“Oh, James!” Tom shouted, seized by laughter. The point of his blade dropped to the dirt. “That’s rich!”
A light film of sweat already coated Tom’s brow. He tugged at his collar to help catch his breath. “I think, my friend, you’ve been ensorcelled by a bonny lass with an eye to becoming a marquise.”
“This is no jest,” James said flatly. “I saw . . . the wonders she has . . .”
He was cut short by another sudden hoot of Tom’s laughter. “She’s flashed herwondersalready? I told you, a clever marquis hunter— ”
“Hold your tongue,” James snapped. “And raise that blade to me or I vow I’ll end this lesson and give you some true sparring. Now listen, man.” They slowly circled each other, heavy broadswords held in both hands, their blades touching lightly. “She had on her person objects that defy reason.”
James twirled his blade overhead and slashed downward, forcing Tom to raise his sword high in a block above his head.
“She wore a miniature clock on her wrist, lit from within yet not hot to the touch, capable of making a sound fit to puncture your ears.”
Tom’s face was a fixed, blank mask as he parried James’s increasingly aggressive volley of sword thrusts.
“And a fire that she kept in her pocket. Aye, man,” he asserted in answer to the skeptical look that Tom managed over his blade. “A small bonny thing, like a jewel, cool in the fingers, that builds a flame with the turning of a wheel.
“Keep your guard up!” James shouted abruptly. “That’s it, thrust, thrust!”
Short of breath, Tom sputtered, “Is this a scheme to back out of your quarrel with the king?”
“You’ll not jest so.” James drove at his friend from the side, bringing his sword down with a crash onto Tom’s quivering blade just at eye level. “Ever.”
“Careful, James,” he yelped. “Mind the face!”
“I’d no sooner misjudge my blade’s mark than unintentionally cut mine own hand off.” James’s sword dipped up and down in an effortless feint. “My feelings are unchanged, Tom. My intentions regarding our king remain deadly serious. I’d sooner not battle Charles, but if he’ll not abide the sensible thoughts of sensible men, I see no other choice.”
James punctuated his last thought with a strong thrust of his sword, and Tom skittered backward.
“I’m a thespian, not a soldier,” Tom panted, holding his blade in a defensive posture. “So please just have a care.”
“I thought you were a philosopher,” James quipped.
“Ah, that was last year.”
“Not so much hopping, Thomas. You’ll tire. Your advantage is size.”
“That’s not what I’m told.” Brows furrowed with exertion, Tom swung his blade around, and James easily ducked back to avoid it.
“Come, man, thrust! Throw your weight into it.” Taking his heavy sword into one hand, James canted his body to the side and propelled himself forward, the long, lean muscles of his legs stretching into a wide V. "Attend the left side!” he shouted, and back utterly straight, breath coming as easily as if he’d just risen from bed, James slapped his sword lightly onto his friend’s side.
“Och, man, I’ve just killed you.” James stuck his blade into the ground and leaned into the hilt. “When I take my weapon by a single hand, what is it I’ve lost?”
“Not the battle, surely,” Tom huffed, gratefully resheathing the blade at his hip.
Ignoring his jibe, James explained, “Placing my sword in a single hand, I have the advantage of reaching you from a great distance. But, in so doing, I lose strength and speed. Yours was an opportunity lost.”
“Aye, James, once again you’ve bested me. I hope you’re well pleased.”
“What would please me is if you’d put your back into it. I’ll not be able to mind you on the battlefield.”
“And you’ll thankfully not have the need to,” Tom replied quickly. “I’m eager to be a font of wise counsel, but when it comes to the fighting, I prefer taking refuge in the outer ranks.” Pausing, he retrieved a small square of linen from his pocket with which to wipe his eyes. “So you sincerely intend on going to battle over this?”
“We’ve signatures plenty on the Covenant, and the University at Aberdeen will surely provide us with even more,” James said, referring to the manifesto they’d drawn up with a group of like-minded men. With it, they hoped to rally support— and signatures— throughout Scotland in an effort to protect their country’s religious freedoms. “King Charles cannot,willnot, ignore the reason of so many of his countrymen.”
The king had married a Catholic, and Scotsmen viewed his new prayer book as but the first of many offenses. As crosses and chalices of gold began to adorn more altars, many feared the integrity of their own kirks were in danger.
“What if you find Aberdeen lacking in sensible men? And,” Tom asked, his voice treacherously low, “what if you find that your Scottish king now listens only to hisEnglishcountrymen?”
