Read Online The Bleeding Land by Giles Kristian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Giles Kristian
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at his bottom lip and the slight shake of his head. All for show. ‘I would not be proud of my sons had they done such a thing.’
‘Then tell me, Sir Francis,’ Henry said lightly. ‘Are you proud of your son sniffing round the skirts of this stinking papist’s whore daughter?’
Tom’s sword rasped clear of its scabbard and he kicked his horse forward but Henry drew his own blade and raised it just in time, parrying a thrust that would have sliced into his shoulder. Steel sang in the darkness and six more blades were hauled naked into the frigid night as Mun and Sir Francis spurred forward to put themselves between Tom and the other four men.
‘This is not your fight!’ Mun roared, pointing his blade at Miles Walton. He could hear Tom fighting and desperately wanted to help, but he knew they must keep these others out of it or else the night would drown in blood. Sir Francis knew it too, for he was beside him, naked steel glinting.
‘Damn you, Rivers!’ the heavy-set Walton yelled, coming for Mun. But Mun and his horse had grown up together and they moved as one, the beast side-passing left so that the man’s wild swing hit nothing. Hector turned on his haunches and Mun swung, clattering the flat of his blade against Walton’s head with a sickening thud. The man’s horse walked on and his companions stared open-mouthed as, without uttering a sound, their friend toppled sideward from his saddle. But his left foot snagged in the stirrup, twisted horribly by the deadweight of his body, and for several heartbeats they simply watched as the horse walked on dragging its unconscious master alongside.
Snot Beard yelled and spurred towards Mun, but suddenly Sir Francis was there between them and he whipped his own rapier up, hitting the forte of the other man’s blade, then thrust his sword forward, over and under his opponent’s in a lightning strike that ripped the weapon from Snot Beard’s grasp and sent it flying to clatter on the frost-bitten track.
‘I’ll kill the next man who raises his sword!’ Sir Francis barked and now there were only two armed men facing him and Mun: the clean-shaven man with the hook nose and a nervous-looking young man with small, close-set eyes who was visibly trembling, and they, it seemed, had seen enough to know better than to fight.
Tom was losing this fight and he did not need to see the half grimace, half smile on Henry Denton’s face to know it.
You’ve done well to last this long
, was what Henry’s sneering expression said,
but you’ve not trained with the sword as I have
.
You can ride, maybe, but you have no skill with the blade
.
Tom was aware of other swords flashing in the night, of shouts and movement, but he would not take his eyes off this man whom he hungered to kill. This arrogant devil who was too confident. Too sure of himself . . . as Tom’s blade streaked through an opening to plunge into the meat of Henry’s shoulder. Henry roared with pain and anger and swung wildly, knocking Tom’s blade aside. Too wide, so that Tom knew he could not parry in time. Knew he had lost.
But then Henry’s world spun and he with it and for a heartbeat he must have glimpsed the moon; then he hit the ground, the air punched from his belly in a loud grunt. He lay gasping, Sir Francis standing over him, knife in hand, grey eyes glistening like wet flint, and suddenly Tom understood. His father had cut through Henry’s saddle girth.
Lord Denton’s son climbed to his hands and knees, glaring up at them with hate-flared eyes and trying to curse Sir Francis though he could not get the words out.
‘I am taking the minister home,’ Sir Francis said icily. The others sat their mounts still as statues, staring.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible, Sir Francis,’ Hook Nose said , bringing two pistols out of his thick cloak and pointing one at Tom, the other at Mun. They were wheellock pistols of the kind some of their father’s friends had brought back from the
‘Then tell me, Sir Francis,’ Henry said lightly. ‘Are you proud of your son sniffing round the skirts of this stinking papist’s whore daughter?’
Tom’s sword rasped clear of its scabbard and he kicked his horse forward but Henry drew his own blade and raised it just in time, parrying a thrust that would have sliced into his shoulder. Steel sang in the darkness and six more blades were hauled naked into the frigid night as Mun and Sir Francis spurred forward to put themselves between Tom and the other four men.
‘This is not your fight!’ Mun roared, pointing his blade at Miles Walton. He could hear Tom fighting and desperately wanted to help, but he knew they must keep these others out of it or else the night would drown in blood. Sir Francis knew it too, for he was beside him, naked steel glinting.
‘Damn you, Rivers!’ the heavy-set Walton yelled, coming for Mun. But Mun and his horse had grown up together and they moved as one, the beast side-passing left so that the man’s wild swing hit nothing. Hector turned on his haunches and Mun swung, clattering the flat of his blade against Walton’s head with a sickening thud. The man’s horse walked on and his companions stared open-mouthed as, without uttering a sound, their friend toppled sideward from his saddle. But his left foot snagged in the stirrup, twisted horribly by the deadweight of his body, and for several heartbeats they simply watched as the horse walked on dragging its unconscious master alongside.
Snot Beard yelled and spurred towards Mun, but suddenly Sir Francis was there between them and he whipped his own rapier up, hitting the forte of the other man’s blade, then thrust his sword forward, over and under his opponent’s in a lightning strike that ripped the weapon from Snot Beard’s grasp and sent it flying to clatter on the frost-bitten track.
‘I’ll kill the next man who raises his sword!’ Sir Francis barked and now there were only two armed men facing him and Mun: the clean-shaven man with the hook nose and a nervous-looking young man with small, close-set eyes who was visibly trembling, and they, it seemed, had seen enough to know better than to fight.
Tom was losing this fight and he did not need to see the half grimace, half smile on Henry Denton’s face to know it.
You’ve done well to last this long
, was what Henry’s sneering expression said,
but you’ve not trained with the sword as I have
.
You can ride, maybe, but you have no skill with the blade
.
Tom was aware of other swords flashing in the night, of shouts and movement, but he would not take his eyes off this man whom he hungered to kill. This arrogant devil who was too confident. Too sure of himself . . . as Tom’s blade streaked through an opening to plunge into the meat of Henry’s shoulder. Henry roared with pain and anger and swung wildly, knocking Tom’s blade aside. Too wide, so that Tom knew he could not parry in time. Knew he had lost.
But then Henry’s world spun and he with it and for a heartbeat he must have glimpsed the moon; then he hit the ground, the air punched from his belly in a loud grunt. He lay gasping, Sir Francis standing over him, knife in hand, grey eyes glistening like wet flint, and suddenly Tom understood. His father had cut through Henry’s saddle girth.
Lord Denton’s son climbed to his hands and knees, glaring up at them with hate-flared eyes and trying to curse Sir Francis though he could not get the words out.
‘I am taking the minister home,’ Sir Francis said icily. The others sat their mounts still as statues, staring.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible, Sir Francis,’ Hook Nose said , bringing two pistols out of his thick cloak and pointing one at Tom, the other at Mun. They were wheellock pistols of the kind some of their father’s friends had brought back from the
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