David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

As Mulgrave well knew, Gaise Macon was not a man given to outbursts of temper. Though passionate by nature he rarely lost control. But he was coldly angry now as he paced the smoke-blackened ruin that had once been the country home of a rebel earl. The firelight glinted on his golden hair, and, for a moment, he looked again like the strikingly handsome youngster Mulgrave had trained on the Moidart’s estates far to the north. He was still slim, though his shoulders had broadened in the last four years, and his face had lost that youthful glow. Still only in his early twenties Gaise Macon was a seasoned soldier, fighting a harsh and terrible war. His face was thinner, his curiously coloured eyes, one green and one gold, deeper set. The small, leaf-shaped burn scar on his right cheek shone white against his faded tan. Gaise removed his silver embroidered grey jacket and threw it across a broken couch. The white shirt he wore beneath it was stained by powder smoke at collar and cuff.

Mulgrave gazed around the ruined building. One wall had been blasted away by cannon shell, and fire had raged through the whole house. Here, in the rear hall, there was still part of a ceiling, which allowed some shelter from the swirling snowstorm outside. A fire was blazing in the undamaged hearth.

There were several chairs in the room. Mulgrave took one of these and reversed it, sitting down and resting his forearms on the high back. Gaise turned towards him. ‘What kind of a fool would offer a duel at such a time?’ he asked.

Mulgrave shrugged. ‘It is surprising, right enough,’ he said. ‘Did you call him a coward?’

‘You know me well enough, my friend. Does it seem likely?’

Mulgrave shook his head. ‘What did you say?’

‘I asked why he had not led his heavy cavalry into the battle. The enemy were retreating in bad order. One major charge and they would have been routed. Yet he did not make it. And so another battle ended in a stalemate.’

‘What did he reply?’

‘He said he would not take criticism from a glory-seeking popinjay,’ answered Gaise. He smiled as he said it, his good humour flowing back. ‘What on earth is a popinjay, Mulgrave?’

‘A brightly coloured bird from the southern continents, sir. And how did you respond?’

‘I pointed out that had my riders followed his example, and refrained from charging, the battle would have been lost.’

‘Ah, then you did – in a manner of speaking – suggest he lacked nerve.’

‘By heaven, Mulgrave, of course he lacks nerve. There’s not an officer in the king’s army who doesn’t know that.’

‘Yet he had the nerve to challenge you.’

‘Aye, but not immediately. The challenge came the following day. We are due to meet on open ground at midday tomorrow. With pistols, if you please.’

‘You have chosen pistols, sir?’ asked Mulgrave, surprised. ‘I would have thought swords more . . . suitable.’

‘As would I. But his second informed me that Lord Person has an injured shoulder. He asked if I would object to pistols. It is all a nonsense,’ said Gaise. ‘Luden Macks will chuckle when he hears of it.’ Gaise Macon drew up a chair, then dragged off his knee length riding boots. One of his socks boasted a huge hole, through which his toes could be seen. ‘Popinjay, eh?’ he said. ‘By heaven, there are crofters back home with better clothes than mine.’ He looked into Mulgrave’s pale eyes. ‘Will you be my second, my friend?’

‘Of course, sir. I would urge you, however, to avoid any gallant gestures.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Do not try to wound him. Take him through the heart.’

Gaise sighed. ‘I have no desire to kill him, Mulgrave.’

‘It is not your desire that concerns me, sir. A wounded man is still dangerous, and I would far sooner see him below the earth than you.’ Mulgrave fell silent. Gaise tugged on his boots and returned to the fire, adding fuel.

‘Do you not find it puzzling, Mulgrave?’ he asked.

‘What, sir?’

‘That a known coward should challenge me – and request pistols? Had it been swords I could have wounded him and honour might have been satisfied. Pistols are another matter entirely. As you can testify, my friend, even a shallow wound can corrupt and become mortal. Then there is the question of Winterbourne.’