“Lady Chiara?”
She shook off her reverie and saluted. He lunged in attack and all her well-honed reactions fell into place. The balanced, slightly bent-kneed stance felt as natural as breathing. She knew she could do this. Her sword snapped up to parry. It held, but the shock of the blow reverberated through her whole body. She’d seen his speed and technique against the Frenchman. Now, she felt the sheer power behind the blow. As she disengaged and danced back, she thought that the French Captain must have been a real master to have lasted as long as he did against FitzHenry. Even without the fillip of sharp edges, she worried more about this fight than all the ones in the battle.
As with most men, he exceeded her in reach and strength, although she was probably his peer in technique and speed. A lunge to his belly that he deflected just shy of its goal confirmed her guess.
Breathe, she told herself. You always forget.
A series of hacking blows convinced her to end the bout. She parried two more strikes until he gave her the one she wanted, angled down and to her right. Her parry caught his under his blade and pushed it to the side. She pushed forward so that his blade slid almost to her hilt. At the bottom of his power stroke, she began hers, pushing his blade up and to his left side. When she had his blade at shoulder height, she reversed her stroke and dropped to one knee with a slight forward lean. Her blade arched down and caught him at the back of the ankle.
He stared at her, bemused. She rolled and bounded up. Smiling, she stepped back, breathing hard, “I’ve cut your Achilles’ tendon. As you take a step to follow me, your leg collapses, and I,” she lifted her sword to his chest, “kill you.” He lifted his wooden blade in a desultory parry.
“Even so.” His smile was rueful, and he saluted. “Again?”
She returned his salute but, instead of bringing it to an “en garde” stance, she stepped forward on her right foot. Her sword swung down in a “J” shaped slash, striking him on the hamstring before she pivoted backwards and away on his off side. “Once again, my lord, you are incapacitated and, shortly, dead.” She stood back and saluted, feeling a little cocky and a lot more confident.
She watched his jaw clench and “again” came through his teeth.
She smiled slightly, “How many times do I have to kill you?” Midshipmen twittered but she had no time to appreciate the juvenile accolade. His blade pounded hers with a series of vicious blows. His eyes blazed with fury. Gasps and whispers sounded behind her, but all her attention focused on trying to avoid taking what would be a damaging hit even with a wooden sword. Each punishing overhand blow beat her sword and her confidence down further. She changed to a two handed grip to better withstand them. Each one radiated up her arms. She could feel her sword yield more and more with each successive strike. Without surprise or an opportunity to engage on her terms, she had little chance. The shocks wore down her strength and she knew she had to find a way to disengage. His stance changed subtly. She looked for her chance. His side-armed slash, if unparried, would take off her arm. She didn’t bother with a parry; she dropped down and rolled under the stroke.
Bouncing up out of the roll, she danced backwards and saluted. “I concede you the victory in such a fight, my lord,” she hesitated a moment, “which is precisely why I avoid that bullish type of fight.” She drew in a deep, hard breath. He looked like he’d just finished a waltz. His gaze cooled, and he nodded.
To the side, one of the younger midshipmen whispered, “…Not play by the rules.” Another hissed, “…Not sporting.”
She turned to them. “Not sporting, gentlemen?” They gulped or looked away or plucked a speck of lint from their sleeves. “Listen up, gentlemen. It may not be ‘sporting,’ but, if Lord FitzHenry were a French soldier, he would be trying to kill me any way he could. Notice, if you please, that in the first two encounters, I lived, and he didn’t. ‘Sporting’ be damned. The only thing that matters is who walks away. Understand?”
Those two looked shocked, but the older ones nodded.
Mr. Topp cleared his throat, “Would you be so kind as to teach us some of those techniques, my lady?”
“Of course, Mr. Topp.”
“And I shall be honored to assist her.”
Chiara sighed. She’d hoped the odious man would find nothing as boring as teaching callow, young men.
The midshipman Wingate whispered to had a disgruntled look on his face. She suspected that it stemmed from the prospect of swordplay instruction by a …ugh …woman.
“Lord FitzHenry, would you be so kind as to spar with Mr.….”
“Blackwell,” he offered with a touch of bravado.
“Yes, Blackwell. Give him no quarter.”
It took precisely three strokes to send the wooden sword spinning to the floor.
“In a real fight, Mr. Blackwell, you would have absolutely no chance against some one of Lord FitzHenry’s…”
“Weren’t we going to practice using Christian names…Chiara?”
The sound of her name on his tongue slithered down her back and tickled something deep in her belly. “Ah, yes, Rafaelle. Um, as I was saying, you would have no chance with an opponent of his strength and skill. In a few years, you can use his techniques yourself. Until then, you need to learn techniques that will allow you to survive. Your survival usually means that your opponent is disabled or dead.” Blackwell looked a little sick.
“Mr. Blackwell,” FitzHenry interjected, “Lady…Chiara is absolutely right. How many times did she ‘kill’ me in our matches? Twice, yes. Now you and I may find her techniques ‘ungentlemanly,’ but she’s alive to teach them, and I’m dead. Survival is success. Listen to her.”
Chiara nodded at him, as much as in thanks as acknowledgement. “Notice that what I am going to show you are means to end the battle quickly and efficiently. Once …Rafaelle figured out what I was doing, he led with a series of powerful overhand blows to overpower me. These techniques must be your first strikes.
“Now, split into two lines…”
“Your health, Captain Thibaut,” Harley lifted his glass. Chiara followed suit, as did the rest of the table. A sibilant “health” accompanied it. She didn’t mind the repeated toasts (the burgundy was excellent), but at this rate, even the hard-headed Englishmen and the wine-weaned Frenchman would be thoroughly foxed before the evening was over. Her sips grew progressively smaller as the evening progressed.
“And yours, Captiane ‘Arley,” his French “h” loosing something in translation, “since I am honor-bound not to wish you success in your endeavor.” Thibaut glanced at FitzHenry, who nodded in acknowledgement. Excruciating politeness reigned over the dinner table.
Only this afternoon, the Frenchman’s parole was accepted, and he had free run of the ship. The rest of his crew sailed on the Triomphe, but Harley decided to separate the officers and keep them under his watchful eye. The crew would have less opportunity to revolt without their officers.
And he was dangerous, this French captain. All through dinner, he had discretely inquired, and with impeccable manners, as to the nature of the Swiftsure’s mission. Harley had been delightfully vague and FitzHenry maddeningly clueless. She, of course, had not been consulted and did not have to lie. Chiara knew Thibaut thought she was only suitable for flirtation. As far as he could see, she was only decoration. He probably thought she was the captain’s mistress. She wanted to keep it that way.
When he wasn’t trying to ferret out the nature of their mission, he delicately needled FitzHenry.
The antagonism hung heavier than a London fog. Everyone was so polite it was disgusting.
Chiara remembered that afternoon when, finally, she sat in a sunny spot on the deck with Harley’s copy of Lady of the Lake. Although it was not strictly necessary, she wanted her blonde’s skin to acclimate to the Mediterranean sun. Besides, it felt good.
A shadow crossed her book. She knew who it was before she looked up. “May I join you …Chiara?”
Rafaelle waited politely for
a response, but she knew it was no more a request than the sun would request permission to rise. “Of course, but I’m afraid I have the only place to sit.”
“’S not a problem. I’ve spent many an hour standing on deck.”
She closed the book and looked at him curiously. “How long were you in the navy?”
He leaned against the side and grabbed a rope. “Let’s see, 15, no, 16 years.”
“And you fought at Trafalgar?”
“Harley and I were both brand new captains at Trafalgar, little more than glorified lieutenants, running frigates barely worthy of the name. We thought we were the greatest things in creation.”
He grinned, and Chiara thought for a moment there was a second sun in the western sky. She squelched the thought with a ruthless will. “Strange, I wouldn’t have marked you for a naval man.”
“Well, second son and all that. It was either the army, the navy, or the church. No way in hell was it going to be the church, and you walk too much in the army.”
“I can’t see you in the church,” she laughed.
“No…Anyway, that left the sea. I found I liked it. It fed something,” he looked off to the horizon, “wild and free in me.”
“Indeed it does.” It wasn’t the words that sent Chiara into full alert, it was the accent. An ice-blond giant loomed out of the sun: the French captain, the man FitzHenry fought during the battle.
Rafaelle barely glanced up, “Bon jour, Capitaine.” He straightened off the side. “Lady Chiara, may I present Capitaine Charles Thibaut, late of Napoleon’s frigate Triomphe? Capitaine, Lady Chiara Brownlee.”
“Enchante. Elle est une déesse du mare.”
He bent low and actually kissed her hand. It wasn’t a fleeting kiss, either. She didn’t think that, or being compared to a sea goddess, was quite the thing for first acquaintance. Plus, he didn’t let go of her hand. Glancing up, she saw FitzHenry’s murderous expression fade to blankness. Perhaps he didn’t think so, either.
“The captain has given his parole and will be staying with us until other arrangements can be made.” Rafaelle’s voice held all the passion of boiled potatoes. Whatever rode him stayed on a close-held leash.
“I most hardily regret the loss of my beautiful new ship, but it is more than recompensed by this most lovely vision.”
Chiara decided she wanted her hand back. His grasp and his admiring glances were becoming…tiresome already. The feeling surprised her, seeing as how Captain Thibaut, himself, could set even English female hearts beating a mite faster.
Nevertheless, she tried to withdraw her hand. His grip tightened, and she had to twist her hand to break free.
His devilish smile said he knew exactly what she was thinking. She returned the expression, but the curve of her mouth barely broke horizontal and certainly didn’t reach her eyes. The cur dared to toy with her!
Then she caught his glance at Rafaelle. No, he wasn’t toying with her; he was toying with FitzHenry. Why? A small piece of revenge for his defeat? Perhaps. But somehow it seemed more personal than that, especially since he sought to involve her. Strangely, she disliked being a toy less than she did being a cat’s paw.
From behind Thibaut, a small voice sounded, “M’um, sir, would you be so kind as to show us some more swordplay?”
Thibaut looked around and down. “You are teaching les enfants?” He directed his question at FitzHenry. Meanwhile, Wingate looked at Chiara who gave a small head-shake. His face fell, but she raised her hand slightly in a calming gesture, and he seemed to understand that something “adult” was going on here.
Rafaelle, facing her and Wingate, had caught the by-play. “Absolutely. As a matter of fact, I am. The middies are excellent students.” Wingate beamed, somewhat undeservedly. Rafaelle looked at him. “Assemble your colleagues and the swords and meet me on the main deck.”
Thibaut pushed out his lower lip. “While I myself have never been much of l’ instituteur,” he used the term for a teacher of very young children, “I might be of assistance.”
Rafaelle’s grin reminded her of a shark. “Well, their level of expertise may be beyond you, but come along anyway.” He walked away, leaving Thibaut with an ugly look around his eyes. The Frenchman followed, and Chiara felt it might be wise for her to be there, in case they required a referee.
On the main deck, the midshipmen formed a part of a circle, the rest of it filled in by any sailor who thought he could sneak a few minutes away from his duties. Even the bos’n left off haranguing his underlings to watch the show. Chiara slipped in next to Blackwell.
Meadows offered a wooden sword to the two men.
Thibaut looked at the practice weapon with distain. “One fights with these?”
“Bien sûr,” FitzHenry replied. “They are obviously for training, not killing.”
“D’accord,” Thibaut agreed, “but unless there is risk, there is very little incentive to do one’s best.”
“They will have all the risk they need later. Now, we will demonstrate the overhand strike and its counter. En garde!”
Thibaut didn’t return FitzHenry’s salute. He launched directly into the attack. FitzHenry managed to block the blow but only partially. The locked blades scraped over his left shoulder. Thibaut’s chthonian grin showed an abundance of teeth before FitzHenry pushed him away.
“Notice,” FitzHenry barely moved his lips, “that it is more efficient to deflect the blow,” he successfully sent the next strike off to the right, “than to actually stop it.” He moved back a few steps. “That would take a strength most of you don’t have yet, so don’t try it.”
Thibaut again swung over his head.
Chiara drew breath. Thibaut’s attacks went far beyond training. This was open combat.
Rafaelle stopped the weapon just as it began its descent. Chiara couldn’t tell if his grimace reflected concentration, pain, fury, or a combination of them. The next blow he deflected, but the wood split under the pressure. Chiara gasped. He danced back.
Thibaut smiled his devil’s smile as he closed in on his helpless victim.
She grabbed Blackwell’s sword and tossed it to FitzHenry. Rafaelle danced back a few more steps as he found his grip. The circle of watching men expanded to give him room. Chiara knew the practice bout had degenerated into war.
Thibaut again struck overhand. Rafaelle blocked it and pushed off. He began his own series of overhand blows that Thibaut alternately blocked or parried.
Every blow reverberated through Chiara.
For long minutes, the advantage changed hands as the two men drove each other back and forth. Neither man gave ground for long.
Chiara knew it had to stop. Too much was at stake to let FitzHenry get seriously hurt in a grudge match.
She looked around for a way to break it up. Harley stood on the quarterdeck with his hands behind his back, watching the action. She skirted the inner edge of the circle until she was directly below him.
“Captain Harley,” she called. He didn’t hear her over the din of cheering sailors. “Harley!” she bellowed, and he looked down. “Stop this!”
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders in mock helplessness.
He’s enjoying this, she thought. Glaring at him, she lowered her voice so only he could hear her, “You stop it, or I will.”
He scowled and leaned on the railing. “Mr. Topp.” He barely raised his voice, but the lieutenant looked up. Harley sketched a finger across his throat.
Topp nodded. He spoke to the bos’n who blew a long blast on his whistle.
FitzHenry stepped back and lifted his sword in salute. Thibaut rushed him and struck at his left arm. Rafaelle’s salute dropped to block the blow. Topp stepped into the clinch. “Gentlemen…”
“Stop this at once!” Chiara yelled running towards them
Thibaut stepped back with a hint of a snarl on his mouth. He turned to her and bowed, “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did not realize the match had terminated without a victor.”
&nbs
p; “It’s practice. There is no winner or loser. Gentlemen,” she looked at the midshipmen, “put the weapons away.
“As for you two…” She scowled at each of the combatants, then turned and walked away.
Captain Harley looked on from the upper deck with arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Ah, but L’Empereur destroyed the Russians at Austerlitz and Eylan already, as he has destroyed every other army that has set itself against him.” Thibaut took another bite of the apple pie. “We are invincible!”
“Boney may have excellent luck,” Rafaelle drawled, “but M. Soult is having a damned hard time in Spain and Portugal against Wellington. Nelson won the Battle of the Nile and then smashed Villeneuve at Trafalgar with the humble assistance of Harley and myself.”
Chiara watched Thibaut’s hand grow white on the stem of his wineglass.
“Finally, we not only defeated your Triomphe but took it as a prize. Your sea power is emasculated, and, I suspect that once Lord Wellington gets across the Pyrenees, Paris will fall into his hands like a ripe peach.”
“Va tu faire foutre,” Thibaut hissed.
Chiara started, and Harley looked like he didn’t think he quite heard correctly. After all, it wasn’t polite dinner conversation to tell someone to go to hell in such crude terms.
Rafaelle leaned back in his chair with glittering eyes and a slight smile. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “Not quite the invitation a gentleman,” there was a slight emphasis on the word, “makes is front of a lady, but…” He shrugged.
Thibaut started to rise, “Encoulé!” Asshole.
Chiara decided it was time to intervene. “Captain Thibaut, what part of France are you from?” He ignored her. “Captain!”
He slowly sank back in his seat. After a last glare, he turned to Chiara. “I was born just outside the town of Pont Aven on the Brittany coast at my father’s estate. I’ve been on the sea since before I could walk.”
Chiara felt rather than heard the collective sigh of relief from the English, all except Rafaelle. He just sat there with his slight, mocking smile, as if to taunt Thibaut with salvation from ignominy by a female.