Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [312]
It was not a game that Lymond, either, proposed to play. As Jerott watched, he suddenly put extreme pressure on Bell, his sword thrusting and flashing, arching always to the left, where Gabriel followed him up. Then at length Bell, chest heaving, the dark blood high in his face, stepped back just below the great standing candelabra at the top right of the steps. He saw it just as it came toppling over him, thrust by Lymond’s shoulder and knee and, struck across the shoulders, slithered and bounced down the remaining steps to the carpet where he rolled to d’Oisel’s feet.
Few watched while rough hands were laid on him and, below Janet Beaton’s stony gaze, Randy Bell was dragged through the press to the north door to take his place in the Tolbooth. Instead, swaying, calling, they saw Lymond drop instantly on one knee, and dodging Gabriel’s first, unconsidered drive of fresh anger, strike forward and up with his left hand.
Graham Malett rolled back along the altar rail, angry surprise in his lucid blue eyes and blood wet on his white shirt, where Lymond’s dagger, slipped at speed from his belt, had slit the garment from end to end in a long raking thrust that ended deep by one clavicle. Bare under his black cloak, the stained skin of his breast heaved as he collected himself, his sword flickering as he parried Lymond’s quick, following attack until, his forces gathered again, he stood firm and was able, in a moment, to disengage, his back to the rail. Then Jerott, and all those near enough, saw what the torn shirt revealed, pricked, white-scarred with the passage of time, on his breast.
Lymond saw it too, and his sickened understanding must have shown, for Gabriel’s amusement lit all his fine, fresh-coloured face. ‘Why so prim, sweeting? Surely Evangelista told you? But for Trotty, the Sisters of Sciennes might have had a rare child to nurture.… Which reminds me.…’ The smiling eyes under the cropped golden hair considered Lymond. ‘I have a little news for you, my brash child. But not yet. Not yet. First, Francis Crawford, I must teach you and others like you to keep out of my way.’
His arm steady, Lymond parried that first stroke. To Jerott, to all his men, to Sybilla, watching, her heart struck cold by Gabriel’s words, his blue and level gaze was no more or no less than they had often seen it, in armed combat with someone whose skill he respected, or at the beginning of some subtle and delicate action. He said, speaking clearly and directly, ‘There is no certainty in your sword, and no escape at the end. You are fighting for your pride, but I haven’t done what I have done to die here, under your blade. Only a fool, Malett, or a man losing his mind, makes the same mistake twice.’
It was done deliberately, no doubt. It touched, Jerott saw, on what was probably the only fear that Gabriel knew. There was, in that open, tolerant face, a flowering of cold anger such as Jerott had never seen, even at the whipping-post at St Mary’s; and Graham Malett, his eyes alight, said softly, ‘Jabatek ummek wahad f’il-dunya.… Thy mother made thee unique in the world; a true word, lout, usurper, hurd without name. You would meddle with me? You would lay your half-made hands on my life?’ He broke off, his white teeth flashing. ‘Come here, Francis Crawford, who worships, I am told, two things himself: power and music. Don’t be afraid. I am not going to kill you. But the armbone of St Giles, who can cast out demons, will have company before very long.… First I shall sever your right hand, my dear. And in due time, the left.…’
And smiling still, he attacked.
Almost no one, of the crowded men of St Mary’s who watched, murmuring and jostling from the body of the church, had ever seen these two men fight. It was something Francis Crawford had instinctively avoided, Jerott realized.