Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [310]
The echoes of the magnificent voice, mouthing from pillar to pillar, grew muffled and died. No one spoke. Outside, the crowd had fallen into a murmurous silence, and the men of St Mary’s, taut at their posts, watched the great doors of the church where their officers stood, listening to the Order calling its knights.
Then de Seurre stirred. Tough, prosaic, deeply religious, he had been Gabriel’s strongest support in all the cold, unseen struggle of ethos against ethos, and his face, hairless as limed leather, showed nothing of the conflict that indictment and appeal, so closely following, must have produced. As he neared Gabriel, M. d’Oisel, aware, Jerott knew, of the full menace St Mary’s represented, said nevertheless, calmly, in his excellent English, ‘For Sir Graham to leave now is out of the question. The charges on both sides are far too serious to ignore. Both Sir Graham Malett and Mr Crawford will kindly give up their swords.’
Graham Malett did not even look at him. ‘Well?’ he said to de Seurre.
The Chevalier de Seurre looked round. There, watching silent and tense in the nave, were the men who had abandoned Graham Malett for Lymond: Blacklock, Guthrie, Hoddim, Salablanca and Abernethy. By the door, equally intent, were those who, like himself, had stayed staunchly by their beliefs and their vows. He waited a moment, drawing from them whatever silent support he needed, and then turned. ‘Sir Graham. In the name of justice we believe you must stay and answer these charges,’ said the Chevalier. ‘We cannot in conscience join you or follow you now.’
The fine aquamarine eyes stretched open. The pure skin, draining first, flushed next to carnation pink as Graham Malett’s golden brows rose and his lips and chin flattened against his clenched teeth. Then, ‘Must!’ he said smiling, on a note no one present had heard before. ‘Must, fool … fat, God-sodden blunderer? There is nothing Graham Malett must do except clear the lice from his path.’
Beside him, Jerott Blyth drew a long, shuddering breath, his gaze turning to Lymond. But Lymond had eyes for no one but Gabriel and the Chevalier. His voice, saying sharply ‘De Seurre!’ cut across the sudden rising note of excitement both inside and outside the church, as thus abruptly, swift and terrible as a fissure in ice, the soulless, loving imposture came to an end.
Lymond exclaimed; but Michel de Seurre took one second too many to react. As he turned, Gabriel’s sword, naked in his hand, cut through de Seurre’s scabbard and disarmed him, in one vital movement, while at the same time with his free hand Graham Malett twisted the Chevalier’s arm high and tight on his spine and held him, a living shield, before him. Then, instead of advancing, back exposed, into the crowded church, Gabriel backed, his blade before him scanning the air, until he was on the steps and just out of sword’s reach of Crawford.
If he were quick, he might just manage to slip inside and round the altar, past the Chapel of the Holy Cross, and out of the church by the Lady Steps without meeting more opposition than he could handle. To do that, he had somehow to put both Lymond and de Seurre out of action. As he backed, the Chevalier must have felt Gabriel’s muscles tense, and although he himself was fighting with every inch of packed muscle he possessed, must have known that with his great advantage of breadth and height, his Grand Cross could pick him up bodily if he chose, unarmed as he was, with one arm almost wrenched off at his back.
Then, like some chill, periastral missile, Lymond launched himself from the altar rails. The unexpectedness of it took more than de Seurre by surprise. Letting go his victim, rocked to his knees with the force of the blow as Lymond landed, Graham Malett staggered back, bent, and sword in hand, sprang. De Seurre, rolling out of the way, blundered into his own sawn-off scabbard and, sitting up, was attempting quickly to unsheath and rise when the Sieur d’Oisel’s hard hand stayed his wrist. ‘No. This is a case for