Gideon's Angel

Clifford Beal

First published 2013 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-488-2

ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-489-9

Copyright © Clifford Beal 2013

Cover Art by Adam Tredowski

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

For Lady Kay

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers:

for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hebrews 13:2

…And no marvel; for Satan himself is

transformed into an angel of light.

2 Corinthians 11:14

Chapter One

H
E DID NOT
know me from Adam. Yet looking into his eyes, separated by the length of two old and pitted rapiers, there was no doubt that this man was fixed on killing me. It was not the usual expression I saw on those in the heat of battle: wide eyes, confusion, fear, elation. This was very different. It was deep hatred for everything I stood for. You see, for this young fool, I was the embodiment of a rotten and defeated Cause, a cause that had taken the life of his brother just a few weeks earlier. I was a king’s man, a Cavalier. And for the simple purpose of feeding a grieving brother’s revenge, I would do.

Never look too long into the eyes of your enemy. The eyes lie. They deceive you into thinking he will strike one way before he then strikes in another. I knew this, but still I had trouble taking my gaze from his face and putting it where it belonged: upon his legs and his sword arm. The look on him was enough to wither a field of corn. Maybe his friends in the regiment had wound him up tight, feeding his grudge. Telling him I was the one who had spitted his kin at Naseby.

He didn’t need a grudge to give him the advantage. I had been stabbed on the same field that had claimed this fellow’s brother and as I crouched, circling the man, I could feel the deep gash in my thigh splitting open again, the stitches snapping with a pop. This duel could only end one way the longer it lasted. I would falter, my leg would give out, and he would thrust me clean through.

His first attack exploded upon me. A stamp with the right foot and then a time-thrust to try and catch me out. I parried it and drew back on my rear foot, but his move proved he was no country clown with a rapier. He was half my age, well-rested, and filled with righteous rage. I drove in, catching his blade and running mine up along it as I twisted my wrist. He grunted and immediately threw his left leg behind his right, parrying my thrust. I recovered, but the lad riposted in an instant, leaping forward on his left foot and slashing with his dagger. I just managed to catch it with mine. He was more than a match for me with speed, but he was not used to playing against a left-handed swordsman.

He came in again fast with a flurry of well-aimed thrusts, leaving me untouched but heaving for breath. The assembled crowd of red-coated soldiers roared at the sudden exchange of steel, cheering the trooper. I tried to lure my opponent in, dropping my guard just a hair, hoping he would take a shot and give me an opening to counter-time him. It worked, but my bad leg seized up just as he struck. I twisted to avoid the narrow sword as it headed for my chest. I caught his blade on my quillons, but he was so fast he lunged in and stabbed my arm with his dagger. I fell back; the sleeve of my shirt instantly turned red in an ever-growing circle of blood.

His comrades jeered at me. They screamed for him to slit my belly, rip my guts and then cut my throat for good measure. And I... I had actually
asked
for this fight. A judicial duel. The first in more than thirty years. Parliament had given me a stark choice: repent and give them names, or be hanged, drawn and quartered. I gave them another option. Let God decide my guilt. And being sanctimonious canting Roundheads, they agreed. Now, on Tower Hill in the burning sun of a cloudless July day, my strength and blood ebbing away, the whole scheme was looking very stupid indeed. And the appointed champion, the champion of the Parliamentary forces, was beginning to look near as damn unassailable. Maybe God had already chosen the guilty.

He was smart enough to know not to give me the chance for rest. In a flash, he was on me again: thrusting, cursing, slashing. It was all I could do to parry each attack, limping as I moved to flank him, hoping to find an opening. I remember making a high parry out of habit, like the cavalryman I was. It was a fool’s move. The next instant I felt that familiar tugging sensation followed rapidly by the dull deep pain of a sword as it pierced my thigh. I staggered back and found myself on my knees.

This is a charm I have made for you...

My little talisman, worn around my neck these twenty years, flew up out my shirt front and dangled upon my chest. A tiny linen pouch bound with red thread, I never had figured out what it contained. Crushed flowers and stems it seemed, that was all, but it had seen me into a hundred battles, cheating death a hundred times. And I could never forget how it came to my hand and who had placed it there.

Keep it upon your person—always. It will keep you from harm...

They were all laughing now. I would rather be jeered at than mocked as an incompetent. The boy trooper was sure he had me. He took a few steps to the side, swishing his rapier back and forth, smiling. He wiped his sweating brow with his dagger arm and just stared at me. He was savouring the settling of the blood debt. The crowd began to call out once again, urging him to kill me. I watched as the trooper took up his stance anew, levelling his blade at waist height, his dagger hand low.

My breeches were soaked in blood, cool against my thigh. I tried swallowing but my throat closed up, the lump just sticking halfway down like some wedged morsel of beef. I fought back the retching. But I resolved not to offer myself up to his blade without one last flurry. As he came towards me, I leaned back on my heels, raised my sword point up, tip towards his belly, and reversed my dagger, point down.

I know why he did what he did next. He was playing for the crowd, performing for the red-coated brethren of Parliament’s army of saints. He was just at striking distance from me; I watched as he raised his hilt to chest height, swirled the blade twice in a wide arc, and then turned his wrist upwards as he came on his guard again. The long thin rapier sloped downwards, the point directly aimed at my throat. I knew that guard. He was going to ram that blade straight downwards, through my chest and out my back, pinning me to the ground. I could see him
thinking
this, marking his time, choosing the moment. And he let his dagger hand drop past his leg. Then he struck, struck like some hunter, ready to finish off this grey-bristled and bleeding boar.

I had let my sword hand fall low. His thrust was well aimed and powerful. I swept my dagger across and outwards, deflecting the rapier and running up the length of his blade as his momentum carried him forward. And as I parried, I dropped my rapier point and leaned in. I felt my sword go deep into his side, and then judder on a rib. He gasped and pulled himself off my blade, then staggered sideways before catching himself. His right hand opened and the rapier tumbled from his grasp. Half a moment later his knees gave way and he fell to the trampled grass. I could hear a slightly strangled cry coming from him, a long and low bleat of pain.

And then the redcoats were silent. Not just cheated of their sport but surprisingly robbed of it. I could see the Lieutenant of the Tower approaching and a loud murmur went through the crowd. Somehow, I pulled myself up to one knee, gave a grunt and stood up, leaning on my sword, the tip digging into the earth. I was tottering like a drunkard but I was standing. The officer looked at me, mouth agape, unable to conceal his astonishment at the turn of fate.

“You must finish it,” he said. “You or he. There is no quarter here. This is to the death.”

This got the soldiers roiling again, calling out to the trooper to get up. But he was not getting up anytime soon. I stumbled over to my opponent who was still groaning like a stuck animal. He turned his head to look at me. No fear in his eyes, just burning anger.

But I had proved my innocence and I didn’t give a flea’s piss to finish the game. The dagger dropped from my hand. And then I weakly tossed the rapier across the green.

“Colonel Treadwell, you must finish the fight,” said the officer. “It is the law.”