“Five, other than yourself. Two of your own Hibernians for security. Doc Connal in case we’re coming back with casualties, one lefferti for interacting with any locals, and one of Juliet’s little fellas to run messages and sneak around, keeping an eye out.”
It was said that Caesar had conquered Gaul with less. “Fine,” Thomas replied.
“Any other concerns?” Harry leaned forward to pour himself a little wine.
The voice that answered was a surprise to all. “Well, I’ve a personal concern, Harry.” It was John O’Neill.
“Really? Wassamatter, John?”
“Oh, nothing with the plan. More a concern with one of the skills I’ll be needing. I’m not a reliable hand with these pepperbox revolvers, yet. Haven’t had the benefit of any truly competent training in it, I’m afraid.”
Beside North, Sean Connal reddened briefly, then eased back in his seat with a small sigh and a rapid return of his normal color. A few of the Wild Geese looked at the doctor: if they had expected to see him finally, finally, lose his patience and make some cutting (if oblique) rejoinder to John’s outrageous implication, they were surprised by the young man’s continued calm.
If Harry caught any of that suppressed inter-Irish friction, he gave no sign of it. “Aw, no worries, John. Give me five minutes of your time and you’ll be an old hand with the clunky bastard.” He extended his palm; John O’Neill put his pepperbox upon it. “Now, John, let’s get to the heart of the problem, which I’m guessing is reloading.”
John smiled and watched, but not comfortably, North noticed. He hoped the earl would take the time to practice what he was learning. Practice it until he could wield the pepperbox as easily as his sword, could load, unload, reload in his sleep.
But North rather doubted that would happen.
As Harry repaired to a larger table where he could provide a detailed explanation of the rules of poker to the Wild Geese, John made to follow him. Owen slipped close to his much younger cousin.
“John, do you really think Harry’s plan is in trim with our own orders?”
“What do you mean?”
“John, Fernando and Isabella made it clear that they were none too pleased with us acting in concert with the Wrecking Crew and the USE at all. But they understood the necessity, both of the moment and in the larger scope of the Low Countries’ future relations with the up-timers. It’s not the time for any of us to look like ingrates. But Isabella particularly stressed that we stay mostly in positions to support the attack, not be at the forefront of it ourselves. And that’s just where we’ve been put: leading the charge into the Palazzo Giacomo’s courtyard.”
John looked like he was going to spit in disgust. “I’ll not have my hands tied by that nervous old biddy’s apron-strings. Our courage is needed-wanted-here.”
“Our courage may be, but our faces are not. Think on it, John: what happens if one of us is killed or captured, particularly you, or me? Borja-and through him, Philip-could learn that we were here.”
“So what of it?” John restively loosened his sword in its scabbard, as he looked over at the poker lesson that was starting. “Philip’s abandoned us. It’s high time that we abandon him.”
Always spleen first, brain last, with you, isn’t it, Johnnie? “Yes-maybe that’s how it is for us. But Fernando and Isabella still receive some reales from Philip. It’s a tense situation between the two courts, and there’s a conflict of interest, but still no hostility between the king of Spain and the new king in the Low Countries. Not yet. But if our involvement here were to come to light-”
“It won’t,” snapped John. “It may be a bold plan, but it’s a good plan. Even the sassenach said so.”
Yes, he did-but I can see he has the same indefinite misgivings that I do, Owen thought, but said instead, “And so it is a good plan, but, given our employers’ explicit concerns, we shouldn’t be assigned to the main assault force.”
John turned, the lack of expression on his face all the more chilling because that bluff countenance was typically open and immediate in transmitting the state of the earl of Tyrone’s somewhat tempestuous heart. “Owen, if you’ve grown too old to be comfortable leading men in a head-long charge, then maybe it’s time for you to put down your sword and pick up a pen. As our quartermaster, or the like.”
Owen hardly knew how to respond. If those words had come from any other man on the face of the Earth, it would have meant a challenge and one of their deaths. He exhaled slowly, carefully, “I’m to be following orders, not the path of a coward, Lord O’Neill.”
“Suit yourself. Maybe there’s no cowardice in you. So, who’s to blame? I guess it’s Isabella and Fernando who haven’t the nerve to stand tall and fight openly for what they believe. No stain upon your honor or good name, then-not even for continuing to obey people who’ve admitted that, for almost thirty years, they’ve used us worse than a tinker’s forgotten dog. There. Feel better, now?” And he swaggered off, making sure for the second time that his sword was loose in its scabbard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The tall, lanky man entered the small stables quickly, refastening the baldric of his hanger as he turned towards the stalls lining the right wing of the building.
And came to an abrupt stop. There was a medium-sized man-well, an older gentleman, from what little he could see beyond the large traveling cloak-standing directly in his way. Moving to pass him, the tall lanky man made a hasty apology. “Pardon; I must pass-”
And then he stopped again and took a closer look.
“Yes,” said the older man. “It’s me. You are not the only one who can effect a disguise.”
The tall man leaped forward, sword singing a single metallic tone as it came swiftly out of its scabbard in a fast, fierce, back-handed down slash Which the older man nimbly hopped back from, sweeping off the traveling cloak with his left hand, while he drew a rapier. His age-wrinkled eyes narrowed, measuring. “Matadors should never accept bony bulls, but it seems I have no choice.” He smiled. “ Toro! ” he whispered.
The tall man feinted a stab, then went for a short forehand cut that the rapier intercepted, not so much blocking it as redirecting it. Which elicited a grin from the tall man; this old fool of a Catalan was not so skilled as Rombaldo had told him. The parry, while effective, had left the younger man’s weapon with plenty of momentum — which he redirected toward his target yet again: he rolled his wrist, the hanger’s path of deflection sweeping into an s-shape that brought it right around into a forceful back cut.
But the old Catalan seemed to have anticipated this. Rather than giving or standing his ground, he came closer-an even more foolish tactic, given that the rapier’s advantage was in distance, not proximity. But instead of working with his steel, the Catalan brought up the traveling cloak, its folds wrapping around his attacker’s hanger early in its swing. Almost like a matador, the older man gave way before the cut and twisted the cloak as soon as the hanger’s edge bit it.
For a long moment, the tall man was utterly disoriented, trying to cut through the cloak and keep a solid grip on his sword at the same time. All the while, the old Spaniard was sweeping around with him like a counterweight, the cloak joining them, a common center of rotation. But then the Spaniard, rather than stepping ever wider in their accelerating, lethal gavotte, planted his front foot, rotated at the hip, and held fast.
The tall man, suddenly swirling faster than his opponent, tried to compensate, tugging, stumbling a bit. He felt his wrist twisting, and took a quick extra step to help stop and ground himself without falling over. And in that moment, with his sword arm committed to balancing himself rather than holding his weapon ready, the Spaniard struck.