The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [161]
Twenty-seven. Now full dark had fallen, and they trampled upon their own streaming shadows. The rectangle within which they struggled was outlined in light: lamps, candles, high-flaring torches. High on the Rock, window-light sprinkled the darkness and here and there exposed an expanse of broad wall. A flush in the air told of the stair-lamps of the Horse Market.
The news would have to come up the Wynd and into the Canongate. Then up the High Street and down through the market and here … Pay attention!
Light exploded into his face: disastrous light this time. The dazzle of Sersanders’s sword, deflected up from his shoulder-plate. And the flash of his own helm, struck from below and torn backwards from his bare head.
His horse stopped. Sersanders, still in violent motion, saw what had happened and reined his horse hard, dragging his sword-arm up and back. The horse, alarmed and nervous, suddenly reared and Sersanders, unbalanced, found that one hand would not hold it.
Nicholas saw his opponent’s mount rear above him, black on the stars, and the hooves begin to come down. A single roar from the stands filled his head. He saw Sersanders hurl his sword to the ground and, seizing the reins in both hands, use his weight and the rigour of the bit to try to drag the horse sideways.
He had no hope of keeping balance. The animal twisted. Its hooves clattered down, missing Nicholas. Its knees buckled. Then it fell, big as a wagon, arid the crash of its steel shook the ground.
Nicholas, dismounting, hit the ground at the same time. He fled under the flailing hooves and round to where Sersanders had fallen. Sersanders lay free, on his back. As Nicholas reached him, he slowly raised one plated arm and put back his vizor. He said, ‘We only got to twenty-nine points.’ He sounded winded. He looked unharmed. He was unharmed.
Nicholas gave him a hand to sit up, and then stand. Men were running towards them. He said, ‘We could both get on my horse and hit one another.’
‘That nag?’ said Sersanders. ‘It wouldn’t stand for it. I don’t know what knacker sells you his horses.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t ever trust you with a good one. Look what you do to them,’ Nicholas said. They were walking slowly across to the stand. As boys, ten years ago, they had talked to each other like that. Nicholas stopped. He said, ‘You could have cut my throat. No one would have known.’
‘I should,’ said Sersanders. Then the marshal of the lists arrived, panting.
Nicholas stood, while procedures were swiftly discussed, and one horse was being killed, and the other led away. The two maidens, skirts clutched, arrived and clung to the group. The Sinclair girl had been weeping and Katelijne gave her a handkerchief. Anselm Sersanders and Nicholas de Fleury were invited to approach the royal stand, and informed that honours were even, and their fair ladies would present them with what they had won at the banquet that night. A flower fell at Sersanders’s feet, tossed by Margaret. The trumpets, defeating all speech, called for attention, and an announcement was made. The next bout would be the last of the evening.
‘But what about ours?’ said the Sinclair girl against a sonorous recital of honours. He saw Katelijne had overheard and was struggling.
Nicholas said, ‘I think we hold that in private. No, of course I know what you mean. I suppose it’s been cancelled.’ He watched Sersanders walk away with his sister. They had exchanged a sort of salute. Whatever had happened, Sersanders had undoubtedly come off the better. He looked up