Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [210]
Nicholas suddenly saw that Argyll was going to do nothing. He said, ‘My lord?’ And when Argyll looked up, threw him down his own sword. Henry saw it.
So did Johndie Mar. He laughed. He said, ‘So the Burgundian is your hireling? Whom does he want you to kill, Colin? This pasty-faced heir to Kilmirren, which would suit M. de Fleury? Or me, the King’s brother, which would suit every one of you, because I detest England as Sandy and Margaret do?’
‘Sire,’ said Argyll. Below, men were falling silent.
‘Shall I tell you something?’ said Mar. ‘Shall I tell you why Meg will never marry in England? Why my sister the most serene Princess, lady Margaret, has twice been summoned to her great English wedding, and twice has failed to arrive?’
‘My lord,’ said the Earl of Argyll, ‘are you coming, or do you need assistance with this young man?’
His voice was helpful, not threatening. He had not used the sword Nicholas had flung him to bring Mar to order. Instead, he was reminding the Prince of his quarrel, to divert him from whatever he had been going to say.
The Earl of Mar said slowly, ‘No. I am not coming. Not until I have finished with Master Randy St Pol, and taught him not to take what does not belong to him.’ And, turning, he advanced on the youth.
It was a small room, lit by guttering wall-sconces, with one unshuttered range of windows giving on to the street and a low ceiling, unsuited to swordplay. Within it, Henry stood quite still, presenting his sword to his enemy, and to Argyll who stood at the door, with Nicholas now silently by him. Like Mar, St Pol wore only doublet and hose, without other protection, and his bright hair was uncovered. His stance, like Mar’s, was that of a highly trained swordsman, but there was a physical balance about him, a grace that Mar lacked. Mar had the advantage of age, and also a knife which Henry did not possess. But as one looked at the two, it was not impossible that the unthinkable could happen: that the youngest member of the King’s Scottish Guard, to save his own life, might be forced to kill the King’s brother.
With a flash and a clatter, it began. Engagement; disengagement. A click as sword parried dagger; a slur of shoe upon wood as someone ducked; and a whine as someone swiped and missed. Fast, irregular breathing; an imprecation; Johndie’s furious laugh. From outside the windows, the murmur of a gleeful and increasing crowd (It’s Johndie, right? And Lang Bessie’s bonny wee pet fighting it out); and the same sounds below, rounded by the confines of the tavern. Argyll’s men still barred the stairs and the cause of the fight, Lang Bessie, had long ago been spirited away.
Nicholas watched, his face impassive, his hands clenched. By now, he knew Henry’s style, having witnessed it in practice at Greenside, and heard Robin’s judicial assessments. Since there was nothing he could do, he stood back from the jumping figures and the massive swings of the heavy blades. It was Mar’s dagger hand that he followed, and he saw that Henry was watching it too. Then came the moment when Mar feinted and lifted the short blade as well as the long. Henry ducked, missing the sword by a long hissing fraction, and struck at the dagger instead.
It fell. And as it struck the floorboards and hopped, Argyll sprang forward and scooped it up, retreating immediately to the door, where he tossed the little weapon to Nicholas. Mar gave one amazed glance at the Highlander, then he whirled to defend himself against Henry’s swung blade. They were even.
They remained