But they would not expect to escape mortal issues if they placed themselves now in Gabriel’s hand. The axe was too sharp and too sweetly polished to fail. Good as the French were, if the Order now clove to its own: if the knights stood firm in their devotion to Gabriel; if Plummer, if Tait, if all the souls Graham Malett had enchanted now came at his call, and brought their army with them, the French would melt as agate on the hot blade, and the weapon Lymond had forged would be loose, under Gabriel, in the world.
So, ‘De Seurre,’ said Graham Malett, his voice firm, his fair face sober and set. ‘Antichrist is here. I can do no more against him, or against these poor souls who malign me. Give me your hand. Come with me. Add your great spirit and your prayers to mine, and bring with you all who would come, pure and loyal and unsullied, before the great Throne of God.… Absolve, we beseech Thee, O Lord,’ said Graham Malett, and tall and still at the foot of the steps he faced the high altar, his fair head flung back, his eyes on the Cross. ‘Absolve the souls of thy servants from the chain of their sins, that being raised in the glory of the Resurrection, they may live among the saints and their elect.’
The echoes of the magnificent voice, mouthing from pillar to pillar, grew muffled and died. No one spoke. Outside, the crowd had fallen into a murmurous silence, and the men of St Mary’s, taut at their posts, watched the great doors of the church where their officers stood, listening to the Order calling its knights.
Then de Seurre stirred. Tough, prosaic, deeply religious, he had been Gabriel’s strongest support in all the cold, unseen struggle of ethos against ethos, and his face, hairless as limed leather, showed nothing of the conflict that indictment and appeal, so closely following, must have produced. As he neared Gabriel, M. d’Oisel, aware, Jerott knew, of the full menace St Mary’s represented, said nevertheless, calmly, in his excellent English, ‘For Sir Graham to leave now is out of the question. The charges on both sides are far too serious to ignore. Both Sir Graham Malett and Mr Crawford will kindly give up their swords.’
Graham Malett did not even look at him. ‘Well?’ he said to de Seurre.
The Chevalier de Seurre looked round. There, watching silent and tense in the nave, were the men who had abandoned Graham Malett for Lymond: Blacklock, Guthrie, Hoddim, Salablanca and Abernethy. By the door, equally intent, were those who, like himself, had stayed staunchly by their beliefs and their vows. He waited a moment, drawing from them whatever silent support he needed, and then turned. ‘Sir Graham. In the name of justice we believe you must stay and answer these charges,’ said the Chevalier. ‘We cannot in conscience join you or follow you now.’
The fine aquamarine eyes stretched open. The pure skin, draining first, flushed next to carnation pink as Graham Malett’s golden brows rose and his lips and chin flattened against his clenched teeth. Then, ‘Must!’ he said smiling, on a note no one present had heard before. ‘Must, fool … fat, God-sodden blunderer? There is nothing Graham Malett must do except clear the lice from his path.’
Beside him, Jerott Blyth drew a long, shuddering breath, his gaze turning to Lymond. But Lymond had eyes for no one but Gabriel and the Chevalier. His voice, saying sharply ‘De Seurre!’ cut across the sudden rising note of excitement both inside and outside the church, as thus abruptly, swift and terrible as a fissure in ice, the soulless, loving imposture came to an end.
Lymond exclaimed; but Michel de Seurre took one second too many to react. As he turned, Gabriel’s sword, naked in his hand, cut through de Seurre’s scabbard and disarmed him, in one vital movement, while at the same time with his free hand Graham Malett twisted the Chevalier’s arm high and tight on his spine and held him, a living shield, before him. Then, instead of advancing, back exposed, into the crowded church, Gabriel backed, his blade before him scanning the air, until he was on the steps and just out of sword’s reach of Crawford.
If he were quick, he might just manage to slip inside and round the altar, past the Chapel of the Holy Cross, and out of the church by the Lady Steps without meeting more opposition than he could handle. To do that, he had somehow to put both Lymond and de Seurre out of action. As he backed, the Chevalier must have felt Gabriel’s muscles tense, and although he himself was fighting with every inch of packed muscle he possessed, must have known that with his great advantage of breadth and height, his Grand Cross could pick him up bodily if he chose, unarmed as he was, with one arm almost wrenched off at his back.
Then, like some chill, periastral missile, Lymond launched himself from the altar rails. The unexpectedness of it took more than de Seurre by surprise. Letting go his victim, rocked to his knees with the force of the blow as Lymond landed, Graham Malett staggered back, bent, and sword in hand, sprang. De Seurre, rolling out of the way, blundered into his own sawn-off scabbard and, sitting up, was attempting quickly to unsheath and rise when the Sieur d’Oisel’s hard hand stayed his wrist. ‘No. This is a case for single combat, if one ever existed. Start more, and the whole church will become a battlefield. This had to come, I would guess, some time. Let us listen and watch.’
And struggling to his feet, de Seurre moved back beside Jerott Blyth, back with the recoiling crowd, M. d’Oisel and the pick of his French troops forming a restraining cordon at its head, until within the altar rails, on the steps, on the fine Turkey carpet before the steps, there was no one but the two men facing one another from a space of a few yards, steel in hand.
And more than a hundred feet above their heads, above the choir roof vaulting, above the thronged, yellow-lit thread of the High Street, among the crowded Doric gables, sending its message of mourning round Edinburgh’s small hills and out into the dark spaces where the river Forth rolled, the Moaning Bell started to toll.
His massive, golden head flung back, his broad shoulders braced under their black cloak lightly laced over his white shirt, his sword firm and light in his hand, Graham Malett, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St John, Sigad id Din of Dragut’s prophecy, looked across at his fated opponent, met that expressionless blue gaze above Lymond’s sword, balanced between his two hands, and smiled. ‘Sweet, hot-blooded creature,’ he said. ‘I had no idea you had a brain. You should have joined me. I would have made you a little prince.’
He sighed, his clear blue eyes tender. ‘And now I must find another.’ He moved his hand and the point of his blade, searing in the banked candlelight, described a gentle, impatient pattern in the still air. ‘Come, my flower. No one will interfere. You have not yet quite proved your innocence and I have not yet quite proved my guilt but I cannot afford—you are right, surprisingly right—to be detained while they find out how just are your guesses. Ah, sir, you meddle!’
It was addressed to the Deacon, his old face white, his courage gripped hard under the cloth of gold, who ignoring d’Oisel’s exclamation, ran forward between the two fair-headed men and laid a hand on Gabriel’s arm. ‘This is a House of God, sir! And you with the Cross on your breast draw naked steel before Our Lord’s altar! Put up! And you also!’
Lymond’s gaze did not leave Graham Malett’s. ‘Willingly,’ he said. ‘If the Knight Grand Cross will do the same.’
‘Willingly,’ repeated Gabriel at once. He made only a little movement, but the tip of his sword, entering the old man’s shoulder, drove home with a speed that sent the deacon reeling back into d’Oisel’s arms, his sparkling vestment running with blood. Stepping back, all his bright blade dulled, Gabriel turned again, smiling, to Francis Crawford.
‘It is sheathed,’ he said. ‘As I was saying, no one will interfere. And only one man besides myself requires his freedom and has no objection to killing you first … Randy!’
Then they all saw the movement behind the octagonal pillar to the left of the altar. They all watched, helpless, as, dodging out of the shadows, sword drawn, Randy Bell, physician and Will Scott’s assassin, drove straight for Lymond’s unwitting back.
But because of Gabriel’s shout, as Gabriel was fully aware, Lymond had a little forewarning: just enough
to meet Bell sword to sword, as he backed up the steps, his eyes flickering from Malett on the one side to Bell on the other.
Bell was afraid. Catching the glint of his eye as he thrust at Lymond, dodged and thrust again, Jerott remembered where he had seen that look before. It was on the face of Joleta, in the streaming dark courtyard of St Mary’s, when she read Gabriel’s intention in his eyes.
But Randy Bell had no alternative. If he stayed, he would hang. And in supporting Gabriel lay his only chance of escape. Only Gabriel, playing his own amusing game, closing in a little, forcing Lymond, now fully engaged with Bell’s blade, to watch his own sword; from time to time thrusting with intention so that Lymond had to guard himself, breathing quickly, on two sides at once, knew what outcome he planned. For Lymond was Randy Bell’s master with the sword and Bell, looking desperately for help to Gabriel’s playful blade, knew it. Only Gabriel was not supporting Randy Bell’s attack. He was merely bent, Jerott saw suddenly with incredulous loathing, on having the inconvenient doctor neatly killed for him, while sapping Lymond’s own strength.
It was not a game that Lymond, either, proposed to play. As Jerott watched, he suddenly put extreme pressure on Bell, his sword thrusting and flashing, arching always to the left, where Gabriel followed him up. Then at length Bell, chest heaving, the dark blood high in his face, stepped back just below the great standing candelabra at the top right of the steps. He saw it just as it came toppling over him, thrust by Lymond’s shoulder and knee and, struck across the shoulders, slithered and bounced down the remaining steps to the carpet where he rolled to d’Oisel’s feet.
Few watched while rough hands were laid on him and, below Janet Beaton’s stony gaze, Randy Bell was dragged through the press to the north door to take his place in the Tolbooth. Instead, swaying, calling, they saw Lymond drop instantly on one knee, and dodging Gabriel’s first, unconsidered drive of fresh anger, strike forward and up with his left hand.
Graham Malett rolled back along the altar rail, angry surprise in his lucid blue eyes and blood wet on his white shirt, where Lymond’s dagger, slipped at speed from his belt, had slit the garment from end to end in a long raking thrust that ended deep by one clavicle. Bare under his black cloak, the stained skin of his breast heaved as he collected himself, his sword flickering as he parried Lymond’s quick, following attack until, his forces gathered again, he stood firm and was able, in a moment, to disengage, his back to the rail. Then Jerott, and all those near enough, saw what the torn shirt revealed, pricked, white-scarred with the passage of time, on his breast.
Lymond saw it too, and his sickened understanding must have shown, for Gabriel’s amusement lit all his fine, fresh-coloured face. ‘Why so prim, sweeting? Surely Evangelista told you? But for Trotty, the Sisters of Sciennes might have had a rare child to nurture.… Which reminds me.…’ The smiling eyes under the cropped golden hair considered Lymond. ‘I have a little news for you, my brash child. But not yet. Not yet. First, Francis Crawford, I must teach you and others like you to keep out of my way.’
His arm steady, Lymond parried that first stroke. To Jerott, to all his men, to Sybilla, watching, her heart struck cold by Gabriel’s words, his blue and level gaze was no more or no less than they had often seen it, in armed combat with someone whose skill he respected, or at the beginning of some subtle and delicate action. He said, speaking clearly and directly, ‘There is no certainty in your sword, and no escape at the end. You are fighting for your pride, but I haven’t done what I have done to die here, under your blade. Only a fool, Malett, or a man losing his mind, makes the same mistake twice.’
It was done deliberately, no doubt. It touched, Jerott saw, on what was probably the only fear that Gabriel knew. There was, in that open, tolerant face, a flowering of cold anger such as Jerott had never seen, even at the whipping-post at St Mary’s; and Graham Malett, his eyes alight, said softly, ‘Jabatek ummek wahad f’il-dunya.… Thy mother made thee unique in the world; a true word, lout, usurper, hurd without name. You would meddle with me? You would lay your half-made hands on my life?’ He broke off, his white teeth flashing. ‘Come here, Francis Crawford, who worships, I am told, two things himself: power and music. Don’t be afraid. I am not going to kill you. But the armbone of St Giles, who can cast out demons, will have company before very long.… First I shall sever your right hand, my dear. And in due time, the left.…’
And smiling still, he attacked.
Almost no one, of the crowded men of St Mary’s who watched, murmuring and jostling from the body of the church, had ever seen these two men fight. It was something Francis Crawford had instinctively avoided, Jerott realized. Opposed often enough at the butts or the tilt, they had never been matched body to body in physical combat. And that, shortly, was what they were doing, for Gabriel, superb in height, reach and confidence, made the one small mistake he had made over and over: he underestimated his opponent. Richard Crawford, who better than anyone there knew Lymond’s gift for the sword, drew in his breath as Gabriel, moving round and round the scuffed carpet, springing from step to step, up, sideways and down, his point intent on Lymond’s bright sword and quick, skilful hands; his dagger left-handed matching Lymond’s, over-reached himself for one second too long. The fist of Lymond’s dagger hand thrust up; his long blade came down, and Gabriel’s sword, hooked from his grasp, flashed past the brass rail, and slitting the red silk of the altar, sank quivering into the carved wood behind.
Following its flight, Lymond almost missed the spurred foot rising with all Gabriel’s weight to his groin. There was only one way he could jump: he hurled himself down the wide steps and was caught, deep in the sword-arm, by Gabriel’s dagger. Adam Blacklock, gripping the child Philippa’s shoulder, saw Lymond stumble, his hand loosening on the sword, and Gabriel’s dagger pull out and flash downwards, its razor edge flying to the blood, flesh and tendons of that long, slender-boned hand. Then Lymond, dropping the sword, snatched his hand back, blood pouring from his right arm, and sought left-handed and nearly reached Gabriel’s exposed ribs.
In the effort, both men overbalanced. With the effective use of only one arm Lymond could not wholly control his manner of falling. He took the brunt on his shoulder, as Gabriel did, but rolling back to regain his feet, half his back must have been pressed hard against the thin edge of the steps, and when he found Gabriel, half-risen, on him again, his dagger high in his hand, Lymond did not parry, but instead, holding his dagger left-handed, he grappled close, pressing hard on the high wound of Gabriel’s chest while quickly, unobtrusively, he sought the grip that would do what he wanted.
Pain Graham Malett had never feared. He would have withstood it, with massive strength, until Lymond tired, if Lymond’s fingers, scored and bleeding where he had not always contrived to miss that teasing sword-point, had not found and pressed on the one nerve that mattered. No amusement at all on his face, Graham Malett dropped his last weapon and brought his two powerful hands to bear on wresting the remaining knife from Lymond’s grip.
Watching, in a fellowship of craning heads and jostling, shouting bodies, among whom, marked by their silence, were Lymond’s own officers and men, Jerott saw the two men crash again to the floor, and rolling over and over, stain the altar-carpet with their blood. There was a brutal, effective repertoire which he knew, and Gabriel in his day also had used against men taught to wrestle in the bagnios of Constantinople. He saw Gabriel begin the familiar moves with a kind of loving care, while the muscles of his left arm rose under his torn shirt as he kept Lymond’s dagger hand in chancery. With only his feet left to use, Lymond used them, in a deft move quite as unforgivable as Gabriel’s and entirely successful, since Gabriel had not expected it. You forgot, thought Jerott, that Lymond had not sailed the Mediterranean pacing the poop deck; he had been below, in shackles, where to exist you had to fight like a cur.
Because of it, now, he had broken Gabriel’s grip on his thighs and, more important still, on his left hand holding the dagger. With a thrust
that sent the big man hurtling in turn on to his back, Lymond followed him with the same hard deliberation, using knees, feet, the chopping edge of his hand in a sequence no one there could follow: a sequence that brought a husky growl from the golden throat, a rising flush to the mellow skin, a white-rimmed blaze of hatred to the pale blue stare of Graham Malett. Using his splendid body he arched his muscles and fought, fending off the blows that palsied his limbs and dissected his nerves, bent now on nothing but escape, revenge and total destruction. With the great advantage of his weight he would have succeeded, in no more than a moment, except that Lymond, releasing him choking from a blow on the windpipe, raised his left arm and hurled his one weapon, the dagger, after Gabriel’s sword to the altar. Then, setting his teeth, Francis Crawford closed the fingers of his crippled arm fast on one of the thick white silk cords of Gabriel’s torn and crumpled knight’s garment, and seizing the other in his good left hand, pulled the cord tight.
To maintain a grip when your arm has been torn through with cold steel and when with feet and hands the man below you is attempting for his life to maim and overthrow, needs a special kind of endurance. Lymond was helped, perhaps, by the fact that Gabriel was tired and injured, as he was; and that by blow and pressure he was already at the start half-deprived of air and therefore full consciousness. But the punishment Lymond took as the cord tightened and the handsome, suffused face opened, gasping, for air, was made possible only by his training and the particular kind of way, Jerott thought, that his mind happened to work, notwithstanding the weaknesses of the past few weeks.
Then there came the moment when Graham Malett’s big hands, still loosely flailing, fell to his sides and his bloodshot eyes closed; and Lymond then, releasing him, groped, his face half-blind with pain, and finding the dagger, placed the sharp blade, held by the heel of his hand, across the stretched tendons of Gabriel’s empurpled throat.