Page 105 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
Cal and Barnadine fought.
I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away.
Cal was younger, faster on his feet, but had been lamed in the dungeon all those years ago, and as the battle continued, that slight limp grew more exaggerated. Yet his features betrayed no concern, only an expectant concentration and almost smiling calm.
Barnadine drew on a deep reservoir of experience . . . and desperation. He’d discarded the noble mask he’d worn for so long, of grieving bodyguard and loyal citizen. His lips curled back from his stained teeth, his hands held his blades almost lightly, his deadly gaze scrutinized Cal for weakness. He fought for his sister, his nephew, his family honor. He fought to win, for he had nothing to lose. He had killed Elder, the podestà of Verona, and deserved death for such a betrayal to his lord. Cal fought to avenge his father, and that meant death for Barnadine. If Barnadine killed the current podestà of Verona, never mind hell—he would die a horrible death at the hands of Cal’s soldiers.
Elder danced back and forth, watching the fight with the same intensity that enticed me to forget the horror of dangling far above the ground. I couldn’t, but it was now frankly second in my mind.
“Help him!” I commanded Elder.
“I can’t help him!”
I thought he meant—he was a ghost and so incapable of influencing the events. So I reminded him, “Yes, you can. You did it before. Zap Barnadine!”
He didn’t turn his head to speak to me; he kept his attention on the battle. “Cal wouldn’t thank me for assisting. This battle he must win himself.”
“What matters is that he eliminate Barnadine!”
“Cal is a warrior. He doesn’t need or want his papà’s help. Have faith, child. I see what you don’t.”
“What?”
“Strategy.”
What I saw was a man more and more in pain, leaning to one side, off balance and—
Swift as a striking snake, Barnadine’s stiletto stabbed Cal in the chest.
I flinched. Cal. Sweet Mary, Mother of God.Cal!
Along the sides of my bodice, threads popped.
Friar Camillo’s grip slipped. He shouted, “Lady Rosaline, don’t move!”
Quickly, even before tears could fill my eyes, Cal dropped his dagger, grabbed Barnadine’s free wrist, and twisted so hard that the bones broke with audible cracks.
Barnadine screamed.
Cal placed the point of his stiletto between Barnadine’s ribs.
Barnadine lurched sideways, and in an act of defiance in the face of unbearable pain, he fell forward, using his body weight to shove his blade farther into Cal’s chest—but somehow it didn’t budge. Instead Barnadine impaled himself on the glittering steel all the way to the hilt. Blood gushed. He hung for a moment, staring into Cal’s eyes with what looked like approval. “I taught you that trick,” he breathed.
“You did. And you failed because I’m wearing the leather shirt your father made for mine. That’s justice.”
“Yes . . . he’s here, your father. He’s glad.”
Cal gave a harder heave on his stiletto and hurled Barnadine back. Barnadine stumbled, fell to his knees, crumpled onto his back . . . and died.
Elder stared soberly down at his disloyal bodyguard, his hated friend, his beloved enemy. “I am glad.”
I wanted to clap. I wanted Cal to yank Barnadine’s stiletto out of his own chest and be well. Most of all . . . I wanted someone to pull me to safety.
It’s true. As soon as the final battle was over, all my selfish concern was forme.
And for Friar Camillo, who now began to make groaning sounds and adjust his grip on my bodice as if his strength would fail even now. I knew how Friar Camillo must feel, holding on for dear life against the irresistible force that dragged me down to the earth where inevitably I must find my final rest. But not when life tasted so sweet. Not yet! Not now!
Cal paid no attention to Barnadine’s sprawled corpse. He turned toward me, his concentration focused on my face as I plastered it between the upright stones like a child confined to a playroom. He tossed the stiletto out of his chest, as if flicking a mosquito out of his way, and as he rushed to the rail, he wiped his hand, red with Barnadine’s blood, on his doublet. Over my head, I heard his voice as he spoke to Friar Camillo, encouraging him, praising Friar Camillo’s generosity and courage, promising him nursing and care for his wounds,
