Robert Lyndon: Hawk Quest

Vallon collected his horse and walked it towards Wayland and Syth. ‘For now this is where we take our leave.’ He clasped Syth close.

Her wide eyes gazed up at him. ‘You will return for Caitlin, won’t you? She loves you. I know she does.’

‘And I love her.’

Vallon kissed her and separated himself with delicacy. He laid a hand on Wayland’s shoulder. ‘Who would have thought when we set out that you’d end up in the service of an Emir?’

‘I’d rather circumstances meant I remained in your service.’

‘You’ll be a father by next summer. You have no place with a vagrant soldier.’

‘All the same, it saddens me to think that we won’t meet again.’

‘We will.’

‘I don’t mean when you come back for Caitlin.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘Where then? When?’

Vallon swung up into the saddle. ‘Here or in the hereafter.’

Seams of sunlight were spreading across the plateau. Vallon consulted the weather-wise ring as he did before each day’s journeying. As part of the same routine, he twisted it on his finger. He frowned. ‘Here’s sorcery,’ he said, holding out the ring between thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s consented to loosen its grip now that our journey’s over.’

Hero laughed. ‘We still have a few days’ ride ahead of us. What does it say about our prospects?’

Vallon studied the gemstone. ‘Bright, I’d say.’

A stir behind the escorts drew his idle attention. A string of camels plodded past, heading for the Konya road.

‘Vallon!’ Caitlin screamed. ‘Vallon!’

He jerked his reins. The Seljuks spun their horses. Through them he saw Drogo standing outside the women’s quarters, holding Caitlin with his sword across her throat, both of them stained with blood. The Seljuks were already unslinging bows and levelling lances. Boke kicked his mount into a charge.

‘Stop!’ Vallon shouted. ‘Tell him to stop!’

Wayland called out in Turkic. Boke was only twenty yards from his target when he veered away.

Vallon’s heart raced. He flung out a hand left and right at the Seljuks. ‘Nobody move. Wayland, make them understand.’

He reached out and took a lance from one of the Seljuks. He rode forward at a walk.

‘Let her go, Drogo.’

The Norman’s face contorted in a frenzy of effort as he tried to control Caitlin. She kicked and struggled and managed to sink her teeth into his forearm. He jabbed his sword hilt into her face and she sagged down.

Vallon halted. ‘You said you’d got what you want. Walter dead, the inheritance assured.’

‘I changed my mind. My honour’s more important.’ Drogo’s speech was slurred, his eyes bloodshot.

‘You call holding a woman hostage honourable?’

‘The whore’s my way to revenge.’

‘Let her go and I’ll let you live. I’ve given Suleyman money to send you back to Byzantium. In dignity, not on hands and knees.’

Drogo laughed and pointed his sword at him. ‘That’s what twists my guts. Your charity. I’ve suffered enough humiliation from you.’

Vallon rode a few yards closer. ‘You won’t regain your pride by killing Caitlin. Before she falls to the ground, you’ll be skewered by arrows and I’ll still be alive to kick your corpse. Or perhaps I’ll order the Seljuks to let you live so that they can devise the cruellest and slowest way to end your life.’

‘I’ll release Caitlin only if you agree to fight me man to man.’

‘You’re drunk. Even sober you’re no match for me.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

‘If you were lucky enough to strike a mortal blow, you wouldn’t have a moment to savour your victory before the Seljuks killed you.’

‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose.’ Drogo pulled Caitlin’s head back and pressed his sword against her neck. ‘I swear to God …’

‘I’ll fight you.’ Vallon looked for Wayland. ‘Tell Boke and his men not to interfere. Tell him this is a feud that can only be settled by single combat.’ He turned back to Drogo. ‘Now release Caitlin.’

Drogo flung her aside. She stumbled away, clutching her face. Syth ran forward, gathered her in her arms and led her back.

‘Don’t hazard your life!’ Hero cried. ‘Leave it to the Seljuks.’

Vallon raised a hand. ‘My word means something or it means nothing.’

Stillness descended on the arena. Overhead in the silence a kite whistled. The sun was lifting clear of the horizon. At the margins of Vallon’s vision, Seljuk labourers spectated in scattered groups. Drogo stood about forty yards away, the ground completely open. Vallon shifted his grip on the lance and nudged his horse forward.

‘Get down off your horse,’ Drogo said.

‘We’ll engage the way we did that snowy night when we first met, you on horseback telling your men to take me downriver and cut my throat. I bested you then. Are you scared that you can’t match my skill?’

Drogo drew his sword back. ‘Any way you want.’

Vallon heeled his horse into a trot. Twenty yards from Drogo, he broke into a canter and levelled his lance. Drogo shuffled from side to side. Vallon had seen enough of him in action to know that he was a good swordsman, his skills honed in many battles. Unafraid and with a suicide’s disregard for his life. Vallon maintained his easy pace, the point of his lance aimed at Drogo’s chest. He was sure that his target would spring aside the instant before contact and then make an immediate counter.

Closer and closer. Drogo was going to jump to his right. Vallon corrected, lifted in his saddle and drove the lance forward.

Into empty space.

Drogo had dropped to a squat and as the lance passed harmlessly over his head he sprang up and swung his sword back-handed. Vallon dropped the lance and tried to fling himself off, drawing his sword at the same time. Drogo’s blade sliced into the horse’s haunch. It screamed and spun like a snake-bitten cat, throwing Vallon completely off balance. His left foot was still trapped in the stirrup. He could feel the horse toppling over and he couldn’t jump clear. From the corner of his eye he saw Drogo jumping about on the blind side, trying to get in a killing blow, then the ground rushed up to meet him.

He landed left hand first and heard the crack as his wrist broke. He still held his sword in his right and was trying to propel himself clear when the horse crashed on to his left leg. Something tore in his ankle, the pain so intense that he screamed. He dragged himself free and saw Drogo running towards him. Using his sword as a crutch, he clambered upright, left arm and foot useless, a standing target. He managed to ward off the first stroke by blind instinct.

Drogo laughed. ‘No left-handed trickery today. No fancy footwork.’

Vallon stood flatfooted, sick with pain and Drogo attacked with all his strength. Only Vallon’s superior sword-play kept him at bay. At the fifth stroke Vallon saw an opening, dropped and opened up Drogo’s left arm with a counter the Norman didn’t even see. Drogo skipped back, looked at the wound and grinned. ‘You’re good. The best I’ve crossed swords with. But not as good as me.’ He walked in a tight fast circle around Vallon, flicking his sword contemptuously. ‘Let’s see you hop.’

Vallon had no choice. He tried putting his weight on his left foot and almost collapsed.

‘Hop!’

Vallon lost his balance and had to use his sword to stay on his feet. Drogo gripped his sword two-handed, stepped round Vallon’s right side and swung at his midriff. Vallon reverse blocked and skipped back. His right foot collided with a forgotten tent peg and he sprawled full length on his back. He tried to scramble away, but Drogo was already looming above him, sword poised to strike.