Kydd

Robbard chuckled and came to guard.

They were well matched, and Kydd watched fascinated. They drove forward and back over the whole deck, their eyes holding each other unblinking as they thrust and parried.

Once Kydd had delivered an elaborate wig to the small fencing school in Chapel Street. He had stayed to watch, gripped by the deadly swordplay, the glitter of rapier blade, the slither and clash of steel on steel. The combatants had worn wire masks and the lethal questing of the blades as they probed and parried was carried out in chill silence, a ballet of death.

Here the pair grinned or stared ferociously by turns – Kydd guessed they would look different when boarding a hostile deck.

Kydd felt an elbow in his ribs and turned to see Whaley offering him a tankard. He accepted it gratefully and noticed that a crowd of appreciative onlookers had gathered. He turned back to the combat in time to see the two grappling – Robbard’s guard being slowly overborne by his adversary’s head stroke, pressing down. Their eyes were inches apart as they forced against each other, when suddenly Robbard let rip with a raucous raspberry. The other man jerked in surprise, and Robbard’s sweeping half-circle would have laid open the man’s ribs – according to the umpire.

“Damn me eyes, ’n’ I’ll challenge ye again!” shouted the man. It took a pot of grog to persuade him to yield the deck.

Robbard strutted about on the poop, whirling his wooden sword in the air and crowing, the crowd cheering him on. The easy sail left little for the watch on deck to do and they joined the spectacle. Over to the westward the spreading red of a sunset tinged the scene and its players a ruddy color.

“That’s your tie-mate, ain’t it, Tom?” Stirk gestured with his pot. There was a swirl in the crowd and there was Renzi, mounting the steps in lithe, decisive movements.

Robbard stopped his capering and sized up the challenger.

Renzi threw off his jacket and stood in his plain waistcoat, his dark eyes fixed on Robbard’s. He picked up his sword. A subdued murmur went up from the spectators.

Renzi said nothing, his mouth in a hard line, his expression ruthless. He stamped once or twice as if to test his footing, then whipped up his sword to the salute. Robbard mistook the move and came to a halfhearted guard, but did not return the salute.

Down came Renzi’s blade, flicking in short, testing movements like a snake’s tongue – darting, deadly. Robbard gave ground warily, circling to the left, all traces of comedy vanishing.

His forehead wrinkled in concentration, and when he finally made his attack it was in a burst of violence, his point thrust forward in a savage lunge. Renzi swayed coolly and in a beautiful inside half hanger deflected the thrust just enough to force Robbard to divert his energy into maintaining his balance. Almost casually Renzi took advantage of Robbard’s brief recovery and changed his guard to a point, which flashed out – and came to a stop at Robbard’s throat. The entire combat was over in just fifteen seconds.

Robbard stood motionless, the sword at his throat mute evidence of Renzi’s skills. His sword fell to the deck.

Seeing Renzi’s pitiless expression behind his motionless weapon, Kydd realized that there were depths to his friend’s character that he had never seen.

The hush was interrupted by Lockwood. “May I?” He mounted the ladder and took up the sword. Robbard returned to the deck below in a daze.

“On guard, sir!”

The two faced each other and warily saluted. Then it began – a fight to the death, a no-quarter combat that was almost too fast to follow.

Swordplay continued over the whole poop deck, the clacking of wood never detracting from the deadly seriousness of the business.

The red sunset faded to a short violet dusk and as lanthorns were brought Lockwood stepped back and grinned. “Sir – I yield! The claret is yours.”

Renzi nodded, and a small smile creased his face.

CHAPTER 8

Sir Philip Stephens glanced about and coughed gently. The business would be conducted in the absence of the First Lord, the Earl of Chatham, who at the time was presumably answering questions in the House of Lords.

The talk died away, quickly, respect for the Secretary of the Admiralty deep and sincere. This was a man who, beginning as secretary to Lord Anson, could bring to personal remembrance all the sea heroes of the second half of the century, and had more interest at his command than most of the Lords Commissioners themselves.

“Mr. Ibbetson, if you please,” he murmured. His lean assistant opened a beribboned folder and passed it across without comment.

Sir Philip read for a moment, his spectacles balanced precariously at the end of his nose, and glanced up at the Board. “I have here a communication from the office of the Prime Minister, desiring an early response to his enquiry of the twelfth of March, which was” – he riffled the papers -“concerning our advice upon the matter of support for the Royalist cause in France, and in particular for any insurrection which from time to time may eventuate.”

He laid down the papers and removed his spectacles. “You will, of course, know of Mr. Pitt’s position in this. He believes that the country’s interests are best served by circumspection in this matter, yet he is concerned to appear active and diligent.”

Looks were exchanged around the table. Pitt’s austere, reserved manner hid a keen intelligence, but lost him many friends. His preference in expending gold rather than lives would translate without doubt to tax increases later.

Sir Philip continued smoothly, “The Duke of York’s, er, difficulties in the Austrian Netherlands would seem to make an action of some kind useful in drawing the attention of the regicides westwards.”

Nodding heads around the table showed that the politics were well taken. Not for nothing was the Tory party known as “The King’s Friends.” And these were British troops in Flanders, the only real effectives on the Continent; anything that preserved their strategic presence was welcome.

Leaning back in his chair, Sir Philip said carefully, “It might fairly be said that we are out of luck in the matter of intelligence at this hour, yet we know of a rising in Brittany, attended by more than the usual success.” His face wore a frown, however. “Marechal du Pons is known to us from the last age, a stiff and unbending soldier, yet he has the trust of the people. I believe we must assist him.”

He paused. Not all present would be keen in such circumstances to put British troops in a subordinate command. “I propose, therefore, a limited engagement of support-say, a battalion of foot and a few guns. If he presently triumphs, as I fervently hope, we will follow this with reinforcements of a more substantial nature. If he fails, we will be able to withdraw with naught but insignificant loss.”

The following morning Duke William sailed into the rendezvous on the ten-fathom line, four miles to seaward of the small fishing port of St. Pontrieux, said to be in Royalist hands.

Kydd was fascinated. Over there was France, his first foreign shore – and it was the enemy! The very thought seemed to imbue the rugged Brittany coastline with menace. Somewhere over the dark hills was a country locked in war with his own. His island soul recoiled from the notion that there was nothing but dry land separating this point from the raving mob in Paris.

The rendezvous was crowded with shipping: nearly a hundred sail, dominated by the three big sail-of-the-line, several frigates and two lumbering transports. The rest were small fry: provisioning craft, water and powder hoys, a host of small sloops and armed cutters. They lay hove to, waiting impatiently for the word to move on the port.

Just before noon a deputation approached in a fishing boat, displaying an outsize white flag – the