Prisoner of Desire (52 page)

“No, damn you!”

Ravel’s seconds exchanged a grim glance among themselves, but had no choice except to step back and signal that the match resume.

Again the clanging swordplay began, the attack and parry and riposte, the advance and retreat. But now the concentration of the two men was more circumscribed, fastened only to the glittering tip of the other man’s sword. Their breathing was harsh. Ravel’s movements, however, took on the lithe, controlled quality of long practice, as if he could go on at the pace he was setting forever.

And it was he who set the pace. Murray was overmatched; if it had not been plain before, it was now. He was a competent swordsman, but he was facing a master. Only some wild piece of luck, some mistake by Ravel, could give him a victory. A dozen times Ravel could have drawn blood, could even have killed him, still he contained himself. As Murray’s rage and fear increased, his sword arm began to tremble and his lunges became wilder, more violent.

There was a movement so swift Anya could not follow it. The swords grated together with a sound that tore at the nerves, sliding along each other until the hilts met with a furious clang. The two men strained against each other face to face, wrist to wrist, knee to knee.

Murray, panting, demanded, “What do you think you’re doing, Duralde?”

“Giving you satisfaction. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I want you dead!”

“Denial, they say, is good for the soul.”

Ravel spared a brief look at Anya where she stood with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes wide as she watched them. What she had found in this tainted specimen of manhood he did not know, but if it was possible, he would preserve him for her. It would be far better if he removed Murray, better for New Orleans, better for Anya. He lacked the courage. It was not that he was without the will to strike the final blow; he could so easily end the fight and Murray’s life. But not in front of Anya. He could not bring himself to kill the man she loved, could not bear to face the condemnation in her eyes, not again.

It would have been better if he and Murray had been equally matched, if there had been more danger. He cursed the conceit in Nicholls that had allowed him to think he was a swordsman because of a few lessons in Exchange Alley. Instead, it was the same as it had been so often in the past; Ravel’s skill learned in a thousand passages at arms with the master who had been his stepfather had given him an unfair advantage. To bring to bear all the ancient moves, tricks, and wily subterfuges that he knew would remove the element of honor from the contest, turning it instead into a rite of murder. And though it was a betrayal of his friends and the cause he supported to refrain, he must, because Anya was there. He could not play the assassin, or even the role of scourge that he had been given, certainly not while she watched.

Anya met Ravel’s glance, as swift and lethal as the flick of a sword, and felt that it struck deep inside her. She saw the desolation behind it, the futility and the pain, with a terrible recognition. It was just so Ravel had looked when she had accused him of murdering Jean all those years ago. Here on this field, she was his
bête noire,
a reminder of the inescapable past. That was his handicap, the thing that kept him from exerting his expertise, from protecting himself fully from the man trying to kill him. A small miscalculation, a moment of inattention, and it could be fatal.

Murray wrenched himself backward, stumbling, slipping in the dew-wet grass. The movement was so familiar that it sent a shiver along Ravel’s spine. Just so Jean had slipped in the dew on that night, here on this very field, under these old oaks with their swaying moss.

The duel could not continue like this. It must be ended one way or another. He waited, poised and patient, until Murray recovered, then in a crackling display of technique, with his blade winking like silver, snicking, slithering, grimly scraping, he began to advance upon his opponent. Murray gave ground, defending himself with teeth clenched and sweat pouring into his eyes. It availed him little. Ravel’s wrist was as tempered and pliant as his sword, and both were directed by vivid thought and implacable will.

There was a feint, a riposte. The blades ground edge to edge. Ravel’s swirled, adhering, bending, prizing. Murray’s grip was broken and his sword spun end over end, landing in the grass with a dull clatter.

Once more the ritual was observed. It was obvious to everyone assembled there on that field that Ravel could as easily have spitted Murray. When the younger man refused to accept his defeat, when he once again declared himself unsatisfied, the rumble of the discussion among the seconds and the attending surgeon was loud. Nevertheless, at a gesture from Ravel, Murray’s small sword was retrieved and wiped dry. The match went on.

What would Ravel do now? The answer was not long in coming. The swords tapped like the ringing of a set of bells, they flashed like lightning, crossing, leveling, and when the two men drew apart, there was blood on Ravel’s opposite arm.

Once more he had allowed himself to be nicked. The wound was deeper than the first, for it was fast turning his sleeve to crimson. Surely now Murray could not refuse to stop.

He could. He did. The surgeon tied a strip of bandage around Ravel’s arm and the two men faced each other again.

A shudder rippled over Anya. It was followed by another and another. The clash of the blades grated on her nerves so that she wanted to scream. How much longer could it go on? There must be something she could do, but what? What?

Gaspard shook his head. “Never, but never, have I seen anything like it. It’s magnificent!”

Anya turned her head to stare at him as if he were mad. “What are you talking about?”

“Wait. Wait and see,” he answered, and gave a low, admiring laugh.

Anya turned from the older man, watching with straining eyes. Another injury, this time in Ravel’s side as he twisted, leaping back to avoid a violent thrust. The question was a mere formality. Murray gasped out his refusal, but there was jubilation in his eyes. Oblivious of the hard stares of Ravel’s seconds, he was waiting for a moment of misjudgment, for the mistake that would give him the chance to finish the other man. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as the duel continued.

Slowly Anya began to grasp Gaspard’s meaning. It was so simple and yet so clever; so noble and yet so diabolical; so obscure, yet simply rooted in the essence of the code duello.

What Murray did not seem to realize was that with every drop of Ravel’s blood he shed, he was coming nearer to his own ruin. This was a contest of honor, not of endurance or skill. Murray’s stubborn insistence on satisfaction in the face of his opponent’s magnanimity was branding him as lacking in the instincts of a gentleman as surely as any revelation of his recent activities would have done. If the object of this meeting was to discredit Murray, then Ravel was succeeding.

But how far would he carry his sacrifice? How much blood must he lose before he would consider his task accomplished? With so many injuries, as small as they might be, how long could he retain the control to permit Murray to slash him only where he himself chose? And was his purpose truly what it seemed, or was there in it also an element of expiation? Expiation for the death of another young man here on this ground seven years ago?

20

FASTER NOW THE WOUNDS CAME, a slice to the shoulder, another thrust to the arm, a scratch on the cheek an inch below the eye. It seemed it was Murray who chose the sites and Ravel who only avoided drastic results. Ravel’s seconds had moved in concert toward him once, as if to halt the fight, but he had stopped them with a dogged shake of his head. The men acting for him were at a loss. So far had this contest gone beyond the bounds of the code that they finally ceased to intervene with the question of satisfaction. Murray’s seconds, though they should have joined with the men of Ravel to halt the duel, were of his own stripe; they stood back, openly gloating.

Ravel’s parries were slowing; his hair was wet with perspiration. His breathing was as hard as Murray’s, and with every heave of his chest, the spreading red of his blood seeped in wider splotches across his damp shirt. Murray, his lips drawn back in a feral grin, aimed a thrust at Ravel’s breastbone. There was a blur of motion, a singing of steel, and when the two men parted, Ravel’s shirt was torn and his chest had a small slash, but Murray had a gash on his neck. He slapped his left hand to it, then stared at his reddened fingers in disbelief. Ravel stepped back, lowering his sword. There was a sudden silence.

“Murderer! Bloodstained butcher!”

The screams came from behind Anya. She turned in time to see Celestine tumble from the closed carriage that had brought Gaspard.

“Mother of God,” the older man said under his voice, “I had forgotten her.”

Anya started toward her half-sister, but Celestine fended her off. Tripping over her full skirts, the younger girl stumbled toward the men who faced each other. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it! I can’t stand any more!”

Murray saw Ravel’s stunned distraction, his lowered guard, saw also his own opportunity. He gathered himself, stealthily raising his sword. He drew a soft breath.

To Anya it seemed like a tableau, a scene of frozen motion representing some fable of life and death and the fine balance between the two. Celestine with tears running down her face, nearly between the two men. Ravel off guard. Murray intent on his advantage. The bloodied swords. The old oaks. The startled seconds. Gaspard, gaping. The clear morning sunlight.

How had they come to be there? The causes were many, but a portion of the blame was hers. That being so, she must mend matters as best she could.

It was instinct that guided her, however, not slow and rational thought. Before the answer was clear she was moving, launching herself after Celestine, crying out her warning.

“Ravel, watch out! Kill him! End it, for the love of God!”

Her shoulder and one hand struck Celestine in the back. Together they plunged earthward. A yard of singing death passed so close over the back of Anya’s head that she felt the wind of its flight, felt it and knew that Murray would have been glad if it had found her.

Then came the resonant clang of blades engaging, the hard ring, the furious scrape and clatter of a strong, deliberate attack. There was a swift-drawn breath, a grunt. A second muttered in amazement. Anya swung her head in time to see Murray stagger back and fall sprawling in the grass. His hand still holding his sword twitched, and then he was still.

It was done, over. A vast weariness settled upon Anya. She felt as if moving were beyond her strength. The seconds crowded around and three men offered her their hands to rise. She accepted that of the man nearest. The other two men lifted Celestine, who took one swift look at Murray then cast herself into Anya’s arms, sobbing. Over the girl’s shoulder, Anya looked to where Ravel stood. A second had taken his sword, and the surgeon, muttering under his breath, was cutting away his blood-soaked shirt. Ravel did not seem to notice; his black gaze was upon Anya, and in it was the same fierce, burning concentration he had brought to the duel.

Gaspard was there, his words soothing and yet as bracing as those of a father as he took a part of Celestine’s weight. He turned with the younger girl toward the carriage, urging her along, away from the scene of carnage, and with Anya supporting her on the other side, managed to place the stricken girl in the closed vehicle.

He turned then to Anya. “Come,
chère,
get in and let us go home. Your man can bring your mount. There is nothing more to be done here.”

“Yes, in a moment,” she answered, and turned to walk back toward the men under the oaks.

The surgeon had dressed the most serious of Ravel’s cuts and cleaned the others with carbolic. The smell of it hung on the air, masking the scent of blood. Murray’s seconds had disbursed, carrying his body to his carriage, making ready to depart. Ravel’s men drew back at her approach in a display of conscious sensibility. The surgeon looked at Anya, then tossed his roll of bandaging into his bag, snapped it shut, and after dividing a bow between her and his patient, moved briskly toward where the seconds had gathered.

The morning sun exposed the dark shadows of sleeplessness and worry under Anya’s eyes, but made her skin appear translucent and turned her braided hair into a shimmering aureole around her head. She stood before Ravel with her back straight and her head at a proud angle, though there was contrition in her eyes.