“What swordsmanship do they speak of that was remarkable?”
“Has your honour forgotten, then? Sure, seven years is a poor limit for a good memory.” The blow was a shrewd one, for Darius Boland knew that Phoenix Park must be a galling memory to his honour. But Darius did not care. He guessed why the governor was coming to Salem, and he could not shirk having his hand in it. He had no fear of the results.
“Aye, seven years is a poor limit,” he repeated.
The governor showed no feeling. He had been hit, and he took it as part of the game. “Ah, you mean the affair in Phoenix Park?” he said with no apparent feeling.
Darius tossed his head a little. “Wasn’t it a clever bit of work? Didn’t he get fame there by defeating one of the best swordsmen—in Ireland?”
Lord Mallow nodded. “He got fame, which he lost in time,” he answered.
“You mean he put the sword that had done such good work against a champion into a man’s bowels, without ‘by your leave,’ or ‘will you draw and fight’?”
“Something like that,” answered the governor sagely.
“Is it true you believed he’d strike a man that wasn’t armed, sir?”
The governor winced, but showed nothing. “He’d been drinking—he is a heavy drinker. Do you never drink with him?”