Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [170]
No one laughed. No one spoke. Nicholas said, ‘You mean if things had gone otherwise, we should have been soul-friends?’
The fine eyes studied his, gravely. The Archer said, ‘But isn’t this true of most antagonists? We dislike our own flaws in others. We resent those whose admiration we want. Only sometimes, if we are blessed, we may reverse the process.’
He stopped.
‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said.
The box was open, and the two daggers lay there, side by side. David Simpson said, ‘I was sent to Cyprus, and told to beat you in business, and make sure you went home. But for this old man, we should have been friends.’ And lifting one of the knives, he drove it into the breast of St Pol.
It grated on steel. The fat man fell back, staggering. Henry screamed. Simpson dragged back the dagger and lifted his fist to slash it across St Pol’s bloated neck. Nicholas snatched the second blade up. It cracked against the first, diverting it from its path, and, when Simpson turned, Nicholas used it again, plunging it into the other man’s arm. Blood sprayed, and Simpson gasped. It was not a duel. It was a face-to-face struggle, with the edge of a table before them, and Wodman and Henry running up from behind. The fat man straightened and said, ‘I’m all right. Go on.’
Henry and Wodman stopped running. Nicholas stepped back. Blood pumped from Simpson’s arm, crimsoning the shirt and falling on to the floor. He made no effort to stem it, or to transfer his dagger, which hung from his fingers. His lashes flickered.
Nicholas said, ‘Do you concede the fight?’ His voice was hard.
Jordan de St Pol spoke, his voice quite as harsh. ‘He concedes. His other arm is useless. He was stabbed by your helpless cripple as he bent over his bed. An unreliable soldier, David de Salmeton. Flockhart always said so, in France. They were glad to get rid of him.’
‘To hell with you,’ said David Simpson in a clear voice. ‘With all of you.’ Nicholas saw a flash, and a thick spray of glistening blood hit the table and floor, followed without grace by the other man’s body. The wonderful eyes, when Nicholas stooped, were still open, but the life within them had gone. The knife was still sunk in his heart, where he had managed to push it himself.
Lifting him, Nicholas saw now the bandages under his shirt from the earlier hurt. David Simpson could not have fought with a sword, and had only one hand for a dagger. He had not wanted, perhaps, to fight at all. He had meant to kill the old man, and himself. And the old man, perhaps, had even guessed it.
St Pol had found a seat, and Henry, sent for wine, was bringing it slowly, his eyes on the bloodsoaked burden being laid down by Wodman and Nicholas. It was not a charlatan’s body. Nicholas thought it a pity that Simpson had had to hear those last goading words of the old man. From what Wodman had said, they were not true. For one thing, St Pol would never have employed an incompetent.
Then he remembered what Simpson had done, and had tried to do, and was not sorry. Perhaps old age would have been unkindest of all.
St Pol was watching him over his glass. There was no change in his face, although the blow to the chest had been considerable, and a mail-shirt was no protection against pain. Nicholas said, ‘You could have kept him under arrest at Kilmirren. Why risk this? For the amusement of seeing us fight?’
‘Dear me,’ said St Pol. ‘If so, I should have been disappointed, should I not?’ He emptied his glass and held it out. ‘No. I had in mind a small test. I thought your evaluation of Simpson was faulty, and his of you quite mistaken. I was right.’
‘You were?’ Nicholas said. Wodman, refilling the glass, was quite silent.
The fat man said, ‘Of course. He persistently attracted your attention. He wanted you for a friend. It was time you showed him that remarkable core made of metal. You and I are very alike in that respect, my dear Nicholas. Only,