With steel in hand, Marcus eyed his nemesis warily. “Lay on, Geoffrey. Damn your…” A deafening roar of ball and
powder interrupted his soliloquy, as the words could find no air through the
wall of blood suddenly filling Marcus’ throat.
His hand, which, a moment ago firmly and expertly clutched his rapier,
now clawed at his neck in an attempt to stem the free flow of his
lifeblood. His body and his blade hit
the ground with a thud, the former as lifeless as the latter.
Geoffrey looked down in disgust at Marcus, the latter dressed
in velvets that were considered all the rage this year. Geoffrey thought that
there were too many feathers and frills, loops and fringes. “Stupid foppish boy!” thought Geoffrey. The two had always shared an intense
hatred. Marcus was always quick with a
quip, often at Geoffrey’s expense, and overtly dramatic, as evidenced by his
attempt at a monologue before their duel.
Even in death, his mouth was open.
“Now, to dispose of the body.” Leaving it where it fell, atop castle’s
battlements would hardly be a discreet hiding place. He bent down and grabbed Marcus and hefted
him over his shoulders. He would have to
hurry. Someone would come to investigate
the ruckus. As Geoffrey broke into a
trot, his fine leather boots padding softly on cobbled stone, he thought back
to the insult that had brought him to this.
The fight broke out over a woman.
Well, not any woman. The fight
had broken out over Micelle. Geoffrey
met her 2 years earlier while walking through the market. She was enchanting, beautiful. They began a fast friendship, though Geoffrey
had always been explicit in his desires for more.
The plague had taken her last week. Taken her from Geoffrey. He went to the tavern to spend what little
gold he had left to drown his sorrows.
It was there Marcus had committed his fatal error. That little weasel, surrounded by his several
sycophants, loudly boasted about bedding the fairest maidens in the land. When he began to describe in agonizing detail
an encounter with Micelle, Geoffrey ran to their table and threw Marcus from
his chair. He wished he had said
something chivalrous like “Besmirch not the name of mine fair maiden. Keep her name from thy lips and her face from
thy thoughts.” Instead in his rage
addled mind he could only muster a single syllable: “Don’t.”
Marcus, having been chided in front of his dandy army, was
quick to challenge Geoffrey to a duel.
Geoffrey, against his good nature and better judgment, quickly
accepted. No seconds, at dawn, atop the
battlements. For Micelle.
And now Marcus was dead, draped over Geoffrey’s shoulders
like a feathery sack of potatoes. Sure,
Geoffrey had cheated, but he also had lived.
Geoffrey slowed to a walk to look over the wall. It was a three hundred foot drop to the ocean
below. No one would find his body
there. He felt a sense of relief as he
let the body go, followed quickly by a sharp tug as one of the loops in Marcus’
natty outfit caught Geoffrey by his sword belt.
Soon he and the body pitched over the battlements towards the ocean
below. “Stupid foppish boy!” were the
last thoughts Geoffrey had.
