A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift

The less he knew, the less likely it would be he’d slip up.
    ‘You don’t seem very keen,’ Gin said. ‘What’s the matter?’
    Zachary weighed his words. ‘Nothing. I suppose he’s all right – if you like pulpit bashers. But I tell you, it’s a strain having to mind my manners – not to spit or
swear because there are ladies present, and to unbuckle and leave my swords in the hall every time I go in or out.’
    ‘Ladies? What sort of ladies?’
    ‘Not that sort. My cousin.’
    Gin elbowed him in the ribs, and grinned, eyebrows raised in question.
    Zachary warned him, ‘Now don’t get any ideas.’
    ‘Go on, what’s she like?’
    ‘Too tall, too serious, and too attached to her rosary beads for you.’
    ‘Oh. One of those.’ They threw on their cloaks and made for the door, stepping around the crowded tables, and out into the fresh air. Immediately they were outside there was a
high-pitched yell from a street trader. Zachary turned in irritation.
    ‘Mounseer Lagardy, finest fencer in the whole of France!’ A young lad thrust a handbill into Gin’s grasp.
    ‘What’s it say?’ He passed it to Zachary.
    He glanced at the title. ‘Hark at this!
Tonight at eight of the clock,
’ he read, ‘
at Hanging Sword Alley, by the Signe of the Fish Hook, Monsieur Lagarde will
demonstrate his Schoole of Defence: The Sword and Dagger, The Short Sword and Gauntlet, The Single Rapier and The Case of Rapiers. Fencers are invited to try their skill against Monsieur Lagarde
and his fearless students on this Field of Honour.
’
    ‘How’s your mettle, Deane?’
    ‘Not too bad. Been doing a few hours a day.’
    ‘You going to have a go? He might be good.’
    ‘What do you think?’
    Gin slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Without a word they set off towards Hanging Sword Alley.
    The Alley was not the easiest place to find for those who didn’t know it – it being just a crack in the wall near to Water Lane by the Thames. They had to press
their weapons close to their sides to even get by. The sign of the Hanging Sword was jammed crookedly between the buildings at a perilous angle. It looked as though it might tumble at any moment
and cosh someone, but as yet it never had.
    Once through the needle’s eye, though, the place seethed with young bloods, lounging against the walls or perching on the ale benches outside the taverns. On each house swung a sign with
the fencing master’s insignia – the fighting bull, the rampant lion, or swords crossed in diverse ways.
    They walked past the sign of the fighting stags where Zachary’s old master Signor Pietro had his school, and on to the Fishhook, where they turned right into a walled courtyard. Fish were
unloaded and gutted there when it was not being used for fencing. The cobbles were slimy with fish entrails and the place stank enough to peel the inside of a man’s nose. Two lads in twill
jerkins were brushing over the yard with straw and sawdust. Zachary and Gin stood to watch them work, along with a few others awaiting the entertainment.
    Gradually a crowd gathered. The wall sconces were lit against the approaching dark. A few men impatiently stepped from foot to foot, or circled their shoulders, warming their muscles.
    ‘They don’t look much.’ Zachary nudged Gin, who made a derisive snort. Zachary recognized the hangers-on from other bouts. They were puffers, most of them, and despite this
attempt to impress the onlookers, most were endowed with more brawn than wit.
    A commotion in the crowd was followed by a shout and a flourish as the man Zachary presumed to be Monsieur Lagarde strolled in, accompanied by two or three mealy-mouthed apprentices carrying his
arms.
    Gin turned to him. ‘Bandy legs,’ he hissed.
    They sniggered. Zachary took note of Lagarde’s yellowish complexion and wispy beard, assessing his form. He was a man of about forty years old with two frown lines scored vertically
between his eyebrows, presumably from