The Privilege of the Sword (13 page)

Alcuin went off to kick his valet, who surely had arrived by now.

“And stay out of my papers,” Tremontaine said to the closed door behind him.

I
HAD NOT ACTUALLY BEEN INVITED TO THE DUKE’S
party, but I was sure that was an oversight. I lived here, after all. And it would be a literary party, the servants said, not some debauched revelry, so there was no reason for me not to attend.

Except for one thing. My clothes.

“You have perfectly nice clothes, my lady,” Betty said grumpily, “lovely ones the duke had made for you special.” She was grumpy because the house staff were all busy getting ready for the influx of guests, and no one was listening to her stories of past mistakes. She’d gotten into the wine already, and it was making her stubborn. No matter how hard I explained to her that it was out of the question for me to appear before my fellow nobles dressed so outlandishly, she refused to listen. Clearly nothing short of a direct order from the duke himself would persuade her to retrieve even my meanest old gown out of wherever she’d hidden them all. I decided to go get that order from him myself.

I knew where the duke’s room was. I marched right up to it and readied myself to knock.

The door opened, and a boy slipped out. It was Marcus, the servant about my age. He stood between me and the door, his back tightly to it, as if shielding it from me, or me from it.

“I just wanted to—” I began, but he held up his hand and looked concerned. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not right now.”

“But it’s—”

He shook his head. “Honestly. Trust me. Later. There’s about to be an explosion.” The door shuddered behind him. “And I have to go and get egg whites. Later.” He fled down the hall one way, and I went back the other, sighing. So much for the party, then.

With the kitchen in chaos, it was easy to sneak in and supply myself with provender. I shut myself in my room to wait the evening out. I heard carriages arriving, names being called, people laughing. There was a long silence as they left the main hall for dinner; not a huge party, then. I ate apples and biscuits, watching the ever-glorious sunset over the river. As I lit a candle, I heard servants passing in the main hall below, lighting the many candelabra. It occurred to me, then, that I might easily watch undetected from the shadows at the top of the stairs.

It was just like when I was a child, sneaking out to the banisters to watch the grownups at my parents’ parties. People had begun to mill about the hall’s great gameboard, few enough at first that I could discern individual voices, fragments of conversation:

“…Godwin doing here? I thought…”

“…well, in poetry, if nothing else…”

“…not if you held a candle to my feet!”

“Bernhard! Never knew you liked poetry.”

“I don’t. Wait and see.”

“…I knew he was pretty, but my god!”

“I doubt he’ll last much longer. But consider, my dear…”

As I got to the top of the stairs, the horrible Alcuin came staggering up them from the hall. Even I could see that he was very drunk, his eyes and feet unsteady, his lovely face slack with incomprehension. He was without his coat, and his shirt was loose. His hair was weirdly spiky, as if he’d gotten egg whites in it.

I stepped aside. He seemed to be reaching for the banister, but he grabbed my wrist instead, leaning hard, as if he would have fallen without me. He did not look happy to see me. “Tremontaine,” he slurred. “Another one.” The weight of his grip was pulling me down. I couldn’t shake him off. There were people downstairs in the hall just below us; I could get help if I needed it. But I would rather not let them know I was there. “Another Bitch Duchess.”

Stupidly, I laughed. “I’m not anyone.”

He pulled me to him. Amazing, how someone so beautifully made could be so loathsome. He began calling me names. I protested, “I haven’t done anything to you. Stop it. Leave me alone.” It was as though he couldn’t hear me. If I screamed, everyone would come running, but it would be so embarrassing. I brought my heel down, hard, on his foot.

Alcuin howled, but no one heard it because of the uproar that began downstairs: ladies’ shrieks mingled with cries of delight; more laughter, and shouts to come look. Alcuin staggered down the hall to throw up, and I raced to the railing to see.

Two men were standing in the middle of the hall with drawn swords. Crouched, they began to circle each other, taking each other’s measure. There were no tips on their blades. The sharp steel was pointed at each other’s faces. This was it, then: real swordsmen, my first swordfight! I clutched the railing, looking down, half afraid of being seen, but more afraid to miss it.

Right under me, people were edged against the wall to watch. Their voices drifted up: “Not a chance…The dark one’s got the reach.”

“But look at that arm.”

“Fifty on the dark one—what’s his name? Anyone know his name?”

“You know who it
isn’t
.”

“Fifty, done.”

Both swordsmen looked decent to me. One dark, one fair, and the fair one seemed edgy.
Fear hurts sword
. But was he really nervous, or just cautious? He seemed alert to everything, every possible move. That could be to his advantage. The dark one had a lot of force. He might overspend that, though.

“Who else is game? Hurry up, before they’re through.”

There was a clash of weapons. Were they trying each other’s mettle, or just making noise to get attention? Steel on steel rang out like a pure bell, long and long in the Great Hall.

“Nice form, there. Good job.”

“And twenty more!”

I saw my uncle the duke, his arm around the shoulders of a rather pale young man who was clutching a bundle of papers. In the ringing silence the young man squeaked, “This is ridiculous. I am sure there was no insult intended.”

The fighters began circling again.

“But a moment ago, you were sure there was,” the duke said.

“I should not have said so.”

The dark one made a feint, which the other backed off from.

“In real life, my sweet poet,” the duke said as the swordsmen circled, “words can never be undone.”

“But these men—to fight over such a thing—it’s ridiculous.”

“You are my guest,” the duke said smoothly. “Your poetry was challenged in my house. It’s lucky there were swordsmen here to take up the matter. Look out for Finch, the blond one; he’s defending your verse’s virtue.”

A guest shouted, “All right, boys, let’s go, let’s see some action!”

The dark man’s point was steady, pointed at Finch’s chest.

“Let’s have it!” a man’s voice cried. “I’ve got money on this, let’s go!”

Finch pressed suddenly forward, too quickly. It was a flashy move designed to startle your opponent and go right through his defenses, but it only works if you make them think you’re doing something else, and he didn’t take the time. Finch’s opponent had no trouble blocking the blow. He parried and thrust home.

“Blood!” a guest called, and others took it up:
Blood! First blood!

Finch staggered back. A dark stain spread on his white shirt. His opponent stood very still, his sword lowered. There was silence in the hall.

The duke said to the poet, “You’ve lost. Or, rather, Finch has lost in your person. It comes to the same thing. Unless you want them to go past First Blood to the Death? There’s still a chance—”

“No,” said the poet.

Finch dropped his sword then, and pressed the free hand to his side. The winning swordsman bowed to the duke.

I gripped the stair rail. I wanted to make them do it over again, do it right this time; but it wasn’t an exercise. I wasn’t sure what it was.

Finch sat down and put his head between his knees. Servants passed through the circle with bandages and water for him.

“Well, that’s it, then,” the duke announced loudly, and, just as loudly to the poet, “I’m afraid you will have to leave.”

“But—why?”

“Your poetry turns out to be awful. I wouldn’t have thought it, but there it is. Finch is bleeding.”

The poet laughed uncertainly. “I see. Very amusing. But it’s not real; you can’t take it seriously.”

The duke just looked at him. “My dear. Here on the Hill, I’m afraid we take it very seriously. A nobleman of the city brought your poetry’s virtue into question—‘Duller than a rainy Tuesday and twice as long’ was the way you put it, Bernhard, I believe? A challenge was issued. There was a duel, and the swordsman defending the honor of your verse was defeated.”

“But—one man sticking another with a sword cannot change my poetry from good to bad just like that.”

“The duel is the ultimate arbiter of truth. Where men’s judgment may be called into question, the opinion of the sword always holds fast.” Half the room was listening to him, amused; the rest were settling debts or debating the fight. If these people didn’t stop laughing and gambling soon, I wasn’t going to be able to stand it. “If you stayed—well, you could stay. If you like. But it gives license for people to be very rude to you. I don’t think you would enjoy it. No, really, you had better go.”

They brought the poet his cloak and hat. My uncle saw him to the door himself; as they passed beneath the stairs, I saw his ringed hands pass the poet a small heavy purse.

I wondered if the poet would think it had been worth it.

“Bernhard!” the tall duke turned and shouted into the crowd. “That was not very nice.”

“You are ungracious.” A large well-dressed man detached himself from the throng. “I thought you would enjoy a good fight better than whining poetry.”

“You…thought?”
An invisible wind had blown the duke from hot to cold. The room itself felt chilly, and the guests were still. “Let me ask you, Bernhard: do you
think
the Lords Justiciar would be pleased to hear that you called formal challenge on some poor scribbling fool who, as far as they are concerned, has no honor to defend?”

Lord Bernhard had the sort of heavy face that turns red with any emotion. “Hardly a matter for the Court of Honor, I would have thought.”

“Or did you mean the challenge for me, here in my own house?”

“I had not known you for such a traditionalist, Tremontaine,” Bernhard said, earning a laugh from some of them. “Although,” he went on, “I suppose the purity of swordsmen is a passion of yours, isn’t it, my lord?”

The laughter stopped. The duke spoke quietly, but I had no trouble hearing him. “Bernhard. Let me do a little thinking for you. You are in my house. Finch is not my only sword. If I call challenge on you this very moment, who will come forward to fight on your behalf?”

Bernhard forced a laugh.

A nice-looking man in blue said, “Tremontaine, really; you know the world. The Court doesn’t attend to such trivia. And I am sure Bernhard meant no insult to you or to your house.”

I would have done whatever he suggested; even the duke shrugged mildly. “I am not insulted, Godwin. When I am, Bernhard, I’ll send you formal notice. I just wanted to point out that this fight was not strictly legal. And since Tremontaine sits on the Court of Honor (when I have a mind to), I could invoke the Lords Justiciar to attend to such ‘trivia.’” He turned to the room, holding up his hands as if he were in a play: “Good heavens; if I, a known scoffer and reprobate, am the only one left willing to uphold the ancient forms, what hope is there for any of us? Who else are we planning to extend the privilege of the sword to?”

There was an embarrassed silence. My uncle let it last a long time before he said cheerfully, “Oh, well. Now that you have taken our original entertainment from us, Bernhard, I’m afraid I must ask you to supply the lack. What can you do?”

“I?” The man was bright red.

“Can you fight? Well, of course not. You do breed dogs, but nobody wants to watch that—not unless they’re a member of your Gentlemen’s Self-Pleasure League.” I heard a woman shriek with embarrassed laughter. “Heavens, Bernhard, what
can
you do? Surely you can…read. Yes, I think you had better read to us. Something of my lady,” he bowed to a serious-looking woman, “my lady Evaine’s choosing. If you will follow me to the library, we’ll find many excellent volumes there. You can regale us with…poetry, I think, don’t you, my lady?”

And so, one by one, the party and its guests passed out of my sight. Of the two swordsmen no sign remained. Not even a smear of blood marked the black-and-white patterned floor of the hall of Tremontaine House. Instead there were fragments of flowers, a dropped fan, half a pastry, several buttons, a comb and a broken glass.

I took off my clothes and got into bed. I felt the hard lump of the book under my pillow,
The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death
. How could I sleep with that thing sticking into my head? There was not a grain of truth in it, none. Swordplay was two fools hacking at each other with razors until one of them was hurt. I took the book out and hurled it across the room.

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