Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  He started forward, but William whirled and ran to the display of military arms hanging upon the far wall. There were steel shields, surrounded by hundreds of edged weapons arranged in decorative patterns, collected by the Courtney ancestors from every battlefield on which they had fought. William snatched down a heavy sword that had been used by a Cavalier officer in King Charles’s cavalry. ‘Now we will finish this once and for all,’ he said grimly, as he turned on Tom. He cut and thrust at the air with the long blade, to test its balance and feel.

  Tom retreated slowly before him. He could not reach the far wall and select a weapon of his own, neither could he escape through the double doors. To do so he would give William his chance. He thought of the dagger his brother had dropped, but that was buried under the books. With his sleeve, he wiped the blood from his face and backed away.

  ‘Ha! Ha!’ William shouted, and came on faster, driving at him with a rapid series of lunges. Tom was forced to jump away, twisting and dodging. William was working him towards the corner furthest from the door.

  Tom saw the trap, but when he tried to break out, his brother blocked him, cutting right and left at his head, forcing him back once more. Tom was evaluating his style and expertise. He saw that he had not improved since the days when he had watched him practising with Aboli. William was still a better wrestler than a bladesman. His eyes gave away his intention, and although he was as swift as a striking adder on the thrust and the left-handed cut, he was weak on the reverse cut and tardy on the recovery from a thrust.

  Now he charged in suddenly, underestimating his unarmed adversary. Tom gave with a series of quick-running steps backwards, watching his eyes. His back came up hard against a section of bookshelf that was still standing, and he saw the triumph in William’s dark eyes. ‘Now, sir!’ He thrust high in the natural line, and Tom let him commit to the stroke before he rolled his body away from it. The thrust went under his armpit, and the blade sank into the spine of a book on the shelf behind him. Briefly the blade was trapped, but Tom did not make the mistake of trying to wrestle it from his grip and lacerating his hands on the razor steel. While William struggled to free it, Tom stooped quickly and gathered up one of the heavy books from the floor at his feet. He hurled it into William’s face. It struck him on the forehead, but as he staggered back the blade came free.

  As Tom bounded past him William struck out at him, but he was slow on his weak side and still off-balance. The point touched Tom’s flank and drew more blood, but it was a flesh wound, and Tom was past. He started for the wall display of weapons, but he heard the soft slither of William’s stockinged feet close behind him. Instinctively he knew that William would catch him before he could get another sword down off the wall, and that he would receive a killing thrust into his unprotected back. He changed direction and heard William swear as he slipped on the polished floor – his stockings gave him no purchase.

  Tom reached the table and snatched up the massive silver candlestick from the centrepiece. Holding it in front of him, he whirled to face William’s next charge. His brother raised the sword high and hacked at Tom’s head. It was a poor stroke, one that would have been fatal folly if Tom had had a sword in his hand. Tom raised the candlestick and the blade clattered against the soft metal. He knew that the shock had jarred his brother’s hand. William winced and gasped, but raised the sword to repeat the wild overarm stroke.

  Quicker on the recovery, Tom swung the silver candlestick like a battleaxe into William’s ribs under the raised sword. He heard a bone break, like a green stick, and William shouted with the pain, but though his aim was thrown askew he could not stop the blow he had already launched. It hissed past Tom’s head and buried itself in the tabletop, shattering the magnificently grained walnut.

  Tom hit him again with the candlestick, but William ducked, avoiding the full force of the blow. Still it sent him staggering back to trip on the pile of books. He almost went down but, with a wild windmill of his right arm, recovered his balance. Tom had darted away towards the door and William went after him again, cutting left and right at his back, the blows falling just short.

  Tom raced for the door out into the hall, and through it saw his sword-belt hanging in the alcove where Matthew had hung it for him when he entered the house. The great sapphire in the pommel flashed at him like a harbour beacon welcoming a gale-blasted ship.

  As he ran through the open doors he reached out and slammed one shut in William’s face. William blocked the swing of the door with his shoulder and threw it back, but the check had given Tom just enough leeway to cross the hall and tear down his sword-belt from the rack. He whirled and used the engraved and lacquered scabbard to block William’s next wild thrust. He leaped back and, before William could follow up, he had drawn the steel of the blue Neptune sword out of its scabbard.

  The blade came clear with a soft snick and quivered in his right hand like a beam of solid sunlight. The reflections danced on the walls and the ceiling above where he stood four-square to face William on equal terms at last. William came up short as the inlaid steel weaved like a standing cobra in his face and winked gold sparks into his eyes.

  ‘Yes, brother. Now we will finish this, once and for all.’ Tom threw William’s threat back into his teeth, and came forward, staring deep into his brother’s dark eyes, right foot leading, taking light, rapid steps. William gave ground before his advance and Tom saw fear bloom in his eyes. He realized what he had known all along: William was a coward.

  Why should I be surprised? he thought grimly. Bullies are usually cowards. To test him, he attacked en fle`che, the attack of the arrow, driving in a storm of rapid thrusts. William almost fell over backwards in his haste to avoid the flashing blade.

  ‘You are quick as a frightened rabbit, brother.’ Tom laughed in his face, but he was holding himself in check, never relaxing his vigilance. The frightened leopard is the most dangerous. There was also danger in facing a left-handed bladesman. All the coups were reversed and he might lay himself open to the left-handed cut from William’s strong side. Fortunately, Aboli had emphasized this during so many practice sessions. Aboli was ambidextrous and he had often changed his sword into his left hand in the middle of a bout, shifting the symmetry of the engagement, trying to throw Tom off his stroke. In the beginning he had succeeded, but Tom had been an apt student.

  William stumbled and slipped, dropped to one knee. It looked natural, but Tom had seen his eyes and the way his blade had drifted back into position for the left-handed cut in the low line – a stroke that would sever Tom’s Achilles tendon and cripple him. Instead of stepping into the snare, Tom jumped back and circled swiftly into his weak quarter.

  ‘You waste your talents, brother.’ Tom smiled through the blood of his broken nose. ‘You might have an illustrious career at the Globe.’

  William was forced to scramble to his feet as Tom came in again from the right, and drove him back to the foot of the grand staircase with a fierce series of cuts and thrusts, changing his angle and line with each blow. William was hard put to block each successive stroke: his breathing turned ragged and his eyes filled slowly with terror. The sweat popped out in little transparent blisters across his forehead.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Billy.’ Tom smiled at him over the darting steel. ‘It’s like a razor. You’ll hardly feel it go in.’ His next thrust split open the front of William’s shirt without cutting the ivory-smooth skin beneath. ‘Just like that,’ Tom said. ‘No pain at all.’

  William reached the staircase and whirled. He went up it with long elastic bounds, three treads at a time, but Tom was after him, gaining with every stride. William heard him and was forced to turn to defend himself on the first landing. He reached instinctively for the dagger on his belt, but the sheath was empty.

  ‘It’s gone, Billy,’ his brother reminded him. ‘No more dirty little tricks. You’ll have to fight with what you have.’

  To begin with William had the advantage of height as Tom came up from be
low him. He went for the overhead slash, but it was not the stroke to attempt on a bladesman of Tom’s calibre. He blocked it with a dead hit, and trapped the blade as he came up onto the landing to face him. They strained together, their weapons locked before their eyes.

  ‘When you’re gone, Billy, the title will pass to little Francis.’ Tom tried not to let the strain distort his voice, but William was powerful in the shoulders and their blades trembled and shook with the pressure each was applying.

  ‘Alice will be his guardian. She would never let Dorian down,’ he said, and threw William away from him with a heave of his shoulders. At the same time he stepped back and dropped the point to the level of his brother’s throat. ‘You see, I have to kill you, Billy, if only for Dorian’s sake.’ And he lunged for William’s throat. It was a mortal stroke, but to avoid it William hurled himself backwards wildly. He crashed into the banisters behind him, which gave way with a splintering crackle of timbers.

  William fell in a tangle of limbs into the entrance hall ten feet below. He hit the boards with a shuddering crash, and the sword flew from his grip. For a moment, the wind was driven from his lungs and he lay on his back, dazed and helpless.

  Tom jumped over the shattered banisters, and dropped feet first, bracing himself in mid-air with cat-like grace to land lightly, breaking the force of his fall with a flexing of his legs and going down on one knee before springing up again. He kicked away William’s sword, sending it skidding across the floor to the far wall. Then he stood tall over William’s sprawling body.

  He placed the point of his blade at the base of his brother’s throat, in the V of his white shirt-front, where the crisp black hairs of his chest curled out of the opening.

  ‘As you said, Billy, once and for all. It’s over between us,’ Tom told him grimly, and began the death thrust. Yet it was as though a steel manacle was holding back his sword hand. He pricked the skin at William’s throat, but could not go deeper. He tried again, exerting all his strength, but a force outside himself held back the blade.

  He stood over William, a terrible blood-splattered figure, the sword trembling in his hands and his face distorted into an ugly mask by his rage and frustration. Do it! The voice of his resolve rang in his ears, and again he tried to stab downwards, but his right arm would not obey. Do it! Kill him now. For Dorry’s sake, if not your own.

  Then the echo of his father’s voice overrode the murderous command. ‘You are brothers. Brothers should never be enemies. I want you to forget the old disputes that have torn you apart and, for my sake, become brothers in the full sense.’

  He wanted to shout back, ‘I have to do this.’

  William lay on his back pinned under the blade, and tears of terror filled his eyes. He opened his mouth to plead for his life, but no words came, only a dreadful croak like the cry of a raven.

  Tom felt the muscles and sinews of his right hand bunching with the effort he had to make to force them to obey his will, and the point moved down an inch and pierced the soft skin. Bright blood welled up from the shallow scratch and William squirmed. ‘Please, I will give you the money, Tom,’ he whispered. ‘I swear it. This time I will give you the money.’

  ‘I can never trust you again. You have broken one sacred oath. You are beyond the call of honour,’ Tom said, and his revulsion for his brother’s cowardice and perfidy gave him the strength to carry through the dreadful deed. This time his right arm would obey.

  ‘Tom!’

  A dreadful cry rang through the silent house. For a moment Tom thought it was his mother’s voice, from beyond the grave. He looked up. A wraith-like figure stood at the head of the stairs, and Tom was seized by a superstitious dread. Then he saw that it was Alice with her infant in her arms. ‘No, Tom. You must not kill him.’

  Tom wavered. ‘You don’t understand. He is evil. You yourself know he is the very devil.’

  ‘He is my husband, and Francis’s father. Don’t do it, Tom. For my sake.’

  ‘Both you and the baby will be better off with his death.’ Tom turned his attention back to the creature who lay, craven and whimpering, at his feet.

  ‘It’s murder, Tom. They will hunt you down, wherever you run, and they will find you and drag you to the scaffold.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Tom said, and meant it.

  ‘Without you, there will be nobody to go to Dorian. For his sake, if not for mine, you must not do this evil thing.’

  The truth of what she said struck Tom like a blow in the face, and he flinched at the sting of it. Then he stepped back.

  ‘Go!’ he ordered, and William scrambled to his feet. Tom saw there was no fight left in him. ‘Get out of my sight.’ His voice was thick with disgust. ‘And remember next time you raise your hand to your wife that she saved your life this day.’

  William backed away to the stairs and then, when he was at a safe distance, he turned, ran up them, and disappeared down the long gallery.

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’ Alice looked down at him with tragic eyes.

  ‘You and I will live to regret this,’ Tom told her.

  ‘That is in God’s hands.’

  ‘I have to go away,’ Tom said. ‘I cannot stay here to protect you.’

  ‘I know that.’ Her voice was a resigned whisper.

  ‘I shall never return to High Weald,’ he went on doggedly.

  ‘I know that also,’ she agreed. ‘Go with God, Tom. You are a good man, as your father was.’ She turned and vanished around the corner of the gallery.

  Tom stood for a while, considering the enormity of what he had just said. He would never return to High Weald. When he was dead, he would not lie in the vault of the chapel on the hill with his ancestors. His grave would be in a far and wild land. He shivered at the knowledge. Then he stooped to gather up his sword-belt and scabbard where he had dropped them. He strapped the Neptune sword around his waist.

  He looked through the doors into the library. His papers were scattered over the floor. He went into the old room, and was about to gather them up, when he stopped himself. There will be no call for those now, he thought darkly. Slowly he looked around the room. It was filled with wonderful memories of his father. Another tie with his childhood would part here. Then his eye fell on the row of his father’s journals on the shelf beside the door, the faithful record of all Hal’s voyages. Each page, written in his hand, contained sailing directions and information more valuable then any other item in the house Tom was leaving for ever. That much I will take with me, he thought. He swept them off the shelves and went out into the hall.

  Evan, the house-steward, and two of the footmen were waiting there. Evan had a cocked pistol in each hand. ‘His lordship has sent for the sheriff’s men. He has ordered me to detain you until he arrives, Master Tom.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do, Evan?’ Tom laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Your horse is waiting outside, Master Tom.’ Evan lowered the pistols. ‘I hope you find Master Dorian. All of us at High Weald will miss you. Come back to us one day.’

  ‘Goodbye, Evan.’ Tom’s voice was gruff. ‘Thank you.’ He went down the steps, put the journals into his saddle-bags and sprang up into the saddle. He turned the horse’s head towards the sea, and rode down the long gravel drive. At the gates he resisted the urge to look back. ‘It’s over,’ he told himself, ‘it’s all over,’ and he spurred on, down the dark road.

  Tom decided not to wait for the sheriff’s men to come for him with the charges he knew William would trump up. He found his men in the taproom of the Royal Oak. They stared in astonishment at his bloodstained clothing and broken nose. ‘We will sail immediately,’ he told Aboli, Ned Tyler and Alf Wilson. Then he looked across at Luke Jervis on the far side of the fireplace. Luke owned the tiny Raven and was his own man, but he nodded his acceptance of the order without demur.

  When they were about to slip the lines from the dock, a lone horseman came pounding down Plymouth Ho at a gallop. He almost fell over the horse’
s neck as he reined in. ‘Wait for me, sir!’ Tom smiled as he recognized Master Walsh’s voice. ‘You cannot leave me behind.’

  A small group of the old stalwarts gathered on the open deck as the Raven slipped out into the night sea. ‘What course, sir?’ Luke asked as they cleared the headland.

  Tom looked longingly towards the south. Down there lay Good Hope and the gateway to the Orient. Oh, for a ship, a real ship and not this cockle-shell, he thought, then turned firmly from that direction. ‘London,’ he said. His voice was blurred for his nose was swollen and blocked. ‘I will pay you for this voyage,’ he added. He still had most of his prize money in Samuels Bank in London.

  ‘We will settle that later,’ Luke grunted, then shouted the order to his three-man crew to tack the little cutter on to an easterly heading.

  The Raven slipped quietly up the Thames and into the Pool of London, drawing no attention in the busy throng of small craft. Luke set them ashore with their meagre baggage on the stone wharf below the Tower of London. Aboli found cheap lodgings in the mean streets alongside the river.

  ‘If fortune favours, we will need these rooms for only a few days.’ Tom looked around the dingy wooden shack.

  ‘We will need good fortune to survive the rats and cockroaches,’ Alf Wilson remarked, while Tom changed into the best clothes he had brought with him. The dark blue coat and breeches, not too fancy, gave him a sober, businesslike appearance.

  ‘I will go with you, Klebe,’ Aboli volunteered. ‘You will probably lose your way without me.’

  The day was cold and rainy, a forerunner of autumn. It was a long walk through the maze of narrow streets, but Aboli threaded his way through them as unerringly as if they had been his native forests. They came out at the Cornhill end of Leadenhall Street, and crossed to the imposing façade of the Company headquarters. ‘I will wait for you at the tavern on the corner,’ Aboli told Tom as they parted.