The Monsoon (66 page)

“Don’t say that. Please!” His shoulders sagged, and he held out his hands towards his brother in appeal.

“You are right, I owe a duty to our father’s memory. We promised to set aside our differences.” He came towards Tom with his right hand outstretched.

“Here’s my hand on it, Tom. Come, take it.” Tom was thrown off-balance by this sudden change in William. He hesitated, but his anger and outrage were subsiding and William was smiling at him warmly. And what he had said was true: they had promised their father.

He forced himself to relax and, awkwardly, he put out his own hand to take William’s. His brother gripped it firmly, and smiled into Tom’s eyes. Then suddenly, with all his strength, he heaved Tom towards him. At the same time he lowered his chin and butted the top of his head into Tom’s face, catching him across the bridge of the nose.

Tom’s vision exploded in a burst of flashing light, and he felt the cartilage in his nose crack. A wash of blood shot from both his nostrils, and he reeled backwards. But William still had a grip on his right hand, and again he pulled him forward. William was lefthanded and this was his strong side. Tom’s vision was starred with fireballs of light and he was dazed. He did not see the fist coming. It cracked into the side of his head and sent him flying backwards over the library table. The sheafs of paper on the tabletop scattered like leaves in a high wind, and Tom smashed into the floor on his shoulder-blades. Though he was half stunned, he was already scrabbling at the floor boards in an effort to get back on his feet and into the fight.

But William jerked the dagger from the sheath on his hip, and launched himself over the table as Tom came up on his knees. Through his fractured vision Tom saw the glint of the blade, and hooked up under it with his forearm, deflecting it from the centre of his chest where it was aimed. The point scraped over the top of his shoulder, slicing through his waistcoat. Tom barely felt the sting of the steel, before William’s weight hit him squarely and they went over together, chest to chest. Tom grappled for his wrist as William tried to stab the dagger into his eye, and they rolled across the polished floorboards, first one on top then the other.

“I’ll cut your liver out,” William grunted, and changed the angle of his thrusts. Tom had to rally all his scattered wits and strength to hold him off. The point of the dagger was inches from his face.

Even though William had led the sedate life of a gentleman these last three years, his wrestling skill and muscle seemed unimpaired.

They crashed into the bookcase at the end of the room. At that moment Tom was on top, and he used the brief instant of respite to slam his brother’s dagger hand into the sharp edge of one of the oak shelves. William yelped, and his grip on the hilt slackened. Tom used all his strength to repeat the blow. He saw blood spring up across William’s knuckles where they hit the wood, but he did not loose the dagger. Again Tom pounded his fist against the edge of the shelf and this time William gasped with the agony, his fingers opened and the weapon slipped from them.

Neither of them could reach for it without loosing his grip on the other. For a moment, they matched strength then Tom curled up his legs under him and started to rise.

William came up with him. They were standing now, chest to chest, gripping each other’s wrists. William tried to swing Tom off his feet, but he stood solid. He tried again and Tom went with the swing, using the impetus to fling William into the bookshelves. Loaded with heavy books, they reached almost to the high ceiling of the room and William crashed into them with such force that an entire section came free of the wall and swung down on top of them. An avalanche of leather bound volumes cascaded down on the pair, and the falling shelves gathered momentum. Anyone trapped under them would be crushed under their weight. They realized this simultaneously and sprang apart. As they scrambled aside the shelves thundered down In a chaos of splintering wood and glass.

Panting, they confronted each other over the wreckage. Blood bubbled from Tom’s broken nose and dribbled down his shirt-front. But his vision and strength came back to him, and with them his rage.

“You were ever the cheat, Billy. You king-hit me.” He started forward, but William whirled and ran to the display of military arms hanging upon the far wall.

There were steel shields, surrounded by hundreds of edged weapons arranged in decorative patterns, collected by the Courtney ancestors from every battlefield on which they had fought. William snatched down a heavy sword that had been used by a Cavalier officer in King Charles’s cavalry.

“Now we will finish this once and for all, he said grimly, as he turned on Tom. He cut and thrust at the air with the long blade, to test its balance and feel.

Tom retreated slowly before him. He could not reach the far wall and select a weapon of his own, neither could he escape through the double doors. To do so he would give William his chance. He thought of the dagger his brother had dropped, but that was buried under the books.

With his sleeve, he wiped the blood from his face and backed away.

“Ha! Ha!” William shouted, and came on faster, driving at him with a rapid series of lunges. Tom was forced to jump away, twisting and dodging. William was working him towards the corner furthest from the door.

Tom saw the trap, but when he tried to break out, his brother blocked him, cutting right and left at his head, forcing him back once more. Tom was evaluating his style and expertise. He saw that he had not improved since the days when he had watched him practising with Aboli.

William was still a better wrestler than a blades man His eyes gave away his intention, and although he was as swift as a striking adder on the thrust and the lefthanded cut, he was weak on the reverse cut and tardy on the recovery from a thrust.

Now he charged in suddenly, underestimating his unarmed adversary.

Tom gave with a series of quick running steps backwards, watching his eyes. His back came up hard against a section of bookshelf that was still standing, and he saw the triumph in William’s dark eyes.

“Now, sir!” He thrust high in the natural line, and Tom let him commit to the stroke before he rolled his body away from it. The thrust went under his armpit, and the blade sank into the spine of a book on the shelf behind him.

Briefly the blade was trapped, but Tom did not make the mistake of trying to wrestle it from his grip and lacerating his hands on the razor steel. While William struggled to free it, Tom stooped quickly and gathered up one of the heavy books from the floor at his feet. He hurled it into William’s face. It struck him on the forehead, but as he staggered back the blade came free.

As Tom bounded past him William struck out at him, but he was slow on his weak side and still off-balance. The point touched Tom’s flank and drew more blood, but it was a flesh wound, and Tom was past. He started for the wall display of weapons, but he heard the soft slither of William’s stockinged feet close behind him. Instinctively he knew that William would catch him before he could get another sword down off the wall, and that he would receive a killing thrust into his unprotected back. He changed direction and heard William swear as he slipped on the polished floor, his stockings gave him no purchase.

Tom reached the table and snatched up the massive silver candlestick from the centrepiece. Holding it in front of him, he whirled to face William’s next charge. His brother raised the sword high and hacked at Tom’s head.

It was a poor stroke, one that would have been fatal folly if Tom had had a sword in his hand. Tom raised the candlestick and the blade clattered against the soft metal.

He knew that the shock had jarred his brother’s hand.

William winced and gasped, but raised the sword to repeat the wild overarm stroke.

Quicker on the recovery, Tom swung the silver candlestick like a battle axe into William’s ribs under the raised sword. He heard a bone break, like a green stick, and William shouted with the pain, but though his aim was thrown askew he could not stop the blow he had already launched. It hissed past Tom’s head and buried itself in the tabletop, shattering the magnificently grained walnut.

Tom hit him again with the candlestick, but William ducked, avoiding the full force of the blow. Still it sent him staggering back to trip on the pile of books. He almost went down but, with a wild windmill of his right arm, recovered his balance. Tom had darted away towards the door and William went after him again, cutting left and right at his back, the blows falling just short.

Tom raced for the door out into the hall, and through it saw his sword-belt hanging in the alcove where Matthew had hung it for him when he entered the house. The great sapphire in the pommel flashed at him like a harbour beacon welcoming a gale-blasted ship.

As he ran through the open doors he reached out and slammed one shut in William’s face. William blocked the swing of the door with his shoulder and threw it back, but the check had given Tom just enough leeway to cross the hall and tear down his sword-belt from the rack.

He whirled and used the engraved and lacquered scabbard to block William’s next wild thrust. He leaped back and, before William could follow up, he had drawn the steel of the blue Neptune sword out of its scabbard.

The blade came clear with a soft snick and quivered in his right hand like a beam of solid sunlight. The reflections danced on the walls and the ceiling above where he stood foursquare to face William on equal terms at last.

William came up short as the inlaid steel weaved like a standing cobra in his face and winked gold sparks into his eyes.

“Yes, brother. Now we will finish this, once and for all.” Tom threw William’s threat back into his teeth, and came forward, staring deep into his brother’s dark eyes, right foot leading, taking light, rapid steps. William gave ground before his advance and Tom saw fear bloom in his eyes. He realized what he had known all along: William was a coward.

Why should I be surprised? he thought grimly. Bullies are usually cowards. To test him, he attacked en &che, the attack of the arrow, driving in a storm of rapid thrusts.

William almost fell over backwards in his haste to avoid the flashing blade.

“You are quick as a frightened rabbit, brother.” Tom laughed in his face, but he was holding himself in check, never relaxing his vigilance. The frightened leopard is the most dangerous. There was also danger in facing a left, handed blades man All the coups were reversed and he might lay himself open to the lefthanded cut from William’s strong side. Fortunately, Aboli had emphasized this during so many practice sessions. Aboli was ambidextrous and he had often changed his sword into his left hand in the middle of a bout, shifting the symmetry of the engagement, trying to throw Tom off his stroke. In the beginning he had succeeded, but Tom had been an apt student.

William stumbled and slipped, dropped to one knee.

It looked natural, but Tom had seen his eyes and the way his blade had drifted back into position for the lefthanded cut in the low line – a stroke that would sever Tom’s Achilles tendon and cripple him.

Instead of stepping into the snare, Tom jumped back and circled swiftly into his weak quarter.

“You waste your talents, brother.” Tom smiled through the blood of his broken nose.

“You might have an illustrious career at the Globe.”

William was forced to scramble to his feet as Tom came in again from the right, and drove him back to the

It foot of the grand staircase with a fierce series of cuts and thrusts, changing his angle and line with each blow.

William was hard put to block each successive stroke: his breathing turned ragged and his eyes filled slowly with terror. The sweat popped out in little transparent blisters across his forehead.

“Don’t be afraid, Billy.” Tom smiled at him over the darting steel.

“It’s like a razor. You’ll hardly feel it go in.” His next thrust split open the front of William’s shirt without cutting the ivory-smooth skin beneath.

“Just like that,” Tom said.

“No pain at all.” William reached the staircase and whirled. He went up it with long elastic bounds, three treads at a time, but Tom was after him, gaining with every stride. William heard him and was forced to turn to defend himself on the first landing. He reached instinctively for the dagger on his belt, but the sheath was empty.

“It’s gone, Billy,” his brother reminded him.

“No more dirty little tricks. You’ll have to fight with what you have.” To begin with William had the advantage of height as Tom came up from below him.

He went for the overhead slash, but it was not the stroke to attempt on a blades man of Tom’s calibre. He blocked it with a dead hit, and trapped the blade as he came up onto the landing to face him. They strained together, their weapons locked before their eyes.

“When you’re gone, Billy, the title will pass to little Francis.”

Tom tried not to let the strain distort his voice, but William was powerful in the shoulders and their blades trembled and shook with the pressure each was applying.

“Alice will be his guardian. She would never let Dorian down,” he said, and threw William away from him with a heave of his shoulders.

At the same time he stepped back and dropped the point to the level of his brother’s throat.

“You see, I have to kill you, Billy, if only for Dorian’s sake.”

And he lunged for William’s throat. It was a mortal stroke, but to avoid it William hurled himself backwards wildly.

He crashed into the banisters behind him, which gave way with a splintering crackle of timbers.

William fell in a tangle of limbs into the entrance hall ten feet below. He hit the boards with a shuddering crash, and the sword flew from his grip. For a moment, the wind was driven from his lungs and he lay on his back, dazed and helpless.

Tom jumped over the shattered banisters, and dropped feet first, bracing himself in mid-air with catlike grace to land lightly, breaking the force of his fall with a flexing of his legs and going down on one knee before springing up again. He kicked away William’s sword, sending it skidding across the floor to the far wall. Then he stood tall over William’s sprawling body.