Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [126]
One of the toughest of sports, it could be the most brutal, and the Cornishman knew every trick. A spatulate thumb, sliding into the eye, was his answer to Thady’s quick knee lock, and as the ollave’s head jerked to protect himself, the wrestler’s hard foot flashed up and in, and his hands, deep in Thady’s black hair, jerked his scalp hard to the ground. Lymond’s hands, outspread, met the tiles a split second before his head. He somersaulted, and his stockinged legs, swinging up, scissored the Cornishman’s neck and hurled him off balance backwards.
It was a good escape; but no more than that, for Thady Boy landed first, and on his stomach at that, with the wrestler on top of him. Then they were up and close-grasped again. Beneath the dyed skin, Francis Crawford was livid, and breathing in fast, retching gasps. The Cornishman set his joints. Then, twisting, tearing, wrenching, kicking, he fought for one thing and got it. He trapped Thady at last in the cage of a full hug and without attempting to throw him, set himself, to his whining monody, to burst the lighter man’s ribs.
The pressure mounted, bit by bit. Flat against the hot, sticky leather Thady’s face looked darkly congested. His hands moved weaving behind the Cornishman’s back. They moved till they rested on the fleshy pads of the ribs, and then gripped and wrung, through leather and skin. Shaken, the big man grunted; and in that second, Lymond hooked his inside left leg with his own right. It was not enough, by a long way, for a fall; but enough to shake the intensity of the hug. The Cornishman changed his mind. Slackening his own hold, he spun round so that he was underneath Lymond’s belly and prepared to throw him bodily over his head.
From that height, and on those tiles, it meant possible death. As soon as the grasp on him slackened, Lymond changed and tightened his own. When the wrestler applied his leverage, it was counteracted by a lock which not only equalled his but bent him double, as he crouched, until he knelt on the floor. Then the grip under his arms began to shift and extend. There was a grunt, a twist and a deep, shaken sigh. The next moment Lymond’s two clasped hands met at the back of the Cornishman’s neck.
The knuckles whitened. A vein, rapidly beating, appeared in the dark skin of his temple. Then, slowly, the thick-jointed shining bald head started to bow, to sink, to press lower and lower, to be pushed inexorably into the wrestler’s great chest, pushed with the last, deadly, unanswerable thrust that drives bone asunder from bone.
It was then, in the small, breathing silence that was theirs, in the midst of the rustling ring of their audience, the cries, the murmurs, the rapt and riveted gaze of the Court, that Thady Boy spoke to the Cornishman.
What he said could not be heard by the spectators. But the wrestler understood; the veined eyes glared white and the sweat dripped, greasily warm, as he listened. Then, squeezing the words from compressed throat and chest, he answered. ‘They’re lying. Ils mentirent, donc.’
Thady Boy addressed him again. Under the long and pitiless fingers the glittering head was sinking still, the sandy skin darkening to purple. Again, patently the answer was negative.
What happened next was a matter of idle dispute afterwards among all those who watched. The ollave spoke, and this time relaxed his pressure a fraction. The wrestler answered, his voice stifled and raucous, and after another exchange Thady seemed satisfied.
He loosened his grasp, shifted, and as the Cornishman drew a first, shuddering breath, Thady’s arm flashed under his chin, gripped, tightened, and pulled up and back. There was a click, clearly