Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “To those I have no objection, sir, so long as we proceed as quick as may be.”

  A change went over the men around us, a kind of drawing together, as though they’d erected an invisible wall between myself and the rest of the crowd. The majority of the party remained unaware, so the music and dancing played on uninterrupted, but those just outside the wall seemed to sense it. Men nodded to each other; women whispered behind their fans. Something had happened. And even better, something was about to happen. I felt their collective gaze heavy upon me as our group departed the ballroom.

  The older man, whose name was Dennehy, took charge of things, having appointed himself to the position of seeing that all else was done according to the strict laws of the Code. He’d heard everything that Ridley had said and been shocked as any, but was no less resolved to abide by the tenets of gentlemanly behavior. Though Ridley had already proved himself to be no gentleman, Dennehy would see that no others would descend to so base a level.

  I was swept along by our press to a more secluded room. Brinsley Bolyn was sent for, not his father, for it was thought the elder Bolyn might have tried to postpone things. Once arrived, Brinsley was told what had happened and asked if there was a place nearby where a meeting might be arranged. This put him rather in the middle, being host to both myself and Ridley, but he promptly named an orchard just west of the house as a likely site. He promised to have lanterns brought to shed adequate light for the proceedings and said we could choose whatever was needed from his own collection of arms. I divested myself of the ridiculous costume cutlass.

  Those important points covered, Oliver was dispatched to seek out and speak with Ridley’s second. He was back soon enough. Ridley had decided on the small-sword as his choice for the duel, which was not surprising considering the use he’d tried to make of it at our first meeting. In premeditated encounters like this, pistols were usually more favored than blades, since they tended to level any physical inequalities between opponents. Perhaps Oliver’s tale of my shooting rebels had instilled a tardy caution in my opponent. It made no difference to me. I knew how to employ either weapon with equal skill.

  Though at the center of this attention, I was also strangely apart from the gathering. Even Oliver, who trudged close by my side on our way to the orchard, was silent, as if afraid to speak with me, yet wanting to very badly. A quarter hour from now, for all he knew, I might be dead.

  For all I knew as well.

  I’d survived pistol and rifle balls, and even a cudgeling severe enough to kill an ordinary man; perhaps because of my change I would survive the sword, but I did not know, nor did it matter one way or another to me. Words had been said, ephemeral words, yet they could not be forgiven or forgotten. That foul-mouthed bastard had grossly insulted my sister and I was going to kill him for it or die in the trying.

  “Oliver, you’ll be sure to tell Elizabeth all that happens, should things . . . not go well? She won’t appreciate it if you try to spare her feelings.”

  “You’ve the right on your side. Everything will be fine,” he said, trying to sound hearty for my sake.

  I let him hold on to that. He needed it.

  * * *

  We arrived at the orchard. Apple trees they were, and under Brinsley’s direction servants hung paper lanterns from the bare limbs. They lent a bizarrely festive air to a grim event. The wind was a nuisance; some of the lanterns went out and could not be relit. With several yards of ground between us, Ridley and I were each asked whether we wanted to proceed under such adverse conditions; we each said yes.

  Ridley cast off his gaudy coat and fur hat, handing them to someone, then stretched himself this way and that to loosen his muscles. He had a long reach and obvious strength. Perhaps he thought that would give him the advantage over me, yet another reason for blades over pistols.

  Following his example, I also stretched after shedding my now ludicrous pirate disguise. I took care to study his reaction, but he gave none that could be construed as recognition.

  He inspected the sets of blades that Brinsley had brought, plucked one up, and swung it around to get the feel of it. Then he leveled it briefly in my direction, looking down its length. Satisfied, he handed it back, but continued favoring me with that same infuriating smirk. He was very sure of himself.

  “ ’Fore God, I’ll need some beer in me soon for the thirst that’s coming,” he declared. “Have you any with you, Barrett?”

  No one else understood what he was talking about, only I. Mr. Dennehy told Ridley’s second to ask him to refrain from speaking to me unless he was ready to offer apology for his insult.

  Ridley laughed, but did not pursue the issue. His point had been made.

  “What’s behind that?” asked Oliver, leaning close to speak quietly in my ear.

  “He’s letting me know that we’ve met before.”

  “Indeed? When?”

  “I’ll tell you later, God willing. Let it suffice that his insult to Elizabeth was on purpose. He knew we all of us were together because of our costumes. He wants this duel.”

  “My God.”

  “I must ask a promise of you should anything adverse happen.”

  “Whatever I can,” he said, too caught up to gainsay my doubts.

  “First, take care of Elizabeth, and second, you are not to challenge Ridley. If he should best me, the matter ends here, to go no further. Understand?”

  Oliver went white in the lantern glow. He knew my thoughts: that Ridley would not stop at the mere first drawing of blood; his intent for this duel was to kill me. “But—”

  “No further. I won’t have your blood on my soul to disturb its rest. I need to know that you’ll be around to look after her.”

  It upset him, that was plain, but he finally nodded. “I promise, but for God’s sake, be careful. The way he keeps smiling at you like that, he doesn’t look right in the head.”

  “The fool’s only trying to unman me. Have you seen how he fights?”

  “Only heard. I’m told he’s quick and confident, with the endurance of an ox. You should be the faster, though, if you’ve kept up your practice.”

  Oliver and I had often taken such martial exercise with our friends while at school, but it had been over a year since then. Father and I had done some sparring. In those bouts I found I did not tire fast and that I had gotten quicker. I was able to match Ridley’s confidence with my own.

  Then the time was upon us. Swords were presented, the distance marked, and I found myself but a few paces from Ridley. Again, he was asked if he was prepared to apologize. He said he was not.

  “Gentlemen,” said Dennehy, “en garde . . . !”

  Dropping slightly with legs bent in the prescribed manner, I got my blade up and at an angle across my body, its point even with Ridley’s head. He mirrored me exactly, but from a higher level because of his height. I found myself noticing small things: how he placed his feet, the pattern of embroidery on his waistcoat, the way his sand-colored brows hooked down on the outsides.

  “Allez!”

  It was begun.

  I let Ridley make the first pass. As I’d expected, he relied on his reach and strength. He swatted my blade aside with a powerful slap and lunged, but I backed off in plenty of time and countered with a feint to the right. He was smart, backing in his turn, and was fast enough to block my true attack to the left. I drove in again on the same side, hoping he’d take it for another feint, but he seemed to know my mind and was ready for it. Damnation, but he was fast. I didn’t see his blade so much as his movements.

  Some say to watch the other’s eyes or his blade or his arm, but the best fencing masters advise their students to watch everything at once. This had seemed an impossibility until my training advanced to such a degree that I abruptly embraced the meaning. To fix upon any single point put you in danger of missing another, more vital one. By focusing only
on the blade, I could overlook a telltale shift of an adversary’s body as he prepared a fresh attack. Instead, I found myself moving into a strange state of non-thought, where I saw the whole of my opponent as a single coordinated threat, rather than a haphazard collection of parts, each requiring a separate reaction.

  Ridley apparently followed the same school of training, to judge by his look of serene concentration. I took this in and left it at the door, so to speak. It was important, but only as part of the larger picture. My mind was empty of ideas and emotions; having either cluttering my actions could be fatal. As great as my anger was toward this man, I could not allow its intrusion, for it would only give him the advantage.

  We danced and lunged and parried, playing now, taking each other’s measure and comparing it to our own best skills. He was surprisingly fast for so large a man, but I knew myself to be considerably faster. And though I did not look it, I was also much stronger than he, even if this was mitigated by the swords. Had we been grappling in the mud like base street brawlers, I’d have had the better of him without question.

  Fencing is a physical form of chess, requiring similar strategies, but executing them with one’s body rather than through board pieces, and it is blindingly quick. Ridley knew his business and twice tried a gambit of beating my blade, feinting once, twice, thrice, retreating a step, then simply extending his arm to catch me on my advance. It worked the first time, but all he did was snag and rip my sleeve. No blooding, therefore no pause. The second time I was wise to it, but on the third attempt, he retreated an extra step, leading me to think he’d given up the ploy.

  Not so. He grinned, caught my blade and flicked his wrist ’round in such a way as to disarm me. Even as he began the move, I divined his intent and backed off at the last instant. If not for my greater strength to freeze my hand to the grip, my sword would have gone flying into the darkness.

  He must have fully expected it to work; there came a flash of frustration to his expression. He was sweating, too. It must have felt like a coat of ice on his skin what with the wind. I’d grown warm enough; it would be awhile before any cold could get through to me and by then we would be long finished.

  He had an excellent defense; time and again I’d tried to break past it and failed, but he was starting to breathe hard. My mouth was open, but more for the sake of appearance than any need of air. If nothing else, I could wear even his endurance down to exhaustion. As he began showing early signs of it, I played with him more, subtly trying to provoke him into a mistake. Not that I resorted to anything dishonorable; all I had to do was prevent him from wounding me. For him that was quite sufficient as an annoyance. He was probably used to a speedy win and as each moment went by with no progress, his initial frustration looked to be getting the better of him. When that happened, he’d defeat himself.

  The wind tore plumes of his sawing breath right from his lips, and he looked hard-pressed to continue. The pause between attacks grew perceptively longer; he was slowing. In another few minutes I’d have him.

  I beat him back to tire him that much more. He retreated five or six steps, rapidly, with me following. Then he abruptly halted, beat my blade once, with much force, and as my arm shot wide, he used his long reach and drove in.

  Catching me flat. I felt a damned odd push and tug on my body. I looked down and gaped stupidly. His blade was thrust firm into my chest, just left of my breast bone and inches deep. Sickening sight. I also could not move, and so we stood like statues for a few seconds, long enough for the shocked groans of the witnesses to reach me. Then he whipped the blade clear and stood back, waiting for my fall.

  I stumbled drunkenly to both knees. Couldn’t help it. The crashing impact of pain was overwhelming. It was a though he’d struck me with a tree trunk, not a slim V -shaped blade of no larger width than my little finger. I let go my sword and clutched at my chest, coughed, gagged on what came up, then coughed once more, thickly.

  Bloodsmell on the winter air.

  Taste of heart’s blood in my mouth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Oliver was suddenly there, his arm supporting me, halting my complete collapse.

  “It’s all right,” he was saying over and over in a terribly thin, choked voice. Lying to himself. He’d seen. He knew. He called for Brinsley and for more light to be brought. The others crowded close to see.

  The agony was stunning; I wanted only for him to let me alone. I gasped, feebly pushing him off. He would not budge. Instead, he tried to hold me still, just as Beldon had done before him when I’d fallen into that soft sleep one stifling summer day, my last day. Not again. Never again.

  Panic tore through me. “No! Let me up!”

  But Oliver told me not to move, to let him help. To get at the wound, he forced my hand clear. It came away covered with blood. The stuff was all over my shirt and waistcoat.

  “You must be quiet, Jonathan,” he pleaded. I heard the tears in his words. Tears for me, for my death.

  “No!” I couldn’t say if I was shouting at him or myself. It wasn’t much of a shout. I had little enough air left to spare for it. To breathe in meant more pain. I doubled over—Oliver kept me from falling altogether—and coughed.

  More blood in my mouth. I spat, making a dark stain upon the dead grass, then, strangely, the grass began to fade away before my fluttering vision.

  Good God, no. I couldn’t . . . not here . . . .

  I clung to Oliver, willing myself to stay solid in spite of every instinct wanting to release me from the fire tearing through my chest. It would have been so easy to surrender to the sanctuary of a noncorporeal state, to its soothing silence, its sweet healing. So easy . . ..

  But I did not dare allow it.

  I struggled to right myself, ignoring Oliver’s protests.

  “We’ll take him back to the house,” Brinsley was saying. “I’ll have them fetch a cart.”

  “No,” I said, raising a hand. The bloodied one. “A moment. Please.”

  A pause with them looking on. God knows what they expected of me. Momentous last words? They’d have a hard time of it, for my mind was bereft of anything like that. Still, they hovered close in hope. The seconds passed in disappointing silence . . . and I became aware that my devastating hurt was not as bad as before.

  Movement was easier now. Pain. Ebbing. I was able to suck in a draught of air and not forcibly cough it out again.

  All I’d wanted was the time to recover myself.

  Recover?

  God’s death, what was I on about?

  Then as swift as Ridley’s attack the realization came that I was not going to die. Too occupied by the present, I’d forgotten the past. Flashing through my mind was the memory of another dreadful night. I saw Nora once more, heard again her gasp of surprise when a similar blade had pierced her heart. I’d watched in helpless despair as she slid to the floor, thinking her dead—and so she was with neither breath nor heartbeat to say otherwise.

  But she had come back.

  Somehow she had survived that mortal injury.

  And I knew I would as well.

  With the very thought’s occurrence, the raw burning in my chest eased considerably. I even heard myself laugh, though it threatened to become another cough. At least I was in no danger of vanishing in front of—

  There they stood about me. Dozens of them. All to bear witness that I’d been run through and had bled like a pig at the butcher’s. And there was poor Oliver, tears on his face as he held me.

  What in God’s name was I to say to them?

  If one lies often enough and loud enough, the lie eventually becomes the truth.

  But for something like this? It seemed a bit much to expect. On the other hand, there were few other options. I could play the wounded duelist and let them carry me back for a suitably long convalescence, or I could brazen it out right here and hope for the best.
/>   The latter, then, and get it over with.

  “Some brandy!” I called, summoning a strong, loud voice from heaven knows where.

  Brandy was offered from several different sources, all extremely sympathetic, thinking to comfort me. Oliver grabbed the nearest flask and held it to my lips. So caught up was he in the crisis that he’d forgotten my inability to ingest anything other than blood, but it was of no matter. I’d only asked for brandy for the show of it and to purchase more time to heal.

  “I can manage, thank you,” I told him and reached up to take the flask.

  This made for much startled murmuring. Oliver nearly dropped me, but I straightened myself in time. It was difficult not to sneak a look at him, but I had to act as though nothing were seriously amiss. With my clean left hand, I raised the drink to my lips and pretended to swallow.

  “Much better,” I said. “I am most obliged to you, sir.” I held the flask out and someone took it away.

  “Jonathan?” A hundred questions were on Oliver’s strained face, and not one could be voiced in front of a crowd.

  “I’m fine, Cousin. No need to fear.”

  “But you . . . your wound. . . .”

  “It’s nothing. Hurts like blazes. Sweet God, man, I pray I did not worry you over a scratch.”

  “A scratch!” he yelped.

  I might have laughed, but for knowing the true depth of what he was going through. “You thought me hurt? But I’m fine or will be. It just scraped the bone, looks worse than it is. Fair knocked the wind from me, though.”

  This was said brashly, for others to hear and pass along. Those who had not seen the incident clearly took it as the happy truth, but the ones who had been closer were doubtful. Perhaps even fearful.

  I noticed this, apparently, for the first time. “Gentlemen, thank you for your concern, but I am much improved.” There, that at least was the absolute truth. Not giving anyone time to think and thus dispute the statement, I slowly stood.