Mother had said not to bring that sword to Bree-town.
But Heavens, it was handsome! Billy Foxtail could just feel the eyes of envious men and women upon him every time he wore it, swaggering through the ruined streets of Archet. He was proud to be seen with the outlandish blade, for he had defended the Mad Badger with it before it burned—a feat he was eager to remind the townsfolk of every chance he got.
‘Bold Billy’ he dared to call himself when he was in his cups in Combe, telling everyone how he had wrestled the sword from a Blackwold’s grasp and pierced the awful brigand in the side. When a pretty maid was in his company, he even dared to admit that Captain Brackenbrook had favored him over Calder Cob or his own begotten son. It wasn’t true, of course—but he was damned good with a blade by even Aldred Cartwright’s reckoning, and Cartwright was renowned for being the best swordsman in the whole town. Besides, the virtue of honesty never felt too important when he was singing ballads of Southron knights with pretty Claire Fuller or when he had the fine drink of the Comb and Wattle in his belly. In private he’d told her that he desired to court her properly once Mother and his brother and him were properly settled into regular life again.
He really did like Claire, though that bastard Marcus Quickfire was mighty keen on being seen with her at dances and festivals. But for Billy, there was no contest. Why, if Marcus dared move in on his girl, the bastard would have to get past his long beaten sword! Marcus had hardly ever seen a fistfight, much less a battle with swords like the Bold Billy, and it reassured Billy to know that he could win Claire’s hand by the sword if need be. Billy was a real man and true, and he had felled brigands! If it truly came to blows, Marcus could hardly hope to defeat Billy in a contest of swords.
For all of his friends in Archet and Combe’s quiet comforts, (sweet Claire included!) Billy still craved real excitement. He desired to see more of the world and something new—it hurt to see the houses still burned-out and the prolonged suffering of Archet day-in and day-out. He’d been to Bree-town a few times before with Father, but that was before the Blackwolds took Father’s life, back when Billy was but a boy. Archet had everything they’d needed back then, and Father was never fond of the dirtiness of Bree-town or its rough Southrons.
But Billy was a man now! If any dared to mess with Bold Billy, why, he’d deliver his swordspoint to them as easily as he had stuck that brigand in the side. Mother had told him not to bring the sword, calling out through the door: “Don’t you go taking that sword, William!” He had scoffed when he heard her and turned to go with a quick word of reassurance; he was no coward—Billy was a man, with the sword to prove it! He was sure of his skill and would gladly fight anybody—though like Captain Brackenbrook he was an honourable man and would be loath to be a bullying sort.
When Billy passed the Combe Gate, he grew feverish with excitement. What strange news was there to bring back home to Archet? What merchants passed through Bree-town's gates, bearing outlandish trinkets and possible gifts for sweet Claire? Would there be Rangers like the two who had been in Brackenbrook’s care before the attack, spinning tales of ancient heroes like Beren? He silently hoped there were.
But first he needed a drink. Stars, was he parched! The Comb and Wattle Inn was a fine inn, but there were few inns in the world as majestic as the Inn of the Prancing Pony! Why, it towered three stories and was at the very top of the Bree-hill—Father had said that if you got a room at the top floor, you could see all the way down the hillside. It always awed Billy when he saw it, and he admired the high building as he eagerly slipped inside for a drink.
The tavern was full of pipe-smoke and the smell of alcohol, bustling with raucous folk both Big and Little. Billy had a mug of Barliman’s Best (for what was a fitter drink for a new visitor to the Prancing Pony?) and looked around. A part of him missed Claire and the familiar Comb and Wattle, but damn it, he was a man and he had come to find excitement. Besides, the trip would let him buy something nice for Claire, a gift the likes of which would be hard to find in the Valley. He didn’t have much coin in his purse, but Bold Billy was a fine dice player and he was sure he could win a little money out of some Bree-town boys. There were gamblers in a darkened corner, dressed in large plumed hats with their faces obscured by thick clouds of pipe-smoke. One of them, a man dressed in red with a fine sword of his own, called to Billy as he joined the company.
“That’s a far finer piece than a fellow like you should be wearing,” the stranger remarked with a wry smile. “Where did you get it?”
“I won it in battle against the Blackwolds!” Billy proudly exclaimed. “They call me Bold Billy, for ‘twas I who fended off the Blackwold threat at the Mad Badger, piercing a brigand with his own blade!”
“What a tremendous feat!” the stranger cried. It was hard to tell if he was jesting or being genuine. “You will surely have to tell me more. I am the renowned fencer Arthur Hazelwood—but I would that you addressed me as Master Hazelwood while we are still strangers. But tell me, Billy Boy—are you lucky?”
They played for a long time, the next few hours passing by in a haze of clattering dice and hot food and beer—the later the courtesy of Master Hazelwood. Billy thought of going to the market for Claire’s present, but he was caught up in the excitement of gambling and was egged on by Hazelwood and the others at the table. At times he would move to withdraw, having lost much of his coin, but the others would spur him on, calling: “I did not know you came all the way from Archet to become known as a coward—Play on!”
That incensed Billy, for none would call him a coward and get away with it. So he played on, winning and losing by turns till at last he held the majority of the wagered pennies, all clutched close to his chest. His head was warm and his thought slowed by drink, and his tongue began to grow looser, talking of the numerous women who desired him—whom the gamblers wouldn’t know, because they were in Archet, of course!—but most of all, he spoke of his sweetheart Claire and how she was fairer than even Lúthien herself, and how jealous the gamblers all should have been. They did not believe him.
But as Billy continued to talk, he grew bolder, taunting the other gamblers and trading insults until at last Master Hazelwood rose up in anger and cast the dice at Billy’s face.
“You speak so glibly for a common boy! You know what, Billy Boy? I do not believe that you lopped off a Blackwold’s head with that atrocious sword! You wouldn’t even be capable of the act,” the gambler shouted, slamming his cup on the table.
Well, I did!” Billy fibbed, all flushed in his cheeks. “You know... you know what, Mr. Arthur, sir? You, sir, look like you’re wearing a quilt made from the cut-up rags of mummers. All gaudy and ugly and utterly ridiculous! And I do not know why you have such a stupid knife with such a hideous inscription!”
“You take that back right this instant, you mangy upstart gutter-dog, or there will be consequences,” Hazelwood replied seriously. “You know naught of what you speak.”
“Have I struck a nerve?” Billy asked, a drunken gleam in his eye. “I do not fear you! I am not some farmer from Archet; nay, I am a real man, a killer! I’ve killed rough brigands; a dandy in a feathered hat will do me little harm at all!”
“Shall we test that?” Hazelwood shifted his hand to his sword, his eyes hardening. “Do not threaten me!”
“I’ve killed before and I have no qualms about killing again!”
“If you are so eager to meet your death, then let us fight!”
“Stay, gentlemen!” Hazelwood called to the other gamblers, tossing a tip at Nob haphazardly. “I will not need a crowd to deal with this foolish boy. Dirk, you come with me and see that the match is fair.”
With that Billy proceeded with Hazelwood and Dirk into the night, marching into a darkened alley far from the torches of Watchers. Their swords flashed in the moonlight as they were drawn, pale and deadly. The two men swayed as they paced around each other, still heavily drunk and eager to test their mettle.
“We shall—we—let us fight to first blood,” Hazelwood said with a glance to Dirk, suddenly swallowing hard. “I do not wish to kill you.”
“I shall be the one not-killing you!” Billy replied. It had sounded better in his head. “Aldred Cartwright himself taught me.”
“I thought it was Captain Brackenbrook himself? Please. Cartwright is a fine fencer, but he is no Bree-town master.”
“Cartwright is a most excellent fighter! Shut up about that you know nothing of.”
“Give up now and spare us both the danger. You are drunk and you would not be a match for me even sober.”
In a rage, Billy lunged forwards, the two men’s blades clashing loudly in the night. Hazelwood was better than Billy, but he had drunk more and there was an opening in Hazelwood’s guard—
And before Billy could strike, Hazelwood withdrew with bright blood on his sword.
“I have won,” the gambler said, struggling for a moment to wipe his blade off and return it to its sheath. Billy’s shirt sleeve was completely red when he looked down, blood flowing from an open gash in his arm. “Dirk, fetch Ms. Rowan. The boy has need of her services.”
Dirk dashed off into the street.
“I’m bleeding,” Billy said, dumbfounded. He dropped his sword, swallowing hard, and staggered to the ground.
“Relax,” Hazelwood replied, cutting off a piece of his shirt and applying pressure to Billy's wound. “You will be fine.”
“It’s not stopping,” Billy exclaimed after a few minutes. “Why isn’t it stopping? Where’s Dirk?”
“I said to relax. The barber will be here soon. Dirk’s a fast runner and the good barber will take care of you.”
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
There was no response from Hazelwood for a moment, only a frown. “I pray that you are not dying. But you have had a lot to drink and there is a lot of leaking blood that is not soon to stop,” he said softly. “I am sorry we came to blows carelessly. You must relax; think of your family, boy. Your sweetheart. If you die, know that you will have died a manful death.”
“Some comfort that is! I’d rather a kiss from sweet Claire’s lips before I died than all the manfulness in the world. What... what was it we even started yelling about?” Billy asked, closing his eyes.
“I can’t recall,” Hazelwood softly replied.
“Me neither.”
Hazelwood sat with Billy as the young man spoke of his sweet Claire, of Mother and his friends and his home back in Archet—how beautiful the Archet Dale was in Spring—and of the event for which he called himself ‘Bold Billy.’ At last he remembered his mother’s words of caution, repeating the word ‘don’t’ over and over again until he could speak no more and perished.
