"And why do you fear for me?" asked Father.
"Because…" she began.
"Because you know that God helps those who help themselves." He cocked his head at his squire, who fished in his belt purse and produced a small vial. "This," said her father, "Will even things up, if only you will put some in his water." He unlaced her fingers and placed her hand on the glass container.
Maud took a step backwards. "You ask me to poison Ranulph?"
Father looked shocked. "You are my daughter! What of obedience?"
She retreated another step. It was as if Ranulph had already killed him. "I cannot weigh one sin against another."
"Then be damned like your mother!" hissed her father. "Only it won’t be a pillow in the face that sends you to Hell. Do you think those barbarians will protect you once I have slain their chief?"
Maud turned on her heel and stumbled away. She could not return to Sir Ranulph. There was nothing left to do but kneel at the water’s edge and pray.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Trumpets.
Tom winced. "Marcel wake up. It’s reveille." His own voice came out slurred. They must have been drinking all night. He was cold too. And he hurt in a numb kind of way. All over. Must have been one of those rough sessions.
More trumpets.
Tom opened his eyes and the world opened before him like a movie – a beach crammed with heralds, gaily dressed nobles, and milling commoners. More like Grand Opera, since everything was in colour.
And he was naked strapped to a ladder. Why am I still alive?
Up by the Royal Stand, white grains marked out a circle. He forced his head around, letting his ethnographic training take his mind off the pain. Salt, the oldest demon repellent.
And there was the knight – Sir Ranulph Dacre – just as big without his armour.
Both men approached Edward and saluted with their longswords.
Ranulph twirled his between finger and thumb and boomed. "Do I use this to pick my teeth or darn my hose?"
The crowd laughed.
Beside him, Clifford looked like two beanpoles bound together with twine. Just weeks ago, Tom would have expected the bigger man to win. But now he knew a little of Edward's favourite art, he was not so sure.
Chanting priests leading the way, the swordsmen processed down the beach to the fighting ring. Each went to opposite sides and stepped over the salt.
Trumpets blared.
Both dropped into a warrior's bent-kneed stance, raised their swords over their rear shoulders and —
#
Ranulph drew the longsword back and took the Roof Guard, point to the sky, ready to strike. He missed the heft of Steelcutter, but any sword would do as long he could drive it into Clifford's body as so fulfil the vow to look on his enemy's corpse.
Clifford seemed more used to the shorter weapons. Mirroring Ranulph’s guard, he circled confidently, his green eyes fixed on Ranulph, nothing in his posture giving away what he was about to do.
He trains unarmoured, realised Ranulph. Like Ranulph's father, the duke was far more likely to face blades in the court than in the field.
... strange to feel so calm, with Clifford just outside his reach. But the anger was there, deep down, where Ranulph needed it. He threw a diagonal Wrath Strike at Clifford’s head and pivoted forward behind his blade, away from all conscious thought.
Clifford returned the diagonal blow, but aimed at Ranulph’s sword.
The swords sang. Ranulph’s bounced off to the side. Clifford’s lanced up at Ranulph’s throat.
Ranulph swatted aside the incoming weapon and used the momentum to twitch his sword back around at his enemy's face.
Clifford flexed and the tip whirled past. Ranulph had judged the distance for a greatsword, not a longsword.
Even as the realisation hit, Clifford's blade followed behind Ranulph’s, and delivered a slice to the forearms.
A woman screamed.
Now fear and rage mingled. Ranulph was fighting with an unfamiliar weapon against a skilled enemy. And God really must be on Clifford’s side this time. Ranulph wrestled the unfamiliar thoughts back behind his wall of ice and raised his sword back into Roof Guard.
Clifford backed out of range, raised his fists and pushed out his sword in a defensive Ox Guard, with his crossguard protecting his head.
What was he waiting for? Ranulph made to draw back his sword, but a numbness had wrapped itself around his arms, weighing down his movements.
Clifford’s blade was poisoned.
#
— and Tom recognised the Roof Guard.
He watched as the two men circled, swords held like shouldered carbines.
Sir Ranulph sprang forward. The blades clanged... whirled. Clifford sprang clear, leaving the giant knight with blood dripping from his forearms.
The giant knight staggered, as if drugged or dying.
#
Ranulph struggled to keep his longsword steady. He could cry foul, but nobody would believe him. And that would mean breaking concentration. He’d lost speed, and precision. What could he — ?
Clifford blurred forward.
Ranulph managed a very basic block.
Clifford’s longsword twisted around his. The reverse edge bit the back of Ranulph’s shoulder. As the Duke retreated, he yanked the blade back in a nasty draw-cut. The pain flared, then dulled, all but extinguished by the poison.
A fool is he who defends only. And Ranulph was going to die a fool in everybody’s eyes.
With a roar, Ranulph followed after. It should have been a neat step and slice, catching Clifford’s hand as he withdrew. The blow landed on Clifford’s sword, knocking it off line. Carried by his own drugged momentum, Ranulph pivoted forward, uncurled his left hand from the grip and reached for Clifford’s wrists.
Clifford sprang back and Ranulph’s unprotected hand grasped the blade instead. The pain barely registered through the haze. He had his longsword ready for a pommel strike, but Clifford’s face was already out of reach. Instead, he released his enemy’s blade and slashed down.
Clifford dashed the blow aside and drove his own sword into Ranulph’s belly.
Ranulph’s flesh parted. Clifford’s point tore through his entrails. The useless longsword crunched to the pebbles. Hot blood cascaded down his legs.
He should have been in agony. Instead he felt just a great sadness.
Clifford released his sword and caught Ranulph’s face. He planted a kiss on his lips. "Please convey my regards to your father in Hell."
Ranulph’s rage flared, burning away some of the haze. He ducked his head forward, and smashed his forehead into Clifford’s aquiline nose.
Clifford staggered back, blood running down his face.
"Convey them yourself!" said Ranulph, and wondered why he barely felt the impact.
Clifford’s drug must be a very powerful anaesthetic.
Ranulph grasped the sword where it entered his stomach, and wrenched it free. Still clutching the weapon by the blade, he heaved it up over his head and swung it back down like a hammer.
Clifford’s green eyes widened. The crossguard thocked into his forehead. The steel prong punched through the bone and buried itself in the brains beneath.
Ranulph released the blade and stared at the great slashes on his hands. As if weighed down by invisible armour, he swayed to face the Royal Stand.
Behind him, a body crashed to the stony beach.
Ranulph’s legs twisted and he ploughed into the pebbles. Somehow he couldn’t make his limbs roll him over so he could see Clifford. But the sea breeze brought him the distinctive shit-stench of a corpse’s voided bowels. His numb lips oozed into the ghost of a grin. God had granted him the victory, but at the price of violating his vow: if he looked on Clifford’s corpse, it would be from Heaven.
Father, I have avenged you.
CHAPTER NINE
Sir Ranulph lay slain.
Chivalry shattered,
Lesser men could not gather the scattered shards.<
br />
— King Ragnar of the Rune Isles, "Lament" (trans Badminton, Gryphon Press, 1890.)
#
Maud mustered all the authority of the Church and ordered, "Unhand me!"
Sir Ranulph's barbarians just tightened their grip. She kept pace, striding out against the constriction of her sodden skirts. "I shall scream!" When they didn’t respond, she screamed then glanced around to see if anybody had noticed.
The beach in front of the Royal Stand was a muddle of fighting Westerland nobles. Redmain crossed swords with De Lucy, Multon with Harclay, Maxwell with Hume. Her father’s death had unleashed all the old feuds. Nobody that mattered had time to think about her.
"Damn you." She let herself go limp – hardly dignified, but the only choice left.
Her Northman captors didn’t even falter. They dragged her onwards, so that her boots dug furrows in the gritty pebbles.
With a screech, she drew in her legs and righted herself. "Uncouth savages! Scum! Hell-bound heathens-"
Sir Ranulph smiled up at her, sweat-drenched face as pale as a dying child. "Not the parting I had planned…" He winced. "Lady Maud. God gave me victory, but punished me for my perjury."
"It was my fault," she blurted. "Father asked me to drug you. I should have deduced that he would poison his blade."
The dying knight shook his head. "I should not have let him get in that cut. I…"
The yells and clangs of battle became deafening. Maud knelt beside the dying knight and tilted her ear to his mouth.
"…a better death… than Albrecht…" He trailed off. His eyes closed, but his breath yet steamed from his lips.
Somebody thrust an object into her hands – her grimoire. She made to throw it aside, but Thorolf’s gnarled fingers closed over hers. He pushed his face close and growled, "Heal him."
She shook her head. "I have renounced Necromancy and all the Devil's other works."
The barbarian’s mouth twitched into a mirthless smile. "Then we shall take you from this place. And when we are done with you… place you at our Chieftain’s feet so that the flames will bear you to be his handmaiden in Valhalla.
"One way or another, it seems I am fated to burn." Maud straightened. "You can despoil my body, but not my soul."
Thorolf drew his single-edged war knife. "Hold her boys!" he said, still speaking in Western. They pinned her arms. "Let’s see if she’s as stubborn with only one tit."
Sir Ranulph barked, "On my honour, unhand the lady!"
Maud shook herself free.
"You are in holy orders still," said Ranulph, his voice failing. "It has been months since I made confession."
Maud dropped to her knees and signed herself.
"I have…" said Ranulph. "Slain… some men." His brow furrowed. His eyes blazed, as if he were holding back great pain. "Taken part in more than one tournament," he continued. "Debauched… some virgins. Consorted with more than one harlot." The words kept coming, punctuated now by great breaths. "Twice knowingly stood champion for a sodomite. Befriended the heathen. Loved a nun… " His head sank onto the rolled cloak.
"Ranulph!" She shook his shoulders. If he did not complete his confession, then she could not shrive him, and he would go to Purgatory at best, Hell at worst. She turned to Thorolf. "The grimoire! Give it to me."
She fumbled with the pages, the pounding in her ears now louder than the sounds of battle. Her cold fingers might as well have been toes for all the use they were. Finally, she levered open the Divers Remedies section and found For a mortal wound. She blinked the tears from her eyes and read the instructions.
She shuddered. If she invoked these Powers, nothing short of the life of an anchorite, walled up in a cell, would save her from damnation. A smile flitted over her lips. She probably didn’t have the patience to convert King Hjalti’s people anyway. "Bring me…" said. "Bring me the hand which caused this wound."
She tore open Ranulph’s shirt, spraying herself with his blood. The stench of gut-wound defied the sea breeze. His once-mighty chest rose and fell in tiny, quivering movements.
Nearby, swords rang. Then came the crack of blade on bone.
Shutting it all out, Maud began to chant Words she prayed she would one day forget. She dipped her finger in Ranulph’s gore and used the warm ooze to draw a pentagram around the wound. The pressure made the slit gape and dribble like a weaning infant. Ranulph’s chest was still now, any movement imperceptible. "Hurry!" she shouted, without turning her head.
Thorolf crouched down beside her. There was blood on his face, more than you’d get from a dead man’s limbs. He cradled a severed hand, not unlike her own except its calluses and the ducal ring.
The… thing was heavier than she’d expected. With infinite care, she arranged it over the wound, pressed her palm to its back as she had never done while her father was alive and continued her chant. The power welled through her, forcing its way into her secret places until every nook brimmed with tingling magic. It jolted down her arm. The hand squirmed, twitched and went still.
Sticky fingers fastened on her wrist.
She screamed.
Ranulph laughed and loosened his grip. His voice came out normal, and strong. "God's teeth — this must be Valhalla."
Maud glared at him. "I all but damned myself so that you can finish your confession."
Sir Ranulph sat up. Behind him, the legs of the warriors were like a stockade – the barbarians had formed a defensive ring so that she could work in safety. He drew her to him. "Then I confess that I love you Maud Clifford."
Sounds of sporadic fighting came from beyond the shield wall. Maud let Ranulph draw her down. As she squirmed across his body, the thought came to her that it was — at least theoretically — possible for them to take each other here and now, with the pebbles for a couch and the battlefield as a bedchamber.
Ranulph rolled her over. His face descended on hers. She parted her lips in expectation, strained her body against his bulk…
From beyond the shield wall came the King’s voice. "Enough!"
Ranulph rolled to his feet. "His Grace needs me."
The barbarians trailed after Ranulph, leaving Maud lying on the pebbles, skirts hiked up over her thighs. A wave lapped at her feet. "Damn them all!"
She struggled onto her knees. There was some sort of commotion in the dunes around the Royal Stand, but the beach was deserted except for the dead, and the gulls settling like flies. Nearby, a great white seabird worried at her father’s hand.
Maud let out a sob. How could she have let herself fall so easily? God was all-loving, but not all patient. She would mortify her flesh by remaining on her knees until the tide forced her to swim. Then it would be up to God whether or not she drowned.
Her position seemed somewhat uneven, though. It would be undignified to be cast sprawling by the first proper wave. She shifted her weight. Something was trapped under her right knee.
The grimoire! Before she mortified herself, she was going to rid herself of that damning book once and for all.
#
Somebody rubbed at Tom's wrists, forcing life back through his veins.
"Do not think to leave me now," hissed Edward. Then, louder, "Help him stand."
More hands hauled him upright. Tom found himself leaning on two Royal Knights. The other red-tabarded men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a haven against the front of the Royal Stand. From beyond came the sound of a brawl in a mechanic's workshop — screams and roars interspersed with the clang of sword on sword.
Edward wrapped a cloak around Tom then kissed him hard on the lips. "You are safe now, my love."
"You’re covered in blood."
The young king grinned. "Not my own."
The sensation returned to his limbs, everything began to hurt. But so close to Edward’s safety, Tom could not afford to surrender to pain and fatigue. Ruthlessly, like at the Sandhaven Institute, he detached his mind from his body. "What’s happening?"
The young king adjusted the cloak. "We
are having perhaps the most foolish civil war in history."
"You must let me slip away," said Tom.
"I am King and I shall be damned if I do not keep you at my side."
Tom wracked his brains. There had to be some way of saving Edward from himself.
"Then take charge."
Edward nodded. "If you promise not to desert me?"
Tom smiled. "Look at me Ned – I’m not going anywhere fast."
Edward vaulted up onto the rail of the Royal Stand. Holding onto an upright one-handed like a movie pirate, he turned to face the melee. Tom saw right through to the youth inside – he was scared... scared that Edward would open his mouth and everybody would just ignore him.
"Enough!" bellowed Edward, and somehow the beach fell silent except for the cries of seagulls, the swish of the waves and the whimpers of the wounded and dying.
Then somebody shouted, "Damned Sodomite! The Invaders are God’s judgement."
"Sodomite yes, but also your King."
The murmurs died away and Tom realised he was holding his breath. The crowd was too shocked to respond. It was a brilliant gambit – distracting them from the fact that they'd been trying to kill each other up until a few moments before – but insanely risky. Edward had just a moment in which to say the right thing.
"Who are you to judge me? A priest, I see," continued the young king. "If I am damned, then what of the Church? The Invaders tested your powers, and found you wanting. Now your Archbishop Grossi helps the enemy, and the loyalty of every priest is suspect."
The crowd stirred. Somebody at the back shouted, "Kill the traitorous God-botherer."
A man screamed.
"What does your honour tell you?" asked Edward. "Bow your neck under the foot of the Church and the Invaders, or follow a damned sodomite king to victory?"
The crowd muttered. Tom winced. Edward had gone too far.
A blood-drenched giant broke free of the throng —
#
"He can fuck goats for all I care!" roared Ranulph. "I’ll send to Hell any man that says ill of him!" He drew Steelcutter. Before the Royal Knights could react, he dropped to one knee and — with a great sense of relief — offered his sword hilt-first to the King. "I will follow you in peace and war."
Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) Page 5