The Point of Death (22 page)

In
that minim beat before he stepped back, Tom broke one of Capo Ferro's rules and looked away from his opponent's wrist. He glanced down at the point held inches from the pit of his throat and saw the sheen of the Solingen steel was discoloured. There was something dark and oily coating the last few inches of the point. Salgado was using poisoned swords.

'No
score,' called the referee.

Tom
disengaged, stepped back, assumed the Iron Door, and waited. Salgado again assumed the Falcon guard. This time, however, the Spaniard reversed his position and led with the left-hand sword. Tom's unguarded back was now under threat and only the greatest confidence, governing the swiftest blade, was likely to turn the trick. Tom looked up and laughed. Then, with the mocking echo of it still ringing on the air, he attacked fast and hard. He crossed his enemy's newly positioned body with lightning speed and committed his right point to an upward attack on Salgado's chest, reversing the point to swing back in and testing the power of the Spaniard's wrist as the attack was riposted.

He
disdained to use his second sword when the slightly uncertain counter-attack came, using the strength of his own wrist and solidity of his footwork to step back out of range as the rapier sliced past his chest. He beat the half-hearted afterthought of Salgado's right-hand rapier aside like a herdsman directing a cow. An apt enough idea, for the Spaniard, unbalanced, staggered towards him like a bull to a matador. The casual mastery of it wrung a peal of laughter and some applause from his audience. The referee's cane whipped in between them and Salgado recovered, clearly resolving to risk the left-hand attack only in the final extremity. And in the meantime, to rely on the poisoned blades, thought Tom grimly.

For
his third guard, Tom assumed the Crown, sloping his leading sword up towards Salgado's head. But he had reversed his stance now, and this time his leading sword was his left. Salgado now felt his own back and neck at risk - while Tom's own lead sword was guarding his breast. The Spaniard froze, clearly thinking with feverish speed. But the calculated humiliation of that casual blow in the last bout stood well by Tom. Salgado was too proud to reverse his own stance now. Repeating the pattern of the last two bouts, Tom threw himself into the attack the instant the cane vanished. Unsettled by Tom's reversal, Salgado reacted too quickly. Tom's attack was a feint. He froze for a beat of hesitation. In that fleeting moment, Salgado became the over-committed attacker. Tom accepted his thrust and enveloped it in his own riposte. He gathered Salgado's point against his own blade's base, trapping it and twisting with all his strength. Tom's own lead sword leaned far out of line, its point sliding harmlessly through the air above Salgado's head - but Tom's objective was not to run his opponent through. Salgado's sword tore out of the Spaniard's grip and soared tumbling up towards the stage to fall with a rattling clatter beside Tom's clothes.

But
the bout was only half done. The Spaniard's second blade whipped viciously in towards Tom's face. His own lead sword uselessly extended, Tom slammed the hilts of his right hand sword across, only to feel the point of the Spaniard's blade slit through the wrist-guard of his glove and cut the skin on the back of his hand before it ground to a halt, trapped against the quillions above his basket guard. He disengaged and stepped back at once, leaving Salgado to recover under the protection of the referee again. He leaped up on to the stage and gathered Salgado's sword. Then he stepped down and reached into his purse to pull the little vial out. If anyone there understood why he wet his lips with the thick dark liquid it contained, no one said a thing. But the action was completed so quickly that few would have noticed in any case. Salgado was still straightening as he turned. Carelessly, Tom threw him one of the three swords he now held. Only when he picked it up and began to fit it to his hand did Salado realise. The new sword was not his.

Face
white, eyes and mouth wide and dark, Salgado looked at Cotehel and then at the courtier referee. 'He has my sword,' he said.

'And
you have mine,' mocked Tom. 'Solingen and of the finest. Not good enough for you,
señor
?
'
As he spoke, he assumed the most dangerous of all positions, the
Posta
Longa
, almost fully extended, with only attack an option, defence out of the question, even with the left hand sword sitting immediately above his head like a steel halo. As he moved, he felt the deadly lethargy creeping through his limbs. The distracting urge to void themselves clamping at his belly and bowels.

'Sir!'
protested the outraged referee.

Behind
him, Salgado assumed the more defensive Crown position, leading, like Tom, with a poisoned blade.

'Out,
whoreson ...' spat Tom at the referee and launched past him. With a scream that revealed all too much, the referee sprang clear, blundering into the dais and coming near to upsetting the drinks upon the table.

Poisoned
blade sang along poisoned blade. As Tom had known he would, Salgado jerked back, fearing for his face.

The
Spaniard's own blade missed Tom's nose by a hair's breadth. The blade in Tom's fist wavered helplessly out of line. The two clean blades clashed above their heads, ringing like blacksmiths at work. The pair of them staggered over towards the dais and the referee, still squealing like a piglet, squirmed to escape the clashing blades. This time it was Salgado who disengaged, and Tom who staggered as they parted. But he remained erect, and he kept firm hold on Salgado's poisoned sword.

'Here!'
Cotehel was calling abruptly to the referee. 'The men are parched, sir. Give them to drink.' He raised a broad green goblet of the thick Venetian glass and pushed it at the courtier still hopping along the front of the low wooden platform upon which he, Essex, Southampton and their guests were seated. The referee gave a kind of squawk and hesitated on one leg, like one of the courses at the recent dinner. Constanza swept forward. 'My lord,' she called, 'allow me!'

She
took the goblet out of Cotehel's hand and stepped down off the dais. Between the men she paused and hesitated. 'God's my life,' she swore roundly. 'I do not know which one of you to feed first. Here's to both of you then, my lovers old and new!' And she toasted the combatants herself.

Tom,
careful of the poisoned blade, caught her round the waist, hurling her sideways on to the stage. Thick red wine sprayed all over the floor, some of it from the goblet and some from Constanza's mouth. The Venetian vessel itself span away to bounce off the wooden boards and shatter across the grey flags behind Salgado, causing Baines to skip back with a cry. Constanza hit the edge of the stage and folded into a sitting position like a broken doll. Her stomach heaved again. She looked up at Tom, her eyes huge. 'It was poisoned,
caro
,
'
she informed him, her voice blank with shock and surprise. Her words carried to every corner of the silent, shadowed hall.

Tom
ripped Villalar's vial out of his purse. 'Drink this,' he told her. 'Every drop of it.' Then he turned back to face Salgado.

For
the last time he assumed his position. This time, again, it was the
Posta
Longa
, but he led with the poisoned sword in the left hand. Shocked and shaken, but still caught in his bravado posturing, Salgado fell into the Crown position with the poisoned blade in his right hand, pointing at Tom's face. But the infinitesimal wavering of the point told Tom all he needed to know of the Spaniard's fear that Tom would cut his back, shoulder or neck before he could bring his envenomed point round.

Tom
feinted. It was a large move, clearly false. Salgado treated it with the contempt it deserved, but he shuffled sideways, unconsciously moving the line of attack and defence to the very front edge of the dais.

His
toe-tips almost touched it, but he did not see the danger because he was looking back over his shoulder at the left-hand long attack.

Which
came at once. His body numbing rapidly and the light in his eyes beginning to dim, Tom threw himself forward, tearing his arms into two immediate attacks. The poisoned blade struck straight and true, wavering not an iota from its line. The poisoned point went low - lower than Salgado had expected or could ever hope to counter - straight through the Spaniard's buttocks. Tom let go the hilts and pulled his hand free at once. His right sword, coming down over his head, collected Salgado's poisoned blade and threw it aside. Tom's left hand caught the reeling Spaniard by the shoulder and hurled him across the low dais, sword first. Essex and Southampton leaped wildly backwards, scattering fruit, bottles, tableware, tables. Cotehel was not so quick. He was still seated in the great, solid gilt throne he had made for himself when Salgado's poisoned blade sliced up the inside of his thigh to skewer his groin to the seat.

Tom
pushed himself erect and stepped back to pick up his clean Solingen swords. The whole room sat in stasis. Even the Earls of Essex and Southampton remained frozen, crouched in their attitudes of fearful retreat. Only Baron Cotehel, no longer destined to be Lord Outremer on the morrow after all, twitched and whimpered, his voice shrill and tearingly high, like that of an Italian castrato.

Constanza
slumped on to her side. The empty vial of remedy rolled out of her grasp and shattered on the floor. There, suddenly, astride her, standing at last as Tom's second, stood Will Shakespeare. Tom threw him up a sword and turned to pull the poisoned blade from the dying Spaniard's backside. 'Hugh Outram, Baron Cotehel,' bellowed Tom hoarsely as he moved along the front of the dais to pass the deadly blade up to Will, 'I charge you in the name of Her Majesty's Council, and of Lord Hunsdon, whose writ I carry, with the rape of Lady Margaret Outremer at Nijmagen in the summer before Armada year. I charge you and your creature Domenico Salgado with the poisoning of the family, heirs and servants of Lord Outremer in the second year of the great visitation. With the murder of Julius Morton, intelligencer to Robert Poley and servant to the Council. With the torture and murder of Seyton, chamberlain to the house of Wormwood in Jewry. With the murder of Mistress Hagar Kinch, the Searcher of Jewry. With the murder of sundry guards and Spanish prisoners in the Palace of Bridewell all within the last few days.' He took a deep breath.

Reality
was coming and going in front of his eyes now as though the whole of God's creation could flicker like a candle flame.

But
he had to send Hugh Outram down to Hell with a full list of his sins around his neck. Domenico Salgado the same. And the time to make the list was drawing perilously short for all three of them. 'With the poisoning of the Bishop's Bailiff of the liberty of the Clink. For the attempted murder of Ugo Stell in Blackfriars.' Tom pulled the sword out of the dark, growing puddle between Cotehel's legs and fixed the helpless intelligence in those eyes that could no longer even blink as he continued relentlessly. 'With the ravishing into kidnap of Lady Margaret Outremer of Wormwood, Mistress Kate Shelton of Hunsdon House. For the murder of Mistress Constanza d'Agostino by poison this very minute.'

He
swung round to look over Delgado's twitching body at Baines backing into the shadows, like a rat caught in the light. 'I charge you and your creature Baines with the murder of Master Poley's man Gil Brown in Hanging Sword Court, and with the incitement of Nick o' Darkmans and two friends to cripple me.'

Baines
turned to run but the gathering darkness seemed to hold him back. Tom realised that the darkness was real. All the silent, sinister men from around the shadowed walls were closing in upon him. He felt the lightest of nudges against his back and realised that Will was standing back to back with him, one good sword in one hand and one dipped in poison in the other, holding them off to the last. For Tom was not yet done.

'My
Lord of Essex ...' he began.

'
Kill them!' screamed Robert Devereux. 'Kill them both. A thousand pounds to any man ...'

Baines
hurled back again, seeming to swim through the thickening air towards Tom, swinging a great ornamental broadsword as he came. Even a club would overcome him now, thought Tom, in the dreamy grip of the drugs at war within his body.

And
the huge old swords by the suits of armour looked well-tended, well-honed and cuttingly keen.

But
even as Baines took his second step, swinging the great sword over his left shoulder like the headsman summoned from France to execute Queen Anne Boleyn, so there came a sharp report. Baines was blasted sideways and went sprawling over the stage, like an actor at the end of
Romeo
.

Robert
Poley stepped into the light, his wheel-lock dag still smoking in his hand and Ugo Stell at his shoulder with the snaphaunce revolver primed. 'You were saying, Master Musgrave?' said the intelligencer quietly. But his voice filled the great hall, as did Tom's.

'My
Lord of Essex, we must have the boy.'

'No!'
cried Essex, white and shaking.

'We
must, your grace. He can be nothing to you after all.'