History of the Woodhouse Dynasty 1570s Part 2: Round of 16
October 29, 1575
Dear Elly,
I know it’s only been a week but I feel as if I have to tell you of some more of what’s been going on around here lately ever since the competition began. You’ll be happy to know I’ve made it to the round of 16 and the first bouts of it will be tonight. I promise I’m not getting myself too beaten up! They still haven’t announced the prize yet but I think a lot of the others, like me, just want to prove ourselves regardless of the prize.
I know what you would say: “Silly boys.” But trust me, Elly, this’ll show them that I’m committed to the cause and hopefully get me advanced more than the other students. Plus, some of these guys—like that Antonio or Sebastian. They’re some of the worst people to be in here. They’re arrogant and brutish. I’m glad Declan and I are in a different dormitory building from them. Some of the students saw them and a few other fellows sneaking out again at nights. One would think they were still fourteen. These decadent aristocrats—we were never like that, weren’t we, Elly?
My classes are going alright as well this week. Professor Roxas was unavailable this week, though. Apparently word has it that his son Raul was killed in a hunting accident. The faculty has given him a week off to bury him. It was pretty tragic for him—Raul was his only son. I don’t think I knew him very well. He was one of the underclassmen—only maybe fifteen, I think. He was transferred to a different campus by the time the accident happened.
Anyway; that’s all that’s happened this week. I’ll try to write another letter to you after this round is over!
Sincerely,
Bevan Woodhouse
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“Were you writing in the scriptorium again?” Declan asked playfully.
“No,” Bevan replied with a laugh as he carried his equipment awkwardly, “I managed to take some of your papers when you fell asleep that one time in Sister Johanna’s class.”
Declan shook his fist angrily but with a lazy grin on his face. “That’s just like you English always taking us poor Irish’s things!”
“Poor?” Bevan stopped and faked a dumbfounded look before reaching over to land a punch on Declan’s shoulder. “Give me that excuse when the Spanish stop sending supplies over there from
my island.”
Declan chuckled a few steps away from any other potential hits and orbited around his friend as they walked. “Well it only makes sense! Ireland’s a Protestant hotbed; big brother England has to help us few Irish Catholics out; even if even Bigger Brother Spain has to make it so!”
“Hmph…” Bevan huffed as he adjusted his sword to the other hand, “I think they gave you enough help giving you folks the potato when the Armada first came over.”
“Ahh,” Declan faked a swoon, “the noble potato! The cutest of our staple foods!” Bevan could only shake his head with a reluctant laugh at that.
“So,” Bevan asked finally out of some sincerity, “any more news on the one with the mask?”
Declan stopped bouncing around and held a thoughtful finger to his chin. “Now that you mention it. I did hear a few rumours,” he said with his eyes raised as if attempting to discern the mysterious identity from the swirling of the afternoon clouds.
“I’m guessing you had a meeting with the Dutchmen,” Bevan snickered. In his mind, Bevan’s thoughts could only find amusement at the usual trouble the twin-like young men from the Netherlands would inflict.
“They’re a strange pair those two, but the weird one—Lussenburg—he told me that it might be one of the Conversos,” Declan explained and resumed his walk just as Bevan turned his head in curiosity.
“Which one?” Bevan asked, unable to contain himself. “It can’t be Alfonso, he’s too short.”
“Alfonso was my first guess, but yeah, whoever it was, they were pretty tall. Lussenburg hinted that it might be the one that converted recently. Miguel Javier-Hidalgo Perez Evangelista de Burgos,” Declan recited the name like it was a litany of saints.
Bevan curled his eyebrow. “Judah?” he said inquisitively. “I heard he was a good fighter, but why would he need to wear a mask…”
“Good point,” Declan admitted, “though Lussenburg did make one more prediction that I thought was interesting.” At that, Declan leaned in towards Bevan’s shoulder as both stopped walking. Declan’s face scowled a mischievous expression as he whispered the possibility in Bevan’s ear.
“Impossible!” Bevan cried out while attempting to diffuse his utter shock with a quirky smile. Declan merely shrugged at him.
“It’s not my theory,” the Irishman admitted, “but—”
“Even if they allowed such a thing,” Bevan interrupted with a welling indignation, “it would just be completely contrary—”
“It’s not like they don’t teach them how to use weapons on their side of the campus!” Declan interrupted him as well with pursed lips and wide eyes emphasizing the possibility he proposed.
“But still,” Bevan protested a bit ashamed suddenly. “This is exactly why I’m going through this programme myself; so that—”
Declan nearly licked his teeth in realization of what it was Bevan was attempting to say. “Just so that girls like Elly won’t have to do it?” It immediately elicited a deep blush in the Englishman.
“Well,” Bevan began with a slight stutter in his speech, “so what! That’s what being a man is about, Declan—being willing to sacrifice yourself for—”
“You don’t need to argue about it with me, Bevan,” Declan tried to calm him, “So long as there are people like us, we hopefully won’t need to be so desperate as to have women fend for themselves against, especially, men with less honourable intentions. Regardless, the masked one might very well be a woman from this Academy. I know you object because you don’t like to see any woman in danger, you hopeless romantic,” Declan added a laugh in between his speech, “But some women do make a sacrifice as well. After all, if Sister Johanna could do it…” there was another chuckle.
Bevan nodded slowly after the short dissertation and lowered his eyes to contemplate the situation a little bit. Relenting, he gave a short smile to Declan but caught some movement from ahead of them. “Speaking of less honourable intentions,” he said lowly as the figure of Sebastian Royce stepped through the palisade ahead of them.
“You’ll get your chance at them,” Declan intoned with a short laugh and a tap on Bevan’s shoulder. There were smiles on both sides as they followed behind Sebastian and entered the tournament area.
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The darker edge of the room provided enough cover for the mask to finally slide away from underneath the hood and rest on the side table. A second later, flowing hair cascaded from underneath the cowl.
“Do you really have to do this?” a voice called out from behind with a whining tone. “What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing,” the soft voice replied. It was a quiet, gentle vocalization—as if the long drawn out silence of hours of fencing had fermented a sweet intoxicating melody that rose and fell from those lips like petals of cherry blossoms in the wind. “Don’t worry about me, Catalina. I can handle this.”
“I can see that you can handle this; you’ve already made it to the semi-finals. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Like any good friend would be,” that voice from the shadow replied, “but I want to travel the world like my father did. I want to go visit all those exotic places the Room has plans for. Jerusalem… Japan… China. I’m willing to make this sacrifice to make it known that I’m the woman for the job.”
The two in the room fell silent afterwards but a soft sigh escaped the one in the lighter part of the chamber. “You better rest up tonight then. Tomorrow’s final won’t be easy; you’re up against Antonio.”
“The Duke’s son…” the girl in the shade thought out loud. “For some reason,” she said quietly, “he seems familiar… like I’ve seen his face before.” A giggle suddenly erupted from the lighter end. “Are you laughing at me?” the one in the shade demanded half embarrassed.
“Just listen to yourself. It’s like you’re smitten by him.”
“I am not! How could I ever like some arrogant playboy like him!” was the reply and a playful toss of that mask whirled from the shadow. “Anyway, get some hot water ready—fighting in this tight outfit’s terrible on my skin.”
“Yes ma’am,” the other girl acknowledged with still a small giggle, “We’ll make sure you’re quite fragrant for your date—I mean, the semi-finals tomorrow!”
Another piece of clothing seemed to be thrown in the girl’s direction as she quickly quit the room.
Next Bonus Chapter: Semi-Finals/The Date
