Edward Marston - The Lions of the North

“This much.”

Nigel detached a large purse from his belt and tossed it to the leader of the outlaws. Murdac opened it and dug his hands joyfully into the coins.

“The deal is done, my lord. Take her.”

“Yes,” said Halfdan, standing beside the tree. “And when you have done with her, bring her back to me. I’ll ride her hard when she’s been broken in!”

The outlaws guffawed but their amusement was curtailed. Thrown with venom, a spear came out of nowhere to pierce Halfdan’s throat before sinking into the trunk of the tree and impaling him. Armed men converged on the camp from all sides. As Murdac reached for his dagger, Eric’s club knocked him senseless. Before Nigel could draw his sword, two spears prodded his chest. Surprise gave the attackers a supreme advantage. Soldiers and outlaws were held captive.

Olaf Evil Child came into the middle of the clearing.

“Release her,” he said.

Inga was delighted when Gervase Bret ran across to sever her bonds and lift her up. As she looked gratefully around at the others, she saw the face of Ragnar Longfoot.

“I threw the spear,” he said proudly. “He will never use that filthy tongue on you again.”

Olaf strode over to confront Nigel Arbarbonel.

“You surprise me, my lord,” he said with sarcasm. “I did not think to find you paying for something. You and your half-brother have always taken what you want in the past. You stole Thorbrand’s holdings while Robert Brossard stole mine. No coins changed hands in those transac-tions.”

Nigel glowered. “I’ll not be taught morality by an outlaw.”

“It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

“And now that you have caught me,” challenged the other, “what will you do? Put me on trial in York? They will clap you in irons as soon as they set eyes on you, Olaf. Who would take the word of an outcast over that of a Norman lord?”

“I would!” affirmed Gervase Bret.

“Keep out of this argument,” warned Nigel.

“I belong in it, my lord. I was with Inga when she was abducted.

Anything that concerns her safety involves me.”

“I say the same!” vouched Ragnar Longfoot.

“Take him to York!” urged Gervase. “To face trial.”

“What is my crime?” said Nigel with a contemptuous smile. “Paying for my pleasure with a woman? You’ll not find many men to condemn me for that. They keep the city whores well fed with their own expen-ditures.”

“Inga is no whore!” asserted Ragnar, advancing on him with a dagger.

“You will pay for that insult.”

Olaf raised a hand to stop him. “No, Ragnar. He is mine. I have waited long for this chance. When I chase a rat, I like to kill him myself.”

“Brave words when you hold the advantage,” said Nigel. “How brave are you when we meet on equal footing?”

“Let us find out, my lord.”

Olaf signalled to the men whose spears still pointed at Nigel Arbarbonel’s heart. They withdrew a few paces. Nigel gave a confident laugh, pleased to have tempted Olaf into a combat that the outlaw was bound to lose. Gervase tried to prevent the fight but Olaf would not even hear his argument. Everyone moved back to give the adversaries more space. Inga was alarmed. It was largely because of her that the outlaw was being pitted against Nigel Arbarbonel. Having already rescued her, Olaf was now risking his life unnecessarily.

She ran forward to grab at his arm.

“No,” she pleaded. “Do not fight him.”

“I must,” said Olaf.

“He will betray you.”

“Have no fear for me.”

“But I do!”

He was touched by her concern and mesmerised for a second by the earnest beauty of her face but it did not deflect him. He signalled to Ragnar Longfoot, who detached Inga and led her to stand beside Gervase at the edge of the clearing. She looked on with mounting anxiety.

Olaf first wanted to clarify the rules of combat.

“Choose your weapons, my lord.”

“Sword and dagger.”

“What happens if I lose?”

“I’ll throw you over a horse and take you into York. Aubrey Maminot will pay handsomely for your pelt.”

“Inga must not be touched.”

Nigel scowled. “If I win, she is mine.”

“Never!” insisted Olaf.

“I’ll see that no harm comes to her,” said Gervase.

“So will I!” vowed Ragnar.

Nigel Arbarbonel stared across at her, loath to relinquish such a prize. To have her as his prisoner would feed all his fantasies. There was such a crude amalgam of lust and anger in his eyes that Inga could not meet his gaze. She was glad when Gervase put a protective arm around her.

“Well?” pressed Olaf.

“She will go free,” promised Nigel sourly.

“And if I win?”

“There is no hope of that!”

“We shall see, my lord. But if I do, I want it known that you were not murdered. You were killed in fair combat on your own terms. Order your men to bear honest witness.”

“That eventuality will not arise.”

Nigel looked across at his men and they grinned back. Confident of their master’s success, they gave their word that Olaf would not be branded a murderer.

“I, too, will bear witness!” said Gervase.

“So will I!” added Inga.

“There!” mocked Nigel. “You have the word of a royal commissioner and that of a girl. Will that content you?”

“No, my lord. Only your death will do that.”

The preliminaries were over. Both men drew sword and dagger before circling each other with menace. Gervase feared for his new friend.

Olaf moved like a skilled warrior but he wore only a rough tunic and gartered trousers. Nigel Arbarbonel was in a mailed hauberk and a glinting helm, his face and neck shielded by a mailed coif. A glancing blow would only bruise him but it would draw blood from Olaf Evil Child.

Inga tensed as the Norman struck first, wielding his heavy sword with a practised arm to deliver a flurry of strokes. Olaf parried them with his own blade but he was driven slowly backwards. Nigel’s eyes gleamed on either side of his iron nasal.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said. “I’d have shown you no mercy. You’d have been cut down where you stood.

Like this!”

He launched another barrage but Olaf took only the first few blows on his sword before dodging out of range. When his adversary moved in to slice at his neck, Olaf ducked. As the sword tried to smash his legs from beneath him, he jumped over it and retreated to the other side of the clearing. Nigel cursed and lumbered after him but his opponent would not stand and fight. Olaf preferred to parry some blows, strike back with a few of his own, then skip out of reach of the scyth-ing weapon in the other’s gauntlet.

“Turn and fight, you coward!” yelled Nigel.

“Come and catch me, my lord.”

Olaf’s mobility was taxing Nigel’s superior strength. As the Norman lunged and flailed again, he was panting stertorously. Olaf replied with a relay of blows from his own sword, one of which glanced off the other’s shoulder. Nigel was enraged. Charging forward with renewed vigour, he swung and jabbed until he forced his man back across the clearing. Olaf’s nimbleness was his own downfall. As he tried to hop back out of range, he tripped over the body of Murdac, which lay behind him on the ground.

“No!” gulped Inga, trying to move to his aid.

“Stay!” cautioned Gervase, tightening his hold.

Nigel lurched after his man, bringing his sword down with a ferocity that would have cleaved his head in two had not Olaf rolled out of the way in time. The fall was costly. As the outlaw tried to rise, Nigel stamped hard on his sword to jerk it from his grasp. One small dagger now stood between Olaf Evil Child and certain defeat.