The Duel

A short story about a scoundrel with the heart of a gentleman, and the duel he never expected.

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Jonathan pulled out the large blade, extending the hilt in Mathew’s direction.

“I’m doing what?”

“You challenged him to a duel, Mathew, what did you expect?”

Mathew un-holstered his pistol and waved it in the air.

Jonathan chuckled, “That would be far too easy for the likes of you.”

“Yeah well, I ain’t that handy with a sword. Wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Ah so you did have it,” Jonathan teased.

“What?”

“A thought. Before you agreed to this act of suicide.” He leaned closer to Mathew, “you are going to die, you know that?”

Mathew smirked, “I ain’t intendin’ on it, no.”

He took a hard look at the dark brown leather grip around the handle, spinning his pistol back into its housing on his hip. Finding his throat caught, he grabbed a hold of the sword, turning the blade upwards, watching it gleam in the light. Jonathan unsheathed his own sword, approaching Mathew cautiously.

“In case you are wondering,” he began, flexing his sword out in front of him, “you should plan on sticking him with that end.” He pointed to the tip.

Mathew gave him a look, “I may be ignorant as to the ways of the sword, but I ain't stupid.”

“Yes, well, one can not assume too much. Now, hold it tightly, one handed if you can.”

They worked late into the night, their feet crunching in the fresh snow, kept warm only by the constant movement and the flames of a nearby campfire. When dawn let slip its early light over the horizon, both men lay asleep. Mathew was first to wake, as Jonathan found him hunched over the dying embers of the fire, lost in contemplation.

“The hour approaches,” Jonathan sighed.

“I'm aware.”

“Perhaps we should practice a bit more?”

Mathew scoffed, rising from his seat at the fire. “I don't reckon it would help none. I'm as ready as I ever will be.”

They made their way to the agreed location, coming upon his opponent, Lord Grantham, dressed in his finest gear, Lady Tressleton standing in a nearby tree grove, keeping the Lord's horse company. She gave Mathew a sideways glance, her concern growing. Lord Grantham insisted she come along, still bitter from the spat the day before and more determined than ever to make her suffer her spurning of his affections. For if he could not have her, no one would. Especially not a low born ruffian such as Mathew. No, he could not even bear that thought at all.

Lord Grantham strutted to the starting point, expression full of contempt and anger. “Let's get this over with Mr. Richland,” he bellowed.

Mathew removed his hat and walked to where Lady Tressleton stood guard. “Ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind holding onto this, I’d be much obliged.”

She grasped the rim gently, tears beginning to line her cheeks.

He held a hand up, wiping the water from her face and bringing her gaze to his. “Now don’t you go worrying none. I ain’t the type worth fretting over.”

He pulled away and she grasped his hand. “Come back to me,” she whispered. He nodded before slipping back to the starting point.

“I wonder what she’ll think of you when you’re on your back in your own blood,” Grantham snickered, straightening his gloves.

Mathew’s lips tightened, “Try it.”

Tension rising, and both men facing, Jonathan begrudgingly took the role of referee.

“Now,” he began, “both of you have set upon terms. Are those terms still in agreement?”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Grantham ushered.

Mathew nodded, his eyes narrowed at his opponent.

Jonathan let out a breath, “very well. Swords at the ready!”

Mathew took hold of his sword, watching Lord Grantham remove his own, giving it a swing or two before adjusting his stance. To say Mathew was nervous, was an understatement. He was petrified.

“No backing down now,” he muttered to himself.

Swift as the wind, as soon as Jonathan backed away, Lord Grantham came swinging, narrowly missing Mathew’s nose. He turned, craning his neck, the hair dangling on his forehead rushed aside by the sudden shockwave of air. Spinning on his heels, Lord Grantham came at him again, this time making contact with Mathew’s arm. Fresh blood streamed down Mathew’s bicep as he cried out, clutching the wound with his free hand. His face grimaced in pain.

As Lord Grantham paused to recover, briefly reveling in his small victory, Mathew looked over at Lady Tressleton, resounding that it would be the last time. Her eyes were pained, but every bit just as beautiful as the first time they met. Her hair strewn about her shoulders, her soft lip between the edge of her teeth, she was more a lovely sight than ever before. She had a tight grip on the outer layer of her dress, doing everything she could not to pace in panic.

“She is beautiful isn’t she,” Grantham continued. “I’ll bet even more so with her clothes off.”

It was that moment, Mathew solidified, rooting his feet further to the ground beneath, set on meeting his fate head on. When Lord Grantham lunged again, Mathew was ready, letting Grantham take the high aim so that he could duck under, piercing the tip of his blade through Grantham's side, bringing the mighty Lord to his knees with a great holler, his sword clattering to the ground.

A gasp from Lady Tressleton echoed in the clearing. Blundering in amazement that he had the upper hand, Mathew approached the injured Lord Grantham and pressed the blood coated blade to his neck.

“I reckon now is the part where I kill you. My how that would be easy to do.”

Lord Grantham swallowed, his eyes widening.

Without another word, Mathew threw his sword down and kicked it away, his breath heavy. As satisfied as he might have been with the thought, and though he’d kill a man for less, he’d rather see him live with the shame. Jonathan rushed to his side, Lady Tressleton not far behind. “Are you all right?”

Mathew nodded, a grateful hand on Jonathon’s shoulder.

Straightening up, he turned to Lady Tressleton as she reset his hat, smiling. He took her in his embrace, kissing her deeply, stroking her blushing cheeks as they began the walk back together.

Lord Grantham’s voice resounded behind them, “Lady Tressleton, you belong to me!”

“Oh dear,” Jonathan whispered.

Mathew’s face scrunched as he twisted around, yanked his pistol out of its holster and fired one round, hitting Lord Grantham in the leg. Another scream of pain and he buckled to the ground, face in the dirt. Mathew replaced his pistol and knelt over him, the anger boiling.

“I may be an outlaw, a thief, and a scoundrel. Hell, some even call me a criminal. And there’s a whole mess of better men in this world. But I don’t take kindly to types like you treating women like our good Lady Tressleton here with disrespect.”

“She’s mine,” Lord Grantham huffed.

“She ain’t nobody’s but hers. And while my handling a sword ain’t that great, my pistol aim is the best in the country. You best remember that.”

Giving Grantham one last tip of his hat, Mathew stood and walked to where Lord Grantham’s horse was tied, undoing the reins. Holding out his hand, he beckoned to Lady Tressleton. She took it gladly, lifting her dress to step up into the stirrup, settling in the saddle as Mathew tugged on the leads, clicking his tongue.

“Hey,” Grantham shouted, “that’s my horse!”

Keeping his back to him, he continued up the path, yelling over his shoulder, “then you best get yourself another horse.”

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