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Touché
Immediately following Divine Right.
Touché (too -sha ) -Used to acknowledge a hit in fencing, a successful criticism or an effective point in an argument.
A heart-felt thank-you to rann; your insight and understanding of the characters and their interactions made my swordfight caper more genuine.
“So tell me, Lord John Roxton, how ever did you become so adept with a quarter staff?”
The grass in the meadow flattened in waves with the passing of the sultry wind. It had been an uneventful trip back to the treehouse after having helped King Sigurd regain his throne. They were all tired from their exertions the previous day and the long night’s celebration as the village toasted both the king’s return and the announcement of the date of his nuptials. Conversation had been understandably subdued on their return journey. The explorers were strung out in a long line, Veronica leading at a brisk pace, Lord Roxton in the rear. Marguerite Krux fell back beside him to satisfy her curiosity.
“For a ‘thoroughly modern warrior’, you mean?” the hunter’s eyes twinkled in remembrance of her earlier teasing.
“Well, yes. Don’t tell me Winchester and Cambridge are still giving instruction in the handling of maces and lances.”
“As part of a classical education? Not formally perhaps, but boys will be boys. Before I went away to school I spent many an hour with my fellow Merry Men fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham in the forest on my family’s estate. And though I never fought a joust until we met Gawain, I often imagined myself as a knight-errant at good King Arthur’s court.”
“Taking on the groom’s children hardly qualifies one to fight a real knight.” Marguerite’s voice held a mocking lilt that typified their repartee.
“Don’t forget, I did train as an army officer. Swordsmanship is still part of the regimen. They say it builds character and teaches military strategy.”
“Strange to think that handling a sword would be a requisite skill for life in the 20th century. I’m afraid my education was sadly lacking.”
“So, don’t the women at Oxford College take fencing in their Sports classes?”
“I –um- studied rather informally there, just a few classes – Classical languages and the like. But a gentleman I once knew did teach me the rudiments of fencing.”
“With an epée, I suppose?”
“Well, initially, yes.” Her slight smirk was acknowledged by a quirk of Lord Roxton’s eyebrow. “It appears, however, that swordplay on this plateau is a decidedly more rollicking affair.”
“Yes, the parry and thrust of the rapier is of little use against the broadsword’s slash.”
“I’m afraid I need to improve my skills.”
“So I noticed - in your duel with Hippolyta.” He chuckled until he glimpsed the brunette’s scowl. “You’re not still upset because you were bested by that Amazon? She is quite an amazing warrior. She even had me at a disadvantage.”
“And, in my defence, I explained that to Veronica. However, she continues to point out that she defeated two warriors while I was flat on my back with that woman’s boot at my throat. She forgets- the real problem was her plan. It would never have worked.”
“We’ll go to the Amazon village. They know me. They’ll let us in.” Veronica was thinking on her feet, formulating a plan to rescue the men from being turned over to the waiting cannibals.
“And then what? There will be two of us against a bloody troop of Amazons.” Marguerite was frustrated by Veronica’s approach. Why did the woman have to meet everything head-on? Couldn’t she use skills other than her fighting ability and her indomitable spirit? There was any number of ways to achieve one’s goals without butting heads with every bloodthirsty warrior on the plateau.
“What if we tell them we want to join them? Then we can scout around, find the men and get out of there.” Veronica was eager to take some sort of action. Standing around here was just inviting an attack by cannibals.
Marguerite sighed at the flawed strategy. “That won’t help. The men will be guarded.”
“Fine then, you stay here and I’ll go in alone.”
“Veronica!, Are you crazy? That will never work. You’ll be killed or thrown in prison. The men will be dinner for the cannibals. And on my own out here, I’ll end up as a midnight snack.”
The blonde simply set her jaw, turned and walked away. Marguerite hurried to catch up.
“Wait for me.”
“So are you going to help me or not?” Veronica didn’t quite trust the brunette to follow any plan that wasn’t her own.
“Okay, we’ll do it your way, but let me do the talking. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll make the plans.”
“She never listens to me. No-one does. Besides, my plan worked out just fine.” Roxton heard an almost wistful tone beneath her grumbling. It was a rare sign of vulnerability in the defensive heiress. The hunter almost felt a little guilty.
The enigmatic woman rarely made him feel guilty anymore. He had made a conscious effort to make sure she didn’t. He had chosen to distance himself from her a while ago and assured himself that he was making a success of it. Roxton had been dismayed when he had realized that he was forming an attachment to a woman who was about as cold and manipulative as anyone he had met. And that kind of woman was not someone he was going to fall for.
It had taken a long while to get over his brother’s death, but eventually he had erected a barrier of indifference, built of equal parts Buddhist philosophy, a sense of duty, high living and danger. He had no desire to open his heart to anyone again. Unintentionally he had come to enjoy Marguerite’s presence - her wit, good looks, becoming figure, even her fiery temper entranced him. They had gotten too tangled up with each other for a while until he came to his senses and remembered that Marguerite was the last kind of person he wanted to let under his guard. She would just rip a big hole in his heart and move on without a backward glance. It was the nature of the beast. And his heart was nicely healed if perhaps a little scarred.
Marguerite continued to gripe. “It’s not my fault that I can’t handle a sword like she does.”
She had a point. In this dangerous environment self-defence was a skill that they all had to develop. Training his fellow-explorers fell to him as the expert on survival in the group.
“Fear not, milady. If we have an idle hour at the treehouse, I will teach you a few tricks of the knightly trade. Perhaps Veronica will be more respectful when she sees how proficient you become.” He sketched a comic bow.
“Hah! I’m afraid that gaining Veronica’s respect is more than I could ever aspire to. It’s a lucky thing I have no interest in doing so. However, I am interested in surviving until we find a way off this dreadful plateau so I may take you up on your offer.”
~~~~
“No, no, no. Don’t dab at it like you’re a painting a picture. It’s a sabre. Use the edge.”
His pupil abandoned her attempts to master the complicated ‘fleche’ manoeuvre he’d been teaching her and lunged at her target with a savage thrust. Her wooden sword imbedded itself in the heart of the crude straw dummy. Soaked with perspiration, her pulled-back hair frizzy with dampness, Marguerite levelled a murderous glare at her tormentor.
“I am not ‘dabbing’ at it, Lord Roxton, I just - rrrr” She broke off in frustration.
He met her furious gaze with a sheepish look. “Marguerite, you’re doing fine. I’m just pushing you to work at it a little harder because-” The fact was Lord Roxton could think of no good reason for criticism. The often reluctant Miss Krux had been diligent to the extreme. She was a quick learner and far more athletic than he had realized. “- well, because you could be quite good at this.”
Slightly mollified, she tugged the sword from its target. “Just don’t forget that I’m not a common foot-soldier in your battalion, Major Lord Roxton.”
“Company, actually. I commanded a company.”
“Only a company? How modest of you to admit it!” Her face softened into a teasing smile for a moment before becoming serious once again. “So what am I supposed to do?” she quizzed, determined to master this new skill.
Roxton picked up the other mock sword he had fashioned from a piece of wood. He demonstrated the actions in slow motion as he explained what he was doing.
“In a real battle, the sabre is just part of your arsenal. A skilled fighter uses his feet to trip up his opponent, his fists and his body to throw him off balance. The blade delivers the coup de grâce. Here I’ll show you”
In slow motion they exchanged blows. As he parried an attack, Marguerite’s sword slid off Roxton’s. She teetered forward, a little off-balance. Sensing a weakness the seasoned fighter put his shoulder into her side as he passed by and his pupil sprawled awkwardly onto the ground. Marguerite laid there face-down with Roxton’s wooden blade patting her backside.
“That’s not fair. You’re a lot bigger than I am.” She rolled over onto her back, smacking the hilt of her mock-sword on the ground in vexation.
“Ah, you didn’t tell me you only wanted to defend yourself against people your own size.” He cast an appreciative look at the slim woman now propped up on her elbows, her face filled with indignation. “You’re not going to find too many opponents like that.”
She slumped onto her back and looked at the clouds scudding across the sky. “This is useless.”
“Now, now, my dear, don’t lose heart. Use your strengths. Bigger opponents are often slow and clumsy. You must take advantage of your balance and leverage. Don’t face the assault head-on. Give ground, deflect the blow, wait out the first fury of the attack.” He demonstrated as she sat up, nodding.
They practised for another half hour. Finally Roxton called a halt to the lesson. His pupil was so tired her legs quivered and her sword tip sagged toward the ground. He had expected her to call it quits long ago, but she had proved more stubborn than he could have imagined.
“Shall we do this again sometime?” he asked, eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“You’d better believe it. We’ll keep at it until you’re the one sitting in the dirt.”
The determined words of the dark-haired woman drew a soft chuckle from Roxton. He turned and led the way back to elevator.
The next day’s lesson was a short one. The heiress was so stiff that she could hardly move, but she insisted on instruction. The modern warrior told her about tactics and strategy. She eased herself onto a tree round stood on end to watch him demonstrate standard fencing moves. She noticed many similarities between the cut and thrust of battle and the give and take of espionage. A dance was what it was, but with a victor.
Every day for a week they trained, Marguerite growing stronger and more skilled with each session. At the end they would spar, Roxton shouting instructions as he set her through her paces.
“Attack, attack, that’s it. Footwork. Good.” He parried her blow and counterattacked. “Disengage. Then riposte.” Marguerite deftly moved Roxton’s blade aside with a circular motion of her own blade, followed it up with a lightning attack. “Feint. Feint. Now lunge. Pass by,” he urged as she followed her sword, knocking his sword-arm aside with her shoulder.
“Nice corps-a-corps!” He grinned as he regained his balance. A devilish smile broke out on the woman’s face and Roxton was momentarily transfixed. In that brief moment of distraction, she came in under his guard with a solid slash to his midsection. As he doubled up in pain, he felt her boot at his shoulder. Before he could react he was knocked flat on his back, his arm wrapped around his gut. He gasped for air and made to scramble to his feet. He was prevented from rising by a sword tip at his chest. He looked up to see an exultant Marguerite, cheeks flushed with colour.
“Do you yield?” Roxton was amused to hear the authoritative way Marguerite spoke the old-fashioned words. She must have practised them more than once.
“No fair. I’ve never had an opponent who used her feminine wiles in a swordfight.” He grinned, the words ragged as he tried to catch his breath. “I yield, I yield,” he yelped as her blunt sword jabbed him in the chest.
“You told me to use my strengths.” She smiled, putting aside her sword and extending a hand. He clasped it and pulled himself to his feet. As he rose they ended up standing so close together that Roxton could smell the jasmine scent she wore. He stepped back hurriedly, bending in a near-bow. “Congratulations, milady! I think you can hold your own in a swordfight now.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She turned in a half-pirouette, tossing her head in a way that captivated his attention. Careful, Johnnie-boy, he warned himself, don’t get carried away.
Every chance they could find to steal away from their other chores, Roxton would put Marguerite through her paces. Marguerite became increasingly skilful with the wooden weapon, showing a ruthless quickness and verve for combat. She usually wore a smile of such fierce enjoyment that Roxton found it quite unnerving to fence with her.
Malone annoyed Marguerite by saying that he was going to describe her in his journals as a ‘modern-day Mademoiselle de Maupin’. When Challenger scoffed at the journalist comparing her to Gautier’s heroine, Ned vigorously defended himself, insisting that the Frenchman’s novel was based on a real 17th century woman – an opera star and swordswoman who once defeated three men in a duel. Eventually Challenger allowed that Ned’s expertise ‘at least in this one area eclipsed his own’. It was a sure sign of Marguerite’s growing expertise that even Veronica grudgingly admitted she was getting pretty good.
Mostly though the jungle native merely grumbled about the amount of time Roxton was spending on Marguerite’s training. She would walk away shaking her head at the two of them. The jungle woman felt a little wistful when she thought back to the time when the explorers first took up residence in the treehouse. Back then Malone used to take her out to teach her how to use a rifle. Though she soon dismissed firearms as weapons unsuitable for her, she had enjoyed the time they had spent together. Those days seemed a long time ago.
***
A few days later, Roxton sat propped against a tree, his head tilted forward to shade his eyes from the mid-morning sun. He had put off his foray to hunt for small game so he could mark his pupil’s progress. He had encouraged Marguerite to practice alone the last while, mastering the art of visualizing an opponent’s attack and reacting. He had promised to look at her performance and offer some advice. The hunter stretched his long legs out in front of him, hands behind his head and watched. His pupil feinted and sliced at her imaginary foe. She was as graceful as a dancer, he realized.
“I don’t have any power this way.” Marguerite sounded very cross as she made a back-handed slash through the air. ”When I keep moving, I can’t put any strength behind my swing.”
A quiet drawl issued from the reclined hunter. “Your strength isn’t strength, Marguerite. You’re never going to overpower a larger adversary.” Through lidded eyes, he saw her settle back into her rhythm. She was a study in subtlety and deception, rarely showing her opponent an opening. He hoped a little of this technique would carry over to her approach to fisticuffs. In hand-to-hand combat she always seemed to launch her whole body at an attacker. In a couple of skirmishes he had seen her roundhouse swings connect with an unsuspecting jaw. The victim had usually gone down for the count, but the sight of her grimacing and shaking her hand afterwards had him fearful she’d broken her small fist on her victim’s hard skull.
A little smile twitched the corner of his lip as he recalled her reaction when Hippolyta had knocked the sword from her hand. Without a pause she had staggered the Amazon with a right hook. What a spitfire! Stop thinking about her, he scolded himself, you know she’s trouble. He had sat here fascinated, watching her practice and now it was likely too late for him to find any game. With that, he rose from the ground, pushed his hat back on his head and announced that he was going. Marguerite leaned on her makeshift sword as she watched him enter the elevator. What was wrong with him?
As Marguerite looked after his retreating figure, Veronica brushed by her carrying a basket of vegetables from the garden.
“Still at it, are you? You do know it’s your week for maintenance in the treehouse? And that Ned and Roxton brought up poles to replace the railings that are rotting. They’ve been sitting there with people tripping over them for a couple of days now.”
“I was planning to do that later today.” Marguerite protested. She received a long sceptical look from the blonde beauty who continued on her way to the treehouse. “We were practicing now because Roxton’s going - out hunting – later.” She subsided as the leather-clad figure strode out of earshot.
She sure doesn’t like me much, Marguerite mused. She sometimes thought that, if Veronica wasn’t always so suspicious of her, they could get along rather well. Marguerite admired the way the jungle-born woman could handle herself in the dangers of this plateau. There was a single-minded sureness about her that Marguerite quite envied. It had been a long while, if ever, since she herself had seen the world so dramatically divided into right and wrong. Her own world was very complicated – so many shades of gray that even she had trouble discerning the light from the dark. It was a tremendous revelation to be here where all of her companions seemed so sure of themselves in their dealing with other denizens of the plateau, so convinced that they were carrying the banner of righteousness. She could almost believe such a world existed.
~~~~~
The little clearing was about a mile from the treehouse, far enough to afford Marguerite a little privacy but close enough to find refuge fairly quickly if pursued by a hungry dinosaur. Marguerite had come upon it some time ago when exploring with Roxton. It was a lovely setting, a place where the stream widened into a series of rocky pools. The meadow around it had been covered with a rambling flowering plant, the magenta blossoms attracting bees. The whole scene had been tranquil, even a little romantic if one were inclined toward that kind of fanciful notion. She had come back a few times, occasionally to gather berries, more often just to be alone. This last week she had come here twice to practise her swordsmanship. After Veronica had challenged her the previous day, Marguerite had made sure that today she would work on her fencing skills away from the jungle native’s critical eye.
Veronica followed Marguerite’s faint trail. The heiress might not be purposely covering her tracks but she was a natural at it. Only the heel on her boot left a distinctive mark, probably a loose nail. Marguerite had been shirking her domestic duties of late and Veronica was tired of picking up the slack. As far as she was concerned, even this sudden interest in learning to use a sword was merely a tactic to avoid work. And as usual the scheming brunette had won over Roxton. The man couldn’t see through her ploys. Veronica would have to deal with Marguerite on her own. Before she went to gather fruit she would talk to her and point out that chores were still waiting to be done at the treehouse. Ahead the trees opened up into a little clearing. The dark-haired woman was once more skirmishing with an imaginary foe. Veronica could hardly wait to have a few words with her.
~~~
Marguerite had responded to Veronica’s disapproving tone with icy silence. She had pivoted on her heel and marched off toward the fallen log at the edge of the clearing where she had left her pack. She seethed at the idea that the blunt-spoken jungle woman could dictate to her what she should do and when. She stopped for a moment to take a long drink from her canteen and calm down. It wasn’t wise to be upset. It made a person oblivious to the dangers of the jungle. She’d learned that lesson long ago. Marguerite watched Veronica leave the clearing. She shouldered her pack and started on the return trip home. Suddenly she heard raised voices. Veronica!
She hurried across the clearing then slowed to a stealthy walk as she neared the sound. Eventually she crept to a spot where she could see the blonde woman, held at the elbows by two unsavoury looking fellows while a man dressed in tanned leather evaluated his prize.
“When my scouts said there was a lone woman seen here at this clearing, I hadn’t expected to come across you - the child of the plateau. Selling you will bring me a nice profit.”
“You slimy bastard, let me go. I’ll never be anyone’s slave. I’m warning you - I’ll be back to make you pay for this.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make sure your buyer lives a long way from here. You’ll be too busy trying to stay alive to think about revenge. In time, you’ll forget who I am. If you’re lucky you’ll forget who you are.” His mouth widened in a vulgar smile.
Veronica didn’t bother to answer, just tried to twist out of the grip of her captors. They were ready for her manoeuvre. The leader backhanded Veronica across the mouth, snapping her head backwards with the blow.
“Quit your squirming. I think I’m going to tame you a little before I sell you, sweetie, but here’s not the place.” He glanced at one of the other slavers. “Tie her hands; we’ll lose our trail in the river and head north toward the mountains. Then I’m going to have a few quiet moments with Miss High ‘n Mighty here. If I feel like it, you might get to have her afterwards.” He turned to the other. “Take a look around here. See if there’s anything interesting left behind. Then head back to the main camp. Make sure no one can track you. We’ll meet you there.”
With a painful tug on her hair, the leader pulled a resistant Veronica stumbling after him. The other guard grabbed her upper arm and yanked forward as well. Marguerite lost sight of her as she was dragged away into the jungle.
Anxiously she held her position hunkered in the underbrush as the remaining slaver walked back toward her. Passing by the concealed heiress he took a circuit around the clearing then crouched down as he examined the footprints and flattened grass. He turned his head back to where he had come from and where Marguerite huddled in the brush. Marguerite shrugged off her pack then quietly lifted the flap of her holster open. She eased her pistol out, apprehensive that the sharp eyes of the slaver might see the minute movement. The slaver pulled a hefty club from his belt. Marguerite was startled to see such a heavy weapon wielded by the slight man. Cautiously he moved directly toward Marguerite’s hiding place. It was obvious he had picked up her tracks. Marguerite was leery about firing her pistol with the other slavers near enough to hear it. Hopefully the threat of the gun would be enough.
As he neared she rose silently from the ferns, her pistol levelled at his heart. He froze for an instant, then ran toward her, the club raised menacingly above his shoulder. Great, she thought, a slaver that didn’t know about firearms! As the club descended she sidestepped the first blow then she moved toward him and pressed the gun into his belly. Muffling the sound with her own body she discharged the weapon. The man stumbled back a step. His club skidded off her shoulder as she ducked. In the same motion the thick chunk of wood continued its downward momentum and knocked the revolver out of her hand. Her pistol clattered to the rocky ground between them. What was keeping the man upright, she wondered? She’d shot him at point blank range! Before Marguerite could retrieve her fallen weapon, her opponent slammed his club down on it in a heavy blow. Pieces of metal flew off as the pistol cartwheeled away. The club split with the impact. He turned toward the unarmed woman, the splintered cudgel in his hand.
Marguerite scrambled away, alarmed that the gut-shot slaver was still on his feet. A mad dash to her pack and she came up with the wooden sword she been practicing with. The man raggedly pursued her, the small black-rimmed hole in his abdomen oozing a little blood. Grey-faced he wobbled a little as he advanced. Poised wide-legged to maintain his failing balance, he raised his club to launch a blow at her head. She hacked at his wrist with her mock-sword, knocking the club off-line. As he lurched forward, he fell to his knees and collapsed, his face on Marguerite’s boot.
“About time!” she muttered in vexation. Looking at the exit wound the little pistol bullet had made, she knew this slaver would not be bothering her any longer. Marguerite scrambled to retrieve the gun.
The pistol had been badly damaged. The hammer was broken off and the trigger guard bent. The ivory grip had been shattered into shards. It would have to be repaired before it could be fired again. She was left with a play sword as her only weapon.
Marguerite was torn. As she picked up the pieces of her ruined pistol, she weighed her options. Without a weapon her wisest course was to run back to the treehouse to get help. Roxton would be able to track the slavers and their firepower could easily turn the tables. But the heiress had seen the leader’s leer and heard his words. She would bet her last pound that the hoodlum would assault his captive before the day was much older. Any delay on her part would lead to a violation that Veronica would find hard to bear.
But how could she make any difference with a broken pistol and a phoney sword? Her one advantage would be the element of surprise. The slavers must not have heard the muffled gunshot or they would have been back by now. With a little luck it might be possible to overwhelm the unsuspecting kidnappers in a sneak attack. If she followed them now, she would at least be able to spot them when they left the stream. If instead she went back to the treehouse it would take Roxton a while to pick up the trail. It was a faint hope but it seemed to her that it was Veronica’s best chance. Her mind made up, she hurried after the kidnappers and their captive.
Veronica stumbled, prodded forward once more by the slaver’s rough shove. The jungle-wise woman made sure that she scuffed the ground, broke off branches and, in general, made as obvious a trail as she could. At first the slavers had punished her for her clumsiness, now it seemed as if they were more intent on speed. She was confident Roxton would be able to read it clearly. When she had been captured, Veronica had caught a glimpse of Marguerite walking toward them then ducking under cover. She now could only hope that she made good time getting back to the treehouse.
Suddenly the leader hauled her to a stop. A swift punch to her unprotected jaw and the blonde’s legs turned to jelly. Before she collapsed, the leader put his shoulder under her hips and lifted her off the ground. He turned to his lieutenant, “Cover our trail and set up camp here by the stream. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
The man nodded and watched his boss slip through the brush, his progress not slowed at all by the woman’s unconscious body on his shoulder. There was a chance his leader would let him have a go at the captive later. Better not to get his hopes too high; the son of a bitch had a habit of changing his mind when it came to sharing. He cut a branch and swept the leaves across the trail.
***
The heiress thanked her keen eyesight and the little wood lore she had picked up from Roxton and Veronica. She had caught a glimpse of her quarry when they left the stream but then she fell back and followed them out of eyeshot. There had been all sorts of small traces of her prey and she had no fear of losing their trail. She froze in mid-step as she heard voices close in front of her. She crept closer so she could listen to their voices and huddled under the cover of a large bush to hear the leader give directions to cover the trail.
Great, she thought, to get to Veronica, I’m going to have to go through this one first. And dispatch him quietly. After a couple of minutes of fidgety waiting, she eased through the jungle toward the slaver.
She glimpsed the henchman pulling supplies out of his pack. He moved to the edge of the clearing and began cutting saplings, likely for a fire or a lean-to. Marguerite followed surreptitiously, keeping trees between her and her quarry. As she tiptoed closer, she took her pistol out of her holster and reversed it to use as a blackjack. She spied a fallen branch and, sticking her pistol back in her belt, hefted the improvised weapon. Happy with its feel, she closed the distance between her and her prey.
Marguerite brought the tree limb savagely down on the head and shoulder of the unsuspecting slaver. He staggered but managed to right himself and turn toward his attacker. He pulled out his sword and prepared to chop down the slim figure behind him, but faltered, his eyesight blurred with the force of the blow he’d taken. As it cleared he saw his antagonist was a woman. He grunted with anger and lunged, but his hesitation had allowed Marguerite to ready her club in self-defence. His bull-rush took him right past her as she twisted and stepped back, her footwork a tribute to Roxton’s training. Her opponent stumbled to a stop, his exposed back a vulnerable target. She aimed a blow at the back of his head, then another as he crashed to the ground. These oafs had skulls of stone! Thank heavens this one hadn’t made a lot of noise that would have alerted the other slaver. She picked up the man’s sword and swung it experimentally. Not too heavy. She might be able to manage it.
The semi-conscious man let out a low moan. The heiress went over to the man’s pack and brought back a rope. In minutes, she had tied and gagged the unresisting prisoner and set out to find the trail of the slave leader and his captive.
~~~
Her hands tied behind her back, still dizzy from the sucker punch she had received, Veronica was helpless to protect herself as her captor heaved her from his shoulder onto the grass of the riverbank. She landed heavily, stunned by the impact. As she fought to catch her breath, she felt her hands released from behind her back then retied in front of her. She heard the pounding of wood on wood then her hands were roughly raised over her head and fastened to a stake. She was starting to recover her senses and struggled as he reached down to tie down her feet. The slaver responded with an elbow to her solar plexus. As she heaved and gasped to regain her breath once more, both her feet were staked down as well. She looked in fury at the slaver who leered down at her. Fighting a chill of panic for what was about to happen, she put all her efforts into loosening the bonds that held her hands.
“Don’t fight me, honey. I can make you be quiet.” With that, the burly slaver pulled a sharp hunting knife and squatted down by her side.
Marguerite stopped behind a near-by tree, the scene before her raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Veronica was helpless, tied down but defiant nonetheless. The big slaver took out a knife and bent toward his captive. He ran the blade down her front and paused at her belly. Marguerite may have had the advantage of surprise but she realized that she had run out of time.
She closed on the man as quickly and quietly as she could. She gripped her stolen sword with both hands intent on taking the man’s head off before he even realized she was there. Maybe he heard her boots make a little noise or maybe he saw a look of recognition in Veronica’s eyes, but something alerted the kidnapper. He sprang to his feet and wheeled to face his attacker. In the same motion he pulled out his sword and assumed a ready posture.
Marguerite stumbled to a stop before she impaled herself on the slaver’s sword. She instinctively took up a fencer’s ready position, rejecting the doubt and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. Marguerite grimaced in disgust. Getting into a real swordfight with this devil was the last thing I wanted. She’d prepared long and hard to learn to use a sword, but never had any conviction she could defeat a powerful, ruthless enemy. Now here she was, fighting for her life - hers and Veronica’s.
Marguerite covered her alarm with a pleasant smile and a flippant introduction.
“Sorry I’m late for the party.” The slave leader was momentarily nonplussed by the woman’s unexpected gambit. “Shame on you, Veronica, for keeping this handsome fellow for yourself.”
Veronica craned her head awkwardly to see what was happening. She was amazed that help had come so quickly. Roxton must have been on his way out to find them when Marguerite went for help. But she couldn’t see him. Where was he?
The slaver grunted in surprise. Then a lewd grin split his face. He’d found himself another fine-looking female. If he didn’t end up sticking her with his sword, she’d make a nice prize. He called for his lieutenant even though he wouldn’t need his help to make this arrogant woman crawl. If she put up a fight, he’d slice her into pieces. He took two steps, slowly extending his sabre, tapping her sword tip down toward the ground. Curse her, she had Argor’s sword, he noticed, Looks like I won’t be getting any help from him. Angered, he feigned a jab at the woman’s gut then brought the sword down in a violent overhand swing at her head.
Their swords clashed metal-on-metal above her head. Marguerite’s weapon was driven downwards by the fury of the blow. She stumbled back as her own sword rebounded toward her head. The flat of the blade bounced hard against her skull, knocking off her hat and bringing instant tears to her eyes. Her ears were buzzing and her scalp tingled. The brunette was amazed to find she was still upright.
“Can’t we discuss this like two rational people?”
In response, her opponent drew his blade back to press his advantage. The beleaguered brunette twisted her body sideways in a desperate parry. She absorbed two more ferocious blows with the strength of her arms. Panic gripped her. She didn’t have a chance. He was too big, too strong.
Deep in her mind a voice whispered. Don’t match power with power. Deflect. Use your strengths. She stepped a little aside on the next blow and circled to her left. The slaver chased her, swinging with abandon. She was moving more confidently now and as he took a wicked backhanded slash at her midsection, she slipped away and knocked his sword downward as it passed in front of her. Instantly she sprang forward and slid her sword over his guard. The sharp tip gouged a slice across his upper arm. Angered, the man rained blows at her as she gave ground hurriedly, almost running backwards.
Veronica watched the uneven match in horror. It was becoming obvious that Marguerite was her only rescuer. Marguerite’s opponent was strong and skilful. One blow from that murderous sword and the heiress would be crippled or killed. The dark-haired woman was barely staving off the slaver’s attacks; it was only a matter of time till one of those vicious sword-strokes landed. What had Marguerite been thinking to follow her on her own? She wrenched at her bonds to no effect. Tears of frustration leaked from her eyes.
Marguerite was starting to feel more comfortable. The sight of the man’s blood streaming down his arm raised her confidence. She could see that he was breathing heavily, his sword tip held a little lower than before. Roxton had told her to look for such signs to gauge the time to attack. The slaver lunged, she parried, he countered, she stepped out of his line of attack and her sword clipped his chin as he took a couple of off-balance steps. She launched her first attack, a croisé that Roxton had worked on with her. The slaver barely deflected the blow and for the first time a look of doubt warred with the anger and frustration that had reddened his face. Blood dripped from his chin.
A few more ripostes and parries later, she freed her blade and slashed at his ribs. Only a last-second backward leap saved him. A triumphant smile broke out on her face. She had him. She knew it.
The slaver saw the smile. Stunned disbelief washed over him followed by deep humiliation and anger. He could not lose. No slip of a woman was going to best him in a swordfight. He changed his tactics, let her come to him, parrying and giving ground, feigning exhaustion. He waited for that one opening. He would slaughter her in that instant.
Marguerite was almost beginning to enjoy the duel – skill against crude power. She was pushing him back. Her opponent was clearly spent, just hanging on. She began to plan how she would finish him.
The slim woman put together a complex series of moves, coming at him with a backhand slash at chest level. Suddenly the slaver’s blade came in under her moving sword, sweeping toward her midsection. Marguerite reacted instinctively, desperately bringing her sword hilt down to try to deflect the blow. The sharp edge of his sword raked along the length of her thigh. Danger drove her to a daring counterattack. She chopped her elbow up under the man’s chin, his body so close she could smell the reek of his exertions. He reeled backward.
Marguerite risked a downward glance, fearful of what she’d see. She saw with relief that, though bloody, her leg was in one piece and at present holding her upright. After the original sharp pain, it hardly hurt at all now, just stung a little.
She knew she had to take advantage of her opponent right now. She wasn’t all that sure her leg would last much longer. She stepped in and made a few false attacks. Her opponent was clumsy; he must be reaching exhaustion. She slashed at his leg. Her blade bit home. With a howl he dropped to one knee. The desperate man brought his sword up from below. Marguerite barely managed to lean away from the thrust then came back at him with all her power behind the blow. He deflected it a little but her sword hit the side of his head with sickening force. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed on the ground with a soft sigh. Marguerite stood over him, waiting for any movement, any excuse to drive home the killing blow. Her chest heaved with the exertion, perspiration trickling down her chin and off her nose. She was vaguely surprised to see the sweat drops on her blouse stained red with blood. She must be cut.
Veronica watched the battle in amazement as it seesawed back and forth. Too many times she was certain the slim woman would be killed. Now the battle appeared over and she was frantic to be released. Marguerite was just standing there, swaying as she stared down at her bleeding foe. For heaven’s sakes, if she collapsed now, they would both be eaten by predators drawn by the smell of blood.
“Marguerite! Marguerite! Cut me loose!”
The heiress turned as if surprised to hear her voice. She stumbled closer and knelt at Veronica’s tied hands. Her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t grip the cords that held Veronica’s wrists and tears trickled down her face. Nerves, she realized. Too much adrenaline. Luckily her face was shielded from Veronica’s view. She breathed deeply and flexed her hands. In a minute she had settled down enough to fumble the knots loose then she rolled into a sitting position. Her thigh was really starting to throb.
Veronica sat up the moment her wrists were freed and untied her ankles. She rubbed them a little then turned back to the ashen-faced brunette. “What’s going on? Where’s Roxton? Why are you by yourself? And where’s your pistol?”
Marguerite felt a little dizzy as she sat there and thought it might be a good idea to lie down. “See? You do something nice for somebody and this is what you get for it,” she muttered under her breath, her voice fading into silence.
“Marguerite.” Veronica’s voice filled with worry. “Don’t pass out on me. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Of course we do.” Marguerite replied, trying to rise.
“Hold on a minute. You’re bleeding like a pig.”
“Charming!” came the sarcastic if weak reply.
Veronica used the unconscious slaver’s shirt to improvise a bandage to staunch the bleeding from Marguerite’s leg wound.
“Is my dance partner going to give us any trouble?” Marguerite murmured, her eyes closed.
“No, I don’t think he’s going to last. Looks like his skull is fractured.”
Veronica sized up the woman lying on the grass, her forehead streaked with blood still trickling from a scalp wound hidden in her hair somewhere. She didn’t look good. Somehow she had to galvanize the fading brunette into action or she would be dinner for the raptors.
“Come on. You can’t just lie here all day. We’ll be lucky to be back before nightfall.”
Marguerite’s eyes flared open and slowly focused on those of the woman who she had just rescued. Eyes that still showed a trace of anger. Figured. It was unlikely that the jungle native would ever give her the benefit of the doubt. Marguerite assured herself she didn’t care how ungrateful Veronica was.
“Don’t let me slow you down,” she muttered caustically. She pulled herself to a stand with Veronica’s help. She found she needed to lean on the sturdy blonde as they began the trek back to the treehouse, her leg a little numb and wobbly. The wound continued to ooze and soon the left leg of her jodhpurs was soaked with blood from mid-thigh to her boot top. They made reasonable time, silence between them. Marguerite struggled to maintain her forward progress feeling more ill and dizzy as time went on. Veronica tried to take on as much of the injured woman’s weight as she could while still remaining alert for raptors. They had almost regained the clearing where the original attack had taken place when they walked into the raised rifles of Roxton and Malone.
The men had been a little worried when Marguerite hadn’t returned hours earlier. Since it was just as likely she was avoiding the balcony repairs that Veronica was so adamant she complete, they didn’t think to start a search until Veronica, too, was late. Their vague concern had turned to grim anxiety when they came across the dead body of the slaver. They were just about to follow the trail when the two women had stumbled out of the jungle.
Roxton took one look at the pale brunette swaying on her feet and swept her into his arms. Damn her. Now what had she gotten herself into? He felt his gut sink with emotion as she closed her eyes and rolled her head into his shoulder. He shot a look of anger at Veronica.
“What happened?” he snapped.
“She was out here practicing with that sword of hers. Slavers were waiting. They took me captive. Marguerite followed and decided to take on the head slaver in a swordfight.”
“Didn’t she have her pistol with her?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know why she didn’t just come back and get you.”
Marguerite didn’t have the energy to set them straight. Veronica was still angry and Roxton sounded very cross. His chest on the other hand was very comfortable and smelled wonderful. She could just fall asleep right there.
Roxton turned and half-jogged back to the treehouse. The limp woman in his arms seemed so vulnerable right now. That was why he had a sickening twist in his stomach. Nothing more than concern for a friend. Or that any man might have when faced with a woman in need.
It was clear that she needed medical treatment right away. She hadn’t yet said a word. Her silence worried him more than anything; he could depend on Marguerite to have a retort in any situation. Roxton had grown fond of hearing the acidic tone she affected when things got tense; it mirrored his own approach to a crisis. He ran faster. Then from beneath his chin a voice issued, weak but full of irony.
“Whoa there, Dobbin. I’m trying to get my beauty-rest. All this bouncing around makes it hard to sleep.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to get you to the treehouse right away so we can take a look at that leg.”
“Mmmph.” The injured heiress followed up the ambiguous snort by giving Roxton a mocking glance that both challenged and acknowledged his concern. Relieved to see her more like herself, Roxton slowed to a smoother pace.
“As you command, my queen.”
“That’s better. Now, where was I?”
As Ned and Veronica caught up with them, Marguerite closed her eyes once again and turned her head back into Roxton’s chest.
Back at the treehouse, Marguerite reclined in a chair as Challenger made his examination. The scalp wound though bloody, had proven to be minor. But he fussed over the leg injury, cleansing it thoroughly despite the bitten-off curses of his patient. He dusted it with a new sulpha-dye powder that he had stumbled on in his research that seemed to stop infection. It fell to Veronica to stitch up the long shallow cut; Marguerite would not let Challenger try his hand and stitching up her own wound seemed a little daunting. She didn’t refuse Roxton’s offer of a home-made herbal liqueur to help deaden the pain. In twenty minutes, he was easing the half-empty second glass from her fingers as she nodded off in front of the fire.
“Rest is the best thing for her right now. As long as there is no infection she should be up and around in a day or two.” Challenger reassured the others.
Roxton ran his fingers through his hair and asked Veronica the question that had been eating at him. “What the hell happened out there?”
“I don’t know. On my way to gather some fruit I dropped by to suggest that Marguerite come back and help you with the firewood. The slavers were on me soon as I left her. They must have been waiting. Probably had seen Marguerite there earlier. I thought she’d come and get you, but she must have come after me instead.”
“She sure took a crazy chance. Taking on two slavers with just a pistol.” Ned was once again thrown-off a little by the ruthless independence of the heiress.
“She never fired a shot as far as I know. And it was three men not two.” Veronica said thoughtfully.
“That guy we found on the trail had been shot. It had to be Marguerite.” Ned put in.
Roxton rose and picked up Marguerite’s holster from the side table. He took out the battered weapon and examined the damage.
“It has been fired. But the hammer’s broken. It’s useless now.” He reached into the ammo case and found the broken pieces. Good going, Marguerite, that’ll make fixing this thing easier. A smile pulled at his lips but didn’t chase the worry from his eyes.
A woman of fire and steel. Beautiful and brave and quick-witted to boot. He twisted to look at the dark-haired woman asleep in her chair, her head tilted to one side, her face smooth and youthful in repose. He could feel the place on his chest where she had leaned her head against him on the trip back to the treehouse, her hair tickling his chin. Damn her for being an attractive woman. For that was all it was. Simple appreciation of the female form and perhaps a little carnal desire. Quite natural considering their confined quarters.
Ned was dumbfounded. “She went after you with nothing but a broken revolver? How could she be so stupid? It would only have taken an hour at most to find us and go after you.”
Suddenly Veronica felt a little unsure. For the first time, she thought of a reason why Marguerite would have followed her instead of getting help. Maybe the linguist had heard the intent of the raiders – their plans to rape their captive. But of all people Marguerite wouldn’t have taken such a risk for some vague ideal like honour or decency. When they had been captured by the lizard-people, the brazen woman had practically told her to submit to the monsters as a way to gain their freedom. And for sure the brunette wouldn’t take the chance of losing her own life for Veronica’s – would she?
Veronica tossed away that idea. Marguerite had shown her nothing more than a kind of grudging respect for her survival skills. Most often Veronica got the feeling that Marguerite would just as soon see her out of the treehouse so she could take over. There had to be some other reason for her behaviour. Marguerite must have underestimated the slavers and thought she could take them on herself or maybe she planned to put on that act of hers where she would pretend to be attracted to one of those fiends. If that were the case her arrogance could have gotten them both killed. In fact, if Marguerite hadn’t been sneaking out there instead of working in the treehouse like she should have been, none of this would have happened.
The jungle-raised blonde chose to leave Ned’s question unanswered. She didn’t feel comfortable telling the men about the brutal intentions of the slavers. For some reason it made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. With any luck Marguerite wasn’t even aware of how close she had come to interrupting an ugly scene.
The next day dawned sunny and warm. Marguerite awoke early, a little disoriented until stretching brought a throb of pain from her thigh. Memories of the previous day flashed back into place, up to the point when she drifted off in her chair the night before. She had no recollection of having returned to her room and she flushed to think that someone had carried her here.
That Roxton might have tucked her in her bed last night was altogether too familiar an act to contemplate. Though she found the man tremendously attractive, she had been secretly relieved that his ardour toward her had seemingly cooled. Relieved on one hand perhaps, but she had been surprised at how often she had suffered a stab of jealousy and disappointment at his recent interest in other women on the plateau. To be envious of a young nymph like Princess Klaire who Roxton promised to marry a few weeks ago - it was preposterous. And yet she had felt it.
Worse yet, it appeared that Roxton had noticed. He had teased her about it in the village. Like he knew how she felt and was making her feel better. Every so often there would be these little glimpses of kindness and concern that broke through the diffidence of his usual behaviour. Still, it was best that Roxton had pulled away. If he hadn’t, it would have been up to her. And she wasn’t sure she would be able to deny her attraction to him or the long-dormant feelings of affection that he kindled.
She rose and hobbled over to her dresser, the stitches pulling at her healing wound and causing the torn flesh to protest sharply. She felt drained, as exhausted as if she had run a mile. She supposed it was a natural result of the amount of blood she had lost the previous day. She dressed and made her way gingerly to the kitchen. Veronica was the only other occupant this early; she had the fire kindled and the kettle boiling. With a nod, Marguerite accepted the offer of a cup of tea. When asked, she assured Veronica that she was much better, noticing that the anger of yesterday had subsided. Instead, Veronica appeared awkward and edgy.
“Thank you for what you did yesterday. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I was upset, I guess.” Veronica rambled a little, her eyes focussed on stoking the fire.
“No thanks needed. You would have done the same for me.”
But I didn’t expect it from you, Marguerite. The unspoken words hung between them.
“Well, you did a good job with that sword. Your training with Roxton paid off. May I pour you another cup?”
Marguerite extended her cup for the refill, realizing that she had received as close to a compliment as she was ever likely to receive from the critical woman. Veronica moved to the cooking area to prepare breakfast as Marguerite sipped her tea.
“You shouldn’t be up.”
Marguerite’s heart beat a little faster to hear concern below the censure in the voice issuing from behind her. She replied without turning around.
“Why Lord Roxton, I thought you’d be glad to see I was up and about. Or would you rather I lay around all day?”
“Well, I am glad, of course.” The hunter was a little nonplussed to see the tables turned. The vulnerable woman of the previous day had disappeared beneath the bristly exterior of the guarded Miss Krux. “I just think that Challenger should take a look at you before you exert yourself too much.”
“Ah, that noted physician. I suspect my own medical knowledge is adequate for the occasion.”
The hunter bobbed his head in acquiescence, afraid to trigger another acidic comment. His face was filled with chagrin. He ended the brief silence with a greeting for Veronica. Pouring a cup of tea, he walked out to the balcony, commenting on the warm weather.
Ned rounded the corner filled with his habitual boyish energy.
“Wow, you mean I’m the last one up? Marguerite, how are you this morning?”
“Ready for a nap, I’m afraid.” The dark-haired woman yawned magnificently as if to emphasize her point.
Roxton scowled, hastening back from the veranda.
“You should rest. Maybe I should get Challenger.” He couldn’t resist his urge to protect the pale brunette. “Where is he anyway?”
“I heard him down in the lab,” Ned offered.
Veronica answered from the cooking area. “He grabbed the last of the fresh fruit and headed down there earlier. That project he’s working on seems to be absorbing him completely. I’m afraid it’s dried meat and eggs for breakfast for the rest of us.”
Malone turned his attentions to the injured woman. “Tell me, Marguerite, we’ve been wondering - why didn’t you come back and get reinforcements when Veronica was captured yesterday?”
Marguerite put her cup in its saucer with a sigh. “Ever the reporter. Considering everything, it seemed that time was of the essence.”
Veronica turned to look sharply at her. If Marguerite hadn’t known better she’d swear the blonde woman was afraid of something.
Ned pressed the issue, his curiosity piqued. “Why couldn’t you take the time to come back to the treehouse? It wouldn’t have taken that long.”
Veronica broke in before the brunette could answer. “Marguerite likes to handle things on her own. Thinks she knows better than the rest of us.”
Marguerite’s blue-green eyes flared wide then narrowed in a stony stare at Veronica. The jungle woman met her eyes with a look of defiance tinged with a hint of distress. Marguerite knew instinctively - she was hiding something. Veronica didn’t want her to tell the others what happened. But why?
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders in apparent indifference “If I came back without Veronica, I’d never hear the end of it. I thought it would be simpler to take out my pistol and reason with them.”
Veronica broke in. “You knew why those slavers were there. You were just trying to make up for your mistakes. If you hadn’t been sneaking out to the clearing all week long the slavers wouldn’t have staked it out.” Veronica smouldered as she dwelt on how Marguerite’s carelessness in visiting the clearing alone had gotten her captured.
Marguerite didn’t acknowledge the interruption in her narrative. “Then when my gun was ruined, it got personal.” She gave no sign that Veronica’s accusation had taken her by surprise. So that’s why the slavers were there waiting. Once again it was her fault; somehow it always seemed to be her fault.
Putting on a nonchalant smile she placed her cup and saucer on the table. As she settled back into her chair she assessed the effect her story had had on her listeners. Ned’s blue eyes were quizzical, the next question already on his lips. Veronica had a look of disapproval and, if she read it right, relief on her face. Roxton’s arms were folded across his chest, anger tensing his jaw and disappointment deflecting his gaze. As she had expected everyone believed that the callous Miss Krux had once again disregarded the safety of one of her friends. That the story had come to her lips so easily was a result of much practice in telling believable lies. That her housemates found it so easy to believe that lie was a sign of how little they trusted her. Though she steeled herself against it, that knowledge hurt her a little.
“But, Marguerite, if you- “ Ned’s question was overridden by Marguerite’s brisk query.
“Did someone say there was something to eat? Or should I just retire to my room and read my book until breakfast is served?”
Roxton jumped up to hold out an arm to her. “You look like you could use a rest. I’m sure we can provide breakfast in your room.”
The injured woman used the proffered arm to lever her sore body to a stand. She couldn’t restrain her grateful smile.
Roxton was struck by the way her wan face lit up with that smile. There was something out of tune with the cold calculating persona she had just projected. No-one that selfish could have a smile like hers - filled with warmth, simple delight, and a wary tenderness.
He suspected that she had deliberately given the impression that Veronica’s capture was of little concern to her. Though why she would choose to antagonize their hostess baffled him.
Veronica watched them go. She supposed she was lucky that Marguerite hadn’t noticed yesterday that the slaver had been about to violate her. At least now she wouldn’t have to share that shame with the cold heiress and a household full of protective men. But a part of her was hurt that Marguerite was so little concerned about her well-being. She had thought for a moment that Marguerite knew what had been going on and was protecting her with her story. At the same time she was dismayed at the idea that the heiress knew what was going on. It was better, she decided, that Marguerite was ignorant of the danger she had been in. It would seem that she had sized up the heartless woman pretty well.
Marguerite moved more easily as the stiffness left her limbs. She didn’t need to lean on Lord Roxton but she did anyway. He helped her down the stairs and into her room. Leaving her standing there for a moment, he pulled her chair back so the light from the window would shine over her shoulder as she read. With his aid she settled into the chair with a sigh.
“Could you get me a pillow, Lord Roxton?
“As you command, my queen.” He replied, stuffing the pillow behind her back.
Marguerite shifted around to make herself comfortable. “Veronica’s chairs are a little uncompromising.”
“Like their owner.”
She chuckled in appreciation of his observation.
“And my book?”
As he delivered the volume she had indicated, he expressed his pride in her exploits the previous day.
“I hear you were pretty handy with that sword.”
He was surprised to see a disgusted grimace cross her face.
“I was stupid. This,” she gestured at her propped-up leg, “was a result of not showing my opponent enough respect.”
He laughed out loud at her look of indignation. “You don’t give yourself much credit, do you? Everyone is very impressed with what you did yesterday.”
“Everyone but Veronica.”
“Touché!” He nodded reluctantly. “But she’ll come around. Relax. I’ll bring you breakfast in a few minutes.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder before he left the room.
Marguerite closed her eyes in weariness and put her own hand where Roxton’s had been. That had felt nice. She started to drift a little, her body’s need for rest a force too powerful to resist.
Damn, thought Roxton as he returned to the dining room. So much for keeping his distance. But it was hard to focus on Marguerite’s cold-blooded nature when he saw her sitting there, so subdued, a little vulnerable. This resolution was going to be far more difficult to stick to than he first thought.
Moving back to the main room he barely avoided colliding with Challenger emerging from the lab.
“Roxton, I’ve been analyzing those rock samples we brought up earlier. You wouldn’t believe it. The basalt which I have been examining has an enormously high proportion of magnetites. That rock underlies much of the plateau. It most likely has affected our survey equipment. No wonder our maps have proven to be inaccurate. I’ll have to shield the compasses and we’ll survey the area again.”
“Give us a day or two, George. Marguerite isn’t even on her feet yet,” Roxton protested.
“Good gracious, I have been remiss. How is Miss Krux this morning?”
“Fine, I think. But you should- ” Roxton stopped as Challenger had already brushed by him, still talking.
“It really is amazing. I must get Marguerite’s opinion on my findings. This could account for the continued existence of dinosaurs here. If the reversal of polarity that precipitated the K/T boundary event didn’t happen on this plateau, then…” The scientist’s excited commentary was muffled as he rounded the corner into the dining room.
Roxton shook his head at the visionary’s enthusiasm. It seemed that they were about to be swept up once more in one of Challenger’s non-ending experiments. He hurried to waylay the single-minded scientist before he disturbed Marguerite.
“George. Wait!”
The End
Fencing
Fencing terms taken from www.synec-doc.be/escrime/dico/engl.htm
Ned’s famous swordswoman
La Maupin, 17th century French swordswoman, adventuress and opera star, was like something out of a novel by Dumas or Sabatini, except for two things. First she was real, and second few authors would have attributed her exploits to a woman. Theophile Gautier borrowed her name and a few of her characteristics for the heroine of his novel Mademoiselle De Maupin, but in many ways his character was only a pale imitation of the original. The real Maupin was a complex creature. Well born and privileged, she knew how to use her influential friends and contacts to get what she wanted or to escape danger, but she was also proud and self-reliant. She seems to have craved the center stage, revelling in both fame and infamy. She had a fiery temperament and equally fiery passion, often the fool for love.
Mlle. Maupin was, excepting her sex, the very image of the swashbuckling romantic cavalier: tall, dark and handsome, one of the finest swordswomen or swordsmen of her day. She was athletically built, had very white skin and dark auburn curls with blonde highlights, blue eyes, an aquiline nose, a pretty mouth and, it is said, perfect breasts.
She was also a star of one of the greatest theatres of her day -- the Paris Opera. She had a lovely contralto voice and a phenomenal memory. Although she was largely unschooled in music and is said by some to have had little talent for singing, her good looks, beautiful voice, love of attention, excellent memory and flamboyance seem to have suited her well for stardom on the stage of the Paris Opera.
From http://home.comcast.net/~brons/Maupin/LaMaupin.html
Sulfa drugs – a history
This red dye was first studied during the First World War but its medicinal properties were not identified till the 30’s. I figured it wasn’t too great a stretch to think that Challenger might have paralleled that discovery.
1913 Eisenberg studied bactericidal properties of azo dyes with sulfonamide grouping
1932 The German chemist Gerhard Domagk began the first experiments with prontosil Prontosil was a red azo dye, and in mice had a protective action against streptococci. It had no effect in the test tube, and only exerted an antibacterial effect in the live animal itself.
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