The sword was much heavier than Jill’s épée at home. Her arm trembled with the weight of it, and her breaths came in gasps. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to fight. But she would fight. She nodded. “Yes.”
“Very good. Henry!” the captain called. “You feel like a bit of a game?”
“I do at that, sir.” A young man stepped forward, and Jill’s heart jumped a little. He was cute. Athletic, skin the color of a rich brown wood, short black hair, and a wry smile. Like all the rest, he wore a loose white shirt, loose pants, and went barefoot. And he held a rapier.
He swung the weapon through a few circles like it didn’t weigh anything. The crowd, including the captain, pressed back, leaving a wide circle of open deck for them to fight in.
A duel. A freaking duel. She’d lost her last bout—why did she think she had a chance now? She almost dropped the rapier and begged them to have mercy, to not hurt her. But this Henry didn’t stop smiling. He even looked like he was laughing at her. That goaded her. The burning, competitive anger that rose up in her was the only familiar thing about the situation.
Henry stood, right foot pointed forward, arm lowered so the rapier’s point rested on the deck, and waited for her.
She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Easier said than done when she could feel the floor shifting under her, rocking back and forth unpredictably with the movement of the waves. She reminded herself of her pre-bout mantra: stay calm, keep breathing, don’t panic, don’t let her opponent fluster her. But she didn’t know how she could be more flustered. Which made it all the more important that she keep breathing and stay calm.
She stood en garde, right foot forward, left foot back, knees bent. Warily, she saluted him with the rapier she’d stolen and settled her arm into position.
Still seeming amused, Henry saluted her back, flourishing with his off hand and bowing his head besides. Then he stood ready. And why should he be any good, this scruffy-looking kid on a weird sailing ship? No reason she shouldn’t be able to take him.
The edge of her rapier gleamed, sharp and dangerous. A real blade, meant for causing harm. For all her bluster, she had never held a sharpened rapier before. She almost stopped the fight right there, but the way the men around her looked at her hadn’t changed. They were as dangerous as a real rapier; she had to defend herself. And she would.
He made the first move, reaching out with his blade to tap the end of hers. Nerves and panic made her overreact; she struck his weapon back with a hard beat and jumped back, retreating sloppily. The crowd laughed, and she blushed. That was an amateur move and they all knew it. The captain crossed her arms and frowned.
Before she’d completely settled back into her stance, he struck again, another lazy hit against her blade. But she was ready for it this time and disengaged—dropped her sword slightly so that when he expected to hit it, it wasn’t there—and immediately lunged. She caught him off guard that time, and he swung his sword up in a hasty parry and stumbled back. His wide eyes showed surprise. He’d thought he was toying with her. Playing games with a weak opponent. Thought maybe that she was just a girl and no good at this.
Realizing she couldn’t rest for a moment in this fight—she had to keep him constantly off guard—she pressed. Lunged again, was blocked again, but moved to attack on a different line.
He crossed to his left, moving in a circle around her, startling her. She shifted to keep up, to keep him in front of her. They were fighting in a circle, not on a strip, like in fencing competition. The change disoriented her. Just keep him in front of you.
They exchanged more passes, steel slapping against steel. He drew her thrusts and parried them, that smile still on his face. He was guiding the fight, not her. She tried not to let it make her angry. He never got past her defenses; all her parries were strong, even though her arm burned, and every time their swords met a tingling numbness traveled through her muscles. Her guard fell lower and lower. In a few moments, she wouldn’t be able to hold up the sword at all.
When he struck again, she parried like before, but the move brought his blade down and the tip snagged on her pants, just above the knee. The fabric sliced through with a quick ripping sound. Everyone heard it, and Henry jumped back, startled.
She realized then that all of his blows had been at her arms and legs. Because anything else, any stab to her body with a real rapier, would kill her. He wasn’t trying to kill her. Her stomach felt sick and roiling at the thought that a slip—any stab that got past her defenses—would really kill her. And she’d been trying to kill him, because she hadn’t thought of anything but scoring the touch.
A four-inch slice cut through her pants, a gaping oval exposing skin. No blood; he hadn’t broken skin. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. She let her arm drop like a weight, rapier dangling from her hand. Henry looked at her, challenging, gripping his rapier hard like he was ready to go on. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Knock off there, both of you,” the captain called. They’d already halted the duel, but her order kept them from rushing into another attack—or from expecting an attack from the other. Henry relaxed, lowering his weapon and looking at his captain.
Jill was still trying to slow her breathing, which came in gasps. Her heart was racing. She would have died, a wrong thrust and she would have died…. And she had been so worried and frustrated about simply losing.
The captain’s voice was kind when she spoke to Jill this time. “You know the forms well enough and stand pretty with a sword, but you’ve never fought for blood, have you, lass?”
Jill could only shake her head—no, she’d never fought for blood. Not real blood. Only ranks, medals, and maybe a college scholarship. She bowed her head, embarrassed, when tears fell. She wiped them away quickly. Her still-wet hair stuck to her cheeks. Salt water crusted her clothing. However much she wanted to sit down, pass out—or drop the rapier, which she wouldn’t have been able to raise again even if Henry came at her in another attack—she remained standing before the captain, as straight as she could, which wasn’t very at the moment.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Jill. Jill Archer,” she said, her voice scrat
ching. She only just noticed that she was thirsty.
“And, Jill, how do you come to be adrift in the wide sea so far from home?”
The tears almost broke then, and she took a moment to answer. “I don’t know.”
FOIBLE
She was Captain Marjory Cooper, and she wasn’t the only woman aboard. The handful of other women among the crew dressed like men and blended in. Only the captain wore her hair long and loose and her clothes fitted, showing off her figure. The entire crew, all ages and builds and colors, looked at the captain in awe and didn’t hesitate when she sent them back to work. Jill, she ordered to the captain’s cabin.
Jill had a random thought: If only Tom and Mandy could see this, the sails and cannons and costumes. Exactly what they’d wanted. They’d be so excited. If only they could be here—and then her gut lurched, because she didn’t want her brother and sister anywhere near these people, whoever they were.