“But it is my right to do so, as written in the ancient laws of this land, and now I am exercising that right.”
“You are correct. This is unorthodox, but it is a legal request. Well then, what weapons would you like to use?”
“Muskets.”
Another murmur of shock flitted through the gathered spectators.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” Lord Farnham turned to one of his servants, a teenage boy, who was standing behind his chair. “Bring the muskets, boy.”
The boy nodded and hurried over to a nearby tree, under which the muskets had been placed. He brought them over and handed them to the judge, who inspected each one carefully.
“They are both equal, and both working correctly,” the judge pronounced. “Contestants, come here. Hand me your swords, and take these muskets instead.”
Now Seamas's expression morphed from one of haughty arrogance into a very different expression – that of fear and panic. He was an expert swordsman – but only had rudimentary skill with a musket.
“I must... I must protest!” he spluttered, staring at his friend Lord MacNally, whose face had gone white as that of a ghost.
“This is the law,” replied the judge gravely. “If you back out of the duel now, Lord MacNally loses the wager.”
“MacNally, do something!” shouted Seamas, his voice cracking now with panic.
“I can't, you idiot!” roared MacNally. “If you don't duel, I lose! And in that case, I'll kill you myself!”
Seamas realized that there was nothing he could do now. He threw down his sword and snatched the musket rudely from the judge. Robert, however, handed his sword to the judge and took his musket with calm collectedness.
“These are the rules of this duel. You start here in the center, back to back. You will walk ten paces in opposite directions, and then I will say 'fire'. When I say that, you both turn around and shoot. If anyone turns around or fires before I say 'fire', he will lose the duel automatically, and be hanged tomorrow at dawn for cheating and cowardly conduct. Is this understood?”
Both men nodded, and then took their positions, standing back to back. Robert breathed in and out calmly, doing his best to remain collected and focused – for that was how he knew he would win this fight. He only had one shot, and he had to make it count.
But right behind him, only a few inches away, stood the man who had not only stolen his land and gold, but had also violated the woman he loved. He closed his eyes and saw Seamas kissing her, pulling her in passionately, driving his lying tongue into her mouth. He saw Seamas's hands pawing her body, groping, squeezing – and reaching inside her blouse, and fondling her breasts.
Red fury started to pump through his veins – and then panic, too, because he knew that the anger would unbalance him and cause him to lose this fight.
So, as the judge gave the signal for them to start walking, he began to think of other things.
He remembered how he and Susan made love. He thought of the scent of her hair, the look in her eyes when she gazed deeply into his, the feel of her small, soft hands in his.
And he thought of the future they would have. The manor house they would live in if he won this duel. The many children and grandchildren who would grow up happy here as they grew old and gray – but still head over heels in love – in one another's company.
He felt as if he was walking in a dream. His focus was now razor sharp; he was committed not to winning this duel, but to building a life together with Susan, and the first step started here. Now.
“Fire!” he heard the judge say, but it sounded as if the voice was echoing from a long way away.
He felt his body moving, but it was almost as if he was no longer in control of his actions. He spun around on the ball of his foot, raised the musket to his shoulder, and then took quick but careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
He saw the bright flare of gunpowder from the muzzle, heard the boom of the explosion and felt the kick of the butt against his shoulder – and then saw a flare from his opponent’s musket too.
He felt something; a burning sensation across his cheek. But if he was to die, he wouldn't have felt that. He would be dead already.
He saw Seamas drop his musket and grip his chest. A hole was there – right where his heart was, and a huge crimson stain was spreading fast across his white shirt. Seamas fell to the floor, gasping and panting as he took his final breaths. Robert dropped his musket and raised a hand to his cheek. It was wet with blood, but Seamas's musket ball had only skimmed it.