Jessaye stepped back but did not lower her guard. Hereward quickly called out, “Blood!”

Jessaye took a step forward and Hereward stood ready for another attack. Then the lieutenant bit her lip and stopped, holding her arm toward the lanternlight so she could more clearly see the wound. Blood was already soaking through the linen shirt, a dark and spreading stain upon the cloth.

“You have bested me,” she said, and thrust her sword point first into the grass before striding forward to offer her gloved hand to Hereward. He too grounded his blade, and took her hand as they bowed to each other.

A slight stinging low on his side caused Hereward to look down. There was a two-inch cut in his shirt, and small beads of blood were blossoming there. He did not let go Jessaye’s fingers, but pointed at his ribs with his left hand.

“I believe we are evenly matched. I hope we may have no cause to bicker further?”

“I trust not,” said Jessaye quietly. “I regret the incident. Were it not for the presence of some of my fellows, I should not have cavilled at your apology, sir. But you understand . . . a reputation is not easily won, nor kept . . .”

“I do understand,” said Hereward. “Come, let Mister Fitz attend your cut. Perhaps you will then join me for small repast?”

Jessaye shook her head.

“I go on duty soon. A stitch or two and a bandage are all I have time for. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

“It is my earnest hope that we do,” said Hereward. Reluctantly, he opened his grasp. Jessaye’s hand lingered in his palm for several moments before she slowly raised it, stepped back and doffed her hat to offer a full bow. Hereward returned it, straightening up as Mister Fitz hurried over, carrying a large leather case as if it were almost too heavy for him, one of his standard acts of misdirection, for the puppet was at least as strong as Hereward, if not stronger.