The Cavalier Club. Stanley Goldyn
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his father’s fencing gloves, rapier under his arm. Jack quoted the capital’s motto: “Praga capot Regni” — Prague, Head of the Kingdom. “A city with that responsibility relies on its good citizens. Our unfortunate and belligerent associate over there is not one of them,” he added.
Jack’s opponent appeared to be ready and anxious to begin, cutting the air with swishing practice cuts. His second introduced him simply as Lord Caravata and announced the few, straightforward rules. As his party was the aggrieved, it had been Caravata’s choice to duel to the death or until either man could not continue through injury.
Caravata, of medium height, displayed the bearing of a self-important snob—thankfully a trait not frequently seen to this extent amongst the European nobility. Egotistical and abrasive, he was in the habit of being indulged by all around him. When not with prostitutes or playing cards for large sums of money, he frequently practised with the sword and considered himself a fencing celebrity. While physically strong, Caravata led an indulgent life that had softened the edge of his keen agility and well-honed reflexes but not his sense of self-importance. Brimming with confidence this morning, he believed that he would discard this young, detestable upstart like a soiled handkerchief and return to his estate in time to rendezvous with the neighbour’s delightful niece, who was visiting from the country.
The duelling pair took their places, facing one another in their shirtsleeves at a close but manoeuvrable distance. At the command to begin, both saluted with their weapons, and Caravata immediately lunged forward with two sharp thrusts that were parried easily away. They circled on the even ground, staring intently into each other’s eyes. Caravata advanced in short steps, swinging his blade like a scythe, from left to right and back. Jack easily countered each swing, moving his rapier like a pendulum and stepping back to maintain the distance between them. The blades sang like the strokes of a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil echoing in the empty churchyard.
Jack held his sword point close to the ground, bobbing the rapier lightly in his hand like a cork on a fishing line to feel its balance. It felt comfortable and delicate between his fingers yet secure against his glove. Caravata’s sword was horizontal, stretched chest-high at arm’s length and pointing at Jack’s throat. Moving to his right in an arc, the man attacked again, this time cutting wide swathes through the air as if with a cutlass. Jack countered by lashing out to his upper right whilst stepping left. Blocking the sweeping blade, he took three swift steps forward, jabbing and driving and then slicing. His opponent retreated but not before his left sleeve was nicked and a short, thin red line appeared across his upper arm. The blood flowed freely from the wound, staining his sleeve like crimson ink spreading on blotting paper.
Profanity escaped the count’s lips. The nostrils of his falcate nose flared visibly. He glared angrily at Jack, his brow wet with perspiration. When he regained his composure, he stepped to his left and took two practice swings with his blade. He continued circling and half-heartedly stabbing at Jack a number of times, testing. His eyes were filled with pure, pompous hatred and hostility.
Jack stood still with his feet well apart, breathing measured, and only his head turned as he followed the other’s movement. Then, lifting his sword high above his damp curls, he advanced in measured strides, bringing the rapier down in mercurial sweeps and confusing his adversary, who retreated awkwardly. The onslaught continued with a frenzy of barely parried poking, feinting and cutting motions until Caravata tripped and fell backward onto the damp grass, his sword flying from his hand.
Jack paused, his rapier tip pointing an arm’s length away from the man’s heaving chest. Frozen for a brief moment, he lowered the blade and moved back to his starting position. He glanced up at Slavata and smiled briefly. Caravata picked himself up, retrieved his sword and walked slowly back to where Jack was waiting. Concern had replaced arrogance on his face.
Jack was now ready to direct the swordplay. He had allowed his antagonist time to show his cards and decided that it was time to end this. He felt calm in the cool morning, standing in the quaint but deserted churchyard surrounded by majestic trees. He breathed in the crisp air and allowed it to invigorate his surging confidence. It was not his time to die in some foreign land at the hand of this ignominious and supercilious narcissist.
Sensing the first spark of uncertainty in Caravata’s posture, Jack focused his concentration on his opponent. Flexing his rapier mischievously, he peered obdurately into the other man’s eyes and attacked. His first two sweeps were repelled awkwardly, but they were merely setting up for his third serious slash, which lacerated the full width of the nobleman’s chest. Continuing to advance, Jack waved his blade in a ‘Z’ motion and then thrust it forward into Caravata’s left arm muscle.
Withdrawing the blade, Jack blocked a sluggish stab and then drove his sword through the man’s left shoulder. Caravata groaned and winced with pain, his left arm now effectively useless as a swordsman’s counter balance. He had lost the will to fight and was stumbling backward, his left arm—losing blood liberally—pressed against his body for support. Unrelenting in his advance, Jack swept his rapier across the man’s stomach, leaving superficial cuts in a chevron pattern. With one stinging sweep, he struck the sword from Caravata’s hand and watched it pirouette in a large arc and land out of view in the long grass.
Enervated, Caravata was barely able to stand; he was swaying, his breath ragged, and saliva dribbling in a thin, ropey stream from his open mouth. Raising his right elbow above his ear and aiming his rapier like a matador, Jack drove his blade in a final unremitting thrust through Caravata’s heart to the hilt, the bloody blade protruding from the count’s back. A thin flow of blood dripped from the tip. Jack released his grip on the rapier and stepped back empty-handed.
“Adieu!” he snapped, devoid of any elation, and then turned and strode back to where Vilém and his escort were standing. Caravata stood motionless—a look of petrified disbelief on his face and his right hand holding Jack’s sword as if intent on withdrawing it—and then his eyes closed and he crumpled backward without a sound.
“Well done, my friend,” Slavata applauded as Caravata’s assistant rushed to the stricken man.
“A cutting tongue deserves a cutting blade,” Jack offered philosophically as he removed his gloves and drew an ample sleeve across his sweating face adding, “Our little splenetic acquaintance owned a long sword but a short life. His arrogant ignorance weighed a heavy purse.” He allowed his adrenalin-induced determination to slowly ebb away.
“I know little of him,” the regent volunteered, “and from now on will hear even less.”
Jack threw his cloak over his shoulders as the captain retrieved his sword. He swallowed several generous mouthfuls of cider that the regent had offered him from a goat-skin bag. Wiping his blade clean, Jack sheathed it into the scabbard hanging from his saddle and mounted his horse as the comrades agreed on their plans to meet the king.
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