. It relaxed him. His gaze roamed the room, rested on the leather chest that had so nearly proved his downfall. He still couldn't guess how Leo had read the journals. But it didn't matter now. The prideful fool had passed up the opportunity to condemn his sister's murderer by choosing such a ridiculously uncertain path to retribution as a trial by arms.
His gaze moved on, fell upon the long tooled-leather case standing against the wall beside the chest. An uncertain path for Leo Beaumont, but not for his opponent. Michael smiled slightly, took another sip of wine. He was not prepared to put his life in the hands of his own skill, however highly he regarded it. Leo was younger, lighter, possibly with more stamina. Even if he wasn't as good a swordplayer, those could prove decisive advantages, and Michael was not going to play against uneven odds.
, Setting his glass down, he rose from the table and went to the case. He opened it and drew out the two rapiers it contained. Deadly blades of chased tempered steel, their hilts plain silver. No jewels or engraving to dig into the hand. Just smooth, cool metal. He weighed them in his hands, flexed them, lunged with each one, touched the wicked points with the pad of his thumb.
The grace and speed of his movements were unaffected by the wine he had taken, and he smiled with satisfaction. As the defendant, he would have the advantage of fighting with a familiar blade. Leo had never handled these weapons. He would have to become accustomed to the weight, the feel of the hilt in his hand. But even that advantage wasn't sufficient.
After five minutes of exercise, Michael laid one rapier down carefully across the table. The other he propped against the wall. He bent to the leather chest, opened it.
When he straightened, he had a small vial in his hand. He set it down and bent again to the chest, bringing out a pair of kidskin gloves. He drew them on, flexing his fingers to get a tight fit. Then he turned again to the rapier on the table.
He unscrewed the top of the vial, picked up the rapier in his other hand, and dipped the point into the vial. His face was closed, intent, his eyes like pale quartz.
Curare. The smallest amount inserted through a cut would bring paralysis and death. One nick was all it would take, and Leo would begin to falter. His movements would slow, and as it seemed he was tiring, his opponent would administer the coup de grace. It would be a clean fight. There would be no suspicion of foul play. The prince would have lived up to his reputation and the viscount have proved himself the lesser swordsman. And Michael would have proved his innocence of all charges in the ancient way. There would be talk, of course. The king would not receive him for some time. But he could wait. He would have Cordelia. Alone, unprotected. His.
He took a piece of thread from his pocket and tied it around the hilt of the clean rapier, leaning against the wall. Then with his gloved hands, he very carefully replaced both weapons in the case and softly clicked the case shut.
He went into the next-door bedchamber, removed his boots, and lay down fully dressed upon the bed, his hands behind his head. The smile was still on his face, but his pale eyes were still as cold and hard as quartz.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, the only sounds were the occasional crackle from the banked fire, the ticking clock, and the guttural snores from Frederick, asleep on the settle, his head pillowed on his bundled cloak. Mathilde was now awake and refreshed after her nap. Her eyes were on the clock. One more hour before the prince was to take his beef and ale.
The scullery maid arrived first, blinking sleepily from her pallet in the pantry. She lit the oil lamps, then bent to rake over the coals, bringing the fire to blazing life. Other servants appeared, yawning, cursing. Frederick awoke, yawned, stretched, and went outside to relieve himself.
When he returned, the cook gestured to the tray on the table. "There's the prince's breakfast."
Frederick peered at the tray. He knew his master's preference and he didn't relish having the tray broken over his head. The plate of sirloin was red enough, the bread crusty, the ale had a good head to it. He shouldered the tray and went to wake the prince.
Mathilde leaned into the fire and threw a screw of paper into the flames. There was a hiss as the residue of the fine white powder it had contained hit the flames. Then she strolled out of the kitchen into the graying light of dawn, through the town nestling at the gates of the palace, across the great outer courtyard of the palace and inside.
Cordelia was up and dressed when Mathilde came in. She hadn't summoned Elsie but had dressed herself in a simple morning gown of blue muslin. She had no need of court dress for this occasion. She was persona non grata at court, and if anyone saw her, they would ignore her. She splashed cold water on her face from the jug on the washstand, then brushed her hair and plaited it, fastening the braids in a coronet around her head. She did all this like an automaton. Her mind and spirit were with Leo, preparing himself in this chill hour before dawn. How she wished she could be with him. But she knew he didn't want her. Wher
e she saw Leo as an absolute, intrinsic part of her life, her very soul-felt she had never existed properly before he had become her life- he had a life that didn't include her. A past on which she had no claims. She laid out her past for him, offered it to him as part of her gift of her self. Leo couldn't do that.
She turned with a jump as Mathilde entered. "Oh, where have you been?" She fell into Mathilde's arms with a sigh of misery. "I have been so lonely."
"I know, dearie, but I had something to do." Mathilde stood her up and examined her critically. "How's the bleeding?"
"Almost stopped." Cordelia frowned. She was accustomed to Mathilde's placidity, but she seemed even more phlegmatic than usual on this ghastly morning. She almost didn't appear sympathetic to Cordelia's agony of mind.
"Come along, then." Mathilde wrapped a cloak around Cordelia's shoulders. "You'll be needing this. It's nippy in the dawn air."
The town square was packed with townsmen. Hawkers moved among them, selling pies and mulled wine against the dawn chill. Tiers of benches had been set up overnight for the court, all of whom, even the most diehard slugabeds, were present. The royal party were gathered under a velvet canopy. Cordelia drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and she and Mathilde pushed through the throng, inching into the front row below the first tier of courtiers.
Michael stood at ease in the square. Beside him two guardsmen were handling the rapiers. They wore gloves to protect themselves from the fine-honed blades and deadly points. But they didn't know how deadly one of them was as they examined them for evenness of weight and keenness of edge.
A general shifting and murmuring ran through the crowd. Viscount Kierston stepped into the square. He had no guardsmen as escort. He came alone. He bowed to the prince, who returned the salute. Both men removed their coats, then they stepped up to the royal canopy and bowed before the king.
"May God be in the hand of the righteous," the king declared. "And may God forgive the wrongdoer."
Cordelia looked steadily ahead into the middle of the square. She seemed paralyzed. Unable to move so much as a muscle. Unable to blink, to move her mouth, barely able to breathe. She lost all sense of the crowd around her, seemed to be existing in a cold void.
They began slowly after the formal salutations. They moved around each other on the new-raked sand of the square, watching, assessing, biding their time. Michael was in no hurry to deliver the first cut that would ensure his final victory. Assured of success, he could play with his opponent, entertain the crowd.
The sun was a diffused ball reddening the horizon. Leo had become the dancing point of his rapier. He was a single eye and single will focused on the flashing silver of the opposing weapon. He had no fear. He felt nothing. He knew he had to tire his enemy. The older man would tire before he did, so he must keep him on the move, play him constantly, press him but not engage too closely.
It took Michael a few minutes to realize what was happening. He thought he was controlling the dance, but suddenly he understood that he was reacting, not initiating. It had happened insidiously, but now he felt himself pressed, as if he was being backed against a wall, yet he knew that they had the entire town square for their arena. He parried, feinted, thrust. But Leo had jumped back and the rapier merely skimmed his shirt.
Leo was breathing easily. His eyes glittered like the point 6f his rapier. Michael came in close, too close. Leo lunged, his foot slipped, and he went down to one knee. A murmur broke the concentrated silence in the square. Michael's rapier sliced through the sleeve of Leo's sword arm. But Leo was up and back with the agility of a hare. He had switched his blade to his left hand almost without Michael's being aware of it, and suddenly the prince was fighting a new opponent-a left-hander whose moves could not be easily parried.
Leo was not as quick or as sure with his left hand as with his right, but he knew it gave him an advantage, at least until Michael had become accustomed to the change. He must use those minutes.
Michael pressed forward. Had his blade sliced the skin? He could see no blood, but a nick was all that was needed. The sun seemed to be in his eyes and he blinked, feinted, backed away, trying to turn his opponent into the sun. His eyes were blurred; he wanted to wipe them with his sleeve, but he didn't have the chance. Then he had his back to the sun, and he blinked again to clear his vision. But the film remained. Leo was a dancing shape, his blade a flashing blur, and Michael realized he was fighting by instinct. Fear crept slowly over him. He shook his head, trying to dispel the haze, praying for the moment when Leo would falter, would slip. Surely he had nicked the skin? Please God, let there be a bead of blood.
Then his vision miraculously cleared. But the clarity and light were almost as blinding as the haze had been. Something was the matter with his eyes. Unable to help himself, he dashed a hand across them.
Cordelia, still petrified as rock, felt Mathilde's slight shift, her tiny exhalation of breath.
As Michael fought to banish his fear and confusion, Leo lunged, his blade at full extension. Michael, in the last minute before his vision clouded again, saw his chance. He brought his rapier in for a froisse, an attack that if delivered with sufficient power would disarm his opponent. But Leo moved with the agility of a gymnast, and their blades clashed ineffectively. Michael's arm was at full extension. He had a second to recover his balance, and in that second, Leo's riposte took his blade beneath Michael's arm, burying itself deep between his ribs. Slowly, Leo stepped back, withdrawing his point.
Michael's blade fell to the sand. He dropped to his knees, his hand clasped to the wound. Blood pulsed between his fingers.
There was utter silence in the square, barely a breath. Cordelia didn't move. It had happened so fast that her terror was still mounting even as Michael fell to his knees in the sand. Leo stood over him, the point of his rapier dark with blood.
Then, as the first moment of reaction stirred the rapt crowd, she stepped into the square and ran to the two men.
"Don't!" Leo said as she raced toward him, her eyes wild with joy. The command was spoken softly but was so full of power it stopped her in her tracks. This business was not done yet. She could not embrace him publicly over the body of her dying husband, however vital her need.
She stood still beside them, looking down at her husband, who remained on his knees, clutching his wound fiercely as if he believed he could staunch the blood, heal the wound. His eyes were strangely unfocused.
"Did I draw blood, Leo?" he asked softly. "Tell me I did."
Leo glanced at his torn sleeve. The skin beneath was unmarked. As Leo looked at his arm, Michael, with one last effort, grabbed up his fallen sword and lunged at his enemy. Cordelia kicked the blade from him with a reflex actio
n so fast her foot was a mere blur. Michael fell sideways onto the sword, his blood clotting the sand beneath him as his own blade sliced through his shirt into the flesh beneath.
Leo looked down at his fallen enemy, searing contempt in his eyes. "Die in dishonor, Prince," he said, and it sounded like a curse. Michael's gaze flickered away as he flinched from the dreadful derision. He could feel the poisoned blade cold against his skin, blood seeping from the cut, and his eyes closed.
And then the deadly triangle was shattered as people came running. Surgeons, officials, guardsmen surrounded the dying man, who now lay still on the ground.
Leo stepped aside, his expression cold, his eyes hard as brown stones. Cordelia stepped toward him. He stopped her with upraised hand and she fell back.
Leo walked across the sandy arena to the royal awning. He bowed before the king. His voice rang out across the square.
"Justice is done, monseigneur. I beg leave to remove myself from your court."
"Leave is granted, Viscount Kierston." The king rose and left the square with his family. Toinette looked over her shoulder to where Cordelia still stood, a forlorn figure, beside her husband's body.
Cordelia had heard Leo's words and they fell into her numbed mind like drops of frozen blood. He had formally asked for leave to depart Versailles. Protocol demanded that a guest of the king's could not leave the court without his permission. But was he leaving her? He seemed a stranger to her now. After what she had seen, after what had been said between them, she no longer knew what to expect of him.
He came toward her, his face suddenly younger, his eyes bright as if all shadows had been swept from their corners. He looked as he had when she'd first seen him. When she'd thrown the roses at him and he'd laughed up at her window. An eternity had passed since then-an eternity of terror and passion and confusion. An eternity in which she'd grown so far from the child she'd been as to find that person now unrecognizable as herself.