A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (33 page)

If Dormbois and Ericks had known my plans in advance and set out to wreck them, they couldn’t have placed themselves more effectively. I had remembered correctly that the table was in the center of the room. Ericks and Brockley were standing together on the far side of it. From my point of view, they were to my right and Dormbois, who was closer and on the same side of the table as myself, was on my left.

And I needed Dormbois to be on my right.

Well, I must do my best. I had known that this could happen. Since the scene before me was not to my liking, I must find from somewhere the strength of mind, the power, to change it. I had a rough and ready scheme in my mind if only I could carry it off. I walked forward, slowly, in measured fashion, my head high. Dale came behind me, carrying the tray. She was shaking so much that the goblets were rattling. I was relieved to reach the table, so that I could sign to her to set the tray down on it. Raising my chin more proudly still, I rapped on the table and spoke one word. Spoke, not shouted. But I drew a deep breath first and put it behind that single word, to make it resonate. “Gentlemen!”

It won their attention. Dormbois had been about to speak but he stopped. All eyes were on me.

I paused, and with my gaze, I gathered them all in. Then I let my voice ring out again. “This is a most serious and solemn occasion!” I was myself surprised by the clarity and steadiness of my words. “I am aware that there are certain customs in this house that are observed at times like these. I have taken the liberty, Sir Brian, of bringing the wherewithal for such an observance here with me. Do you not, on such occasions, drink ceremonially to the hope of a satisfactory outcome, in your grandfather’s earthenware goblets?”

“I do,” said Dormbois. He came up to the table and looked at the tray. “I see you’ve brocht three goblets.”

“Yes. For you, for Master Ericks, and for myself since I am concerned in this, as much as either of you. Will you send for wine, sir, and drink according to the Dormbois custom? Not too much,” I added. I allowed myself a thin smile and shared it with the silent onlookers.
One or two of them smiled faintly in return. It seemed that most of them understood my English. “The champions’ minds must not be clouded.”

Dormbois gave an order and a servant hurried away. There was another pause. The door to the courtyard was open, giving a view of the sunlit world outside. Curious, that Dormbois and Ericks should be so eager to offend the spring sunshine with human blood. I supposed that the duel would take place out there. No one had said.

The servant came back with a jug of wine and I beckoned to him and pointed to the goblets, standing back to let him pour. I saw that he was careful only to half fill them, which was all to the good. While he was still filling the last one, I announced: “There is one more thing!” and once more all attention was on me. “Master Adam Ericks, come round the table to me, please! You are my champion and I wish to present you with my favor, as ladies did in times gone by!”

I could see Brockley watching me, a slight frown on his high forehead. He was wondering what I was about. So was Dormbois, who now tried to interrupt.

“Och, enough of this flummery! This is no tournament from the days o’ King Arthur! Favors, indeed! Forget this nonsense, and let us drink to a good outcome and get to the business and be done with it!”

My inside turned over with fright but my voice was calm and dignified as I said: “Grant me this small thing, I beg you, sir. It will take only a moment. Master Ericks . . . ?”

“Flummery!” barked Dormbois, and marched forward to catch up a goblet. I turned toward him, however,
with a cool smile and moved into his path. “Why so impatient, Sir Brian?” I asked him and let a trace of amusement enter my voice. “You are not nervous, surely?”

This produced a reaction from the onlookers, in the form of a couple of indignant exclamations but also some faint chuckles and fleeting grins. Dormbois stood still, looking furious.

Adam Ericks, who had no objection to flouting him, came around the right-hand end of the table and I turned to meet him. He was my hope and yet, with that dark face of his, and carrying that claymore, he was a remarkably menacing spectacle, quite disturbing enough to explain why, as he came up to me, I should take a step or two backward and bump into Dormbois, causing him, too, to take a couple of steps back.

I murmured an apology, smiled at Ericks, and drew a silk handkerchief from my sleeve. “You can put it inside your shirt, Master Ericks. It will not inconvenience you. Even a brooch could be knocked awry and jab a pin into you but this is harmless. May it bring you good fortune. My hopes and my prayers go with it, my champion.”

I gave him the favor. He thanked me and thrust it into the sleeve of his shirt, and then, unexpectedly, took hold of me and kissed me. “I’ll not fail you, mistress, not if God knows His business.”

I hoped his optimism would be justified. Reaching out without looking, I took up the goblet nearest to me and gave it to him. My heart was pounding like a hammer in the grasp of a mad blacksmith and I don’t know how I kept my hand steady as I picked up a goblet for
myself. Turning back to Dormbois, I said: “Let us have the toast!”

Dormbois took up the remaining goblet. “You had best propose the toast yourself, lassie,” he said dryly.

“I will. Hear me, all of you! These are the terms! That Sir Brian Dormbois and Master Adam Ericks shall engage in a duel to clear the good name of Master Ericks, who has been suspected of the murder of my cousin Edward Faldene. If Sir Brian should prevail, then Master Ericks, whether living or dead, remains under suspicion and I will marry Sir Brian. If Master Ericks prevails, then Master Ericks shall be declared innocent and I and my two servants are free to go, forthwith, with all our belongings and this time we will not be brought back.”

“You make yersel’ verra plain,” Dormbois remarked.

“We agreed it yesterday, did we not? What harm in making it public?” I said in an undertone. I raised my voice again. “For my part, I call on all in this hall to witness once again that I accept the terms! Sir Brian, Master Ericks, do you do likewise?”

“I said so yesterday,” Dormbois growled. “Aye, I consent.”

“Master Ericks?”

“Aye, mistress.”

“Then,” I said loudly, “here’s to a good outcome of this contest! May the right be defended!”

We drank.

• • •

As I had surmised, the duel was to take place outside. We went out in procession, led by the piper, following
the skirl of his bagpipes across the courtyard and through the gate to the grassy outer bailey.

Here, I found the explanation for the hammering that we had heard yesterday. An arena had been marked out with short poles driven into the ground at the four corners and ropes slung between, a few feet from the ground. A platform had been carpentered together as well and a chair placed upon it, and here I was invited to seat myself.

I was to watch, apparently, from the place of honor. The platform, I noticed, was well away from the outer gate, but beside the gate three saddled horses were tethered, Brockley’s, mine, and Dale’s. They didn’t like the bagpipes and were tossing their heads and fidgeting against their tethers.

Dale stood beside me and Brockley found a moment to come up to the platform. “The horses are ready, madam, as you see. Fran tells me all your gear is packed.”

“Yes, it is.”

“If all goes well, best order someone else to fetch it down. None of us should go back inside. These folk aren’t to be trusted.”

“Dormbois certainly isn’t,” I muttered. “Thank you, Brockley. For everything.”

There was no time for anything further. The piper, who had been playing all this while from a position behind me, now fell silent (obviously to the relief of the horses) and Father Bell, who seemed to have constituted himself master of ceremonies, was calling the contestants and their seconds out into the arena. Brockley rested a hand momentarily on my shoulder, and then stepped off the platform and went to Ericks’s side.

Dormbois and Ericks both took off their doublets. As they did so, I noticed, with a lurch of the heart, that Dormbois, in order to shed his doublet quickly, had only had a couple of its buttons done up, and that beneath it, he had no shirt, but had stripped to fight bare-chested.

The sponge marks on his black wool doublet, I thought, might well have been to remove the marks of wine or gravy after all. It had niggled at my mind once or twice that blood was difficult to remove unless you soaked the stained fabric in salt water and the doublet had not given that impression.

But Dormbois could have worn it, lightly buttoned, in order to creep into Edward’s room. Clad in black, he would not be easily visible to inquisitive eyes as he climbed out of the alley and swarmed along the wall. But once in the room—the truth was revealing itself now before my inner eye—he had shed the doublet, pulling off a loose button in the process, and no doubt on that occasion too, he had worn no shirt beneath it. Afterward, he had pulled out the sheet to wipe Edward’s blood from his body and put his doublet on again, over more or less clean skin. He had had blood on his shoes, which had left a trail but neither shirt nor doublet had been spoiled with it.

In the arena, Fraser and Brockley had taken the discarded clothing and withdrawn with it to opposite corners, ducking under the ropes in order to stand just outside. Father Bell ordered the principals forward and placed them a few feet apart.

They stood still, their right hands on the hilts of their claymores. The sunlight was warm now and I saw
Dormbois brush his left hand across his forehead, as though the heat were troubling him.

Father Bell’s right hand was upheld, as though he were about to pronounce a blessing but he was not. He dropped it, not in the manner of a benediction but as though he were cleaving the air between the opponents with the edge of his hand, and that was the signal to begin. He stepped backward quickly, getting out of the way, and the contestants drew and clashed.

I had seen swordfights before, both in earnest and in sport, but I had never seen anything like this. I don’t think I had realized until then just how deadly serious this was, how dangerous for the participants. I had, I supposed, expected that they would protect themselves with some sort of armor, but they had done nothing of the kind. This was a crude business, weapon against weapon with neither helmets nor body armor; in Dormbois’s case without even clothing on his upper half while Ericks had only a loose shirt. They had no defense at all beyond their skill.

I knew enough to see at once that both men were expert. For a full five minutes they circled each other, striking and clashing, using both hands to wield the heavy swords and neither coming within inches of the other. One hit would finish it, I thought, with my stomach heaving. These were no slender, elegant rapiers with which it was possible to draw blood but still not do serious harm. A single slash from one of those murderous blades with the speed and weight of a trained fighter behind it and that would be the end of it; very likely, the end of a life.

Very well then, so be it, but let it be Dormbois’s life
and not that of Ericks. Please. Please. The chair I had been given had wooden arms. I sat with my fingers clutching the ends of them, watching Dormbois, watching him . . . watching him . . .

It was going to go wrong, I thought. Marginally, he was the faster and the stronger. There hadn’t been enough time afterall to tilt the balance. That brush of the hand across his forehead had been only due to the warmth of the sun; it had meant nothing . . .

Then, jumping back out of range of Ericks’s blade, he did it again, shaking his head as though to clear his eyes.

After that, the conflict was not prolonged. Rigid in my chair, I watched it happen, watched his speed and strength fade, as the poppy draft which had been waiting in the bottom of the earthenware goblet, took effect, weighing down his arms and legs and slowing his responses. It had been so difficult to make sure that he picked up the goblet that contained the drug. So difficult. But now it was difficult for him to raise the heavy sword, impossible for him to parry quickly or strike with force. Once, twice, he struck blows that faltered as though his sword were suddenly too heavy, and then a sweeping stroke from Adam Ericks took him in the side, and he fell.

He went down on his back. Ericks was after him at once, sword upraised, but he did not swing it down. He stood still and spoke. Dormbois tried to rise and could not. He said something to Ericks in reply. Ericks lowered his blade and stood back, wiping the sweat out of his eyes and leaning on his sword like a tired gardener on a rake handle.

Brockley and Fraser and Father Bell ran to Dormbois, followed by a couple of the Roderix men, one of them carrying a bag. Brockley looked around for me and beckoned; rising, I left the platform and went to them, accompanied by Dale.

Dormbois was lying still. His face was a terrible color. The bag I had seen contained medical aids, and his two men, crouching at his side, were easing a bandage under him so as to bind a pad into a place. A pool of blood was spreading beneath him. He groaned as the bandage was edged into place, and before the pad went on I saw white splinters of bone where the sword had smashed into his ribs.

He looked at me with bitterness. “What did ye do, lassie? How did ye do it? Was it witchcraft? What was amiss with my wine?”

If I hadn’t been wearing his dead wife’s black velvet cap with pearl edging, I think my hair would have stood on end with terror. Was my escape to be jeopardized even now?

“No witchcraft, Sir Brian,” I said, making sure that his men, and also Fraser, who was eyeing me suspiciously, could hear me plainly. “I have no such powers. And you saw for yourself that your man brought the wine and poured it. I never touched it. Do right by me, Sir Brian, and keep your word and let me go free. It was no witchery that lost you the battle, and the wine was honest.” Well, so it was, till it got into the goblet.

“It was hubris,” I said sententiously. “Or the hand of God.” I looked down into his eyes. They were drowning in sleep but it had not quite overtaken him. He
could still hear me. I knelt beside him and spoke for his ears only. “You lost a button from your black and silver doublet,” I said, “on the floor of Edward Faldene’s chamber.”