A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift Page B

waved his free hand in a flourish.
    Lagarde was rattled. He lunged clumsily with the point of his sword, but Zachary dodged sideways and the blade struck forward into empty air. As he passed, Zachary was able to turn the flat of
his blade and neatly spank him on the backside.
    The crowd went wild, cheering and laughing. Lagarde turned to see where the blow had come from, making the crowd guffaw even louder. His mouth began to tremble and his breath escaped in a
wheeze. He ran with a yell, all control gone, and sliced a glancing diagonal towards Zachary’s shoulder. It clashed against Zachary’s blade and sent a jolt like a lightning strike up
into Zachary’s shoulder. For a moment they tussled there, locked together until Zachary wrestled his weapon free.
    Having the advantage, Zachary pursued him with the sword threshing side to side. But Lagarde backed away, fearful now, holding his blade out like a cross until his back was up against the wall.
Intent on more sport, Zachary gave a trim flick and Lagarde’s sword flew from his hand and clattered to the ground.
    Zachary lifted Lagarde’s doublet with his point. ‘Hey, won’t you take a look, his knees are knocking together!’
    The crowd let out a cheer, but the cheer turned into boos, as a hand coiled around Zachary’s neck and something stung him through his sleeve. He twisted round. One of the French
students’ faces was right up against his own, the ire burning in his cheeks. A dagger in his hand dripped blood.
    ‘
Arrêtez!
Enough!’ the lad hissed, trying to prevent Zachary from humiliating his master further.
    ‘You dog!’ Zachary cried, looking in amazement at his arm where blood was soiling his sleeve. ‘This was supposed to be a fair fight! You cut me from behind!’
    There was a yell of protest. Straight away, Gin and a throng of men from the crowd launched themselves forth and set to beating about the youth. From the corner of the yard more of
Lagarde’s students leapt to join the fray.
    Zachary whooped. A fine battle had burst out, with each man desperate to see some of the action. The yelling and commotion drew folk from the rest of the alley and soon the whole yard was afire
with everyone trying to whack Lagarde and his students. Zachary took on the nearest lad who was slashing wildly with a billhook. Just when he was about to pinion the lad to the wall, a shove from
behind landed Zachary face down in the yard. The fish smell nearly choked him and he scrabbled to stand up.
    His nose was bloodied and his doublet smeared with slime. The man he had been fighting was gone. Incensed, he darted about the yard looking for Lagarde, but he was nowhere to be seen.
    He ran up to Gin, panting. ‘The yellow dog. He’s left his scholars fighting his cause. What a rogue. Look at his men, though, you can tell he’s got no skill.’ He pointed
to where some of the French students lay groaning on the ground.
    A warning volley of fire threw everyone into a panic.
    ‘Quick.’ Gin Shotterill grabbed his arm. ‘Out through the tavern!’
    A group of the King’s men had sealed off the yard.
    They sheathed arms and dodged inside the fusty dark of the inn. They crashed past the tables towards the door, but when they got there it was barred by two more of the King’s men. They
turned tail and headed back to the yard but there were men bristling with pikes at the back door too.
    An officer pointed a pistol at them. ‘Drop arms! You are the cause of this, they say.’
    ‘Not so, sir. It was Lagarde’s boys – look, one of them went for me.’ Zachary showed them the gash in his sleeve, the velvet mushed with blood.
    ‘No matter, nimble Jack. You are under arrest. You will come with us to the Marshalsea and the magistrate will decide who’s at fault here. You too.’
    ‘Good sir,’ said Gin Shotterill straight off, ‘I can pay. Here, my purse. I was innocent of blame. You can ask around. He is the one who fought with Lagarde, ask