The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,47

Grimalkin, a fight he had been lucky to win, much less survive; then last night, at the Pig and Rooster, a fight he barely remembered; and now, facing a man he felt sure was not what or who he claimed to be.

Aylesford gave a nervous titter. ‘Why, I left you stabbed through the heart in that harlot’s bed! I made sure of it. Are you a ghost, then? I’m not afraid of you! I’ll send you straight back to hell!’

Yet he did not attack, or even step forward. And, Quare noticed, his sword arm was trembling.

But Quare did not move, either. He was trying to construe the man’s words. He remembered what Clara had told him she had witnessed during the night, only it seemed, at least according to Aylesford, that what she had taken for an act of sodomy had in fact been murder. And yet, despite Aylesford’s apparent confusion and fright in encountering him here, alive, Quare couldn’t credit such an outlandish claim. How could he? Stabbed through the heart? It was preposterous, insane. He had no memory of being stabbed or of any struggle whatsoever. It made no sense. A man did not die and then rise again to walk among the living. But then how to explain Aylesford’s seeming certainty or his evident fear? What kind of game was the man playing? ‘You are no journeyman of the Worshipful Company,’ he said, forcing his mind along more reasonable lines of inquiry.

‘Je suis de la Corporation des maîtres horlogers,’ Aylesford answered in Scots-accented French, giving the name of the Parisian clockmakers’ guild, great rival to the Worshipful Company.

‘So, you are a traitor to your country and your king,’ Quare said with contempt.

‘My country is Scotland,’ Aylesford replied. ‘And Bonnie Prince Charlie is my king.’ This affirmation seemed to infuse the man with fresh courage, for now, circling his sword point with lethal intent, he came forward.

Quare advanced to meet him. In his rooftop clash with Grimalkin, Quare had let panic overwhelm him, driving out his training in the art of swordplay. Now he resolved to keep a cooler head.

They came together in the centre of the room, a quick exchange of thrusts and parries, each man feeling out the defences of the other.

‘Did you kill Pickens and the others?’ Quare demanded, drawing back.

Aylesford smiled and circled, looking for an opening. ‘With this very blade. In the confusion of the brawl, a quick thrust through the back, with no one the wiser.’

Quare pushed aside his grief and anger. They could not help him now. ‘But why? What wrong had they done you?’

‘’Twas nothing personal. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw my chance, and I took it. Are we not at war?’

Quare had eaten and drunk with these men, laughed with them, worked beside them. This news of their cowardly murders stabbed him as surely as any sword. But it was hot anger, not blood, that spilled from the wound. He squeezed the grip of his sword as though it were Aylesford’s scrawny neck. ‘They were journeymen, not soldiers.’

‘They were Englishmen,’ Aylesford answered, as if that explained everything.

Quare snarled and struck at him, coming in with a high thrust and then disengaging the tip of his blade as Aylesford moved to parry. He flicked his wrist, bringing the point around in a cutting motion that slashed down the side of his adversary’s sword arm. Blood bloomed against the white of Aylesford’s sleeve. But even as Quare took satisfaction in the touch, Aylesford’s sword point came flashing in towards his face, and his frantic parry was barely in time to slap the steel aside. The man was devilishly fast. He danced back, only then becoming aware of a burning along the shoulder of his sword arm, right through his coat.

‘Behold, a ghost that bleeds,’ said Aylesford with a wolfish smile.

Quare did not dare shift his eyes to take stock of the wound. ‘And what of me?’ he asked, continuing to circle his blade as he moved to Aylesford’s left. ‘Why did you not kill me with the others?’

‘I would have,’ Aylesford said, turning with him, his sword in line, ‘but when I found you, you were facing down five men in defence of that harlot’s honour – which, I feel sure, is more than she ever did. Still, a woman’s a woman for all that, and no honourable man turns his back on a member of the fairer sex in need. Besides, it was