‘You can deny your oaths and cheat the Order enough to gull foolish men and silly women,’ he went on. ‘But God is watching, my lord.’
There was a pause, and then the doves erupted in fragile terror as de Grafton launched into a snarling frenzy, seeing all his plans shredded at the last.
He was fast and trained with all the honed skills of a Templar, so that Hal reeled away, a shock jolting through him at how slow he was, how far removed from his own old skills. Yet the same reflex that had cut the whip from Sim sprang the bough of blossoms from his hand and slapped its fragrance into de Grafton’s face, making him turn his head to avoid it; the scything blow hissed over Hal’s ducking shoulder like a bar of light.
Then the clouds drifted over the moon and everything was sunk into darkness.
There was silence, broken only by the frantic bird-sounds, which clouded Hal’s ears. There was nothing but scent and space and blackness – but it was the same for de Grafton, he thought, and fought to control the ragged rasp of his treacherous breathing.
A flurry of thrashing came from his left – a bird had blundered into de Grafton and he had struck out, so Hal moved as swiftly as he dared and slashed left and right, then retreated without, it seemed, hitting anything.
Birds whirred and slapped through the dark, flute-wailing their distress. Something splashed in the fountain and Hal wondered if de Grafton was there; the idea that he was finishing off a wounded Sim almost sprang him recklessly forward, but he fought the urge.
Sweat trickled down him and he found himself in a half-crouch, as if the ground would open up a safe hole and let him crawl in; the scent of flowers and old blood drifted on the night breeze.
The clouds slid off the moon; a silver and black shadow flitted across from his left and the blow almost tore the sword from Hal’s grip, forcing him to dance backwards. He parried once, twice, managed to block a low cut to the knee, and then was alone as de Grafton whirled away like a wraith.
In a moment he was back; the swords clashed and sparks flew, the blades slid together to the hilt and, for an eyeblink, Hal was breath to fetid breath with de Grafton, feeling the sweat heat of him, seeing the mad eyes and the white grin; but then the Templar’s head bobbed like a fighting cock and Hal reeled back from the blow on his forehead. Something seemed to snag his arm and he knew he had been cut.
De Grafton laughed softly.
‘Do you have the writ, I wonder? Or the secret word? Or both? I will cut you a little, then we will find out the truth.’
The pain crept through and Hal felt blood slide, felt the grip of his hand on the hilt grow slack and reinforced it with the left. A bird called throatily and de Grafton was suddenly close, his blade beating down Hal’s own.
‘We will find out,’ he repeated and Hal knew the next strike would be to render him helpless, for de Grafton to truss up and question.
‘It will do you no good,’ Hal panted through the red swirls of pain. ‘The writ and the word are both gone to Ruy Vaz.’
There was a pause and Hal cursed himself. Clever, he thought, gritting through the pain of his arm – give him no excuse to spare you. Yet he could only kneel like a drooping bullock at the slaughter and wait for it.
There was a whirring thump – De Grafton screamed and arched, and then bowed at the waist with the agony of the steel arbalest prong driven like a pickaxe into the join of neck and shoulder; behind, the bloody apparition that was Sim bellowed like a rutting stag, his face sliding with gore.
‘Kill me, would ye? Ye bliddy wee limmer, I will maul the sod wi’ ye.’
De Grafton, reeling and shrieking, gave up trying to reach the prong and started to swing round on the unarmed Sim – Hal’s desperate, lunging two-handed stroke tore his own sword from his weakened grasp, but not before it had cut the Templar from his wounded shoulder almost to his hip. He fell in two directions and his heels drummed.
The birds whirled and called and the heels danced to stillness. Sim wiped the mess on his face into a horror mask of streaks and heaved in a breath; his teeth were bright in the moonlit scarlet of his cheeks.
‘Aye til the fore,’ he panted and Hal blinked from his numbness.
‘I thought he had killed you,’ he said and Sim scowled.
‘The blow hit the arbalest – look, his cut has ruined it entire.’
He prised the weapon from the ruin of De Grafton and flourished it with disgust.
‘He has severed the string and put a bliddy great gash in the stem. I will never find another.’
‘Ye are all bloody,’ Hal managed to say and Sim wiped his gory face again.
‘From the pool – Piculph’s blood. Apart from a dunt on my back, I am unhurt – more than can be said for yerself.’
Hal allowed himself to be led away from the corpses and the stink of blood and exotic blooms. Sim struck up a light, which made them blink, and presented Hal with his sword, worked free from de Grafton’s corpse. Then he examined the arm with a critical eye.