will excuse me, I will attend my principal.' He bowed and went up the path into the trees, to return minutes later leading Colonel Schreuder.
They stood together at the far side of the roped square, talking quietly. At last Cumbrae looked up at the sky, said something to Schreuder, then nodded and came to where Llewellyn and Vincent waited. 'I think the light is good enough now. Do you gentlemen agree?'
'We can begin.' Llewellyn nodded stiffly.
'My principal offers his weapon for your examination,' Cumbrae said, and proffered the Neptune sword hilt first. Llewellyn took it and held the gold-inlaid blade up to the morning light.
'A fancy piece of work,' he murmured disparagingly. 'These naked females would not be out of place in a whorehouse.' He touched the gold engravings of sea nymphs. 'But at least the point is not poisoned and the length matches that of my principal's blade.' He held the two swords side by side to compare them, and then passed Vincent's sword to Cumbrae for inspection.
'A fair match,' he agreed, and passed it back. 'Five-minute rounds and first blood?' Llewellyn asked, drawing his gold timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat.
'I am afraid we cannot agree to that.' Cumbrae shook his head. 'My man wishes to fight without pause until one of them cries for quarter or is dead.'
'By God, sir!' Llewellyn burst out. 'Those rules are murderous.'
'If your man pisses like a puppy, then he should not aspire to howl with the wolves.' Cumbrae shrugged.
'I agree!' Vincent interjected. 'We will fight to the death, if that's the way the Dutchman wants it.'
'That, sir, is exactly how he wants it,' Cumbrae assured him. 'We are ready to begin when you are. Will you give the signal, Captain Llewellyn?'
The Buzzard went back and, in a few terse sentences, explained the rules to Schreuder, who nodded and ducked under the rope of the barrier. He wore a thin shirt open at the throat so that it was clear that he wore no body armour beneath it. Traditionally, the brilliant white cotton would give his opponent a fair aiming mark, and show up the blood from a hit.
On the opposite side of the square Vincent loosened the clasp of his cloak and let it drop into the sand. He was dressed in a similar white shirt. With his sword in his hand, he vaulted lightly over the rope barrier and faced Schreuder across the swept beach sand. Both men began to limber up with a series of practice cuts and thrusts that made their blades sing and glitter in the early light.
'Are you ready, Colonel Schreuder?' After a few minutes, Llewellyn called from the side-line as he held on high a red silk scarf.
'Ready!'
'Are you ready, Mister Winterton?' 'Ready!'
Llewellyn let the scarf drop, and a growl went up from the Gull's seamen at the far side of the square. The two swordsmen circled each other, closing in cautiously with their blades extended and their points circling and dipping. Suddenly Vincent, sprang forward, and feinted for Schreuder's throat, but Schreuder met him easily and locked his blade. For a long moment they strained silently, staring into each other's eyes. Perhaps Vincent saw death in the other man's implacable gaze, and felt the steel in his wrist, for he broke first. As he recoiled Schreuder came after him with a series of lightning ripostes that made his blade glint and glitter like a sunbeam.
It was a dazzling display that drove Vincent, desperately parrying and retreating, against one of the water kegs that marked a corner of the square. Pinned there, he was at Schreuder's mercy. Abruptly Schreuder broke off the assault, turned his back contemptuously on the younger man and strode back into the centre. There, he took up his guard again and, blade poised, waited for Vincent to engage him once more.
All the watchers, except Cumbrae, were stunned by the Dutchman's virtuosity. Clearly Vincent Winterton was a swordsman of superior ability but he had been forced to call upon all his skill to survive that first blazing attack. In his heart Llewellyn knew that Vincent had survived not because of his skill but because Schreuder had wanted it that way. Already the young Englishman had been touched three times, two light cuts on the chest and another deeper wound on the upper left arm. His shirt was slashed in three irregular tears and was turning red and sodden as the wounds began to weep profusely.
Vincent glanced down at them, and his expression mirrored the despair he felt as he faced the knowledge that he was no match for the Dutchman. He lifted his head and looked across to where Schreuder waited for him, his stance classical and arrogant, his expression grave and intent as he studied his adversary over the weaving point of the Neptune sword.
Vincent straightened his spine and took his guard, trying to smile carelessly as he steeled himself to go forward to his certain death. The rough seamen who watched might have bayed and bellowed at the spectacle of a bull-baiting or a cockfight, but even they had fallen silent, awed by the terrible tragedy they saw unfolding. Llewellyn could not let it happen.
'Hold hard!' he cried, and vaulted over the rope. He strode between the two men, his right hand raised. 'Colonel Schreuder, sir. You have given us every reason to admire your swordsmanship. You have drawn first blood. Will you not give us good reason to respect you by declaring that your honour is satisfied?'
'Let the English coward apologize to me in front of all the present company, and then I will be satisfied,' said Schreuder, and Llewellyn turned to appeal to Vincent. 'Will you do what the colonel asks? Please, Vincent, for my sake and the trust I pledged to your father.'
Vincent's face was deathly pale but the blood that stained his shirt was bright crimson, as full blown June roses on the bush. 'Colonel Schreuder has this moment called me a coward. Forgive me, Captain, but you know I cannot accede to such conditions.'
Llewellyn looked sadly upon his young protege. 'He intends to kill you, Vincent. It is such a shameful waste of a fine young life.'
'And I intend to kill him.' Vincent was able to smile now that it was decided. It was a gay, reckless smile. 'Please stand aside, Captain.' Hopelessly Llewellyn turned back to the sidelines.
'On guard, sir!' Vincent called, and charged with the white sand spurting from under his boots, thrust and parry for his very life. The Neptune sword was an impenetrable wall of steel before him, meeting and turning his own blade with an ease that made all his bravest efforts seem like those of a child. Schreuder's grave expression never faltered, and when at last Vincent fell back, panting and gasping, sweat diluting his streaming blood to pink, he was wounded twice more. There was black despair in his eyes.
Now, at last, the seamen from the Golden Bough had found their voices. 'Quarter! You bloody murdering cheese head they howled, and 'Fair shakes, man. Let the lad live!'
'They'll get no mercy from Colonel Cornelius,' Cumbrae smiled grimly, 'but the din they're making will help Sam to do his job.' He glanced across the lagoon to where the Golden Bough lay in the channel.
Every man still aboard her was crowded along the near rail, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the duel. Even the lookout at her main top had trained his telescope on the beach. Not one was aware of the boats that were speeding out from among the mangroves on the far shore. He recognized Sam Bowles in the leading boat, as it raced in under the Golden Bough's tumble home and was hidden from his view by the ship's hull. Sweet Mary, Sam will take her without a shot fired! Cumbrae thought exultantly, and looked back at the arena.
'You have had your turn, sir,' said Schreuder quietly. 'Now it is mine. On guard, if you please. 'With three swift strides he had covered the gap that separated them. The younger man met his first thrust, and then the second with a high parry and block, but the Neptune blade was swift and elusive as an enraged cobra. It seemed to mesmerize him with its deadly shining dance and, darting and striking, slowly forced him to yield ground. Each time he parried and retreated, he lost position and balance.
Then suddenly Schreuder executed a coup that few swordsmen would dare attempt outside the practice field.
He caught up both blades in the classical prolonged engagement, swirling the two swords together so that the steel edges shrilled with a sound that grated across the nerve endings of the watchers. Once committed neither man dared break off the engagement, for to do so was to concede an opening. Around in a deadly glittering circle the two swords revolved. It became a trial of strength and endurance. Vincent's arm turned leaden and the sweat dripped from his chin. His eyes were desperate and his wrist began to tremble and bend under the strain.
Then Schreuder froze the fatal circle. He did not break away but simply clamped Vincent's sword in a vice of steel. It was a display of such strength and control that even Cumbrae gaped with amazement.
For a moment the duel lists remained unmoving, then slowly Schreuder began to force both points upward, until they were aimed skywards at full stretch of their arms. Vincent was helpless. He tried to hold the other blade but his arm began to shudder and his muscles quivered. He bit down on his own tongue with the effort until a spot of blood appeared at the -corner of his mouth.
It could not last longer, and Llewellyn cried out in despair as he saw that the young man had reached the furthest limits of his strength and endurance. 'Hold hard, Vincent!'' It was in vain. Vincent broke. He disengaged with his right arm at full reach above his head, and his chest wide
