My Broad Sword And A Pistol Too (Folk Stories #3: Geordie)

I'll Fight You For Her Life

Deoiridh didn't look in the least bit alarmed to see that her opponent was one of the prison guards -- Catherine, on the other hand, was. She had seen them standing there with their weapons, and the way they practised in routine. She had also seen them restrain prisoners, over-ambitious rescue attempts, and anyone they saw looking at them oddly. It was hard not to think that Deoiridh would come off badly in this scenario.

But she just polished the handle of her pistol on her breeches (amazing, a girl out of skirts and so bold in front of the judge and jury) and walked forward with a smile. Her hair was coming loose from its plait, getting in her eyes. She tossed her head to get it out of the way, and her neck was pale and fragile in the cold noon light. "Rules?" she said. "Do you want to make this swords only, or shall we make it a wee bit more interesting? Personally, I'm a crack shot, so I understand if you're wary to face me with a pistol in my hand."

The guard, who clearly wasn't expecting her to behave this way when she was so beautiful, stared for a moment. Then he recovered. "Swords," he said. "No pistols. Give it to somebody to look after."

The judge came forward to take it from Deoiridh, but she shook her head. "My friend will look after it. Won't you, Catherine?"

Startled to be addressed -- especially from a distance, because Deoiridh was projecting her voice halfway across the square, Catherine needed a moment to remember how to nod before she could agree. Then she took the pistol and placed it carefully on the ground in front of her. What if it went off? She didn't know anything about guns, but she felt sure it wasn't a good idea to give one to somebody without any experience at all.

Then the bright-haired woman drew her sword and stepped forward. "So, the conditions," she said. "If I win, Rebecca goes free. She's pardoned, and I take her home with me. If I lose..."

"If you lose she's executed," confirmed the judge.

"But I'll still be free to go, will I not?"

"That is correct."

"Excellent." She didn't look like she was planning to lose. She held the sword loosely, but there was something in her grip that suggested a lot of practice, something that told Catherine she knew exactly what she was doing. "Shall we begin, then? We've got half the town gathered around us, and I wouldn't want to deprive them of a show."

The square was rapidly becoming more and more crowded. Catherine had a good view of the duellists, but she was being pushed from behind, so that eventually she snatched up the pistol to avoid it being trampled and possibly triggered. (She really did not know how guns worked, but didn't want to risk it.)

"Very well," said the judge. "Since the rules have been decided, I suppose you ought to get on with it."

Deoiridh grinned, and the fight began.

She had ridden her horse into London like a man, faced down the judge as though she had no idea what fear was, and now she fought like a dervish. Her blows were strong, easily blocking those of her opponent despite her slender build and smaller range. It didn't even look like she flinched when one of his blows slammed into her, although Catherine couldn't see how she could withstand such power. And she was fast, her feet dancing around the guard, catching him unawares as she ran circles around him.

It only occurred to Catherine then that she didn't know if the duel was being fought to the death. Presumably not, if Deoiridh expected to go free at the end, but surely it couldn't end unless one of them was incapacitated? She realised she was holding her breath just as the crowd erupted into shouting -- Deoiridh had managed to draw blood, and it was trickling down the guard's cheek from a cut on his face. But that wasn't enough to end this, as they continued fighting with just as much energy.

This was not how her mornings at the court usually went. Catherine took a step or two forward, the pistol still clutched uncertainly in her hand. She couldn't let go of it. Deoiridh had entrusted it to her. Called her a friend. While she always befriended the widows, sometimes accidentally, this was something else. This felt less manipulative, and more like they were on an equal footing.

Catherine didn't want to talk about her usual purposes, though. She kept her eyes trained on the fighters, on Deoiridh's lithe body as she swerved and dodged before appearing out of nowhere to strike the guard somewhere he was unprotected, and couldn't believe that this fight would not end with her victory.

"Catherine," said an urgent voice behind her, and then somebody grabbed at her sleeve. "Cathy!"

Amelia was wide-eyed, staring at the fighters. "What are you doing here?" said Catherine.

"I came to find you. Mother's going spare. You're usually back long before this, and she's convinced you've been kidnapped. You have to come home."

"I can't. Not until this is over."

"What's going on?"

"She's fighting for the life of her friend who was condemned to death." Distracted, Catherine didn't see the moment that made the shouts of the crowd intensify, but she looked back just in time: "And it looks like she just won."