by Agnes Forest
Either way, someone was going to die. He wished that it might be Lord Phillip. Yet still, Sawyer did not like to see death. More so, he hated to be the cause of it. Sawyer had killed many men in the war. Each time, he would capture the face of the fallen soldier in his mind. Those faces would come back to haunt him in the night. They never seemed like enemies, those men. Rather, like soldiers doing their duty, not unlike himself. In essence, every time that he killed another man on the battlefield, he killed himself.
His thoughts were weighty and Sawyer chose to sit in the painting room and look at the pond. Tranquility. Ducks.
Although it was ugly and messy, battle was still necessary. Someone had to die. It was the way that the world worked. In order for someone to prevail, someone else had to fall. Sawyer did not like it, but he didn’t make the rules. It was the way of things. In order to gain something - freedom, power, life, love - there needed to be combat. And combat was the order of the day.
The sun was just cresting over the horizon and the sky was pink and majestic. It pleased the ducks, as they fluttered their wings. It also pleased the hounds who barked and ran about, clamoring for food. A new day. Sawyer had greeted many new days. But that one was something else entirely.
Before heading to the field, Sawyer sat at his easel and continued working on the cardinal. Just a few brush strokes. He figured that if he was going to die then he might as well do a bit of what he loved first.
That being done, Sawyer attired himself in his soldiers’ uniform and inspected himself. He looked respectable and self-assured and it pleased him. That was just the sort of image that he wished to communicate to Lord Phillip. But sod it, why should he care about what Lord Phillip thought? The man was a veritable ass.
Sawyer rode his horse towards the field with confidence. The air felt cold and crisp on his skin. The morning dew collected on everything, and his horse’s hooves were drenched in mud. He’d have to clean those horseshoes later. If he was still alive, that was.
It was not long before Sawyer reached yonder field and there stood Lord Phillip, practicing his moves and stretching. How ridiculous to stretch, Sawyer thought to himself. He would much rather undertake a fight with tight muscles then be caught stretching in plain view.
Lord Benedict was present, as well as Percival of all people, acting as a witness. Lord Benedict had long been acquainted with the Master of the hounds, and couldn’t think of who else to hire on short notice to witness the duel. As at happened, Percival was a professional duel-overseer, as well. There was no Lady Vivian, of course.
Sawyer stifled a yawn. How embarrassing to feel sleepy before killing or being killed, but it was exceedingly early in the morning and he had to wonder why duels always happened at dawn. Sawyer dismounted his horse. His boots sunk into the mud. That meant that whoever went down that morning would not only have a taste of death they’d also have a taste of mud. How dreadful.
He strode towards Lord Phillip who discontinued his stretching, and nodded towards the opponent. In times such as those, decorum was necessary. The act of running a man through in the morning required respect.
“Oh, but I have a taste for bacon, right now,” Lord Benedict said to Percival. He was cold and hungry. Lord Benedict thought that early morning duels should be accompanied by tea, at the very least. Then it would be civil. If there was just a little tray set up towards the side, with a few biscuits, then the whole ordeal would be more tolerable.
“How could you stomach bacon, M’Lord?” Percival asked, shivering and clutching himself. “All the dead meat that you need is about to collapse before you.”
“How very grim,” Lord Benedict replied.
“What the devil else is there to say, M’Lord?” Percival protested. “A man will perish.”
“I hope that it will be Lord Phillip,” Lord Benedict said.
“Truly?” Percival asked.
Lord Benedict looked about in confusion. He could scarce believe that it flew out of his mouth.
“I did not intend to say that,” Lord Benedict replied. “I have not drank enough tea this morning.”
Sawyer walked off to the side, examining his sword. It was a minor precaution, but also a ritual. Man co-habitating with his weapon before battle was a special time. It was a like a jockey speaking to his horse before a race. A meditation, of sorts.
Lord Phillip did much the same, but the words that he spoke to his sword were not only difficult to decipher, they were also spoken aloud.
“Excalibur, here we go,” Lord Phillip said. His words were spoken loudly and the other men could hear them clearly. “You’re gleaming this morning. Positively gleaming and glistening,” Lord Phillip said to Excalibur. “And now, I’m beginning to think and ponder. The Etruscans and such and so forth.”
Sawyer listened. Such an odd fellow, and rather sad that he had to die.
And die he must! Yes, the veil of early morning fatigue was lifting and Sawyer was reminded of the prize. Lady Vivian. The way that her skin glowed in the moonlight the previous night emboldened him. She was the most marvelous prize imaginable. He would kill ten thousand obnoxious, incoherent men of Lord Phillip’s variety just to have her. He would even kill a fox. A sly, innocent fox. Come to think of it, he’d much rather kill Lord Phillip than a fox.
Percival’s presence was comforting. He always liked the old chap, and Sawyer was reminded of the Thursday hunt. Such a rich tradition. He wished that Christian Sherbet was there, but the man would probably interfere with the duel somehow. He also wished that Calvin Cain were there, but the fellow would root for Lord Phillip. Such was his soul of darkness, he would find it fitting if his best friend were killed. It would prove to Cain that life was miserable.
The sun had reached full brightness, and the four men sensed that it was time for action. Lord Benedict stepped in - Lord Phillip continued to speak with Excalibur - and inquired of Sawyer’s readiness.
“I am prepared,” Sawyer replied. “I thank you.”
Lord Benedict looked into Sawyer’s eyes, wondering if the courageous young man might be his future son. Although he was a broke bastard, if he prevailed in the duel, Lord Benedict would let him have his daughter’s hand.
“I must ask you a question,” Lord Benedict said.
“Proceed,” Sawyer replied.
“Was it true? Those words that you spoke last night. Did Lord Phillip threaten the reputation of my family?” Lord Benedict asked.
“Cock-a-leekie!” Lord Phillip could be heard saying to Excalibur off in the distance.
“I fear that it was all true. He wished to spread rumors that my commission had been stolen, or some other nonsense. I’m not even sure it’s possible to steal a commission.”
“Yes, it seems odd. You’d perhaps have to steal the document from another man?” Lord Benedict asked.
“Then you would have to change the name on it,” Sawyer went on, knitting his brow.
“Hire a calligrapher.”
“Indeed. All that is to say that he wished to slander me, and said that Lady Vivian would become tangled up in the mess, as well as your family.”
“In truth, young fellow,” Lord Benedict went on. “I do not believe that any of that could happened, but it’s smart that you’re engaging in the duel, nonetheless.”
“Sir, might I take this opportunity to say that I love your daughter like I’ve never loved anything in my life,” Sawyer said with sincerity.
“You’re going to need to make more money because she requires many gowns,” Lord Benedict replied, shaking his head.
“I will find a way to pay for her gowns if I survive this day.”
“She also eats an unnatural amount of scones.”
“I delight in that,” Sawyer replied. He fancied a lady with a strong appetite, such as his own.
“Well, all the best of luck,” Lord Benedict said, patting Sawyer on the shoulder.
My, but he is robust, Lord Benedict thought to himself. This led to pondering of grandchildren.
Lord Benedict began to walk away and a wave of fear came over him.
“You know,” he said, turning back. “I can cancel this. There is no reason for blood to be shed.”
“Nonsense,” Sawyer replied. “I’m prepared to defend your daughter’s honor on this day, and for every day to come.”
“A fine answer,” Lord Benedict replied, and walked off towards Percival. The groundskeeper had lit a pipe and its smoke intermingled with the mist of morning.
“Thank heavens for all that training,” Lord Phillip said, stepping in and swiping his sword from side to side. “All those hours of practice. I was sent off to Switzerland, just to train,” he added.
“You went to Switzerland to practice your swordsmanship?’ Percival asked.
“Atop the Matterhorn,” Lord Phillip went on. Percival knit his brow.
“You trained atop the Matterhorn?” he asked.
“Yes, there was a school there. I do believe . . . wait I. Sometimes I think. . .”
Oh, but the rambling was beginning. Sawyer had to wonder if it struck when Lord Phillip was nervous.
“The Matterhorn Academy, I do believe,” Lord Phillip went on. “Rather vigorous training. But they served schnitzel,” he went on.
“That makes up for it, then,” Sawyer replied.
“Don’t look so scared, old boy,” Lord Phillip said, giving him a fist to the chest.
Rather large chest, Lord Phillip thought to himself nervously.
“I assure you that I’m fine,” Sawyer replied with measured tones.
“It’s unfortunate for you that you were not trained at the Matterhorn Academy,” Lord Phillip went on. “When one is lowly of birth, I would imagine that they might need to teach themselves the art of dueling.”
“I received my instruction from Darragh Houlihan on the shores of Ireland,” Sawyer replied.
Lord Phillip turned cold. He had heard of the expert swordsmanship of the fabled Darragh Houlihan and he wondered how the devil the young shoulder received such instruction.
In truth, the famous swordsman had served briefly in the Regent’s navy and therefore met Sawyer in the swamps of Louisiana. The two fellows hit it off, and Darragh Houlihan shared all his secrets in the Art of Dueling. Sawyer, upon returning from the war, traveled to Ireland and practiced with Darragh. There, in the idyllic town of Enniscrone in county Sligo, the two men brandished their swords while the cool, mysterious mist of the Atlantic sea enveloped them.
Sawyer did not wish to explain this, rather, the truth of it was apparent on Lord Phillip’s face. He looked as though he’d seen a ghost. Lord Phillip changed the subject.
“Unfortunately for you, you won’t be able to paint the picture of my victory this morning,” Lord Phillip said. He meant it to be intimidating. He was told of Sawyer’s painting, and Lord Phillip thought it far-fetched. A soldier that paints? How ghastly and storybook-like. No wonder Lady Vivian had lost her good sense.
“I’m confident some other great artist shall undertake it,” Sawyer replied. “I would imagine it’s best etched in bronze.”
“And also, too bad for you that Darragh Houlihan is not here to remind you of how to use that thing,” Lord Phillip said, referencing Sawyer’s sword.
Lord Phillip did not wish to bring up Darragh again, because the very name filled him with fear, but he felt the need to say the name without a tremble in his voice.
“I assure you that the fabled man was not my teacher so much as war, itself. Even a milksop like you should understand that,” Sawyer went on.
Now, to be fair, Lord Phillip did not know what a milksop was, and a wave of fear came over him again as he wondered whether he might ever be able to look it up in his library. He very much liked the word, and wished to use it on a future occasion if he was alive.
“Enough with the small talk,” Lord Benedict said, awaiting the moment of action. He wished to know who was going to marry his daughter so that he could see her off and finally have some peace in his life. He loved Lady Vivian, so. But for the love of God, the man had raised three daughters on his own and was in need of rest.
“Gentlemen, are you ready?” Percival said, intervening.
“I am,” Lord Phillip said.
“Yes,” Sawyer replied.
The two men took their initial formations, and Percival knit his brow, focusing intently. Serious business lay ahead.
“En Garde – Prêt – Allez!” Percival cried, and the men went at it.
There was first a great deal of circling around one another. Lord Phillip took the first stab with a balestra and a beat. He was rather proud of this move and wished that was all that was required to win.
Sawyer could see that Lord Phillip had some skill despite being puffed up with wind. He undertook a feint, and this false move was to goad Lord Phillip on further. It was affective, because Lord Phillip came in with a strong flunge, which surprised Sawyer. Usually the flunge was only done with saber in hand.
Lord Phillip decided to stop all the nonsense and just get to business. He swung at Sawyer’s quarte, his octave, and his septime, and then Lord Phillip realized that he had swung at these quadrants of the soldier’s body to merely practice his fencing vocabulary.
Lord Phillip dropped the vocabulary lesson and sliced Sawyer’s arm. Blood was drawn and Sawyer felt it with his hand. It was warm to the touch.
Sawyer looked to Lord Phillip and smiled. There was something about the blood that brought him to life. He was a soldier again. His whole life was blood. It did not frighten him; it did not even enrage him. It filled him with life.
The beast was released. Everything that Darragh Houlihan had taught Sawyer showed through. Years of war and carnage and chaos poured through him with supernatural grace and ferocity. Lord Phillip had the instinct to run and Lord Benedict feared that he might cry. The young soldier was transformed into an animal-like warrior. Lord Phillip thought that Sawyer looked like a primal Viking riding on a ship, wielding an axe in one hand and a leg of uncooked mutton in the other.
“For shame!” Lord Phillip cried, sure that his life was about to be taken.
Sawyer had a maniacal look in his eye. Blood coursed through his veins and his heart pounded with boldness and courage. He pierced Lord Phillip in the leg.
“Bollocks!” Lord Phillip cried. Sawyer would not stop, he then hit him in the arm, then the other arm, then the other leg, until Lord Phillip’s limbs were all bloodied and the man was incapacitated.
He fell to the ground. His blood mixed with the earth of Britain and he felt mud sink into his trousers. Lord Phillip looked up to the cold gray sky and feared that it would be the last time that he would see it again. How dreadful to die on a gloomy morning. He should rather wish to die on a sunny day, when there was birdsong and hydrangeas.
Sawyer stood over him, his sword held aloft. It would take one precise stab and Lord Phillip would be no longer. Finally, everyone would be free from his nonsense, arrogance, and ridiculous antics. It was so easy. If Sawyer merely brought down his sword, Lady Vivian would be free, Lord Benedict would be free, everyone who would ever have to endure another second of the man’s company would be free. Sawyer thought of all the men and women of the world who would come up to him in the future, shaking his hand and embracing him, ever so grateful for having never met Lord Phillip Lockfield.
Whilst these thoughts flashed through Sawyer’s mind, Lord Phillip’s life flashed before his eyes. The summers in Brixton, the school years at Eton, the training at Matterhorn Academy. The endless hours contemplating cricket, both the sport and the insect. Oh, it was all disappearing.
The sword was primed in Sawyer’s hand, but his hand would not perform the action. Sawyer slowly lowered the sword, then dropped it upon the ground. It lay in the earth beside Lord Phillip’s bloodied body, mud upon the handle.
Surprise and remorse lingered on Lord Phillip’s face. He was entirely sure that he was to be killed. Maybe he was dead. He could not tell.
Lord Benedict’s eyes went wide with wonder. Percival, however, was not surprised in the slightest. From the get-go he knew that Sawyer would not kill the fellow. The young soldier was always kind enough to spare the fox.
“You are a man of honor,” Lord Phillip uttered through his trembling lips.
“I fear that’s what I’ve been telling you this entire time,” Sawyer said, stepping back and putting out his hand. He hoisted Lord Phillip from the earth and brought him to his feet.
“Yes, and I did believe you. I do apologize for my ignorance,” Lord Phillip said.
“You are forgiven,” Lord Sawyer replied.
They paused.
Lord Phillip reached for his sword and came at Sawyer again. Lord Benedict screamed and Percival merely shook his head. That was the oldest trick in the book.
Sawyer’s sword was still lying in the mud, so rather than reach for it and expose his back to Lord Phillip, Sawyer instead removed his glove, slapped Lord Phillip in the face and gave him a taste of his ungloved fist, directly in the jaw.
Lord Phillip fell back to the earth, completely unconscious. Blood came from his nose.
“Run him through!” Lord Benedict cried. Percival turned to Lord Benedict in surprise. “My apologies, a slip of the tongue.”
“Let him be,” Sawyer said, picking up his sword and walking away. There was blood on his fist, which he wiped against his trousers.
Sawyer was out of breath. He found a distant patch of field on which he sat and collected himself. Everything was still coursing through him intensely. It was a high that he had not experienced since the war. Of the sudden, it filled him with sadness.
“You made a good show of it,” Percival said as he approached.
“Do you know?” Sawyer replied. “He was a better fighter than I thought.”
“He didn’t stand a chance.”
“You should have killed him,” Lord Benedict added as he approached. The other two men looked at him in confusion. Of all people, Lord Benedict did not come across as the type that thirsted for blood.
“We’ll save it for another day,” Sawyer replied.
