Sigebert was unmasked. Clad as plainly as his guards, he put from him consciousness of the thickness, the pounding of his head. This was both necessity and recreation, and Sigebert loved it.
He shifted position, caught a stroke on his shield and drove his point at the man’s side above the hip. At the last instant he pulled the thrust so that it did not pierce the leather. Even so, the man knew he had been touched. He made a soft gagging noise and reeled.
Now the other was prevented from coming at his master. Stranded on the far side of his stricken partner, he had to move smartly to rightward, and by then Sigebert was prepared for him. The long double-edged swords glittered in the sun.
The soldier cut at his master’s head, feinted a blow with his leather-covered shield, and swept his swordtip quickly down in an attempt to skewer Sigebert’s foot. The foot was not there to be transpierced. It flashed aside, moving with a dancer’s ease. Had been a foolish ploy anyhow, as the foot was too small a target, and forever amove.
The soldier paid for it. Sigebert brought his shield’s rim jarringly down on the man’s arm. His sword clattered on the courtyard stones. Sigebert feigned killing him.
There arose some sycophantic applause and comment. Seigbert One-ear ignored it, scowling and preoccupied. He raised his eyes as the messenger Faraulf arrived.
“Good morrow, my friend. Saw you that?”
“The end of it, sir, aye. Was ye fighting the pair together?”
“And won! Do not make it sound so awesome, for we both know better. I’ve discovered that two men are weaker than one alone, when the one knows what he’s about. They lack his coordination… tend to stumble in each other’s way.” He squinted along his nicked sword-edge. “Also, these be my men. I suspect they are not fighting as well as they might. The trick that last dog tried, stabbing at my foot as if he held a spear, was a little too clumsy. He verily gave me the bout.”
“Mayhap he requires training,” Faraulf suggested.
“I’ll see that he has it! Aye, till his body cries for respite and his lungs ache for breath, day after day! When he faces me again, he’ll not incline to treat me gently in hopes of preference! I, too, require hard training. Do these fools think I am playing idle games, they must learnotherwise!” Sigebert’s voice rose in passion, and Faraulf blinked.
“Was clever use of the point, on the other man,” Faraulf said. Shoulder length, the messenger’s hair looked as if it had fallen into a tun of hot butter.
“Ah, you arrived in time to see? Aye, Faraulf. The point is much ignored. D’ye know that when the Romans came here they hardly used the edge? Over the centuries swords have lengthened and now the use of the point-so!” he cried, skewering the air- “is nearly forgot. I’m told that Cormac mac Art uses it well. Therefore I try its employment. I find that it works quite nicely. The hortest way to a man’s throat or vitals is best.” And Sigebert repeated softly, “Cormac mac Art.”
“The pirate?”
“The same. One of those black-haired Celts. Came from their stopping offin Spain on their was to Hivernia away from its previous people, I reckon. I’ve cause to think on him from time to time. It’s in my mind that we may meet again, that Hivernian dog and I. Should it befall, I’d not be unprepared.” Sigebert’s gashed face twisted appallingly. “One of his men gave me these scars.”
Faraulf was wisely mute, and the customs assessor turned to one of his soldiers.
“Have the highwayman fetched hither.” For a moment Sigebert watched the fellow make obeisance and leave, louting. Then he said, to faraulf, “Fear not to question me! By death, man, you bore me welcome news! You may speak if you wish!”
“What highwayman be this, sir?”
Sigebert shrugged. “Some fellow who was taken drunk at an inn, with his band of throat-cutting robbers far distant. Betrayed by his trollop, I believe. I cannot recall his name. However, he is well-born, and by reputation he handles a sword well, which is all that matters.”
Faraulf did not ask how a captured highwayman came to be a captive of the customs assessor, and in his own manse. An Sigebert had a use for him, he’d have found it simple to contrive the robber’s “escape.”
Two Frankish soldiers returned with a tall, yellow-haired man in a doeskin tunic and short leather boots. Filthy from travel and prison grime, he yet stood insolently straight and stared from eyes the colour of granite. Faraulf had thought to see remnants of breeding in that lean face, and sought them. The signs of reckless violence and wasted power were far plainer. The miscreant’s arms were bound to a wooden pole laid across his shoulders.
“Well,” he said coarsely, staring. “Seek you dogs to affright me with this scarface? Who be ye, the local frightener of children?”
Sigebert smiled with unfeigned pleasure. He’d been told this animal had spirit. A movement of his hand stayed the soldier who had been about to strike his prisoner with a spear-butt.
“My name has no importance,” he said, “to you. I am the man who will do death on you, here and now-unless you can slay me!”
The highwayman received the news stoically, and did not lose his sarcasm. “Then I reckon I’ll be the loser,” he grunted, “since my hands be bound up. There’s been no blood going through these arms in hours.”
“It shall return. Your wrists shall be freed,” Sigebert promised, and watched the fellow blink. “I would have your name.”
“You know my name. And jape me not about untying me.”
“No japery, fellow. And no, all I know of a name for you is what they call you in that area where you plied your trade. I’d have your name-ere one of us stretch the other cold and bloody.”
“What they call me’s good enough, and I don’t give a tinker’s pot about your name.”
“Very well then, Lynx. Time shall be yours to exercise, to work out the stiffness in those bound limbs, and you may choose a sword from yonder rack. You yourself may say when you wish to begin. Then-we fight to the death, you and I!”
Lynx’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Ye say? Supposing I have your life, man?”
“Then you may have a fast horse and an escort from the city as well. Freedom! These men have been given their orders, and bound by oaths. They will not harm you an it prove that I cannot.”
“Such as you harm me? 0-ho-ho! Plainly ye be mad, and certainty’s with me that ye lie-but Satan’s eyes, what odds? Unbind my arms and place a pretty blade in m’grasp, and I’ll accept my chances!”
“Sir, this is folly!” Faraulf protested. “Single combat with a felon who’s naught to lose? As well face a wolf!”
Sigebert looked at him. “I intend to, a wolf named Cormac. For now-only a lynx, methinks. It is my whim. I require a man who will fight. I trust you have no thought of interfering? Nay? Then stand you back.”
A dagger’s blade caught the sun, sawed briefly. The highwayman stood unfettered. He rubbed his big-boned wrists with white hands. The hands darkened as blood returned. He flexed his shoulder muscles and flung his arms about to set the blood moving. Ignoring the ready soldiers, he went to the rack and handled each sword there, trying them for balance and weight in the manner of an experienced fighter. His eyes narrowed, then widened to stare and narrowed again, as he studied the blades for flaws. At last he chose one. He made it keen through the air. He surprised them all, then, by chopping into the rack.
“Easy lads,” he said with a flash of smile. “I’d not meet your master with a weakened blade, now would I? I like this one well enough, Scarface.”
The anxious gaze of every eye went to Sigebert, but he only smiled his thin smile. Incredible. The mere mention of his face would gain another a flogging, or worse.
“Give me a shield.”
A soldier tossed a shield to the man called Lynx. He caught sixteen or more pounds of iron-bossed, iron-banded wood handily, with his left. He slipped it up that arm, flexing his forearm against the strap. His knees bent and he practiced a few simple strokes and guards. There was no showing off. Faraulf took this to mean that the thief had skill and did not wish to betray it in advance. Lynx, eh? Were he unsure of himself, he’d have attempted to look better than he was. A lynx. Rufous-furred, sharp-eyed little bastards, eating anything they could overpower. Ferocious when threatened or cornered. A lynx. The big wheaten-haired man might be well named at that. Faraulf pondered Sigebert’s sanity.