Oh, it reached him! He rushed at the door. “Come then,” he said. “This is one fight I shall enjoy!”
“Briefly, perhaps,” I replied.
Tosti whispered, aghast, “That man is Charles Tankard! He’s killed a dozen men!”
“Then perhaps thirteen will be unlucky for him,” I said.
This was what I had trained for. This was the moment I had known would come. And now, would my hours of fence be enough? Or would I die by the blade that had bled so many others?
Now was the moment.
The light in the inn yard was ill. There was night upon us, with only the stars above and some light from windows close about. But enough, enough.
The footing would be bad. There were paving blocks about, roughly squared before being set, yet an easy means of tripping a man. I must be careful.
Charles Tankard walked past me and turned, sword in hand. He was a handsome man in a dissolute way, a hardy rogue no doubt, and experienced at this sort of thing.
No matter. I had chosen the moment.
22
The air was cool. The inn yard smelled of fresh hay and manure. There was a cart at one side loaded with several casks. A few of the people in the common room trooped out, drinks in hand, to stand as spectators.
Tankard slashed the air, whipping his blade this way and that, perhaps to overawe me. He was an inch or two taller than I, hence longer in the arm. There was no measuring of blades; we fought with what we had. At least three of those who came from the common room to watch were henchmen of Leckenbie’s, a thought I knew I must keep in mind so as not to present my back to them.
Yet Tosti, too, was there, and suddenly possessed of a stout staff. “I will stand at your back,” he suggested, “but have a care!”
Surprisingly, I was not nervous. Several times I had fought in actual combat, but never in such a duel as this was to be. Yet it was for skill at such moments that I had trained. Tankard knew naught of me, or little enough. My one strategy should be to lead him to believe me less than I was, hence to make him grow careless.
We crossed blades and he looked at me, sneering slightly. “What a pity! To die so young!”
“Young? I did not consider you so young, Tankard, but it is certainly a pity. Still, better the sword than the gibbet!”
He moved in, feinting a thrust. I made as if to parry, deliberately clumsy, then retreated a step as if puzzled by him. He moved in with confidence, and in an instant I knew I was facing a strong fencer with exceptional skill. His point circled and he stepped in with a quick thrust low down and for the groin. That I parried—and almost too late. He came on swiftly and I was hard put to keep his point away.
He drew back after one swift exchange, his point high. “I shall kill you,” he said coolly. “It is almost too easy!”
There was little sound from those who watched. They stood about in a loose circle, stepping back occasionally to remove themselves from our way.
Then Tankard lunged suddenly. But his boot slipped on a bit of mud or some such and for a moment he was exposed. My point could easily have had his throat but I stepped back swiftly, permitting him to recover.
“You are gallant,” he said, surprised.
“I am a gentleman, Captain. I will kill you, but I do not indulge in murder.”
“Hah! You make me almost regret what I must do!”
“If you wish to withdraw, Captain, the choice is yours!”
He laughed. “And leave London? I’ll not do it. I respect you, Chantry, but I also respect the dead!”
He came at me swiftly again, thinking to end it so, but I parried his best attacks. I was learning the true man now, studying him as Fergus MacAskill had taught me to do. His style of fence was English, with some touches picked up on the Continent, but I felt he had grown careless from easy victories. He was sure of himself, a little arrogant.
He intended to kill me, and quickly. He moved in skillfully and attempted a classic cut at the chest, sometimes called a banderole, a flowing, slicing movement. It was a pretty move, spectacular to see. But it held a risk, for it exposed the forearm.
In a duel with anyone taught by Kory or MacAskill, it was a wrong move. My reply was instantaneous, needing no thought—a reply rehearsed so often as to be automatic. My point pierced his arm, slicing through the tendons and driving into his chest.
He staggered back and I quickly withdrew to an on-guard position. Blood streamed from his arm and there was a darkening stain on his chest. My point had not penetrated deeply, but enough for a serious wound.
He caught himself by grasping the car wheel with his left hand. He clung there, his sword down although still gripped tightly. Blood ran down his arm and over the blade.
I lowered my point, a part of my attention on his followers. Tosti stood hard by, and ready.
“Damn it!” Tankard said, “I was a fool to try that with you!”
“A lovely move, Captain, but a foolish one. Shall we call it quits?”
“I meant to kill you.”
“Of course.” I wiped my blade. “Another time, perhaps?”
Turning, I started toward the inn door. A movement took my eye. It was John, the servant of the white-haired man. His eyes met mine and he smiled a little, not a friendly smile, but an acknowledging one. “I was well warned,” he said quietly. “You are very good.”
“Have you a message for me?” I asked, wondering at his presence.
He did not smile this time. “I came to carry the report of your death,” he said.
“I will stand you a drink,” I said, “for you’ll have a dry welcome on your return.”
“I’m obliged,” he said, “but another time.”
He turned away, then paused. “You fought well,” he said, “but be warned. This was thought to end it. Now it will be murder. You must flee, or die.”
He walked away and I went inside with Padget. It had been hot work, and the ale tasted good to a thirsty man, yet I liked none of it. My skill had been proven to me, but I had not wished it so.
My thoughts went to the Good Catherine. Had she come in? How had my venture fared?
I thought back to my victory. My blade had gone through the forearm, the force of the lunge driving it back against Tankard’s body. The point had gone in, but not far. He should recover.
Alone in my room I wiped my blade yet again and dropped into a chair. In a severe test of skill, I had won, yet I liked it not. My room seemed suddenly to be an empty place—only a place to sleep and keep those few small belongings I had.
What had I accomplished since coming to London? I had lived. I had earned a few pounds, I had acquired a little knowledge. But aside from Tosti, I had no friends. Emma Delahay and Mr. Digby were merely business associates, and neither cared for me nor had any personal interest in me. I was alone as I had ever been since my father died.
My life was empty. The warmth of a home, the love of a girl, these I had not—nor any chance of them, it seemed. Fergus had been a strong, easy-going friend, but where was he? I could go back, but to what? There was nothing for me in Ireland, nor was there here in London.
I wanted my own Irish home. I wanted that coast again, and I wanted a love. I was lonely. Now I must go out with a ship, accompany my venture, do my own trading. If I could return with some small wealth I would go back to my own country and find an Irish girl.
So I thought, and so I planned.
London had given me time in which to grow. It had enabled me to learn. Now there was nothing for me here any longer. Fear did not drive me, for my victory over Tankard gave me added confidence, yet why remain where there would be endless attempts to kill me? And I knew they feared me for I had written of them once, and might do so again. I was not their creature, and what next I might do they could not know. But suddenly I knew one last thing I could accomplish.
I would write a piece that would destroy Rafe Leckenbie, and then I would go.