His Majesty issued a statement regarding the spectacle a few hours after:
We, the King, informed by our own good conscience as much as by the laws and traditions of this august Polish Crown, have found it fit that the contest of honor so announced in our presence on the Day of Saint David shall proceed unimpeded upon the conditions that follow: that the contest shall take place during daylight on the Second of March, Anno Domini 1574; that the contest shall be conducted with Hungarian sabers; that the contest shall take place beyond the walls of the Capital; that the contest shall take place no nearer than five Polish miles from the Royal Person; that the contest in no way invoke or involve ourselves or our powers beyond that which is conveyed herein. We neither endorse nor move to penalize the interested parties, Sir Jan Lacza and His Serene Highness the Imperial Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł; God will choose His victor, but such is our will. Decreed on this Saint David's Day, the First of March, Anno Domini 1574.
Someone must've told him to keep his hands off. But there's no stipulation of first blood or second or death, the bastard.
You let Mariana hold your hands. "Stanisław, I'd hate to see your hurt or…" She can't seem to say it. "It'd be too soon."
"I know," you say. "May the Lord keep me a bit longer. That's all I can hope for."
She chuckles nervously. "I hope you've still been practicing."
"Of course," you smile, willing to give her hands a squeeze. "I've already beat him once, anyway."
"What's it even to him?"
"I think he thinks he's been bested by the weakest Radziwiłł," you say. "With His help — and his help — may I prove everybody wrong today."
"God willing, husband."
"God willing."
"I'll be praying for you. I can't watch."
"Thank you, Mariana," you say, releasing her hands to go. "You're a good wife." For some reason, despite the distance, despite the stain of Eve, despite the time, you nearly say something starting with L. Odd.
She smiles. May it not be the last time you see it on this Earth.
You arrive at the appointed place and time and there's already a crowd assembled — more than a few are interested to see the so-called mild-mannered youngest of Rudy's boys handle a dust-up. The urge to prove yourself almost overcomes the nerves, to join the pantheon of fearless, battle-ready Radziwiłłowie.
It's just after dawn, the winter sun peeking over the horizon, breath lingering misty in the air. Marszowski is your second. He hands you a gleaming, well-sharpened szabla. You and Lacza alike wear your thickest furs in a bid for some protection.
Lacza swishes his blade through the air. "Hope you're ready, little prince."
"Oh, shut up," is all you say. The crowd chuckles at your dryness, but you really just can't focus on trading insults right now. The familiar feeling descends. You can indeed look him in the eye, you notice. You've unhorsed him; you reckon you can take him on foot, too. And this is something you've truly practiced for years. Praise God for Andrzej Marszowski, may he come to Jesus.
Despite your boast about killing, it seems as if this contest falls in a midpoint, all unspoken: death too great a punishment, first blood offering no satisfaction. Someone will have to yield. The presence of a priest lends attention to the fact that a surrender could come involuntarily.
You look him up and down, really take him in: your height, about ten or fifteen years older and a little portly, yet clearly strong. A classic hussar's mustache on his tough face. You don't see any scars — equally likely to be an endorsement or indictment. None of your men have heard of this obscure fellow, and your nascent sense of honor shudders at the thought of being wounded or killed by someone little better than a noble footman.
Neck and head, wrists and hands, anywhere below the thigh. These are the targets, almost glinting like metal in your mind's eye.
You've been praying all night on this in between training for it, to be a miles Christi and to be under His aegis even though a duel is, by definition, founded upon the sin of pride. A swelling in your ribcage brings you some peace, a sense of a caring eye looking down upon you. May He truly be there.
Marszowski and van Gistel pat your back, help you stretch, and give last-minute advice. "It's one thing to spar," says the former, "the real thing is a lot more about getting not hit. Remember the rhythm. It's like dancing."
Just remember the night's practice with Marszowski. Cut-guard-cut, cut-dodge-guard. No, this is not sparring at all. You're stripped down into your fighting self, the same self as yesterday, the same as how you were at the village. You stretch its skin over yours, swallow with difficulty the animal feeling, the singing muscles, the distant sound, the thudding heart.
You and Lacza drop into high squats, on your guards. He seems to expect a slash, holding his saber parallel to himself, its thin blade almost reaching back to touch his shoulder.
Oh, Hell, what to do? He smiles. "Come now," he says.
You try an overhand chop, top-left to bottom-right — easily blocked — and you manage to whip your blade down across yourself diagonally to meet his low counter-strike with a moment to spare. You try again at an overhand and the dance begins to build as you feverishly block Lacza's swings. You keep your offhand bolted to your hip, even as every instinct calls for you to raise it.
You try for another overhand, this time having the presence of mind to make it a moulinet; he flinches, darting back by the shoulders, but still makes the block. You parry his returns.
You're both still breathing through your noses as circling begins anew, guards changing in a game of mirroring, high meeting low, back to low and high and to the middle again. You start beating on each other's blades, the bout going nowhere, forehands and backhands doing nothing. You think he's sizing you up and you stare each other down in between flurries.
He leaps forward — a balestra! It's having its intended effect as your blade mirrors his imperfectly and he moves in with a lunging moulinet.
Away! Your body jerks of its own accord to make a quarter-turn and you grunt as his blade slaps harmlessly off the thickest part of your cloak — it'd have gone through your collarbone otherwise. He closes distance as you swing yourself back around; a low slash is the only thing to stop him, making him leap away with an "ah!"
Barely missed. You work for follow-through and bash at him on his left, low to high to low to high. One great swing of your saber sends the dull end of his flying into the slope of the side of his head, opening a cut. "I'm not done yet!" he exclaims.
You're losing it! What you did just now was get lucky; you realize you're forgetting your training and are swinging wild. You back up with a guard held, to the point that the crowd gives you a gentle shove back into the ring. Defensive posture. You reckon he's the better swordsman — certainly the more confident one — and you want to let him make mistakes.
"Scared?" he asks, beginning to slice at your shoulders again.
You don't answer and focus on blocking. You notice sweat beading beside the trickle of blood from his forehead. You dimly note his paunch again. You try to withstand him steadfastly.
Your moment comes when he cocks his arm back just a pinch too far; you make a move for his off-hand with a quick cut. You'll have to hope it interrupts his own strike.
You connect and see a flash of wrist-bone for the briefest of moments, your fear-slowed vision taking in the wound yawning.
Lacza roars and swears, jumping back as his slash cuts air, shaking his hand and flicking blood about. "Bastard!" he grimaces and laughs. "Can't even pick the right hand!"
But you see it in him again, what you realize you saw when you first put in a good hit on him during yesterday's tilt. That mingling of a rattled body with an arrogant mind. Now he's the one swinging wild. A mere flick of the wrist from a high guard sweeps your blade across his corresponding cheek. More blood on his face. He doesn't react.
Dammit! You feel a shock of cold before a burn of heat as he shears your forearm in a counter. One can only withstand constant attack for so long. You overextended just a bit when you nipped his face; he got you with the tip of his saber in the eyeblink it'd take to retract your slashing arm. Your tunic reddens on its sleeve with a decent bit of fabric ripped up. The pain is tolerable, and the fact you can still grip your sword means it can't be anything too serious. "It's nothing!" you hear yourself say.
You realize you both have been playing a high-cut game, focusing on swipes delivered and aimed for the ribs up. Meanwhile, Lacza's emboldened by his hit, and works at you harder than ever.
Your eyes lock on to his sword arm. A duck and a low-high cut could get him as he swings an overhand, knock the sword away and take some hand with it. You start feinting and blocking as you shuffle backwards; he laughs and you realize he must think you're losing your nerve.
Let him. You keep it at it, squatting low. He tires of the game and begins to strike and you lean in and take your chance, giving him a wide target to crash down on as you swipe upward at his sword-arm.
It connects! Something hits the side of your head but you're too fixated on the fact that you've absolutely hacked into his forearm, on the underside below the elbow. His blade slides harmlessly down you as he releases the weapon and screams. You involuntarily drop your weapon at the shout; it holds in the wound for a split-second before hitting the half-frozen ground with a thud. Blood pours out after it.Lacza bends down at his own blade, trying and failing to properly grip it with his injured other hand. He lets out a cry of frustration and claps the maimed hand over the arm-wound to little effect, cursing and hissing with pain all the while.
You lower your saber and watch. You've done it. You stare straight ahead. Victory.
He turns his back to you and heads toward his bit-chomping supporters on the sidelines, who rush out to meet him.
"Do you yield?" you call out.
"Sure!" he says over his shoulder. Heh. The crowd laughs before they roar, shouting compliments to victor and vanquished alike. You must've given them a good show. As the tunnel vision recedes, you notice money changing hands.
Marszowski and van Gistel nearly tackle you from behind, ripping your cap off. You turn around with a half-sheepish smile and realize that they're checking your head, rather than mobbing you in celebration. They look relieved.
Van Gistel smiles and searches the ground. He points. "Look, Your Serene Highness," he exclaims, "it's His Serene Highness!"
Namely, the top of your left ear. As your heartbeat slows and your breathing steadies, you realize you can feel the cooling blood on your arm, on the side of your head. You feel around and wince at a cut above your halved ear. "That was close," says Marszowski.
"Very. Got lucky," you reply.
"You better not mean in swordsmanship! You were the wolf to his bear, perfect fundamentals! Creative, too." He claps his hand on your shoulder and you forget the immoral life he leads.
"Thank you, chevalier." You look to van Gistel.
He shrugs and gives a front-toothless smile. "I only know the rapier. And stabbing bastards on the ground," he adds dryly. "But it looked very good indeed, Your Serene Highness!"
"And thank you, van Gistel." You keep poking around your head wound and your hand comes back very bloody. "Oh, poor Mariana."
"Lady Sapieha is a tough one," laughs Marszowski. "She'll live."
Maybe, not quite, it's hard to tell. She pokes around your bandages, touching the back of your hand and your wrist gently, stroking the side of your head. Her eyes are screaming but she musters up a smile. "At least you won?"
"Eh, God gave me the day. Surgeon says they're merely flesh wounds. Shame about my ear, though." You don't know and don't want to know the fate of Lacza.
"It was such a pretty ear," she says, putting on a wistful tone. You snort. "I really do mean it."
"Thank you, Mariana." There's an iron rod where your spine should be all of a sudden.
You've forgotten how to do this. Tenderness. Maybe you never knew how. Flashes at the foot of the marriage-bed, speaking in tongues and calmed by her hand. Is this something you can go to God for? "I didn't really feel anything this time around," you say. "Besides feeling like I needed to get the job done."
"You weren't scared?"
"Of course I was scared." You twist your face around like you're swishing water, searching for words. "I just wasn't thinking about how scared I was."
"Well… Do you feel bad for him? For what you did?"
[] "The entire thing's one big sin of pride."
[] "He had it coming. He got what he asked for."
[] "I wish it never came to it, I suppose."
[] "I just hope I earn some respect for this."
[] "Again, I don't really feel anything at all."
