Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [207]
“I charge you by your faith and your right hand, which is enclosed in the hand of your adversary, that you use your power and make use of all advantages to make good your appeal, to force him to a rendering of himself unto your hands, or with your own hand to kill him before you part from this room, and so God you help.”
They swore, and the blades were lifted from the table: the thin tempered rapiers with steel quillons and counterguard; the daggers with their thick, double-edged blades, twelve inches long. Richard received his weapons: sword for the right hand and dagger for the left; and then Lymond. The Gospel was removed; the table taken away. Erskine, his eyes travelling over every face, Scots and English, gave the familiar address.
“We charge and command every man that he approach not nor that he speak, make any noise, give any sign nor by his countenance or otherwise direct either of these parties to take any advantages the one upon the other, upon pain of life and member.”
He paused, looking up at the brilliant windows and Kate’s bright chestnuts beyond. A goose, frowning, marched across the grass. Inside, the sun prinked and patterned the floor, aureoled the two white-shirted men, standing widely separated, and fell upon itself, reflected in the steel, with redoubled kisses.
“The day is far passed,” said Erskine, making the herald’s formal pronouncement. “Let them go, let them go, to do their endeavour.”
To do his endeavour, Lymond waited in the hall of Flaw Valleys, a slender, feral figure, limbs relaxed, eyes wide awake and steel in either scarred hand; and watched his brother advance. “Quicker, Richard. We’re meant to explode into action.” The voice was ribald.
Face to face with him, Lord Culter answered softly. “There’s no hurry.” And there was a flicker of movement and a click, as Lymond parried, sliding sideways to miss the twinkle of the short blade. Richard waited. He was indeed in no hurry.
“Since we are here,” said Lymond conversationally, “why not pronounce something appropriate? ‘Eh bien, dansez maintenant’? Or, ‘We came both out of one womb: so shall we lie both in one pit’? And there’s ‘Brother, whi art thou so to me in ire?’—the killing of Abel, my dear: a mine of suitable commentary.… Come along,” said the playful, savage voice. “Let us fight with sugar in our mouths like the litigating tailors of V—” And he ducked.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” said Lymond. “Nature works in the … shortest way possible. If you really want to reach my guts …”
The sun was on his face. “I do,” said Richard. “But not immediately.” And this time he thrust, traversed and lunged again, the dagger poised and intent, waiting for Lymond to duck out of the sunlight.
He did exactly that. Richard, smiling faintly, whipped up his left arm and halted, blinded in the act by the light from his brother’s blade. “… try lunging in a straight line,” ended Lymond, serene and safe. “Useful thing, sunlight. Play up, master swordman. You’re rolling about like a pear in a pottle.” They drifted apart again.
His intention was obvious. Gideon was not inspired to laugh, but some of his men were, and he saw that Culter was aware of it. Lymond was of course behaving atrociously: he seemed prepared to make any sort of fool of himself rather than allow his brother near. Culter, by no means playing seriously himself as yet, was testing the other man’s strength, or trying to. The Master eddied around the floor, talking.
If Richard had meant to make his power felt gradually, he was forced to drop the idea. Unless he was to be a laughingstock, he must force Lymond to fight; and his brother, as well as Erskine and Gideon and the waiting men, read the sudden purpose in his face. But Lymond got in first.
“Bloodthirsty, Richard?” he asked. “Husband your humours. Think of the fair ones at home. His heart was light as leaf on tree, when that he thought on his—”
It was one quotation he never did finish. There was a growl from Richard,