Niall Burke stood rocklike, his face an icy and impenetrable mask as, one by one, the ten embarrassed men moved up, whispered, and then slipped away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as they could.
“You also, Basingstoke,” commanded the Queen. When Constanza’s accuser had finally stepped back Elizabeth asked, “Very well, Lord Burke, do these men speak the truth?” “Aye, madam, they do, to my everlasting shame.” Constanza had revived and, cradled in Skye’s arms, moaned as if in terrible pain. Niall sent her a bitter yet pitying look. “Do you wish to withdraw your challenge, Lord Burke?” asked the Queen in a softer tone than she had used during the awful interrogation.
“No, madam. Lord Basingstoke, for all his fine outrage, is nevertheless responsible for being the first to debauch my wife and bring dishonor upon my name. I will not withdraw my challenge.” “Very well, sir, we will settle this matter here and now. Lord Dudley, will you see to it? The ballroom will do. See to the seconds.” “I will act as Lord Burke’s second,” Geoffrey Southwood stepped forward.
Skye gave a little cry of distress and the Queen reached over and patted her. “No danger, my dearest Skye, I promise. Sirs, this will not be a fight to the death. Do you both understand what I say? Honor must be served, but that is all!”
Lord Dudley chose a reluctant second for Basingstoke from among the men who had admitted to visiting the Book Lady. “Birds of a feather,” he quipped, receiving contemptuous looks in return for his humor. The others knew that he had been a visitor to the lady involved, but had not dared admit it before the Queen. The paneled ballroom was quickly cleared of chairs and tables, and the musicians in the gallery above were dismissed. Skye helped Constanza Burke to her feet and led her to stand by the Queen. Elizabeth would not even look at the distraught woman, but said quietly, without moving, “From tonight, my lady Burke, you are banned from this Court.” Constanza bowed her head. The combatants stood at either end of the room. Having shed their elegant and ornate doublets, they stood in shirts open at the neck. With an air of great self-importance, Dudley bustled back and forth between the two groups. Whip-thin rapiers, made of the finest Toledo steel, were brought forth, tested, and chosen by the seconds. “What a pity you can’t kill the pompous bastard, Niall,” Geoffrey Southwood murmured.
“God’s will be done,” said Niall Burke in a low voice as he very loosely attached to his sword the protective tip ordered by the Queen. “A-men,” answered the Earl piously, pretending to inspect the tip.
“More lights!” commanded the Queen, and fresh tapers were brought.
“The gentlemen and their seconds forward, please,” commanded Dudley. “Now, sirrahs, this is a combat to satisfy honor. Honor will be satisfied when one of the combatants is totally disarmed and helpless. Is that understood?” The participants nodded. “Seconds to neutral corners, please. Gentlemen, en garde!”
So began an exquisite ballet of courtly battle technique. The combatants were fairly evenly matched. Basingstoke was not quite as tall as Niall, but he was heavier. They circled each other slowly, engaged in a brief flurry, separated quickly. Each was guaging the other, testing for strengths, seeking weaknesses. The courtiers leaned avidly forward, fascinated, silently egging the combatants onward. The young Queen stood quietly, only the faint quivering of her long, elegant hands betraying her nervousness. She was frankly disgusted by the beauteous Lady Burke’s disgraceful behavior, but at the same time thrilled by the sight of two stalwart men brought to battle by that very behavior. If only men would fight over her like mat, thought Elizabeth.
Constanza Burke watched with a sense of growing desperation.
What would Niall do to her? Probably kill her. God knew she deserved it. Why did she have this awful sickness? What drove her to these terrible acts of perversion? She wept softly. Skye, Countess of Lynmouth, watched the battle nervously. Thank God the Queen had ordered the protective tips. If Geoffrey had to fight he wouldn’t be injured. Why had he volunteered to second Lord Burke? She hadn’t been aware of any friendship between them. Still, he was their neighbor on the Strand. And she felt a deep pity for both the Irishman and his unfortunate wife. Khalid had told her about women like Constanza Burke, women who could not get enough loving. Skye knew that Lady Burke was not wicked, but sick. She suddenly felt tired. When this was over she would beg the Queen’s leave to go home for her lying-in.
Niall Burke circled his opponent, parrying a vicious thrust. Leaping forward, he executed a quick riposte. His eye checked the protective tip on his sword. It was loose, and would soon be off. He pressed his attack hard, the anger burning coldly and deeply within him.
Lionel Basingstoke, valiantly defending himself, knew he had made a terrible mistake in allowing his pride and his temper to overrule his sense. He had seen the loose tip on his opponent’s sword and he fully realized Lord Burke’s intent. He was going to die. And over a worthless tramp. Why had he not simply given her the beating she deserved and left her to pursue her lusts? His body grew wet with fear and anger.
The two men battled back and forth until, older and heavier, Basingstoke began to tire. In a moment of rashness he again allowed his temper the upper hand and, yanking the protective tip from his sword, snarled at Niall, “All right, you damned Irish cuckold, let’s end this now!”
Niall’s silver eyes narrowed speculatively, and then he grinned, savagely, wolfishly. The idiot Englishman had made the first move, and now he could kill him without any qualms. Flicking the tip off his own blade, he replied, “I hope you’ve a legitimate heir, you stinking English pig, for if you’ve not your line ends now!” And he lunged forward, slipping easily beneath his opponent’s guard to bury his blade in Basingstoke’s chest.
A look of complete surprise crossed the Englishman’s face and then he fell forward. As he fell, his own blade flew upward, opening a small but very bloody flesh wound on the Irishman’s chest. It blossomed scarlet on Lord Burke’s white silk shirtfront.
An unearthly shriek shattered the utter silence. The Court turned, expecting to see Constanza Burke’s hysteria. But it was the Countess of Lynmouth who stood rigid, her eyes staring inward at some nameless terror. She screamed once again, then cried, “I’ve killed him!” She wept piteously. “Oh, sweet Christ, I’ve killed him!” A spasm of pain crossed her face and suddenly her gaze returned to the scene before her. Clutching at her belly, she fainted, sliding slowly to the floor in a crumpled heap.
In the uproar and confusion that followed, both Geoffrey Southwood and Niall Burke leaped forward to catch her, but the Earl was first to his wife’s side, shooting Burke a venomous look. Cradling Skye in his arms, he pushed past the babbling courtiers and carried her through the palace and down to the river bank where his barge was docked.
“The Countess is going into labor,” he told his bargemen. “Row for home and row as you’ve never rowed before! A gold rose noble to each of you for getting us there safely.”
The cool air revived Skye as they pulled away from the river bank. Her eyes opened. “Geoffrey?”
“I am here, my darling. How do you feel?”
“The baby’s coming.”
“I know. You clutched at your belly and then you fainted. Damned provident, this duel. People will believe it brought on the premature birth of our son.” He glanced anxiously at her.