James Forrester - Sacred Treason

Then Julius stepped forward in his black robe. “He cannot be allowed to leave. He must be killed.”

“Julius,” said Clarenceux grimly, not turning away from Crackenthorpe, “I will do the killing, if you will give me a sword. Would you ask your men to light the rest of the candles?”

“I will not have you risk your life.” Looking at Clarenceux, he added, “Besides, you have already been blooded, it seems.”

“Julius, this is Richard Crackenthorpe, the man who killed your servant James Hopton, my friend Henry Machyn, and my servant William Terry. He has sworn to kill me too. As it is his fate to die in these passages, I urge you to let me do the killing.”

“It is safer for us to do it together.”

“Julius, I need to kill this man-for revenge, for my own sake.”

Julius considered for a moment. Then he unbuckled his own sword, stepped forward, and handed it to Clarenceux.

Still Clarenceux did not take his eyes off Crackenthorpe. He took the weapon, unsheathed it, and threw aside the scabbard. He stepped forward.

Crackenthorpe did not back away. He and Clarenceux circled in the light of the candles and torches. The only sounds were their footsteps as they moved in the almost still air of the underground nave. Candlelight glinted off the treasures around them but they saw none of it. Neither man allowed his gaze to shift from the other.

Crackenthorpe made the first sudden lunge, aiming high, hoping to catch Clarenceux off guard and dart in with a slash to the ribs; but Clarenceux was not off guard. He was concentrating on the man shifting before him. When the high lunge came, he was able to swipe it away.

Frustration will be his downfall. Take your time. Beat off his attacks until he makes a mistake.

Crackenthorpe raised his sword, willing Clarenceux to second-guess his target; but Clarenceux was quick enough to escape the threatened cut. They circled again. Crackenthorpe darted forward a second time, going first for Clarenceux’s sword-arm shoulder, then slashing at his throat. Clarenceux was slower to avoid the second cut. The blade just nicked his skin; its closeness was a warning. Crackenthorpe was younger, stronger and faster than he was, and he had no less reach.

Again they circled. Crackenthorpe grimaced with intent as he thrust forward to Clarenceux’s chest. Steel edge met steel edge, sparks flying in the candlelit nave. Clarenceux hurled his weight into the blows, seeking to knock the blade out of Crackenthorpe’s hand by striking it with force at an angle. But although their blades struck seven, eight, nine times, Crackenthorpe retained a firm grip. He almost strolled around the cave, so consumed by the fight that he seemed to have forgotten it would be his last.

The candles on the altar guttered as the two men swirled around and attacked again. Crackenthorpe-now moving with his left arm outstretched, hoping to catch Clarenceux’s sleeve or collar-rushed forward suddenly and thrust his blade toward Clarenceux’s chest. Clarenceux parried the blow, stepping to one side, drawing his own blade back across Crackenthorpe’s cheek, slicing through the soft skin and exposing the teeth and gums for the instant before the blood welled and started to flow. Encouraged, he brought his sword down with a clang on Crackenthorpe’s as the man lunged for revenge. With another blow Clarenceux tried to strike the blade out of the man’s hand. But Crackenthorpe was not beaten yet and, seeing an instant of opportunity, darted forward with his blade and stabbed Clarenceux in the left-hand side of the abdomen.

The pain shot through Clarenceux and he crumpled up, losing his balance, staggering toward a column of rock. The servants watching there drew back, horrified and fearful. Clarenceux lifted his head and saw Crackenthorpe’s face looking down on him: a vengeful spirit. Clarenceux’s own body surged with pain and submerged into the easy weakness of inaction, but the will to inflict a fatal wound on his enemy was still strong. No matter that he had failed to play the game of patience, he would never stop fighting this man. He would fight him in this world and the next.

Crackenthorpe saw the doubled ferocity of his opponent and slashed down with his sword as Clarenceux tried to get up, seeking skin but finding a raised sword and guard. He slashed again and thrust, catching Clarenceux’s arm as he knelt on the ground, drawing blood. Another slash, cutting Clarenceux across the ribs. Clarenceux could not bring his sword up quickly enough to defend his body, and threw himself to one side, partially taking cover behind a column of rock as he scrambled to his feet, parrying blows as he did so. Then he too charged, striking Crackenthorpe’s sword away and getting in close, forcing Crackenthorpe against another column of rock with his shoulder. He punched upward with the palm of his fist and tried to lift his sword to Crackenthorpe’s throat but it caught on Crackenthorpe’s leg and he was forced to twist out of the way as Crackenthorpe brought his own sword up and slashed. But Clarenceux was not retreating now. He swept down with a great cry of hatred, slashing and cutting Crackenthorpe in a torrent of fierce blows, slicing the man’s face, his arm, and his chest. Crackenthorpe backed away for an instant and then charged back into the scything strokes that meant his death, thrusting and slashing with his sword, hardly hitting Clarenceux’s blade but finding his arm once, twice, then his shoulder and his thigh, sending Clarenceux falling again. Suddenly he saw his chance for the kill-one last moment of glory to revel in his strength, his ability to dominate his fellow men, which had been the greatest pleasure of his life. He raised his sword for the final killing blow on Clarenceux’s head-only to be shocked by the thrust upward into his throat of Clarenceux’s own blade.

Crackenthorpe teetered, hearing the splash of his own blood on the floor, trying to understand what had happened, and at the same time trying to bring his blade down on his victim. But all his understanding, focus, and strength had gone. It had burst out of him. Suddenly Clarenceux withdrew his blade and Crackenthorpe no longer knew why he was standing with his arms in the air, or holding a sword; he no longer knew anything at all.

The sword fell first, and clattered. Then the body collapsed heavily.

Julius’s men rushed forward when they saw Crackenthorpe fall but Clarenceux put up a hand. “Leave him,” he shouted, still kneeling. He rose shakily to his feet, breathing heavily. He lifted his sword and paused, looking down at the huge dying man. Then with hatred and fury burning within him, he brought it down with all his force and cut through Crackenthorpe’s neck, the metal blade ringing on the stone floor as the head rolled away.

He sank back to his knees. “God is with us, Rebecca.” He pressed his face to the floor.

Clarenceux felt the most intense pain as he was carried back up the spiral staircase into the house. They had to twist his body. “Put me down!” he roared. “Put me on my feet.” Both the men trying to carry him instantly complied. Clarenceux’s was a voice to be obeyed-especially when he was in pain.

He panted for a moment, recovering his strength. Then, with his hands on the stone steps, he began to push himself up. A man followed with a lantern. Clarenceux passed the chamber on the ground floor and carried on crawling until he reached Julius’s study on the upper floor. The small door was open, and he pulled himself to his feet.

“Go ahead,” he said to the man with the lantern. “Just go straight through to Mr. Fawcett’s library. I will follow.”

“Sir, wait, you need help. You are still bleeding.”

“No, not now,” gasped Clarenceux, feeling the pain in his belly increasing suddenly.