The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [106]
A peculiar fire entered the Swedish king's eyes. “You've captured him?”
But there was no time to answer, Oglethorpe saw, for the tsar was striding straight toward them.
Charles was already looking that way. Now he drew a basket-hilted broadsword, and the glint in his eye became a blaze. “Thanks to Almighty God!” he roared.
The tsar watched him come. “I have no sword,” he said.
Charles spat on the ground. “Then get one, you coward.”
“Gentlemen—” Philippe squeaked.
“I said get one, damn your eyes!” Charles shrieked.
Peter's face spasmed, and there they stood, two madmen who happened to have crowns. “Sword,” Peter grated, holding his hand out.
No one moved to give him one, and when he saw that, he closed the distance to Charles. Angry as he clearly was, the Swedish king did not, as Oglethorpe feared, lift his blade against an unarmed man. But they stood for half a second, glaring at each other, inches apart.
Peter struck the first blow, a great backhand to the face. Charles almost impaled him then, but instead he dropped his weapon and tackled the tsar at the waist.
His men went mad, screaming like Turks—actually, some of them were Turks—and chanting the monarch's name.
The two men crashed heavily to the ground and began to roll, punching and clawing at each other.
“Should we do something?” Oglethorpe asked.
Nairne shook his head slowly. “It's been hundreds, maybe thousands, of years since anyone saw a spectacle like this— two great kings brawling like drunken linkmen. Who are we to stop it?”
“I understood the tsar brawled on occasion, but—”
The two had broken apart and were now boxing each other on the sides of the head. It seemed a contest of wills more than a fight—as if by agreement both had chosen not to defend, only to attack. Peter had split ears, and both men were bleeding from the nose and mouth. Both were cursing copiously, too, in their native tongues. It all sounded very colorful.
Then a single shot was fired, kicking up a branch between their feet, and both paused to see who had done the shooting.
Philippe stood there, pistol smoking, face as red as the inside of a melon.
“By God!” he shouted. “By God, you will stop or I shall shoot you both!”
He sounded convincing to Oglethorpe. He must have convinced the two kings as well, for they continued to stare at the Frenchman.
“Look, you two! The three of us are all that remain, so far as I can tell, of the old monarchies. Notwithstanding that the two of you come from countries one degree removed from Huns and Vandals, by God, when you are in my realm you will acquit yourselves like kings, not like schoolyard brats! King Charles, the tsar is under my protection. His throne has been usurped, and the army marching on us is not his. He came to me seeking asylum, and I have given it to him. If you cannot accept this, with all due respect, I thank you for the aid you have already given us and urge you back to your ships.” He whirled on the tsar. “You, sir, came here a beggar and now you repay my generosity by cheapening your station and thus my own. I will not have it. If you two must settle your differences, you will do it like gentlemen, by the sword, and you will do it when this damned war is over!”
He paused, breathing so hard Oglethorpe feared him apoplectic.
Charles and Peter looked at each other, their fists still clenched. But then slowly Charles turned away from Peter and bowed to the French king—not on bended knee, but bowing nevertheless, from the waist.
“My apologies,” he said. “I was overcome.”
“I also apologize,” the tsar said. It sounded like it hurt. “King Charles—you want satisfaction from me. When the appropriate time comes, you shall have it.”
Charles nodded. “We shall discuss it again.” He smiled grimly. “Though I must say, I have received some satisfaction already.” He rubbed his bloody knuckles.
Oglethorpe coughed quietly. “If we are all quite ready, there is a war to fight, and I would greatly appreciate the advice of generals more experienced than I.”
As Franklin faced the sorceress for the second time,