Nightingale (39 page)

"I understand that you have noble blood, Almassy." Max smiled at Akos, now standing tall beside her. "Why have you taken a woman like this to wife? A woman whose parents are unknown, thrown away in a nightingale cage! No doubt her mother was both a fine singer and a fine whore, for 'tis true that blood will tell."

"Sir!"

"Oh, she is a slut, sir, and I ought to know, for I'm the one who first put her on her back and saw her taught all the pretty tricks with which she now entertains you. But she has no idea of loyalty, as you may, if you survive this afternoon, discover. And her taste in lovers, sir
– sadly lacking. You should have seen her, panting underneath that greasy black Italian! Why, she'd such a longing to put her tail up for the fellow, I knew better than to stand in her way. At least, bedding a by-blow of the Vehnskys shows development in her taste."

"Sir!" The shout came from Ferenc, who stepped forward. "A Count dishonors himself crossing swords with a commoner!"

"Stay of this, my friend," Akos said. Firmly, he pushed Ferenc aside. "My mother was a married woman and therefore I’m as legitimate as you are. Take this, sir, for your insult to my mother and for your gross insults to the lady who is now my wife!" Stepping forward, he gave the larger man a violent slap across the face. Silver powder from Max's impeccable wig rose like a halo around his head.

"No!" Klara jumped up and desperately seized her husband’s arm.

"Why, he's defending your non-existent honor, my dear.” Max's pale eyes flashed. The red mark of Akos’ hand glared on his cheek.

"So, my brave musiker!" He turned his gaze towards Almassy. "You wish to fight me, your better?"

"The filth spewing from your mouth shows that in spite of your blood and high title, you are no gentleman. I shall avenge my wife's honor by meeting you, however and whenever you wish."

Max smiled grimly. "This instant, sir, with swords and dagger. Of course, I warn you, I shall be rather harder to kill than those fellows who came for you in the street."

"Your men were guilty of underestimating their opponent."

"Yes, they were, and it's just as well, for now I shall have the pleasure of killing you myself."

"Count Oettingen! Please, no! Please, I beg you!"

"But it is your husband, Klara, who has challenged me."

"It must be, Klara. Otherwise, it will never end." Without hesitation, Akos accepted the sword which one of the Count’s men held out. Max nodded and smiled like a death's head.

"Give me your word that this is between the two of us, that none of your men will interfere or take vengeance upon my wife or my friends." As he spoke, Akos carefully examined the sword, and gave it a few passes through the air, to test the balance.

"Ah, what airs you give yourself! I shall never be in danger from you, sir, but I give my word that none of these men will interfere or take vengeance upon your wife or your friends. Do you hear me, Louis?" Max called over his shoulder.

"It shall be as you say, My Lord."

"And swear that you will see she reaches the House of my grandfather, Prince Vehnsky."

"Vehnsky? Oh, no. Once you are dead, sir, the safest place for Klara is with me."

"No! I will never go with you!"

The Count continued, unperturbed by Klara’s outburst. "What I will promise is that I will continue to care for her, both for her person and for the advancement of her career, and for anything else she may have acquired while she’s been with you, Herr Concertmaster. Upon that you may have my word of honor."

Almassy bowed to the Count and then turned toward Klara.

"Be brave, my angel. Whatever happens, we are joined. Our spirits will never be parted, either in life or in death."

She gazed into his topaz eyes, transfixed. His dark head bowed over her hand, carried it to warm lips. Time stopped. There was only touch, sight, and the scent of him. In that suspended moment Klara knew that what he’d said was true.

Death could not part them.

"Not a sound, my love,” he whispered. “Not a sound, no matter what happens. I must not be distracted, or he will surely kill me."

"I understand."

In turn, Klara kissed his hand, his beautiful musician's hand. Then Akos, eyes glowing, turned to face his enemy.

Every sense vibrated. The air was so clear, the day so bright and beautiful! Sun fell through the rich spring green of the leaves. There was the coach and the bay horses, the Count’s men, all six of them, standing by in their black livery, eager for bloodshed…
.

The combatants shed their jackets. Then, without more prelude, they faced each other and saluted. Max was a little taller than Almassy and thicker, but their movements were equally crisp. Klara wrapped her arms around her belly, where she had, that morning, felt the living butterfly flutter and shiver.

Blessed Mother! Please save him!

If there is Music, oh, there must be a God! Oh, deliver us from Evil!

The men threw themselves together like maddened bulls. Steel sparked and rang.

Amalie and Ferenc drew Klara backwards, away from the fighters. Before her eyes, the antagonists circled like tigers, slashing, parrying, searching for an opening.

"Ah!" Max sprang back and then, recovering himself, rushed forward again. With his weight, he threw Almassy to the ground. A roll and a leap and he was on his feet again, facing Max, sword still in hand. There was another crash as Max fell upon him again, a circular stamping, pushing match followed by more of the back and forth parrying.

"Excellent, Concertmaster!" Max gave a cry – or was it a laugh?

Klara's eyes widened. The Count’s sleeve was slashed and reddening.

"A scratch." Max taunted, waving his blade as they began circling again, "A lucky pass. Nevertheless, just like your trespassing father, a nobleman's sword shall be your end."

Almassy, his thin face intent, refused to reply. Silently, he continued to seek an opening. There was another pass, another clash, another feint. Klara had a horrible sense that Max was only testing him, taking his measure, waiting for the perfect moment. As the men parried and thrust, dust rose from the scuffling passage of their booted feet.

The sound of steel and hard-drawn breath filled the glade. Behind her, Sandor held the nervous, stamping horses. Nearby the Count's men, so many that Klara had known for years, stood watching. Their pleasure in the spectacle before them seemed to be vanishing. They were motionless, although their silence must have been difficult to maintain when confronted with such a display of the duelist's art.

Suddenly, the men let out a roar. Akos' sword arced through the air. Sun glinting upon it, it tumbled with a metallic ring to the ground. Klara covered her mouth with both hands as a bolt of pure terror shot through her.

"Like father, like son!" Max shouted, whipping the air gleefully with his blade. Holding his weapon out in an arms wide gesture, he said, "Take up your sword again, sir. I shall do you the honor of not sticking you like a pig."

Akos leapt to retrieve his blade. As soon as his fingers closed around the hilt, Max pounced upon him.

From his knees, Akos managed to parry, to hold the Count at bay, but in getting to his feet, he stumbled backwards. His attacker's sword came, time and again, perilously close to his face. When he found his balance, he managed a surge forward and they began the awful patient circling again. Klara saw blood coming from a long cut that went from below Akos' left eye down to his lip. There was another flashing attack by Max, followed by the sound of ripping fabric and an inadvertent cry from Akos.

The men-at-arms released a low, lustful growl.

Between her friends, Klara sank to her knees.

"Blessed Holy Mother, protect him!" She lifted her arms, imploring the bright unseeing sky.

Akos staggered backwards. Now his loose, blousing shirt was slashed in another place. The Count did not pursue. The older man seemed to suddenly be having some trouble getting his breath.

"Shall we say that honor has been served, sir?" Oettingen panted, with a grim smile. "You are a surprisingly good swordsman, although I think you'll admit I've given you a few tokens to remember me by."

Akos panted and stood still, mastering himself. His shirt sleeve, side and shoulder were bloody.

"Not unless you retract your insults, sir."

"I stand by every word."

"Then you can go to hell."

"No!" Just the one word escaped from Klara's lips, but when Almassy flew at the Count again, his eyes blazing with pain and rage, she clamped her jaw shut. There was nothing to do now, but watch her dearest love, the man who had tried to save her, follow his father and die for the love he’d dared.

Another ferocious clash, another parry, but Akos' strength and agility was gone. He kept the Count's thrusts away, but every move was defensive. He was hard-pressed and bleeding. Both men were clearly tired. Max hurled himself upon his opponent again, but his strokes, while full of fury, lacked their earlier precision.

Nevertheless, his attack was so violent that Akos was pushed back against the trunk of a large tree that stood beside the road. The last two strokes he'd been barely able to parry. Klara saw the exact moment his guard went down, and, like a nightmare, saw the Count gather his strength for the final thrust.

Ten of Swords!

There, fixed in her mind for the rest of eternity, was the flash of a blade approaching her husband's chest, a deadly silver bolt, while Max hurtled forward with all his might. At the last instant, Almassy’s body twisted. A bright flash darted upward, crossing the first, a silver streak which went straight into Max's body.

The Count's howl was as full of surprise as it was of pain. Her husband struggled to his feet again, hobbling beyond the reach of Max's sword. Then he too fell to his knees, his face creased with pain. His arms clasped the scarlet tatters of his shirt.

Max stood still, his bloody blade drooping, before falling with a clatter. Motionless, he stared down with disbelief at his body, where Akos’ sword still hung. Where it had entered, there was a steadily growing blot of darkness. In the back, the metal emerged through the ties which closed the Count's blonde waistcoat.

"You have met me like a gentleman, Concertmaster." Max’s voice was clear.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Klara rushed to her husband, now on all fours upon the ground.

"Amalie! Ferenc! For the love of God, help us!"

Ferenc pulled aside his friend’s ragged shirt, trying to get an idea of the depths and number of his wounds. Max's men, going to aid their master, ignored them. As they laid hands upon him, Max, swaying slightly, spoke in a tone of absolute command.

"Not yet!"

With a careful, steady motion, he seized the hilt of Akos' sword in both hands and then fixed his servants with an expression of fierce authority.

"Louis, let them go."

Then, putting both hands upon the blade, he withdrew it. As it come out, stained with blood, Max emitted a terrible groan and crumpled. His soldiers caught their fainting master in their arms.

Beneath the sheltering arms of the enormous oak, Klara cradled Akos in her arms. The white of skull showed through the gash on his face. He was still panting too hard to speak, but his eyes met hers, full of love and pain. He tried to touch her face, and it was then she was that the fingers were twisted, broken. Blood was everywhere, staining her dress. Sunlight fell in flowing dapples through the swaying, greening leaves. The new life inside her darted like a tiny fish in a bowl.

Akos sighed. His eyes closed. For an instant Klara saw herself in a gilded room, heard her voice soar, Akos' sensitive accompaniment supporting her, lifting her spirit.

***

Your eyes blaze and

Through them

Your soul leaps to mine.

In the taste of your mouth,

I embrace delirium.

Oh Beloved –

I can only surrender.

***

Fiercely, Amalie tore away strips from her petticoat. Shaken from the terrible reverie, Klara seized her own muslin under shift and began to do the same.

"We've got to staunch the flow," Ferenc cried. "Blessed Mother! Preserve him till we reach the Abby of the Fountains!"

Finale

The gold and white opera house in Prague was full. Backstage there was the usual pre-performance turmoil. Singers adjusted their costumes, checking wigs and make up. The backstage workers were moving the last pieces of set onto the stage and checking the ropes that held the various drops.

At the front of the stage, dancers entertained the audience with a comic dance of peasant and basket rider to the accompaniment of flutes and one loud rhythmic drum. At the very back, hidden behind some drops painted with towering cliffs and leafy trees, the prima donna sat. She turned discreetly to one side, for she was nursing a baby, one full white breast lifted above the stays. Leaning tenderly over her stood a slender man with dark hair who wore the long black gown of a physician. Beside his graceful masculine form hovered a neatly dressed older woman, no doubt the diva’s maid.