Joan Wolf - The Poisoned Serpent

Hugh parried the tremendous blow, his own sword scarcely dipping in response to the force of Richard’s stroke.

“Jesus,” Thomas said behind her. “Hugh must have wrists of steel.”

The fight went on for what seemed to Cristen an eternity. Without the protection of a shield, each man had only his sword to keep him safe, forcing the fight into a contest of thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Both men gripped their swords with two hands for maximum power, and the echo of the great blades as they fell upon each other was audible even to those packed into the Bail on the other side of the wall.

Every once in a while the combatants’ lips moved as they spoke to each other, gasping out words between the exertion of dealing out and defending against blows.

Surprisingly, the two men appeared to be evenly matched. An astonishing level of strength and power resided in Hugh’s slim body, and Richard’s superior height and weight did not give him the advantage that everyone, Richard included, had expected it to. On the other hand, Richard seemed to be fully as fast as Hugh, and Hugh’s left-handedness caused him no problem.

How could they bear it? Cristen thought. How could their arms take such a pounding and still lift the heavy sword to strike again? How long would it be until one of them was a little too slow to parry and felt the cutting edge of that powerful blade?

She felt sick thinking what such a weapon could do if it fell on unprotected flesh.

The February day had turned cold and windy, but the two men in the arena sweated profusely. For half an hour they had remained in the center of the arena, advancing, retreating, and sidestepping within a relatively small area, neither man able to drive the other one back.

Then, before her horrified eyes, Richard escalated his attack, increasing the rhythm of his strokes, attacking Hugh’s guard with a relentless assault of powerful blows.

After a minute, Hugh slowly began to back away.

“Jesus,” Thomas said in anguish. “Hugh is tiring.”

Richard evidently had come to the same conclusion, for he began to smile. Again and again he struck at Hugh, always attacking, not giving Hugh a chance to launch a blow of his own. Again and again Hugh parried, moving back slowly but inevitably to escape the punishment of the other sword.

Step by step, Richard advanced; and step by step, Hugh retreated. Back and back and back toward the high stone wall, where Hugh would be unable to retreat any farther, where he would be trapped.

Cristen’s nails bit into her palms as she watched Hugh being driven to his death.

Help him, God. God, please help him. Do not let him die. Do not let him die .

Next to her, Alan moaned in distress.

Thomas was muttering, “Come on, Hugh! Come on, Hugh! You can do better than this! Come on!”

The angle of the sun bathed the entire arena in a merciless light. Richard’s hair was dark with sweat and Hugh’s blue tunic was drenched. The breathing of both men was audible in the breathless silence of the packed courtyard.

They were almost at the wall. Hugh had only a few more steps before his retreat would be cut off.

Cristen saw him take a quick look behind, to ascertain just how far he had to go.

That look almost cost him his life as Richard, quick to take advantage of the momentary lapse of attention, struck with all his power. Hugh managed to get his sword up in time to protect his body, but the white sleeve of his sword arm suddenly turned scarlet.

“He’s hit!” Thomas cried in anguish.

This can’t be happening , Cristen thought. I can’t believe that this is happening .

Now Hugh was at the wall. His left arm dangled at his side, useless. With his right hand he raised his sword, ready to parry Richard’s blow. Blood poured from his left sleeve and dripped on the ground. How could he possibly withstand Richard with only one arm?

Richard seemed to tower above his victim as he lifted his sword in both hands for the last time and drove it hard, drove it directly at that single, vulnerable sword arm, drove it at tendon and bone and muscle and flesh, drove it with intent to maim and then to kill.

What happened next happened so fast that it took the onlookers a full twenty seconds to realize what had occurred. As Richard drove at him, Hugh dropped his own sword and ducked under Richard’s thrust.

An aghast intake of breath came from the onlookers. Why would Hugh give up his sword?

Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Richard’s sword clattered from his hand, and he fell to the ground.

And Hugh stood up.

“ Jesus ,” Thomas said.

“What happened?” Alan cried. “How did Hugh do that?”

It was Cristen who answered in a shaky voice, “I believe he must have used Thomas’s nice long dagger.”

Richard Canville was dead. God had spoken. The murder of the Earl of Lincoln was requited.

So pronounced Lord Richard Basset, Chief Justiciar of England, as Hugh stood before him head bowed, black hair hanging in sweat-drenched strands, left arm slowly dripping blood into the packed-dirt footing of the Inner bail.

The Bishop of Lincoln concurred with this judgment, saying in a stern voice to Bernard, who stood beside Hugh, “Bernard Radvers, you are a free man.” Then, on a more kindly note, he recommended that Hugh have someone see to his arm.

Hugh nodded and turned and blinked as Thomas put an authoritative hand on his good arm. “Lady Cristen will take care of your arm,” he said. “Come with me.”

The silent crowd parted to allow Hugh through, Thomas on one side of him and Bernard on the other. Now that the excitement of the combat was over, the townsfolk were just beginning to take in the significance of what had happened.

Richard Canville had murdered the Earl of Lincoln.

It didn’t seem possible.

But it had to be true. God had spoken.

Still speechless, groups of people began to filter out through the east gate to join those clustered on the other side of the wall.

Bernard said to Thomas, “This bleeding must be staunched immediately.”

Then they saw Cristen approaching with a roll of bandage in her hands.

“Let me see that arm,” she said to Hugh, gesturing to Bernard to step out of her way. She placed the bandage right over Hugh’s sleeve. “I’m just going to bind it now. I’ll clean it and sew it when the bleeding stops.”

“How nice,” he said. They were the first words he had spoken since Richard fell.

Cristen began to wrap the roll of linen around his arm. He winced once when she tightened it, but otherwise he stood stoically and did not speak.

“All right,” she said when she had finished. She looked into Hugh’s pain-darkened eyes. “The castle or Ralf’s house?”

“Ralf’s,” he replied, and she nodded and turned to Thomas.

“He can’t walk that long way. Get Rufus.”

Thomas turned and ran to the stockade.

“Alan,” Cristen said. “Help Thomas.”

Alan raced toward the stockade as well, leaving Hugh alone with Bernard, who was bracing him with an arm around his waist, and Cristen, who was regarding him somberly.

“You took a dangerous chance,” she said.

He managed a fleeting smile. “There are some advantages to being smaller.”

“Did you deliberately let him drive you back to the wall?” Bernard demanded.

“Mmm. In his enthusiasm to crush me with his sword, Richard appeared to have forgotten all about the daggers.” Hugh’s words were clipped, as if he were expending as little energy as possible to form them. “But I hadn’t. And I can use my right hand as well as my left.”

He swayed slightly, and Bernard tightened his grip.