To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [249]
There was no chance they could stop him. There was no chance that anyone could stop him, even the rider who burst through the trees from the castle and scored through the grassland like fire, crying aloud as he came.
Henry heard him. Henry glanced round, once, with no real surprise on his face. Then his head lifted, to weigh up his target. He positioned his club without haste, and without haste swept it down to connect, clean and hard, with the ball. There was a click and a whisper as the solid boxwood shot through the air. There was no doubt that it would strike the child’s head. Henry had all the skills of his father.
While it happened, the horseman behind was riding flat out. Robin saw that he leaned to one side, the reins in one hand and a kolf in the other. Memory, uncontrolled, showed himself as a boy, also eleven, standing on the flat sands of Leith and watching a cold, distant man, the same man, dispatching a tzukanion ball far out to sea. He saw that there was a ball now in the grass ahead of the rider, one dropped by Henry, and that Nicholas de Fleury was riding towards it.
He saw Henry swing up his club and glance round as the other man shouted. He saw Henry prepare for his stroke, his eyes on the staggering child. He saw Nicholas de Fleury lift his club in turn for the stroke that would kill Henry as Henry killed. Just before the moment of impact the man’s face, so unlike, was blank, uncannily blank like the boy’s. The sieur de Fleury called, one final explosive cry, and then closed his grip and aimed.
Far ahead, through his panic, Jodi heard his father’s voice, the familiar, trusted voice, calling his name. Oblivious of the ball whistling towards him, he tried to turn but could not. Soaked and frightened and sobbing, he lost his balance and fell, just as the boxwood hurtled up, and sped over his head to skid glistening into the turf.
Behind, all the clamour broke off. The sieur de Fleury’s club dragged and bounced over the ground, aborting its shot. The horse cantered on. The rider hurled the kolf from him. It sped hissing and whining to dig, splintering, into the ground. Then its wielder was level with Henry de St Pol who stood motionless, scornful, waiting for the great blow that reached him, and felled him.
No one moved. The boy lay on the ground. Then Nicholas de Fleury walked past him, and threw himself down by the small, mewing child in the grass.
Robin was first to rush up, his throat choked. The girl Catherine dismounted beside him, saying nothing. Her stepfather Nicholas did not look round. The only sound was his voice, conducting a long peaceful monologue as he sheltered the child with his shoulder, and blew its nose, and wiped the mud from its cheeks. It sobbed intermittently, and his fingers caressed it. When he addressed them, it was in the same conversational tone.
‘Berecrofts, you will take Jordan back to the castle, collect the slut who helped you bring this about, and return to Antwerp at once with them both. Van Borselen will give you a guard and a wagon. There you will remain until Mistress Clémence will join you. You will not go out, or take the child out for any reason whatever, and you will stay until you receive further orders. Are you capable of understanding all that?’
The child, clinging, claimed his attention, and his fingers, circling, gentled its head. Catherine de Charetty said, ‘Robin is injured from trying to protect him. Henry did all he could short of murder to get Robin thrown out.’
‘And you stopped it, I see.’
She flushed and paled, her face lined with anxiety. ‘None of us realised at the time. We were stupid. Let me take Jordan. Let me go with Jordan to Antwerp, with Paul.’
Her stepfather looked at her, as to a stranger. ‘Why not?’ he said, and got up, lifting the child in his arms. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Catherine has almonds, and Robin will let you ride on his horse.’
‘And maman?’ said Jordan. His heart pumped like a bird’s.
‘Maman is in Bruges,’ said his father. ‘You will see her