A Brood of Vipers

underneath.
    (Now you young men who read this, remember old Shallot's advice. On a slippery surface, bare feet are best. That is, if you really can't run away!)
    I got to my feet and, armed with sword and dagger, walked nonchalantly across, hoping my stomach wouldn't betray me. Roderigo came in between us, the saturnine Giovanni beside him.
    'Lord Alessandro,' he said quietly. 'You need not fight this man. He's not your equal.'
    'Yes, uncle, he's from the gutter but he has to be taught his manners.' Roderigo looked at me sadly and shrugged. 'Then fight!' he exclaimed. 'Until the first blood's drawn!'
    My heart leapt with joy, but then I glanced at Giovanni's sly face and knew the first blood could be the wound through my heart. He and Roderigo stood back. The hubbub of conversation died. Alessandro languidly took his position, turned slightly sideways, sword raised. I edged nervously forward, acting the ignoramus, and copied his stance. Our swords touched. Alessandro sprang back then forward, lunging low. I blocked his sword, stepping back. He came on. Then, to a chorus of cheers and shouts of 'Alessandro!' he closed, sword against sword, dagger against stiletto. He was probing, testing my weakness and I acted the nervous neophyte, but carefully so. I recognized Alessandro's type, a treacherous bastard. He would show no mercy if he saw an opening, wanting a quick kill. He came at me furiously, sword jabbing the air, and I quickly realized he was a better dagger man than he was a duellist. It was not his rapier I had to watch but the stiletto. He would suddenly bring this up, lunging at my exposed body and, on one occasion, he nearly had me in the groin. Now that was enough for me. A man without balls is a man with no future. I stepped hurriedly back and changed my rapier to my left hand, enjoying the look of astonishment in Alessandro's eyes. And then I began. I am not bragging but after that it wasn't much of a duel. Alessandro had simply no experience in facing a left-handed swordsman. The very change disconcerted him. He became clumsy, parried a dagger thrust, stepped back too slowly and I nicked him in the shoulder. The blood welled out, staining his linen shirt, making it look much worse than it was. Lady Bianca began to scream. 'Stop it! Stop it!' Alessandro's face became as white as his shirt had been. He looked nervously at his uncle, who stepped between us. 'The matter is settled. Alessandro?' He just shrugged. 'Master Shallot?' 'Whatever you say.' I turned – and I swear I'll never do that again! Stupid old Shallot, cocky as ever! 'Roger!' my master screamed.
    I threw myself to the left and Alessandro's sword whistled over my shoulder. I lunged forward, caught him by the belt and, in the good old English fashion, brought him crashing to the ground. I rose and stepped back. Alessandro, eyes wide, watched me nervously. His sword had fallen out of his grasp; he crouched with only his dagger protecting him. I stared back. No one dared to intervene. According to the laws of duelling, I could have, and should have, killed him there and then. I walked back slowly, sheathed my sword and dagger, bit my thumb and spat the piece of skin towards him. 'As your uncle said, it's finished!'
    I waited until Roderigo and Giovanni went to assist my fallen enemy, then I turned and walked back to the house, cocky as a sparrow on a dunghill. 'Well done, Roger!' Benjamin came up behind me.
    'Well done, too, Master!' I replied. 'The cowardly bastard would have killed me!' 'And then I would have killed him!'
    I stared at my master's long lugubrious face. He would have done. 'Never judge a book by its cover' they say and that axiom applied to Master Daunbey, one of England's finest swordsmen. One evening we met on a cold sea shore and fought over a woman whose heart was as black as hell, but that's a story for the future. At that time, in the Villa Albrizzi, he saved my life. Maria came hurrying up, beckoning me down. When I stopped, instead of whispering in my ear, she kissed me passionately on my cheek, blushed and ran away. 'Master Shallot!' Lord Roderigo approached.
    'Thank you,' he whispered, gesturing back at the lawn. 'Thank you,' he repeated, all hauteur gone. 'You could have killed my nephew twice; for pardoning him on the second occasion, you are truly a member of my familia. Come, let me reward you.' Now, you know old Shallot. Mention the word reward and it's like offering a carrot to a starving donkey. Still,