Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [51]
His face and limbs swollen, his lungs labouring, his legs without strength, Claes could not even pretend, now, to study his enemy, or predict where the next blow might come from. He merely fought defensively, his pole held between his two hands, protecting his face and his body.
And this, of course, allowed Simon to do what he wished. He made no attempt to hook the other man’s pole or otherwise disarm him, which would have finished the fight. Instead, sometimes swinging his pole, sometimes using it as a battering ram, he proceeded methodically, but without haste, to reduce his opponent.
You would say Claes was beyond thought. Indeed, from the beginning he had used his brains, Julius thought, little more than one of Astorre’s pensioned soldiers, stupefied by too many blows on his helmet.
But one spark of an idea must have entered Claes’ head. He waited until, after a succession of glancing blows, Simon swung his pole to the horizontal like his and prepared, spanning it with his hands, to attack in a different way. Claes hardly signalled what he meant to do next. Only his eyes flickered, once, and Simon, smiling, lunged in that direction.
Even then, he clearly could not believe that the flicker had been a deception. But there was Claes, on the wrong side, not only still gripping his pole horizontally but rushing at him, with a desperation that told he had gambled on this one movement all the strength he had left.
There was no time to sidestep. Claes was on him, and his pole was against Simon’s pole, and the impetus of the rush was carrying Simon back, at first for a quick pace or two and then, as he dug in, more slowly. But still back, because the only advantage Claes had was in weight. And for once, Simon had no advantage at all.
Breathless, the spectators watched. On one side Astorre grunted, with Felix and Julius, still gripping each other beside him. And at the wharf-edge itself stood Lionetto, in a clear space with his cursing friends crowded about him.
Behind the resisting figure of Simon, men moved out of the way. Behind Simon was a stretch of a dozen paces and the edge of the quay, and the water. Astorre grunted again, with displeasure. “God blast them. Who wins if both dolts fall over?”
“At least it will stop it,” said Julius. His teeth were sunk in his lip. Surely the Scotsman, with all the fight in him yet, was going to break the deadlock and duck long before he was shoved to the edge? Or would he let himself be run there and twist, sending Claes under his own impetus over the edge, and thus end the battle?
If that was it, thought Julius, someone had better act quickly. Someone would have to fish out the poor beaten idiot before he drowned from exhaustion.
Perhaps the touchy Scotsman had intended to throw Claes over. Perhaps he intended to play with him, recovering at the last moment and driving him back to a worse beating than before. Certainly a scuffle of sorts developed as if Simon had changed his position, but was finding it less easy than he had expected. Later, although no one knew for certain, those nearest the quayside swore that Claes threw away his pole and, gripping his opponent by the arms, hurled himself and the other man into the water together.
Certainly, before they left the quayside, both poles had dropped, cracking and bouncing to the cobbles. Lionetto himself, who was standing quite near, agreed, when pressed, that the Scotsman had been carrying no pole when he passed him.
What was visible to all was that moment. The moment when, locked together, Claes and his tormentor hurtled off the quayside and into the depths of the harbour.
The shouting rose to a roar, and died away. On the quay, instead of the duellers was dust, and a scuffed and empty arena. In the water of the harbour was a widening ring, its edges slapping the quay wall.
Then people, exclaiming,