He made the first move, reaching out with his blade to tap the end of hers. Nerves and panic made her overreact; she struck his weapon back with a hard beat and jumped back, retreating sloppily. The crowd laughed, and she blushed. That was an amateur move and they all knew it. The captain crossed her arms and frowned.
Before she’d completely settled back into her stance, he struck again, another lazy hit against her blade. But she was ready for it this time and disengaged—dropped her sword slightly so that when he expected to hit it, it wasn’t there—and immediately lunged. She caught him off guard that time, and he swung his sword up in a hasty parry and stumbled back. His wide eyes showed surprise. He’d thought he was toying with her. Playing games with a weak opponent. Thought maybe that she was just a girl and no good at this.
Realizing she couldn’t rest for a moment in this fight—she had to keep him constantly off guard—she pressed. Lunged again, was blocked again, but moved to attack on a different line.
He crossed to his left, moving in a circle around her, startling her. She shifted to keep up, to keep him in front of her. They were fighting in a circle, not on a strip, like in fencing competition. The change disoriented her. Just keep him in front of you.
They exchanged more passes, steel slapping against steel. He drew her thrusts and parried them, that smile still on his face. He was guiding the fight, not her. She tried not to let it make her angry. He never got past her defenses; all her parries were strong, even though her arm burned, and every time their swords met a tingling numbness traveled through her muscles. Her guard fell lower and lower. In a few moments, she wouldn’t be able to hold up the sword at all.
When he struck again, she parried like before, but the move brought his blade down and the tip snagged on her pants, just above the knee. The fabric sliced through with a quick ripping sound. Everyone heard it, and Henry jumped back, startled.
She realized then that all of his blows had been at her arms and legs. Because anything else, any stab to her body with a real rapier, would kill her. He wasn’t trying to kill her. Her stomach felt sick and roiling at the thought that a slip—any stab that got past her defenses—would really kill her. And she’d been trying to kill him, because she hadn’t thought of anything but scoring the touch.
A four-inch slice cut through her pants, a gaping oval exposing skin. No blood; he hadn’t broken skin. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. She let her arm drop like a weight, rapier dangling from her hand. Henry looked at her, challenging, gripping his rapier hard like he was ready to go on. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Knock off there, both of you,” the captain called. They’d already halted the duel, but her order kept them from rushing into another attack—or from expecting an attack from the other. Henry relaxed, lowering his weapon and looking at his captain.
Jill was still trying to slow her breathing, which came in gasps. Her heart was racing. She would have died, a wrong thrust and she would have died…. And she had been so worried and frustrated about simply losing.
The captain’s voice was kind when she spoke to Jill this time. “You know the forms well enough and stand pretty with a sword, but you’ve never fought for blood, have you, lass?”
Jill could only shake her head—no, she’d never fought for blood. Not real blood. Only ranks, medals, and maybe a college scholarship. She bowed her head, embarrassed, when tears fell. She wiped them away quickly. Her still-wet hair stuck to her cheeks. Salt water crusted her clothing. However much she wanted to sit down, pass out—or drop the rapier, which she wouldn’t have been able to raise again even if Henry came at her in another attack—she remained standing before the captain, as straight as she could, which wasn’t very at the moment.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Jill. Jill Archer,” she said, her voice scratching. She only just noticed that she was thirsty.
“And, Jill, how do you come to be adrift in the wide sea so far from home?”
The tears almost broke then, and she took a moment to answer. “I don’t know.”
4
FOIBLE
She was Captain Marjory Cooper, and she wasn’t the only woman aboard. The handful of other women among the crew dressed like men and blended in. Only the captain wore her hair long and loose and her clothes fitted, showing off her figure. The entire crew, all ages and builds and colors, looked at the captain in awe and didn’t hesitate when she sent them back to work. Jill, she ordered to the captain’s cabin.
Jill had a random thought: If only Tom and Mandy could see this, the sails and cannons and costumes. Exactly what they’d wanted. They’d be so excited. If only they could be here—and then her gut lurched, because she didn’t want her brother and sister anywhere near these people, whoever they were.
Captain Cooper didn’t take Jill’s stolen rapier from her, and Jill wondered if she really seemed so harmless that she could walk around armed and no one cared. Or if everybody knew that even with a rapier, Jill was alone here and couldn’t do anything to hurt them. She had no power. Still, she clung to the weapon like it was a life preserver and felt some small security by having it.
Rapier in hand, Jill wasn’t as frightened as she might have been, alone with the captain. But having the rapier didn’t mean anything—Jill was too exhausted now to use it. While she was pretty sure she could kick, scratch, and fight if she was in danger—for a little while, at least—beyond that, she was pretty much screwed, just like she thought at first.
The captain had a small room in the back of the ship, below the main deck. At least, it seemed small to Jill, but it must have been the largest quarters aboard. The simple wood-paneled room had a table with a bench in the middle, cupboards on two sides, and a narrow bed in the back. A small glass lantern hung from the central beam, giving only enough light to make out the corners on the furniture. They both had to duck when standing inside, the ceiling was so low.
Captain Cooper offered Jill a tin cup of water. It tasted stale, but it cleared the salt from her mouth and soothed the burning in her throat. Then Cooper kicked the bench, scooting it out from the table, indicating that Jill should sit.
Jill turned gratefully to the seat—her legs were trembling. But the captain stopped her. “Wait. There. What’s that in your pocket?”
The outline of the piece of rusted rapier was stark through her wet clothes. Startled, Jill set down the cup and pulled out the broken blade. All she’d been through, and it hadn’t fallen out. And still, her hand tingled when she held it. Like it was trying to tell her something, in a voice that sounded like breaking waves.
Captain Cooper held her hand out. Jill wasn’t sure she wanted to give her the shard. Then again, Cooper could just take it. Reluctantly, she offered it to Captain Cooper.
Frowning, Cooper held it up to the flickering light, turning it, front and back. With a handkerchief she pulled from the front of her vest, she scrubbed at it for a moment. Rust flaked away in a fine red powder.
The captain’s face grew drawn, lips pressing into a tight frown. If Jill didn’t think it was impossible, she would have thought the woman sounded nervous. “Tell me true now—were you on the Newark when Blane sank it, or were you on the Heart’s Revenge?”
“Neither,” she said. “I was on a tour boat, I fell over by accident—”
“And where did you get this?”
“I found it on the beach. I was just walking and saw it in the sand.”
“Found it—just lying there, you say? Then how did you end up in the water? We shouldn’t have found anyone, picking through Blane’s trash. Blane doesn’t give quarter.”
“I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I don’t know how I ended up there. I don’t know who Blane is.”