He went into the next-door bedchamber, removed his boots, and lay down fully dressed upon the bed, his hands behind his head. The smile was still on his face, but his pale eyes were still as cold and hard as quartz.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, the only sounds were the occasional crackle from the banked fire, the ticking clock, and the guttural snores from Frederick, asleep on the settle, his head pillowed on his bundled cloak. Mathilde was now awake and refreshed after her nap. Her eyes were on the clock. One more hour before the prince was to take his beef and ale.
The scullery maid arrived first, blinking sleepily from her pallet in the pantry. She lit the oil lamps, then bent to rake over the coals, bringing the fire to blazing life. Other servants appeared, yawning, cursing. Frederick awoke, yawned, stretched, and went outside to relieve himself.
When he returned, the cook gestured to the tray on the table. "There's the prince's breakfast."
Frederick peered at the tray. He knew his master's preference and he didn't relish having the tray broken over his head. The plate of sirloin was red enough, the bread crusty, the ale had a good head to it. He shouldered the tray and went to wake the prince.
Mathilde leaned into the fire and threw a screw of paper into the flames. There was a hiss as the residue of the fine white powder it had contained hit the flames. Then she strolled out of the kitchen into the graying light of dawn, through the town nestling at the gates of the palace, across the great outer courtyard of the palace and inside.
Cordelia was up and dressed when Mathilde came in. She hadn't summoned Elsie but had dressed herself in a simple morning gown of blue muslin. She had no need of court dress for this occasion. She was persona non grata at court, and if anyone saw her, they would ignore her. She splashed cold water on her face from the jug on the washstand, then brushed her hair and plaited it, fastening the braids in a coronet around her head. She did all this like an automaton. Her mind and spirit were with Leo, preparing himself in this chill hour before dawn. How she wished she could be with him. But she knew he didn't want her. Where she saw Leo as an absolute, intrinsic part of her life, her very soul-felt she had never existed properly before he had become her life- he had a life that didn't include her. A past on which she had no claims. She laid out her past for him, offered it to him as part of her gift of her self. Leo couldn't do that.
She turned with a jump as Mathilde entered. "Oh, where have you been?" She fell into Mathilde's arms with a sigh of misery. "I have been so lonely."
"I know, dearie, but I had something to do." Mathilde stood her up and examined her critically. "How's the bleeding?"
"Almost stopped." Cordelia frowned. She was accustomed to Mathilde's placidity, but she seemed even more phlegmatic than usual on this ghastly morning. She almost didn't appear sympathetic to Cordelia's agony of mind.
"Come along, then." Mathilde wrapped a cloak around Cordelia's shoulders. "You'll be needing this. It's nippy in the dawn air."
The town square was packed with townsmen. Hawkers moved among them, selling pies and mulled wine against the dawn chill. Tiers of benches had been set up overnight for the court, all of whom, even the most diehard slugabeds, were present. The royal party were gathered under a velvet canopy. Cordelia drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and she and Mathilde pushed through the throng, inching into the front row below the first tier of courtiers.
Michael stood at ease in the square. Beside him two guardsmen were handling the rapiers. They wore gloves to protect themselves from the fine-honed blades and deadly points. But they didn't know how deadly one of them was as they examined them for evenness of weight and keenness of edge.
A general shifting and murmuring ran through the crowd. Viscount Kierston stepped into the square. He had no guardsmen as escort. He came alone. He bowed to the prince, who returned the salute. Both men removed their coats, then they stepped up to the royal canopy and bowed before the king.
"May God be in the hand of the righteous," the king declared. "And may God forgive the wrongdoer."
Cordelia looked steadily ahead into the middle of the square. She seemed paralyzed. Unable to move so much as a muscle. Unable to blink, to move her mouth, barely able to breathe. She lost all sense of the crowd around her, seemed to be existing in a cold void.
They began slowly after the formal salutations. They moved around each other on the new-raked sand of the square, watching, assessing, biding their time. Michael was in no hurry to deliver the first cut that would ensure his final victory. Assured of success, he could play with his opponent, entertain the crowd.
The sun was a diffused ball reddening the horizon. Leo had become the dancing point of his rapier. He was a single eye and single will focused on the flashing silver of the opposing weapon. He had no fear. He felt nothing. He knew he had to tire his enemy. The older man would tire before he did, so he must keep him on the move, play him constantly, press him but not engage too closely.
It took Michael a few minutes to realize what was happening. He thought he was controlling the dance, but suddenly he understood that he was reacting, not initiating. It had happened insidiously, but now he felt himself pressed, as if he was being backed against a wall, yet he knew that they had the entire town square for their arena. He parried, feinted, thrust. But Leo had jumped back and the rapier merely skimmed his shirt.
Leo was breathing easily. His eyes glittered like the point 6f his rapier. Michael came in close, too close. Leo lunged, his foot slipped, and he went down to one knee. A murmur broke the concentrated silence in the square. Michael's rapier sliced through the sleeve of Leo's sword arm. But Leo was up and back with the agility of a hare. He had switched his blade to his left hand almost without Michael's being aware of it, and suddenly the prince was fighting a new opponent-a left-hander whose moves could not be easily parried.
Leo was not as quick or as sure with his left hand as with his right, but he knew it gave him an advantage, at least until Michael had become accustomed to the change. He must use those minutes.
Michael pressed forward. Had his blade sliced the skin? He could see no blood, but a nick was all that was needed. The sun seemed to be in his eyes and he blinked, feinted, backed away, trying to turn his opponent into the sun. His eyes were blurred; he wanted to wipe them with his sleeve, but he didn't have the chance. Then he had his back to the sun, and he blinked again to clear his vision. But the film remained. Leo was a dancing shape, his blade a flashing blur, and Michael realized he was fighting by instinct. Fear crept slowly over him. He shook his head, trying to dispel the haze, praying for the moment when Leo would falter, would slip. Surely he had nicked the skin? Please God, let there be a bead of blood.
Then his vision miraculously cleared. But the clarity and light were almost as blinding as the haze had been. Something was the matter with his eyes. Unable to help himself, he dashed a hand across them.
Cordelia, still petrified as rock, felt Mathilde's slight shift, her tiny exhalation of breath.
As Michael fought to banish his fear and confusion, Leo lunged, his blade at full extension. Michael, in the last minute before his vision clouded again, saw his chance. He brought his rapier in for a froisse, an attack that if delivered with sufficient power would disarm his opponent. But Leo moved with the agility of a gymnast, and their blades clashed ineffectively. Michael's arm was at full extension. He had a second to recover his balance, and in that second, Leo's riposte took his blade beneath Michael's arm, burying itself deep between his ribs. Slowly, Leo stepped back, withdrawing his point.