by James McGee
Everyone turned. Emerging from under the trees was a stoutly built, ruddy-faced individual in full dress army uniform. Peering out from behind the officer’s back was the missing footman. Something about the newcomer struck Hawkwood as immediately familiar. The officer took a step closer and in the lantern light his face became clear. Hawkwood found himself staring into the stern features of Major Lawrence of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot.
Ignoring Hawkwood’s astonishment, Lawrence’s gaze moved over the small gathering, settled briefly on Rutherford, and continued on to the woman, whereupon he bowed formally. “Major Douglas Lawrence at your service, ma’am. You’re safe, I trust? The servant here advised me of your predicament.”
The woman inclined her head. “Quite safe, Major. Thank you.” The words, spoken in English, carried a soft yet distinct accent. “Perhaps I should not have ventured out alone, but it did not occur to me that I might be in need of protection. Had this gallant gentleman not come to my assistance, I fear…” The woman’s voice faltered and her hand went to her throat.
Hawkwood recalled the shadowy figure he thought he’d seen beneath the trees. Yet the woman said she had been alone. It must have been his imagination, after all.
Lawrence, apparently oblivious to Hawkwood’s stare, was sympathy personified. “Quite so. Most fortunate.” The major nodded towards the footman. “However, may I now suggest you allow our man here to accompany you back to the house. My friend and I have private business to discuss with these…er…gentlemen.”
The woman nodded. She looked directly at Hawkwood. “I’m in your debt, monsieur.”
Hawkwood was struck by the depth of colour in her eyes. The irises were very dark. Touched by the lantern glow they seemed to burn with a feline intensity. Her full lips parted slightly as if she was about to speak further then, without a word, she turned and was gone, the footman in her wake. Hawkwood was left with a curious sense of loss, the hint of a message left unspoken, and the realization that he didn’t even know her name.
Lawrence watched her depart. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “Quite exquisite.” He waited until she had disappeared behind the trees. Abruptly his mood changed. He turned to Rutherford. “You’ll allow us a moment?” Without waiting for a reply, the major took Hawkwood’s elbow and led him aside.
“Well now, Captain, I’ll confess I’d not expected our paths to cross quite so soon.” Lawrence’s eyes bored into Hawkwood’s own. In a low voice he said, “Oh yes, Captain Hawkwood, I know who you are. I knew you when we met at the Blind Fiddler. Truth is, I saw you earlier this evening, but after our last meeting I was hesitant about making myself known.” Lawrence’s grip tightened. “Tell me you don’t really intend to go through with this?”
“The die’s been cast, Major, though I appreciate your concern.”
“But this is madness!”
“Quite possibly,” Hawkwood admitted.
“Good God, man, you don’t have to fight him. Arrest him, for Christ’s sake!”
Hawkwood sighed. “Major, he has two witnesses who’ll vouch for the fact that he helps old ladies across the street and gives alms to the poor. My threat to arrest him was an attempt to dissuade. There’s little chance I could make the charge stick.”
“But the risk! Have you forgotten the last time? And you’re a police officer! You’d forfeit another career? What if he bests you? What then?”
Hawkwood smiled thinly. “In that case, it won’t matter a damn, will it?”
Lawrence emitted a groan of despair.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, Major,” Hawkwood said.
But Lawrence shook his head. “No, I’ve said I’d stand with you and I’ll not go back on my word.” An unexpected wry grin transformed the major’s face. “Fact is, I should probably thank you for enlivening an exceedingly dull evening. I’m a soldier, damn it. I’ve no time for these affairs. What do these fops know of campaigning? Closest most of ’em have ever come to a battle is attending one of those bloody pageants at Astley’s. Frankly, I’m sick of the lot of them. Now that we’ve got Boney on the run, I can’t wait to get back to my regiment. I leave for Spain in two days and, between you and me, it won’t be a moment too soon.” Lawrence looked suddenly contrite. “Forgive me. Didn’t mean to stir up memories. My apologies.”
“Forget it, Major. It was a long time ago.”
Lawrence acknowledged the gesture. “Aye, well, I meant it all the same. But look here, let me speak with our hotheaded friend over yonder, see if I can’t persuade him to withdraw. You’ll not begrudge me that?”
Hawkwood looked on as Lawrence walked over to the three men. It was Campbell to whom Lawrence spoke. Hawkwood couldn’t hear what was being said, but there was no hiding the surprise that blossomed on Campbell’s face as he listened to the major. He watched as Campbell left Lawrence and hurried to confer with his principal. Suddenly, Campbell didn’t look so tipsy.
Campbell and Rutherford exchanged words, Campbell looking agitated. Rutherford’s head came up sharply and he stared at Hawkwood. Something moved in his eyes. Unease? Doubt? Campbell took hold of his friend’s sleeve. Rutherford came out of his trance, jerked free and shook his head violently. It was an unhappy Campbell who walked back to Lawrence. The major listened as Campbell relayed Rutherford’s response and gave what looked like a resigned shrug. In a gesture that told Campbell to wait, Lawrence came plodding back. His anger was apparent.
“The fool! The arrogant bloody fool!”
Hawkwood waited.
“I thought if I told them you weren’t without experience in these affairs, they might reconsider. I was mistaken.”
“You tried, Major. Can’t blame yourself for that.”
“Either too proud or too stupid to back down, the idiot! I’d hoped Campbell might persuade him to see sense but I fear my attempt to procure a peaceful resolution has fallen on deaf ears. The man will not listen to reason.”
“You really didn’t expect otherwise, did you?” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence shrugged. “Maybe I was being a trifle optimistic. Still, if that’s his game, so be it. The boy’s made his choice, ’tis he who must live with it.” The major drew himself up. “Now, seeing as I can’t dissuade either of you from continuing with this reckless adventure, there’s the matter of venue and weapons to arrange.” Lawrence fixed Hawkwood with a penetrating eye. “You were the one challenged, so the choice is yours. What should I tell them?”
And Hawkwood smiled.
7
The meeting place had been carefully chosen. Situated adjacent to the southern boundary of Hyde Park, close to the bank of the Serpentine, the grassy clearing, hidden inside a small stand of trees, was known locally as the Dell.
The location was one of several similar venues, dotted around the city, that had, over the years, become synonymous with the settling of personal scores. To the north, the stretch of pathway known as the Ring Road was also a favoured spot, as were Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Bloomsbury Square.
It was an hour past sunrise. A watery sun hung low above the city’s smoky rooftops, bathing the scene in a hazy orange glow. With the grass still damp and silvery from the morning dew, the park was at its most peaceful. To the uninitiated it might have seemed an incongruous choice for trial by combat, but the remoteness of the place and the early hour lessened the risk of uninvited spectators or discovery by the authorities.
Accompanied by the major, Hawkwood had arrived to find his adversary already in place. Their welcome was in the form of a curt nod from both Neville and Campbell. It could have been Hawkwood’s imagination, but he had the impression that Rutherford was somewhat surprised to see him, as if he hadn’t expected the Runner to turn up. It was with some satisfaction that Hawkwood marked the possibility that he may have caught his opponent temporarily off guard, and any advantage, no matter how slight, was always welcome. In any case, failing to meet with Rutherford had not been an option.
Rutherford scowled darkly and
turned his back. Standing to one side in sickly isolation, a frail-looking figure wrapped in a dark cloak sniffled into a sodden handkerchief.
“Jesus,” Lawrence muttered. “Bloody surgeon looks to be on his last legs. I wonder which grog shop they dragged him from.”
Hawkwood refrained from comment. It wasn’t the surgeon’s duty to be hale and hearty, merely discreet. Both principals were required to contribute to his fee. This covered not only his services but, more importantly, his silence. The surgeon would be the only one guaranteed to profit from the morning’s activity.
Forsaking preamble, Neville stepped forward, his manner brisk and officious. “Good morning, gentlemen. If neither of you has any objection, I shall be conducting the proceedings. No? In that case, to business. First, I must ask—now that both parties have had some hours to reflect upon the matter—if either of you has reconsidered.”
Campbell, acting for Rutherford, looked pensive and shook his head. Lawrence, after throwing Hawkwood a wistful look of appeal, followed suit.
Neville accepted each man’s response with a grim nod. “So be it. This way, then, if you please.”
Neville led the way to the edge of the clearing, where a small folding table had been erected under the trees. Upon the table lay a fold of black velvet. As they drew closer it was clear from the contours of the cloth that something lay concealed beneath the material.
Neville moved to the table and lifted away the edge of the cloth to reveal a flat mahogany case. Wordlessly, Neville opened the lid of the case and stepped away. He addressed Hawkwood. “I trust they meet with your approval?”
Hawkwood looked down and nodded.
“Very well, if the seconds would care to make their examinations?”
The pistols were identical Mortimers, with sixteen-inch octagonal barrels; in their simplicity, supreme examples of the gun maker’s art. Hawkwood and Rutherford stood to one side while their respective seconds examined the pistols. Mutual satisfaction expressed, Neville gestured towards the case. “So, gentlemen, if you’d each be so kind as to choose your weapon.”
Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it to Lawrence. He lifted out the pistol nearest to him. He had no qualms over his choice. He knew Lawrence would have ensured that each weapon contained exactly the same-sized ball and an equal charge of powder.
Neville cleared his throat. “You will stand back to back. On my count you will each walk away for a distance of twelve paces, at which point, upon my signal, you will turn and fire. Is that understood?”
Both men nodded. Hawkwood found that his throat was as dry as sand. As he took up his position, he wondered if his opponent was experiencing the same degree of discomfort and stomach-gnawing apprehension. He could feel Rutherford’s shoulder blades chafing against his own.
It had been like this when he had fought Delancey; the same coldness running down his spine, the prickle of wetness under the arms, the gut-wrenching fear that in less than a minute he might be dead. Or worse, severely wounded, with no future other than to roam the streets with all the other cripples, begging for scraps and shelter. All things considered, he thought death was probably the better option.
But at least he wouldn’t die in ignorance.
Her name, he had discovered, was Catherine de Varesne.
She had vanished by the time Hawkwood and Lawrence had returned to the house—no doubt having made her departure in order to avoid further confrontation with Rutherford and his associates—so the major had taken it upon himself to make discreet enquiries.
Not French, as Hawkwood had first supposed, but half French and half Portuguese, on her mother’s side. Her father had been the Marquis de Varesne, a minister under Louis XVI, and one of the hundreds of aristos sent to the guillotine. More relevant was the fact that he had been a close associate of the Comte d’Artois, currently in exile in England, and friend to Lord Mandrake, which explained her presence at the ball.
“I’ll say one thing, my friend,” the major had commented, “you’ve excellent taste in women, but by God your method of making their acquaintance leaves a lot to be desired.”
The sound of Neville’s voice brought Hawkwood out of his reverie.
“On my mark, gentlemen.” There was a pause. “Begin!”
Glancing to his right, Hawkwood saw that Lawrence was talking to himself. He realized with a jolt that the major was counting off the paces in accompaniment to Neville’s metronomic drone.
“Two…three…four…”
Their footsteps fell soft and silent on the damp grass. Rutherford was facing north, Hawkwood south. The direction was deliberate. It meant neither man had the advantage of the sun at his back.
“Five…six…seven…”
Hawkwood adjusted his grip on the pistol butt and felt warm beads of perspiration slide beneath the hairs at the back of his neck.
“Eight…nine…ten…”
Something nagged at Hawkwood. He couldn’t think what it was. Then he realized. There was no birdsong. Not a chirrup, not a whistle, not a single note broke the silence. He laid his thumb across the hammer of the pistol, curled his finger round the trigger, felt the cold curve of the barrel touch his right cheek.
“Eleven…” Followed by a pause that seemed to last for ever.
“Twelve…Gentlemen, you may turn and fire.”
Hawkwood spun quickly, sucked in his stomach muscles.
A bright flash as the powder in Rutherford’s pistol ignited. The crack of the report was surprisingly loud in the crisp morning air. The sound echoed around the glade.
Hawkwood felt the strike on his left side, a moment of acute pain and a fierce burning sensation as the ball parted the cloth of his shirt and the flesh beneath, searing across his exposed ribcage with the ferocity of a white-hot poker.
The powder smoke dispersed slowly, revealing Rutherford frozen in shock at the sight of his opponent, not only still standing but with pistol not yet discharged. A second passed. Two seconds stretched to three. Hawkwood watched the blood drain slowly from Rutherford’s face. With great deliberation, Hawkwood extended his right arm, winced as the edge of his shirt rasped against his wound, took careful aim, and fired.
Rutherford spun around. The pistol dropped from his fingers, and he went down. White faced, left hand clamped around the wound in his right arm, he stared up at Hawkwood as if unable to comprehend the fact that he had been shot. Hawkwood, feet braced, looked down at him for several moments before slowly lowering his pistol. Absently, he ran his hand along his belly. When he pulled it away it was smeared red.
Lawrence was the first to recover. He ran up quickly, his face ashen. “Jesus! You’re shot! Here, let me see!” The major expelled air and looked around. “Goddammit! Where the hell’s that bloody sawbones?”
Hawkwood grunted as Lawrence’s fingers probed his side. “It’s all right, Major. Only a flesh wound. I’ll live. The boy has greater need of him than I do.”
Accompanied by a still fussing Lawrence, Hawkwood walked over to where Rutherford lay, supported by his second. By the time they got there the sleeve of Rutherford’s shirt had already been ripped away. It was steeped in blood. The surgeon’s mottled hands shook as he examined the wound. Teeth gritted, Rutherford writhed at the touch. Hawkwood couldn’t see if the ball had passed through the arm, but he suspected the bone was probably broken. He tossed the spent pistol on to the grass. “I believe that concludes our business.”
Rutherford, blinking away tears, looked up. “You could have killed me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why didn’t you?”
Hawkwood shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s a beautiful morning. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve a criminal investigation to deal with; places to go, people to see. But you pay heed, boy. You ever get the urge to throw down the gauntlet again, you’d better be damned sure you can win.”
Hawkwood retrieved his coat from Lawrence. “We’re done here, Major. Time to go. I’ve no wish to try and explain my presence to a roving police patrol. I’m
in enough bloody trouble as it is.” He nodded to Neville and Campbell, who were looking back at him with something like awe on their faces. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“You do know,” Lawrence said, as they left the clearing, “if it had been you who’d shot first and missed, it’s unlikely the boy would have been so merciful.”
“You’re probably right,” Hawkwood admitted. “But then I wouldn’t have missed.”
Lawrence threw a look at the Runner, but there was no humour or arrogance in Hawkwood’s expression. He had been stating a fact.
“My God, you wanted him to shoot first! You expected him to miss? Jesus, you took a chance.”
Hawkwood shrugged. “It was a calculation. I doubt he’s ever pointed a loaded pistol at anyone before. I had a feeling his nerves would get the better of him.”
“Bloody hell,” Lawrence said. “So that’s why you spared him?”
They emerged from the other side of the trees. A swathe of broad green meadow stretched before them.
“There’s a time and place, Major. This wasn’t it. Call it a lesson in life.”
Lawrence regarded Hawkwood with some doubt. “He’ll bear you a considerable grudge.”
Hawkwood shrugged. “A grudge I can live with. Better than having his death on my conscience.”
Lawrence blinked. “You were a soldier. You’ve killed before. What about Delancey? You killed him in a duel.”
Hawkwood stopped walking. “Delancey was a professional. He’d fought other men in duels, and won. I couldn’t afford to give that bastard the edge. As I said before, Rutherford’s a boy, a foolish, arrogant boy, who got carried away. And in case you’ve forgotten, Major, I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to prevent bloody duels, not take part in them!”
Lawrence fell silent. Then he grinned. “Has anyone ever told you, my friend, you’ve a tendency to sail mighty close to the wind?”
For the first time since he had met him, Lawrence watched a smile of genuine amusement break across Hawkwood’s face. It was startling, he thought, how the Runner’s expression softened. The scar beneath Hawkwood’s eye all but disappeared.
