Fire Raven (28 page)

“
Roversi
.”

With a sudden flourish, Kat switched the sword to her other hand and delivered a left cut from a backhanded position. Lucien looked startled by her speed and strength, but recovered in time to deflect the strike. Kat fancied some courtiers or ladies might wander into the garden to track the source of the clashing sounds; if so, they would find nothing amiss in the sight of Captain Navarre and a young lad engaged in swordplay.

Not without reason did Kat don a page’s uniform for her lessons — velvet breeks and a canvas shirt, a doublet and trunk hose. Beneath the shirt, her breasts were bound both for practical and obvious reasons. Her hair was braided and tucked beneath the flat velvet cap of an apprentice.

“
Prime. Seconde. Tierce. Quarte
.” Lucien barked the guards at her in rapid sequence, observing and timing Kat’s reactions. Several times, he stepped forward to readjust her position. On
Quarte
, he turned her hand nails-up, pushing the point slightly farther, up and out.

“Better,” he said. He handed her a short, slim dagger. “Try it with the dagger in your left hand for defense. Now, begin again.”

A dozen times, they rehearsed each classic move, including thrusts and parries and guards, till Kat gasped for breath and moved too slowly to suit Lucien. He grabbed her right wrist and steadied the gleaming steel above her head.

“You are not pacing yourself,” he chided her. “’Twill be your downfall in the end. You are smaller and weaker than a male. ’Tis a matter of fact, not a manner of insult.”

Kat nodded, wiping her brow with her sleeve, after he released her wrist. Aye, she knew her limitations. Even the thin rapier seemed to weigh a hundred stone now, she could barely lift it after their exhausting drills. She had learned to fence with a heavier weapon, a small sword with a true basket hilt in the fashion of Scottish claymores.

Lucien insisted she learn the Italian method, using a lighter weapon with a
schiavone
swept-hilt. The design was less constricting to the wrist and offered a whole new range of motions. It also meant she had to master every move again and learn to balance the weapon, besides. After two weeks, she still felt as clumsy and slow as a country farmer attempting a courtly lavolta.

Lucien ignored the distress in her eyes. “Again.”

“Faith, I cannot.” Kat saw that her hand shook where it gripped the hilt and she fought back a sudden urge to weep.
Sweet Jesu, she would never master swordsmanship.
Mayhap she was better suited to idle feminine gossip and courtly intrigue than she knew.

“You are improving. Certainly you are closer to success than you suspect.” Extending the flat of his own blade, Lucien nudged her chin up. “Do not be a fool and surrender now.”

“What chance have I against a master?” Kat burst out.

“None, if you do not continue learning. Take heart,
ma petite
. I have something new to teach you today.”

“How to gracefully accept defeat?”

Lucien frowned at her levity. “I must have your sworn oath that what I teach you today does not go beyond this courtyard, Katherine. You must never attempt it unless your life is in absolute peril, and, even then, I will deny having taught it to you. Do you agree?”

Curious despite her exhaustion, Kat nodded. “I vow it.”

“
Bien
. Have you heard of Saviolo?”

“The Italian fencing master? Of course.” Even Shakespeare had not missed opportunity to remark upon Vincenzo Saviolo, albeit in satire. Kat recited:

“More than prince of cats … the very butcher of a silk button …”

Lucien nodded and looked grim. “His book is all the rage, here and abroad. It is fashionable now to ape Saviolo and other fencing masters. But a true master never divulges his secrets in written form.”

Kat remained silent, sensing Lucien would proceed at his own pace. After a moment, he continued.

“A few of my own men know that I once studied under Saviolo on the Continent. In fact, I was among one of only three students Saviolo accepted later in life. Perhaps he shared the greatest secret of all with the entire trio; I doubt it. I believe he took a particular fancy to my close-mouthed nature.”

Wondering why Lucien shared this with her at all, Kat waited for an explanation.

“Saviolo taught me the
botta secreta
.”

Kat drew in her breath, despite her panting, and stared at Lucien in disbelief. “Tricks, you mean? Like the thrust?”

She knew the fencing thrust, usually advanced on a pass, had only been recently acknowledged as an acceptable movement Some of the old school — noblemen in particular — still refused to accept the thrust as dignified or fair play.

Lucien nodded, still seeming preoccupied. “There are a number of thrusts described in Saviolo’s book.
Stoccata, imbroccata, punta riversa
. These, then, are not genuine secrets. I speak of another movement entirely; one of the
botte secreta
the master never divulged in print.
Lunge flèche
, a running attack that culminates in a carry of the forward foot to its fullest extent. It is one of the swiftest and deadliest movements a fighter can execute.”

“Designed for defense?”

“Designed to kill.” Lucien’s sober blue gaze bored into hers. “Make no mistake,
ma petite
, it is a risky and dramatic endeavor. It is the last resort for a cornered man — or woman. One misstep or miscalculation, and you will plunge onto your foe’s sword. Once the attack is launched, it cannot be withdrawn.”

Kat listened with respect. “Why share this with me?”

“Because I never again want to see you at the mercy of animals like Cobble,” he said. “I despised myself then for not doing more, and this is one way I know to make it up to you.”

Touched by Lucien’s words, Kat reached out and patted his arm. “
Merci
.”

“You will continue to practice?”

“Aye, Master Lucien, I will.”

I
T WOULD BE THE
event of the Season. There was no doubt in Kat’s mind, as she entered the great hall on Lucien’s arm, immediately swept away by the grandeur of Tudor England and Elizabeth Tudor. For the two were inseparable, she had learned. At this moment, mayhap for centuries to come, mighty Elizabeth
was
England.

Her Majesty presided this evening upon her throne. The raised dais permitted her to view the colorful crowd thronging Whitehall’s gallery. Since Elizabeth had decreed the royal masque, great care had gone into her own costume for this magical event.

Elizabeth Tudor was garbed in cloth-of-gold from head to toe, her voluminous skirts fanned out so that tiny diamonds, arranged in a sunburst pattern, were visible from the farthest bench in the gallery. Long ropes of pearls and golden filigree adorned the queen’s neck; a white ruff, embroidered with metal thread, reflected the lights around the room.

Displaying her infamous sense of humor, Elizabeth wore a mask tonight, as did everyone else in her Court. Hers was of finely beaten gold, shaped to resemble the face of Apollo.

Kat drew in her breath at the queen’s magnificent display. Quite purposefully, Elizabeth had chosen to represent the Sun — the god Apollo, a male figure. Perhaps it served as a sharp reminder to those who tried to control Bess, or marry her off to some paltry prince from another land, Kat thought.

Standing beside Elizabeth’s throne was the Earl of Essex, her latest favorite. When Elizabeth removed her mask briefly to fan herself in the hot hall, Robert Devereux bent to whisper some bit of nonsense in his monarch’s ear, and Kat saw the aging queen blush like a girl.

A knave with rich auburn locks and keen black eyes, Devereux needed no costume to foil his good looks. Tonight Essex wore an outfit of purled tawny satin, the sleeves slashed with gold panes and a velvet doublet stitched with fat jewels. His matching jerkin hung heavy with a dozen rich gold chains — no doubt, another sign of favor from their besotted liege.

The rest of the Court was presently distracted by the festive madrigal singers performing one of Thomas Morley’s famous songs, “Now is the Month of Maying.”

As the lilting voices rose in perfect harmony, Kat saw Elizabeth Tudor nod her austere approval. Kat also noted one of the queen’s bejeweled slippers tapping in time with the rhythm, revealing their monarch’s renowned love of music — one thing Elizabeth had inherited from her sire, Henry VIII, besides his infamous temper.

Tonight the entire Court seemed a palette of exotic creatures and swirling hues. Lucien and Kat blended into the crowd with ease. They had planned their costumes together. Kat decided they had accomplished a fair success, as evidenced by the surprised looks cast their way.

Playing upon the unique differences in each of their colorings, Kat had suggested the idea. Lucien agreed with her notion. All of this had been done in advance of the masque, without any knowledge of the queen’s costume. Yet now Kat saw they complemented Elizabeth’s theme, as well.

Clad in sky-blue velvet to match his eyes and foil his golden hair, Lucien represented “Heaven.” His white silk, spangled half-mask did not fully conceal his handsome features. Kat declared his costume a success. She overheard several jealous courtiers making snide remarks. But the good ladies of the Court seemed most appreciative of Lucien’s dazzling appearance this night.

Kat found use for a gown of dark green silk. It was one of Merry’s discards and dark enough to serve as mourning garb, though she could not honestly mourn a man she did not remember. Altered by a clever sempster into a billowy-sleeved, corsair-style shirt, she wore it with bottle-green velvet breeches, a wide silver satin sash cinching her waist.

She sported a modest ruff with a slashed green velvet doublet, the latter puffed and padded to broaden her shoulders and hide her breasts, but still with cloth-of-silver peeking through the panes. A cloth-of-silver cloak adorned with an occasional black pearl completed the look. Her hair was braided and tucked out of the way under a flat velvet cap rakishly sprouting feathers. She depicted “Hell,” and, to emphasize the likeness, Kat wore her gleaming rapier at her side. Her mask was crafted of the same silk as her gown; unlike Lucien’s, however, hers obscured her whole face to better carry off the ruse of a lad.

Kat smiled at the reaction her unusual costume provoked. She did not doubt Bess’s Court would be shocked to learn the “young Spanish lad” with Lucien was, in truth, not one of his fencing students but one of the ladies of the court. Dozens of eyes widened at her approach and narrowed at her passing. Spain was not, after all, a favorite here. The wit behind her theme, however, was appreciated by Bess herself, as evidenced by her comments. Having bowed beside Lucien and received the royal blessing, and escaped recognition thus far, Kat relaxed somewhat.

“You are a success,
ma chère
,” Lucien murmured in her ear as they squeezed through the throng. His grasp tightened somewhat possessively around her arm. “I am not certain I approve, however.”

Kat chuckled. “You have no reason to be jealous, Lucien. There is no competition for my affections.”

“Ah, would it were true,” he sighed.

“Remember, I found out I am a widow, hence too worldly for you. Besides, you are too poor yet to seek a bride. You must wait until you are promoted again in the queen’s guard, and then a bevy of proper young maids shall flock to your side.”

Lucien laughed at her advice. “Will you pick one for me,
chère
?”

“If you promise to consider the wisdom of a dear friend.”

Kat glanced about as the Court adjourned to the banqueting hall. Gazes were still riveted upon her and her escort — some envious, others admiring. She was certain the novelty of her costume would fade, once the Court got a glimpse of her sister. Merry had planned her costume for nearly a year, only Kat and Jane were privy to the surprise.

The pair paused beside an ornate table where refreshments were arranged. Lucien pushed his mask up onto his head so he might sample the fare. Kat dared not lest she spoil the ruse of her costume, but she looked longingly at the little pears swimming in rosewater, one of Merry’s favorite treats.

Thinking of her sister again made Kat pause and look about the hall in vain. It was not like Merry to be so late in making an entrance. She was getting worried.

Lucien distracted her with a reminder of another sort.

“You wished to know something of Count Saville,” he said low, under cover of another madrigalists’ song. “I received word from Paris just this morn. Your instincts were right,
ma chère
Katherine.” He paused. “There is no such person.”

“I knew it,” Kat exclaimed with triumph.

“Listen,
ma petite
. It does not mean he is not from another province, perhaps in the north.”

“Nay.” Kat shook her head. “Saville mentions Paris and Fontainebleau often. There is no doubt in my mind. The man is dangerous. I must warn Merry.”

“Warn her of what?” Lucien said with a practical, Gallic shrug as he bit into a custard tart. “He has done nothing untoward, has he?”