Blood Runs Thicker by Sarah Hawkswood (best electronic book reader txt) 📗

was half on top of him, to the side and scrambled to his feet, spitting dust. He leant to grab his staff but Bradecote, his senses as regained as his breath, took hold of the nearer end, and there followed a tussle as between two dogs with a bone. Neither had an advantage and so Bradecote suddenly let go, sending Baldwin de Lench stumbling backwards. Bradecote got up on one knee, just far enough to drag his sword from its scabbard.

‘Put the staff down. It is over, de Lench, all over.’

‘And have you put a rope about my neck? No thank you. It is not over, not yet.’ Baldwin’s eyes were wild with a furious desire to survive at any cost, and he was breathing through his mouth to get air into his lungs. He had the advantage of height, and swung the staff to drive the sword from the undersheriff’s grasp, but although sword and arm were flung to the side, the hold was not lost. Bradecote felt the reverberation all the way up to his shoulder but yet managed to get fully to his feet, and as he did so Baldwin drew his knife from its hanger in a sweeping, outward stroke, and caught Bradecote’s left arm even as the undersheriff pulled back, his arms bowed like a bull’s horns. Bradecote took a hissing intake of breath, but his eyes remained locked to those of Baldwin.

‘I think the fight fair enough,’ growled Baldwin, his eyes narrowing to slits as he tried to second guess his opponent. ‘You may have a sword, but the staff has longer reach and I am good with a knife.’

‘As your father discovered.’

‘But this I will enjoy. That …’ for one moment Baldwin looked heartbroken, ‘was dire need.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my woman carries my child and I would have a son born to inherit, and though my sire might have ignored the bitter truth about me because I was ever more a lord than the stripling Hamo, he would declare me bastard if I disobeyed him and wed her.’

‘Yet he could have told you are indeed fully his own son. Did you not give him time to speak?’ Bradecote’s voice chided almost softly, and Baldwin’s eyes widened in a sudden horror. ‘The tale you had in Tredington was but the half-known there. Too late he discovered it and lived thereafter with the guilt of killing an innocent wife.’

‘No.’ It was a cry of denial, but to himself. Baldwin shook his head. ‘You say it to unman me.’ He lunged, using the staff as he would a sword, and Bradecote’s blade parried and bit into the wood, where it stuck. Baldwin laughed, stepped suddenly close and thrust the knife towards Bradecote’s throat.

Bradecote grabbed at the wrist with his free hand, though the strength in his arm was already sapped by the bleeding wound. It could not hold off the stronger arm for long, and Baldwin laughed again, but the laugh turned into a grunt of pain as Bradecote brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. It was not a perfect contact but Baldwin’s grip upon his weapons tightened convulsively, and the impulsion was lost. The inexorable advance of the blade to Bradecote’s throat was halted, and the two men swayed for a moment, joined in a dance to the death. The pain in Bradecote’s arm was an insistent thump now, but he overcame it just enough to push the knife away. Baldwin dropped the staff entirely, and grabbed the hilt of the knife so that he had a two hand advantage as the weight of the staff pulled Bradecote’s sword arm instantly downward. Bradecote dropped his weapon and half stepped and half fell backwards, pushing up with his injured arm so that the knife, instead of entering his flesh, passed over his head. There was a flailing of limbs, the two men rolled over several times, and then there was a deep grunting noise and Bradecote lay very still. All he was aware of was the pounding of the blood in his ears and the pain in his arm, until Catchpoll, mumbling, pulled the corpse of Baldwin de Lench from across his body.

Chapter Eighteen

Bradecote stared up at the serjeant’s grim face that slowly eased into his death’s head smile.

‘Mighty glad I am you arrived, my lord,’ Catchpoll muttered, and took his superior by the good arm and dragged him to his feet. He swayed, still a little unsteady, and Bradecote swayed also, clamping his right hand to his left arm, and looked down at the crumpled heap that had been Baldwin de Lench.

‘Bastard,’ he growled, with feeling. Whether he was addressing the body or swearing at the pain in his arm was not clear.

‘What you needs to remember, my lord,’ sighed Catchpoll, sounding tired and rubbing the side of his head, ‘is that lord or not, no man fights fair when his life depends upon it. A bit of you tries to do that. Thankful I am that it is not much, but it takes the edge.’

‘But I did not want to have to kill him.’

‘Ah, that is where the trouble lies. He,’ and Catchpoll kicked the corpse, ‘wanted to kill you or be killed by you, not go bound to Worcester and dangle at a rope’s end. You needs to treat it like a true battle-fight, for sure as the sun sets the man you face will want your death. If you aims to take him just wounded you risk being the next one dead. Good job you got to fighting dirty and he landed on his own blade. Now, show me that arm.’

The undersheriff, feeling a little light-headed, obediently presented the arm to his serjeant. The slash ran down the arm from near the elbow to the wrist, and at the bottom end a tendon showed white amidst the scarlet.

‘Ah, lucky you are that the knife did not cut through that,’ remarked Catchpoll, and bent down, slowly, lifted the limp arm of the