by Lily Reynard
With a pang, Kit saw Chelmsford's body sprawled in the street, his blood seeping toward the gutter.
Poor lad—struck like a lamb to the slaughter! Chelmsford's fledgling swordsmanship had been no match for Julian's years of experience.
Kit knelt at the youth's side, and touched his throat just under his jaw. He felt a faint pulse, fluttering and erratic. Chelmsford's clothes were sodden with his own blood.
"He yet lives," Kit said, quietly. "But it won't be long, I fear. Will you stay with him, Mall? For he should not die alone."
She fell to her knees at Chelmsford's side, and raised his limp hand to her lips.
"He tried to protect milady," she said. "Oh, how I wish you had been here, Mr. Fitzgeorge."
Guilt rose inside him. "So do I. But I will find them, Mall."
Still holding Chelmsford's hand, she looked up at him.
"There were three men who attacked us. Lord Thornsby, another gentleman with a scarred face, called Sir George, and a common-looking ruffian with a dark mustache. All wearing cloaks with hoods."
Kit nodded, and turned to go. He had to find them before they boarded the ship.
"Godspeed," said Mall.
Kit's last sight of her was kneeling at young Chelmsford's side, his head in her lap. She was stroking his face.
Then Kit ran, St. Paul's great square tower rising like a beacon ahead of him, his lungs burning in the smoke-tainted air.
What if I don't reach the wharf in time?
What if Julian launches the ship before I reach it?
Julian has already killed his friend Chelmsford in cold blood...what will he do to my Margaret, his niece?
Kit raced toward Paul's Wharf with speed born of desperation, ruthlessly shoving his way through plodding family groups that blocked his way, squeezing between wagons and dodging around obstacles like a man possessed.
His thoughts kept pace with his pounding feet, presenting ever-more-lurid possibilities. Once Julian and his companions reached the safety of the ship, his daughter would no longer be needed as a hostage.
And what of Antonia, alone and vulnerable?
Julian would not hesitate to seal his claim upon her as soon as he could. Why else murder Chelmsford and risk an abduction in broad daylight?
Kit vowed to make Julian drink the dregs of the poisonous deeds he had brewed.
But to do that, he had to catch them first.
As he ran, he peered ahead in the narrow streets, straining to catch a glimpse of Antonia and his daughter.
His fear began to grow as street after street passed without seeing them. Finally, he glimpsed the width of Thames Street just ahead.
There—God be thanked!—he spotted them at last. He was in time after all!
Kit skidded to a halt, nearly losing his balance on the uneven cobbles of the lane.
Panting, he fought the urge to draw his sword and charge. He was outnumbered, and so he would have to plan his next action very carefully, if he wanted to retrieve his daughter and his beloved unharmed.
Kit ducked into the cover of a doorway and surveyed the scene.
Divorcing emotion from action had been easier in his mercenary days. You did what you were paid to do, and didn't worry about anything except avoiding injury and death.
Now, the lives of the two dearest to him hung in the balance, and it would destroy him to lose either one.
To the west, afternoon sun hung over the spires of Westminster, baleful and bloodstained. To the east, most of the city and the bridge were hidden by dense plumes of black smoke.
Directly ahead of him, wharves stuck fingers of wood and stone into the swirling river. The water was crowded with a multitude of boats piled high with household goods.
Kit studied his quarry, only a few yards away and making slow progress across the street.
The tallest of the cloaked men—Julian!—was impatiently dragging Margaret across the street by her arm. She looked frightened but uninjured, and Kit felt a flash of relief.
A second man followed closely, his arm around Antonia's waist, pulling her along in a stumbling gait. Bringing up the rear was a third man, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
Three against one. Think!
They would not be expecting him. At the very least, any distraction he could provide might give Antonia and Margaret the opportunity to escape.
But he had to act quickly.
The little group had nearly reached the wharf, and there was a fishing vessel moored to the end of it. The boat rocked in the strong, hot wind, looking for all the world like a large dog straining at a leash.
Unencumbered by reluctant hostages, it was easier for Kit to wade across the stream of traffic.
By dint of dodging and shoving, he arrived at the wharf only a little behind his quarry. As soon as he had cleared the last lumbering wagon, he drew his sword and dagger, and sprinted onto the dock.
Alerted by the pounding steps behind him, the third of the cloaked kidnappers whirled around, and reached for his own sword.
He was unknown to Kit, dark-haired and mustached. Not that his identity mattered. Every fiber of Kit's being longed to sheathe his sword in the other's heart for having participated in Chelmsford's murder and Antonia's abduction.
But as he drew near, the man gave Kit a panicked look, then dropped his sword and vanished into the crowd.
Kit kicked away the cheap, paltry weapon. If they had fought, it likely would have shattered with the first parry. It spun, glittering, over the side of the wharf, and hit the water with a splash.
The sound alerted the remaining two men.
"Purbeck!" snapped Julian.
Antonia's captor shoved her, stumbling, into Julian's embrace, then moved to the fore, smoothly drawing his sword.
An excited shout rang out behind Kit: "A duel! A duel!"
The cry was quickly taken up by others.
From the corner of his eye, Kit saw people gathering at the end of the wharf, blocking any escape route that Antonia and Margaret might take.
Perhaps someone will summon the constable, Kit thought grimly. But more likely than not, the crowd wouldn't disperse until blood had been shed.
In any case, the constabulary was probably all on the other side of the city, fighting the fire.
Kit risked a swift glance at Antonia. She looked frightened and disheveled, her face marked by a swollen welt and a bloody lip. Someone hit her. Kit felt a white-hot rage ignite at the sight.
"Odds blood! It's that dog of a fencing-master!" exclaimed Kit's opponent, with haughty surprise.
Kit recognized Sir George Purbeck from his visits to Court.
Purbeck, his lips twisted in disdain, raised his rapier and stepped forward, striking the pose of a duelist awaiting formal challenge from his opponent.
Kit wasted no time with such fripperies. He attacked. His forward rush caught Purbeck by surprise and immediately forced him to the defensive.
Kit closed in, his schiavona moving rapidly in tight figure-eight cuts to ward off thrusts by Purbeck's longer, lighter blade.
The schiavona's motion was matched by the dagger gripped in Kit's left hand. He saw Purbeck's momentary confusion at this style of fighting, and realized that he hadn't dueled against an opponent with a broadsword before.
Kit easily parried a thrust by beating aside the rapier's thin blade with his heavier weapon, then continued his stroke by slicing open the other man's sword arm from elbow to wrist.
The effort sent a jolt of pain through Kit's shoulder, but his opponent's sword flew out of his hand.
Purbeck staggered back, blood spurting from his wound. His scarred face contorted with panic, he raised his dagger for an awkward, overhand blow with his left hand.
Kit easily blocked the feeble effort, then thrust his sword through the base of Purbeck's throat.
Purbeck fell to his knees with a gurgling scream, then collapsed in a spray of blood.
One of the female onlookers screamed as Kit pulled his sword
free.
His heart pounding with the intoxication of mortal combat, Kit looked at Julian.
Kit's half-brother still held Margaret by one hand and Antonia by the other, which left him with no hands free to draw a weapon.
* * *
Once she had quailed to see Kit Fitzgeorge kill.
Now Antonia felt only vast relief when she saw Purbeck slain. Kit came for me!
Thornsby flung Margaret away with a vicious sweep of his arm.
In the same instant, he drew his sword and pressed it to Antonia's side as Kit strode towards them with a leopard's smooth grace, his expression alight with a cold fire.
"Run, Margaret!" she called.
Thornsby's hand tightened cruelly around her upper arm. His sword pressed against her stomach.
"Silence!" he ordered.
"You won't kill me." Despite her defiant tone, her heart was beating hard enough to echo in her ears. "You can't marry me if I'm dead."
He glared at her, but removed his sword.
"Julian." Kit had halted when Thornsby threatened her with his sword.
Margaret ran to Kit and flung her arms around his waist, sobbing. Without taking his eyes off Thornsby, Kit reached down, and drew her close for a long moment.
Antonia thought she saw him blink back tears, but in the next moment, he had regained his self-possession.
"Margaret, sweetheart," he asked. "Are you well?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Then go sit over there until we're done." He gave her a little nudge toward a coil of rope that lay some distance away.
She went obediently, sniffling a little, and wiping her nose on her sleeve.
"What, ho, Kit? Come to wish us well in our marriage?" Thornsby taunted, but Antonia thought his tone hollow.
In return, Kit gave a smile that could only be called menacing.
"There will be no marriage for you," he said, calmly.
* * *
Kit's mind was working furiously as he watched Julian lower his rapier from Antonia's side. How can I convince my brother to release her? As long as she remained a captive in his grasp, no attack was possible.
Then Kit realized that Julian had just given him the key.
"No marriage can stand if the bride is already pre-contracted to another," Kit said, quoting the words that Antonia had spoken on that painful day two months ago.
"But Chelmsford is, alas, dead," Julian said, and Kit longed to smash his white-toothed smirk.
Instead, Kit held up Antonia's wedding ring, still on his little finger.
"To keep myself out of Newgate, I was willing to stand aside for Lord Chelmsford, and keep silent," Kit said. He hoped he sounded convincing.
He saw Antonia stiffen and prayed that she would not protest his lie.
Julian gaped for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. He gave Antonia a violent shake.
"Is it true?" he snarled. "Did you really promise yourself to this—this lowborn cur?"
"Yes." Antonia raised her chin, and Kit felt a deep wash of admiration for her courage. "Christopher Fitzgeorge has a nobler character than you will ever possess, Lord Thornsby."
Unexpectedly, Julian laughed. "How heartless of you, Lady Cranbourne, to condemn two of your betrothed husbands to death on the same day!"
* * *
"Blame me not for your evil deeds!" Anger gave Antonia strength, and to her surprise, she managed to break Thornsby's grip on her arm.
She picked up her skirts and began to run, expecting to feel his hands recapturing her at any moment.
He lunged to catch her, but Kit moved quickly to intercept him.
Behind her, Antonia heard the impact of sword against sword. She ran a few steps further, then turned to look.
"Brave words, Julian, coming from behind a woman's skirts," said Kit.
"I'll cut your tongue out before I kill you, you insolent gallows-rogue!" Thornsby growled, closing on Kit with his weapon.
Her heart in her mouth, Antonia gasped as she saw Kit twist to avoid the thrust. He brought his own sword up in a blur of silver, and the two men commenced a rapid dance of swords and daggers.
Antonia looked around for Margaret, and saw the little girl running towards her.
An instant later, Margaret was in her arms, her tear-stained face buried in Antonia's shoulder. Antonia held her tightly, murmuring wordless comfort as she watched Kit and Thornsby circle each other, their swords flashing almost too quickly to see.
Oh, how she wanted to see Thornsby sprawled and bleeding on the planking! At the same time, seeing how evenly matched the two men were, she feared for Kit.
Then Antonia recalled herself. Kit had purchased her freedom at considerable risk to himself. She must not fritter away this opportunity.
She looked around wildly, hoping to spot a constable, but saw only rows of eager faces straining to catch every moment of the lethal drama unfolding before them.
Then she caught the eye of a youth wearing an apprentice's smock, and gestured him over. He came, his gaze still glued to the fight.
Hampered a little by Margaret nestled in her arms, Antonia dug for the small pouch concealed in the folds of her skirt, and proffered the apprentice a handful of shillings. His eyes widened at the sight of the coins. "Milady!"
"Go and fetch someone to arrest that man," Antonia ordered, pointing at Thornsby with her chin.
"Don't let him kill Papa," Margaret added, her voice muffled by Antonia's shoulder.
"Milady!" The youth reached for the money, then hesitated. "Ain't no constables about—all fightin' the fire, they are."
"Constables, aldermen, the King's own Life Guard—I care not. Just find someone with authority. I'll give you another ten shillings for it."
"Yes milady!" The apprentice belatedly snatched off his cap, and bowed awkwardly. Then he took off at a run.
Then, having done what she could, Antonia turned her attention back to the duel.
* * *
The two men circled each other cautiously at first, sparring, testing each other.
As Kit had seen during his duel with Chelmsford, Julian was a skilled opponent—quick, poised, and light on his feet. Kit was the more experienced, but his injured shoulder put him at a disadvantage.
And it was more difficult to parry a rapier with his heavier broadsword. Kit had been lucky to take Purbeck by surprise. With Julian, Kit would have to use his footwork to best advantage, and try to sidestep most of the other's attacks.
On the other hand, despite the rapier's ability to deliver quick blows, Kit's sword could break the other weapon if he managed to hit it directly. And the schiavona could slash as well as thrust, whereas Julian's sword could only thrust.
Kit's footwork was tested almost immediately as Julian launched a bold, lunging attack.
Unable to parry, Kit leapt backwards, nearly stumbling on the uneven planking of the wharf.
Like a striking snake, Julian thrust again, this time aiming for Kit's face. He laughed.
"What ho, brother Kit? Have you nothing to show me?"
Kit recognized the sign of battle madness—it was a siren melody in his own ears, enticing him away from the cool-headed calculation he needed. Julian would fear no wound, nor scarcely feel one, until either he died...or his opponent did.
Kit used the dagger in his left hand to turn aside a blow meant for his eyes, and, with an effort, regained his footing.
He counterattacked with a series of quick slashes, driving Julian back and leaving him no room for to do anything but defend himself.
But as seconds passed, and Julian managed to parry or sidestep each of Kit's blows, Kit became aware of the toll that the extended exchange was taking on his injured shoulder.
It began to ache fiercely, and his sword grew heavier with every swing and lunge.
He began to pant. Damned traitorous shoulder! Why did you never heal?
Julian, seemingly as fresh as when he had started the fight, noticed it, too. He side-stepped Kit's next attack, then l
unged from the left.
Kit tried to turn aside the blow, but only partially succeeded. There was a quick sensation of pressure on his upper arm, followed immediately by a burning pain. The dagger flew out of his hand.
Julian tried to take advantage of this by withdrawing his blade then lunging forward, aiming for Kit's midsection. Kit sidestepped, and Julian's long, deadly blade caught the hem of his jacket.
But the thrust brought Julian dangerously close to Kit.
Using a soldier's trick, Kit grabbed Julian's sword wrist with his left hand, immobilizing it. They were standing too near for Kit to wield his sword, so he reversed it, and smashed his brother's mouth with the heavy pommel.
As he did so, Kit heard—and felt—a sickening pop in his right shoulder.
He gasped, a burst of pain leaving a sharp, coppery taste in his mouth. Bright spots streamed across his field of vision like falling stars, and he staggered back.
He tried to raise his sword, but it slid from his nerveless fingers and landed on the wharf with a rattling clang.
Julian followed Kit's retreat, thrusting the tip of his sword at Kit's eyes. Blood flowed freely from Julian's mouth and nose, and he was—thank God!—also moving more slowly now.
Kit ducked and wove around the rapier's increasingly undisciplined lunges, moves that brought him closer to his opponent, then grabbed for Julian's sword arm again.
But only his left arm responded, and he clawed frantically at Julian's sleeve, capturing it.
A wave of sickening pain exploded from Kit's right shoulder as he tried to force his arm upwards to catch Julian's wrist.
* * *
Antonia watched, horrified, as Kit dropped his sword.
His right arm hung at his side, and his left arm was bleeding copiously, dark droplets of blood staining the wharf's planking.
Kit was still agile enough to avoid Thornsby's lunges, but he was being driven inexorably backwards to the end of the wharf.
Behind them, Antonia saw two men appear on the deck of the fishing vessel, and begin untying the ropes from the mooring posts.
In a matter of seconds, the boat had pulled away from the dock, leaving Thornsby stranded on shore.
Kit danced sideways to avoid Thornsby's next lunge, but Antonia knew that it was only a matter of time before the younger man skewered him.
