Rules of the Hunt (39 page)
Now the blackness of the night was absolute.
Kathleen went down on one knee, her head bowed, her fists clenched, as
she fought panic and tried consciously to assess the situation.
It was ridiculous.
She had no
reason to be afraid, she told herself.
Darkness in itself posed no danger, and she had been here literally
dozens of times.
It was not some strange
cellar reeking of menace.
This was no
more than the flat roof, the fighting platform, of Fitzduane's Castle, and
should be safe and familiar.
But she could not see.
She was
blind.
And the storm was of an intensity
that could blow her over the edge of the platform if she did not take care.
Sheer terror coursed through her as a hard, wet, snakelike body lashed at
her and wrapped itself around her neck.
She rose to her feet and her hands scrabbled at her throat as she fought
to free herself.
A gust of wind found her and blew her backwards, and the grip on her
throat tightened and she was choking.
Suddenly, her fingertips told her what her attacker was, and relief
coursed through her a as she unwound the familiar rope.
One end of the flagpole line had worked loose
and, whipped by the wind, had caught her as she stood.
Every morning, the Fitzduane standard was
hoist over the castle, and every evening, at sunset, it was lowered.
Boots loved the practice, and many times she
had helped him with the rope.
The
texture was familiar, and now that she realized what it was, it was reassuring.
She could not see, but she could feel and she could think.
She used the rope to guide herself to the flagpole mounted in one corner
of the platform.
She could feel the
painted wood of the pole and the metal of the lightning conductor that ran up
one side.
Now she could orient
herself.
Better yet, her fingers touched
the casing of the external floodlight switches.
She pulled the handles down one after another, neither remembering nor
caring which was the right switch for the roof alone, and the mind-numbing
blackness was erased as if a curtain had been whipped aside, and within seconds
the whole castle was lit up.
The
battlements were silhouetted.
The
courtyard below was a pool of light.
It was a sight from the ancient myths.
The sheets of gusting rain twisting and turning made the glowing castle
seem to float and shimmer.
It was
unreal, something from a dream.
Fitzduane stood on the other side of the platform, blinking in the sudden
light as if woken from a daze.
He was
wearing only indoor clothing and was completely soaked.
Kathleen ran across to him and took him in her arms.
His body was trembling and icy cold, and on
his face was a look of utter despair.
She felt strong and certain.
She
had seen this man come from the edge of death through weeks of pain, and he had
always endured with courage.
Never before had there been even a hint of despair.
But now he had been pushed beyond endurance
and he needed help as never before.
And
she was there.
She led him off the platform and closed the heavy door behind her, and
the violence of the storm was immediately muted.
She took him to his bedroom below and stripped off their clothes and
stood with him in a hot shower, holding him as some warmth came back into their
bodies.
Then she put him into bed and
lit a log fire in the old stone fireplace and soon the room was warm.
But still he trembled, despite the heat of
the room and the comforting weight of the bedclothes.
And naked she took him into her arms and held
his face to her breasts as if he were a young child.
And he cried.
And Kathleen cried with him until they slept.
*
*
*
*
*
Kathleen woke near dawn.
The
blazing log fire had died down but still glowed.
Fitzduane slept in her arms, but he was
restless.
She stroked him, massaging his back gently and then caressing down to his
thighs.
Soon she felt him hardening and
she reached down and took him in her hand, parted her thighs, and bent her
knees and slid him into her.
She was
warm and wet, and her need was total.
Fitzduane awoke with a feeling of extraordinary sensuality suffusing
him.
Long legs gripped him.
Soft, firm breasts cushioned him.
Her hands touched him in the most intimate
places.
He could feel her breath, and it
was sweet.
His lips found Kathleen's and their tongues met and he could feel her nipples
hard against him.
At first his thrusts
were slow and regular, but then her intensity beneath him increased and her
tongue was in his ear and her breath grew rasping with passion.
He had no independent thoughts and no control.
All he could focus on was this
all-encompassing healing sexuality, a force made of physical sensation and
waves of love.
Kathleen climaxed first, her body shuddering with release and a long cry
of passion on her lips, and then she gripped him very tight and he came with
enormous power and it seemed his orgasm would never stop.
And then it was over.
*
*
*
*
*
They slept again in each other's arms, then Fitzduane got the fire going
again and went and made tea and fresh orange juice and they talked in bed.
Unspoken was the thought that they were friends and not lovers and that
now things were more complicated and that, perhaps, this was not the way it
should be.
All of this was true, but
there was also the shared belief that what had happened was nothing but good.
Eventually and reluctantly, the talk moved to de Guevain.
Fitzduane sat upright in the bed, staring
into the fire as he talked, and Kathleen lay beside him, her arms around his
waist, sometimes stroking him.
He talked
about how they had met, and fencing together, and his friend's family and the
good times they had had together; and eventually, he spoke of the manner of
Christian de Guevain's death.
It was so
horrible that Kathleen wanted to stop him, but he seemed to need to talk it
through, to hear the words again so that he could accept them.
"Really, the reports and photographs said most of it,"
said
Fitzduane grimly, "but they did not explain the
significance of the method used.
Ironically, Christian would have understood.
We both studied edged weapons and the customs
surrounding them.
And one of the great
debates was the efficacy of Western weapons contrasted with the Japanese.
Japanese
katana
are considered by many to be the supreme examples of the swordmaker's art.
They went to extraordinary lengths to achieve
this.
"In medieval times in
cutting through the heavy metal and leather armor worn by warriors and still
inflict a mortal wound with a single blow.
This demanded blades with outstanding attributes, and since swords were
handmade one at a time without the consistency of mass-production standards,
the testing of swords was an important business.
A sword that passed its tests was signed in
gold by the examiner on the sword's
nakago
,
or tang.
Swords that failed were melted
down to make spears — weapons for the lower orders.
"Thick rolls of straw were sometimes used for testing.
Human-body testing was preferred and was
common.
Often, the
samurai
who tested swords was licensed by the
shogun
to execute condemned criminals.
This supplied live bodies for testing, and
the process was conducted as a formal ceremony.
There were witnesses, special clothing was worn, particular strokes were
made, and certificate of the results was issued.
The sword used was equipped with a special
testing handle made from two pieces of hard wood with adjustable holes secured
by metal bands, which allowed maximum force to be exerted while carrying out
the testing cuts.
"It was not unusual, after the initial cuts had dismembered the
body, for the pieces to be stacked up again and again until there was no piece
of flesh left much larger than a hand or foot.
"And that was how Christian de Guevain was found.
And to rub home the callous horror of it, a
certificate was left by the bastards:
Yaibo — the Cutting Edge."
Fitzduane bent his head.
He felt
rage, disgust, nausea, sadness.
Action
and reaction; this bloody business called terrorism never ended.
But it could be contained.
Individual groups could be destroyed.
Another would doubtless spring up, but that would be tomorrow's battle.
He focused on what needed to be done now.
Then he looked down at Kathleen.
"And about us..."
Kathleen looked at him steadily.
Her face was glowing, her eyes loving.
"Don't talk about the future, Hugo," she said, with calm
emphasis.
And then she smiled and ran
her lips across his loins before looking up at him.
"This is about us and now.
Make love to me."
13
Fitzduane's
June 5
Yoshokawa and the Spider had departed the following morning, their mood
somber after they heard the news of de Guevain.
After they had left, Chifune stayed, and for a further week took
Fitzduane through the files she had brought with her and prepared him in
detail.
Fitzduane was strained and drawn for the first couple of days, but then
he snapped out of his depression and reverted to his normal equable nature.
The manner of Christian de Guevain's terrible death was far from
forgotten, but publicly Fitzduane preferred to focus on the happier memories of
his friend.
That would be the way
Christian would want it, he thought.
Grief returned in waves despite his best efforts, but mostly he was
successful in hiding it.
He also
planned, with quiet intensity, an appropriate retribution.
Their groundwork complete, Fitzduane and Chifune flew to
by Aer Lingus.
At Heathrow they switched
to the international terminal and boarded a Virgin flight for
The flight, via
take over twelve hours.
*
*
*
*
*
At 35,000 feet somewhere over
most of the passengers were asleep, Chifune among them, her breathing deep and
regular.
The flight attendant had
brought blankets and Fitzduane had tucked one around his sleeping
companion.
He looked at her for a long
moment.
She was small, slight, elegant,
and very beautiful, but in a markedly un-Western way.
Compared to Etan's leggy attractiveness or
Kathleen's voluptuousness, Chifune was almost insubstantial.
Yet, viewed without preconceptions, she was
quite lovely.
He reclined in his seat and closed his eyes.
His chest wound had healed completely, and
his leg was not virtually fully recovered.
The endless exercises and training had paid off.
He was now actually fitter than he had been
in some years.
God knows, he was going
to need every edge.
Third-party
protection could be relied upon just so far.
He would have felt much happier if carrying a firearm.
On this point, the Spider had been obdurate.
The Japanese had a history of antipathy toward firearms.
During their closed period, the Shogun had
structured society in a strictly hierarchical fashion and guns had been seen as
its antithesis.
Anyone could use a gun regardless of rank.
This would not do.
Accordingly,
although guns had been used widely in
from the sixteenth century on they had been virtually banned.
The peasants were forbidden to be armed.
Only the various ranks of
samurai
were permitted to be armed, and
even then only with swords, bows, and spears.
So who said you could never turn back technological developments?
The Japanese rejection of the gun had worked
for nearly three hundred years.
