Michael Jecks - The Templar

Simon pushed the staff away and began to stalk his prey.

Domingo stared with amazement. How could any piddling official dare to attack his band? He had never heard of such a thing in his life before. These fools had no right to start hacking away at him and his men!

But if they dared to attack, maybe that was because his men had been betrayed. And that could only mean one thing: the Prioress had informed on Domingo and his men. No one else could have had them all ambushed like this. It had to be her!

Almost before he knew what he would do, he felt his legs turning him as though of their own volition. She had caused the death of his son with her stupid demand that Domingo should attack the pilgrims, and now she’d betrayed them when their only crime was having obeyed her commands. They’d done what she’d wanted, and now she’d made up her mind to throw them to the law.

But Domingo wasn’t going to surrender without a fight, and if he could, he would kill her too. She deserved that much.

He shot a look over his shoulder, and took in the scene at a glance. There were the officers, there were his men, one being clubbed and kicked on the ground, and another guard holding a man slightly nearer. Domingo’s eye was drawn back to that last man, a tall, strong-looking fellow with a sword on his hip and a serious expression, grim with concentration, fixed upon Domingo.

The robbers’ leader turned and pelted away back towards the Cathedral. He would find Dona Stefania, and by Christ, this time, he would make her pay.

Simon’s legs exploded into action; he raced off after Domingo as soon as he saw the man start running. Simon easily sidestepped the staff and then he moved as fast as he could, left hand gripping his sword’s hilt, right one pistoning back and forth as if it could make him catch up with the wiry Galician a little faster.

A dull ache started pounding in the back of his head, but he ignored it. It was just a hangover from his earlier illness, nothing more. He was fine, and he had a focus for all his energies now: the felon ahead of him. This was the man who had led the attack on the pilgrims. He was also implicated in the murder of Joana, and was probably involved in the attempted murder of Gregory as well.

There was something wrong about that last thought, but Simon didn’t have time to analyse it now. His mind and body and soul were all focused on catching Domingo. Nothing else mattered.

He saw the robber slam into a woman, who gave a short scream as she was hurled backwards into a wall, her head bouncing against it before she slumped to the ground. Domingo rebounded from her into a small cart, back to a wall, and then he was balanced and running again, leaping over a tray of foods, pounding onwards. Simon hurdled the woman’s body, bellowing hoarsely at the top of his voice to clear the path before him, then roaring again to persuade someone to catch Domingo, but he only knew the English words, and no one appeared to understand him.

‘Stop that man! Stop him! ’Ware that man! Stop that murderer!’

His breath was a harsh pain now. It felt like pins and needles as he swallowed it, as though the air was filled with steel that scraped and scrubbed his throat with every breath. With the row of his feet slapping on the slabs, there was the thundering of the blood in his veins, all but deafening him, and when he reached a corner, he had to hold out his arms to stop himself from crashing bodily into the wall, shoving away as he carried on running, pushing himself in the new direction. Ahead of him, he could still see Domingo, and the robber was gaining speed now. Simon was slowing, but the Galician, raised in the hills south of Compostela where he had run throughout his youth, showed no signs of flagging. Simon felt his breath sob in his breast at the thought that he was going to lose his man, and then he was on again, teeth gritted in grim determination, fists clenched, while he concentrated on Domingo’s back, ignoring the pain in his own legs.

There was a bellow and he snapped a look over his shoulder, only to see, loping easily just behind him, his guard, the staff still gripped in his hand. He saw Simon’s look, gave a short nod, then overtook him.

Simon was dumbfounded. He had always been considered relatively swift over a longer distance, that he had stamina rather than the ability to sprint, but now he felt as though he might as well stop and stand still as try to compete. The Compostelan merely set his head down like a bull, and stampeded onwards. Simon hadn’t heard of the festivals in which the youths of the towns ran with the bulls, but if he had, he would have been hard pushed to say whether this man was more human than bull.

A pause for a heart’s beat, and then Simon’s second wind came; he chased off after the two men once more. He heard another shout, a scream, and then a third call, and this time it was taken up by other voices. Suddenly Simon was in the square again, and he stopped, leaning against a doorframe while his face suddenly flamed with heat, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he felt as though his mouth was too small to swallow as much breath as he needed. He had to grip the wall to support himself as he peered into the square.

Domingo was all but incoherent with rage. One fool he could have coped with, but this second man had prevented his escape, and now he was held at bay. There was a circle of stallholders and hawkers about him, all watching him with that measuring assessment that a man had in his eye when he gauged one dog’s strength against another’s in the ring. Three brandished good-sized sticks, while another had a blade out and ready. Then there was the thickset man who had pursued him. He stood gripping his staff as though wondering where to poke it to make Domingo collapse most speedily.

This was the man who was the most dangerous, Domingo knew. While Domingo’s legs were recovering speedily, the other’s legs were already relaxed, as though he had not just chased Domingo for over a half mile.

Domingo must crush this opponent or be vanquished himself, he knew. He retreated slightly. The man smiled grimly, tapped the staff against the palm of his hand, and then started to advance.

Instantly Domingo moved. He ran full tilt into the officer, head down.

Astonished, the man hesitated, and then it was too late. He tried to bring his staff down to block Domingo’s rush, but the weapon bounced off the robber chief’s broad back; Domingo’s head then thumped into his belly, and all the air whooshed from his lungs before the first of his assailant’s punches landed on his body. Bringing the staff down again, he tried to inflict some pain on Domingo, but the latter had the leverage to push him around, and then managed to pound his fist into his kidney. Overcome with agony, the man fell.

Domingo felt him collapse, and kicked once as the man curled into a ball at his feet. He glanced down with surprise at the bloody knife in his fist. He couldn’t remember grabbing it. It must have been the officer’s own weapon, for it wasn’t Domingo’s. Furious, frustrated, he kicked again, seeing the thick mist of blood that erupted from the dying man’s kidney.

He could see Simon still leaning on the wall. To his surprise, Simon pushed himself upright and began to walk towards him. ‘Who are you?’ Domingo shouted. ‘What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing to you!’

Simon understood none of his words. He approached steadily, drawing his sword as he came, watching Domingo’s hands, his feet, his eyes — the way that his body moved — for those were the indicators that showed a martial artist’s skill.

Oh God, there was that dizziness again, but he wasn’t going to surrender to it. He would arrest this felon if it killed him.