The Cursed Blood, стр. 65
“Aye, I be the best swordsman in Camelot, me Lord,” he boasted with a flourishing attempt at a courtly bow. “Trained all the knights me-self.”
“Did you now?” Gramps asked as he clasped his hands behind his back much like was Sgt. Blake’s custom and fixed the man with a cold, calculating look and raised brow.
The two squared off in the sand of the center circle as we all circled about, me looking forward to watching Gramps get a good thrashing. Gramps’ sword was held loosely at his side, his other hand tucked into his belt at his back as he stood, head cocked to the side studying his opponent who was holding a much larger gleaming blade in an overhead in a double handed grip.
“Well, are you just standing there posing for a painter to whip up a portrait for your lover or do you plan to show these young folks how real Darklings fight anytime soon?” Gramps asked sardonically, the stinging question widening Instructor Marcus’ eyes and drawing his smile out into a grim, angry line that Gramps seemed to find quite amusing.
Right then I knew this fight wasn’t going to go well for poor Instructor Marcus, and I felt a stab of sadness at this. The big, fit man charged and swung a chop that could have beheaded an ox in one stroke and still half cut down the tree behind it. We all stood there confusedly gasping and murmuring, staring unbelievingly as Gramps’ sword tip came steadily and inexplicably to rest at his throat. Marcus’ huge sword sat in the sand at his feet.
“Seems swordsmanship standards have fallen since my time.” Gramps tisked as he lowered his sword to his side and cocked his eyebrow. “Care to try again?” Instructor Marcus’ smoldering black eyes said it all, as he stooped down and retrieved his sword, keeping his eyes carefully on Gramps the whole time.
The man was far less cocky now and seemed determined to avenge his embarrassing disarming that had left him looking like a fool before his students. After briefly circling one another the two exchanged a lightning fast, sparking, ringing combination of swordplay that played out more like a dance than a deadly serious battle.
It again ended with Marcus’ sword thumping to the ground at his booted feet amid a puff of sand, Gramps’ sword’s razor edge raising carefully into the soft flesh beneath his chin as he was forced from his crouch to a proper stand.
“Better, much better. In a few more years if you keep at it you may rise to the skill of a third year back when Sir Lancelot tutored the Wolves Den,” Gramps commended mockingly as he again calmly lowered his blade, looking for all the world like he had just enjoyed a nice short walk to his mailbox on a fine summer afternoon. There were murmurs of shock and Natalie visibly flinched at the display, several of the other squires looking from her to Gramps uncomfortably, shifting their feet.
Many even fixed me with harsh hateful looks as Instructor Marcus breathed hard and stared in disbelief, his fists clenched impotently at his side. With a snort of derision Gramps kicked the sword out of the circle and violently sheathed his own before the instructor’s blade noisily clattered onto the stone floor.
He afforded the Wolves Den and Marcus a withering look then stalked out of the circle. Parting squires who all but dove to get out of his way, my stomach dropped as he grabbed me by the arm and all but dragged me out the room, Manx barking and charging after us.
“I knew this would bloody happen,” he roared to no one in particular as I all but ran to keep my feet as he dragged me down the hall. “Fools filling your ears with half-truths and all the lies my wicked son spoon fed them all these blasted years.”
“So, you didn’t call off the rescue on my parents?” I unwisely snapped at him between gasping breaths. He swung about and fixed me with a thunderous look as he very obviously struggled to reign in his temper.
“I did, and for good reason,” he hissed.
“But-”
“But nothing. My son murdered his own mother, and I wasn’t going to give him the chance to do it to the lot of you,” he answered after looking carefully about the long, door and torch lined hall for listeners.
“My boy is evil, Ben, pure evil—I’m sorry that you’ve suffered what you have, but I’m unapologetically grateful that you’ve not shared the cruel fate of my beautiful Gwenevere. She died in my arms she did, choking and drowning in her own blood from the poison he’d had slipped in her favorite wine.” Tears were in his eyes that he wiped at with his flannel sleeve and took a shuddering breath. It all made me feel dirty, foolish, and sad. “Nothing here is what it seems, Ben. You would do well to remember that.”
“I’m sorr-”he stopped my apology cold with a wave. Manx gave me an almost scolding look from his watery eyes as if he was saying “how dare you” as he licked at Gramps’ hand, trying to cheer him up and earning himself a scratch about the ears.
Dinner at the Rovers Rest was an uncomfortable affair where Gramps absolutely refused to talk to anyone, stabbing his buttered potatoes and cut at his rare steak like he was mentally murdering someone, and downed more ale and cheap whisky than I’d ever seen him drink in one sitting as Aunt Milly and Fazool stared from me to him with wide eyes. Wisely, they didn’t say a word to him.
Gramps thumped a few harpers on the table and stormed off before the rest of us had finished our salad, nearly barreling over the bagboy, a serving girl, and a