‘Are ye feared, laddie?’
The soft voice stung Bruce and the Auld Templar saw the lip come out.
‘I might hurt you, sir.’
‘You may dream of it,’ the Auld Templar chuckled, then his face grew set and dark. ‘I will come at ye, sirra, in the count of three. There will be blood on this yard and if ye don’t fight me as if ye meant it, it will be yer own, I swear. Mak’ a warrior of ye, yer da declares, even if it kills ye. So set to.’
Bruce felt the prickle of anger and fear.
‘Three,’ said the Auld Templar suddenly and came at him, so that Bruce yelped, barely managing to deflect the overarm broadsword stroke in a bell-clang shock that stunned his whole arm. What followed was the most intense three or four minutes of his life to that point, a whirr of blades scything like light and, at the end of it, the Auld Templar cursed and hurled himself away, sucking the back of his hand, where Bruce’s blade had nicked him.
Bruce, panting and wild-eyed, watched him suck and spit, then chuckle, his grey beard splitting in a smile.
‘Now ye ken what it is like when some enemy aims to kill ye. Now here is what ye do to thwart him.’
He remembered it all in the time it took Fulk to flick out the dagger from the small of his back and bring it round in a wicked snake-strike aimed at Bruce’s throat.
Kirkpatrick called out, sharp and high, but Bruce did not shy away from the stroke; the Auld Templar’s lessons were strong in him and he stepped forward into the attack as smooth as dancing and slammed his armoured forehead into Fulk’s face. The Gascon dagger ground off the rim of Bruce’s bascinet helmet and hissed harmlessly over the maille aventail.
The Gascon, with no maille or helmet, went reeling away, spitting blood and pungent curses. The man with the banner started forward only to stop short, as if leashed by Sim’s great bellow. He paused, half-crouched and scowling, looking at the great, spanned crossbow pointed at him.
‘At this range, chiel, it will rip ye a new hole in your arse,’ Sim declared, smiling amiably, even though he knew it was unlikely the man understood him.
Fulk struggled like a beetle, finally righted himself and sat up; his men were milling, seeing their leader go down and shouting out, collecting weapons.
‘That was well done,’ Fulk said, climbing to his feet, a lopsided bloody smile on his face. He spread his arms in apology. ‘I had to try. You are a fair ransom and we are mercenaries, when all said and done. I would not have lasted long as leader if I had passed up this chance. Now, of course, matters are worse for me.’
‘You are a fool,’ Bruce said and Hal saw that rage had switched him to French. ‘I have a writ from the lord who pays you – if you had succeeded, he would have hanged you. There was no reason for blood to be spilled here. There still is not – walk away.’
Kirkpatrick had reined round and was galloping off, but Bruce did not turn at the sound, though Fulk did, knowing the man was going to fetch more men. It had been a bad day, dumped on his nethers like a child in front of his hard men. There was only one way back from that . . .
He drew his sword and Bruce sighed.
‘My lord . . .’ Hal said, concerned that an earl was putting his life at risk in a brawl. Sim kept the crossbow levelled at the banner-carrier, while the Dog Boy sat his mount, eyes wide, mouth open.
Fulk came forward, all at a rush, so that Bruce barely had time to clear his scabbard and parry the brief flurry of strokes. That had been the mercenary’s best chance, though he did not know it at the time. What followed, Hal saw, was a lesson in fighting.
Fulk was powerful and skilled, fought like a mercenary, without finesse and out to finish matters as swiftly as possible. He cut left, right, feinted, slashed at the legs, and Bruce, stepping backwards, weight on the back foot, met each one; blades clanged, sparks flew.
The Gascon paused then, breathing heavily, realising he faced a different temper of opponent than usual. Yet the man was an earl, a Tourney fighter, unused to the real world . . .
He started on a new series of cuts and slashes, found himself, shockingly, face to face with Bruce, who had stepped inside the arc of the sword. A hand took his wrist; Bruce spat in his eyes and stabbed downward with his own weapon, so that the fine-honed point went into the instep of Fulk’s left foot.