Read Online The Point of Death by Peter Tonkin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Tonkin
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Those next upstage behind them, at that very moment, had been caught between what was being enacted by the actors and what was going on among the other four of the unruly audience behind them on the stage. Here, between the steady backs of Hemminge and Condell and the curtains over the exits, there were four braggarts at sword-play. Whether two against two or three against one it was hard to say for the mêlée had been brief and none too well observed. Both Hemminge and Con dell were agreed, however, in placing one dark, fragrant, black-clad gallant the closest behind them.
'I felt his shoulders against my shoulders, jostling me roughly,' said Hemminge. 'He was hard at work, and I have, I calculate, a round dozen bruises on my ribs, courtesy of his elbows as he fought.'
'The air around me was all a-hiss with foreign tongue and spitting blades - and ahum with fragrant garlic,' added Condell. 'So, he fought with his back to you against at least one other upstage. But he turned, when?'
'Turned?' asked Hemminge.
'Look around you, man. You see how Morton stood at your front and this gallant stood at your back. To run his blade beneath your own arm and through Morton to his very hand, he must have turned and thrust.'
'No,' said both Hemminge and Condell in a kind of chorus. 'He never turned, Tom.'
'They're in the right of it, Tom,' added Sly. 'I was watching my timing and my thrust but I swear I'd have noticed any man turning in that crowd behind Master Hemminge there.'
'The boy's right,' called the gruff voice of the Gatherer across the pit. 'I was up here on the upper three-penny gallery and I saw well enough. None of your roaring boys turned. And at the end of the swordplay they sheathed and sat like lambs, no harm done. There were upwards of twelve hundred souls in the house this afternoon and not an eye saw aught amiss for all they told me on their way out at the end. Not an eye dry, Master Will; but not an eye saw one jot or tittle amiss, on my life.'
The fact that the Gatherer was talking to Will abruptly awoke Tom to the fact that his friend had been standing frozen for a considerable time. 'Will, are you strong enough to stay there for a while longer?'
'For a while, Tom. Why? What have you in mind?'
But Tom was paying the motionless playwright scant attention. 'Ugo. Get me one of the leaded blades and stain it with soot from a taper. Bring it to me where the black-clad gallant stood. Then bring another for yourself. Leaded or not - it is your choice; we will try a pass or two in enactment of this strange bout.'
While Ugo ran to do his bidding, Tom positioned himself where the black-clad swordsman had stood. Much to poor Sly's disquiet as it chanced - for Tom's own clothing was a workmanlike shadow of the gallant's courtly fashion. As he waited for his associate to return with the swords, Tom jostled his way into perfect position.
'Ha,' gasped Hemminge. 'Your elbows strike the very bruises, Tom. You are a very image of the man.'
'I hope not,' said Will dryly. 'Another such as Tom would be one blade too many.'
Something in the ironic quip made Tom frown even as his lip curled in acknowledgement of a palpable hit. Then Ugo was there.
'Here.' He tossed the tallow-marked blade to Tom and fell into the first position as taught him by Maestro Capo Ferro. The blades clashed as Tom fended off his friend easily, the greater part of his mind occupied with feeling what exactly lay behind him; not before him. His back and elbows were surprisingly sensitive. It was easy, he soon discovered, to sense where the solid trunks of Hemminge and Condell stood and to plumb the vacancy between them. A glance over his shoulder revealed the white cloud of Will's billowing lawn shirt. Then it was the act of only a moment to perform the secret variant on the deadly Punta Reverso that Capo Ferro had taught him. The foil's handle twisted in his hand almost as though it had life of its own. The soot-stained blade slammed up into his right
'I felt his shoulders against my shoulders, jostling me roughly,' said Hemminge. 'He was hard at work, and I have, I calculate, a round dozen bruises on my ribs, courtesy of his elbows as he fought.'
'The air around me was all a-hiss with foreign tongue and spitting blades - and ahum with fragrant garlic,' added Condell. 'So, he fought with his back to you against at least one other upstage. But he turned, when?'
'Turned?' asked Hemminge.
'Look around you, man. You see how Morton stood at your front and this gallant stood at your back. To run his blade beneath your own arm and through Morton to his very hand, he must have turned and thrust.'
'No,' said both Hemminge and Condell in a kind of chorus. 'He never turned, Tom.'
'They're in the right of it, Tom,' added Sly. 'I was watching my timing and my thrust but I swear I'd have noticed any man turning in that crowd behind Master Hemminge there.'
'The boy's right,' called the gruff voice of the Gatherer across the pit. 'I was up here on the upper three-penny gallery and I saw well enough. None of your roaring boys turned. And at the end of the swordplay they sheathed and sat like lambs, no harm done. There were upwards of twelve hundred souls in the house this afternoon and not an eye saw aught amiss for all they told me on their way out at the end. Not an eye dry, Master Will; but not an eye saw one jot or tittle amiss, on my life.'
The fact that the Gatherer was talking to Will abruptly awoke Tom to the fact that his friend had been standing frozen for a considerable time. 'Will, are you strong enough to stay there for a while longer?'
'For a while, Tom. Why? What have you in mind?'
But Tom was paying the motionless playwright scant attention. 'Ugo. Get me one of the leaded blades and stain it with soot from a taper. Bring it to me where the black-clad gallant stood. Then bring another for yourself. Leaded or not - it is your choice; we will try a pass or two in enactment of this strange bout.'
While Ugo ran to do his bidding, Tom positioned himself where the black-clad swordsman had stood. Much to poor Sly's disquiet as it chanced - for Tom's own clothing was a workmanlike shadow of the gallant's courtly fashion. As he waited for his associate to return with the swords, Tom jostled his way into perfect position.
'Ha,' gasped Hemminge. 'Your elbows strike the very bruises, Tom. You are a very image of the man.'
'I hope not,' said Will dryly. 'Another such as Tom would be one blade too many.'
Something in the ironic quip made Tom frown even as his lip curled in acknowledgement of a palpable hit. Then Ugo was there.
'Here.' He tossed the tallow-marked blade to Tom and fell into the first position as taught him by Maestro Capo Ferro. The blades clashed as Tom fended off his friend easily, the greater part of his mind occupied with feeling what exactly lay behind him; not before him. His back and elbows were surprisingly sensitive. It was easy, he soon discovered, to sense where the solid trunks of Hemminge and Condell stood and to plumb the vacancy between them. A glance over his shoulder revealed the white cloud of Will's billowing lawn shirt. Then it was the act of only a moment to perform the secret variant on the deadly Punta Reverso that Capo Ferro had taught him. The foil's handle twisted in his hand almost as though it had life of its own. The soot-stained blade slammed up into his right
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