'Perhaps.' I pushed my chair back. 'Perhaps the Albrizzis did have to die. But why Borelli the artist? What was so special about him?'
Enrico looked puzzled and shook his head.
'Artist? Borelli? Why should I kill an artist? He is not an Albrizzi.'
'Nor was Maria!' I shouted.
'Oh, come, Inglese. That pathetic little dwarf woman!' His lips curled.
I picked up the wine cup and hurled it at him, even as he brought up the crossbow, loaded and ready. He pulled the lever, releasing the cruel barbed quarrel. But I was swift. I threw myself sideways. The quarrel hit the chair I'd been sitting in. I sprang to my feet, drawing sword and dagger, and ran towards him. Enrico was waiting for me. I lunged, but he fended off my blow with his dagger. I stepped back. He drew his sword, flexing his arms as I backed down the refectory.
'You wouldn't let me live!' I said softly. 'You'd kill me as you have the rest!'
'I thought you said Maria was alive?' he replied. 'You shouldn't tell Enrico lies!'
He cut the air with his sword. I took another step backwards. Enrico shuffled his feet.
'You should never lie!'
Of course, the man was insane. He'd have killed anyone he met that night, or anyone who had anything to do with the Albrizzis, anyone who might suspect his guilt. I was terrified. I am a good swordsman, proficient with the thrusts and the parries. But Enrico reminded me of my Portuguese duelling master - he moved with the same deliberation and assurance and held his sword and dagger in the same way, lightly, in the palms of his hands. He kept moving me back, establishing a clear killing ground, free of any obstacle.
'Tell me, Inglese, before I kill you. What made you think I was using a sling and not a handgun?'
'Skeletons!' I murmured. 'Skeletons I saw in England. Men killed by Roman soldiers or, at least, by Roman auxiliaries. The little holes in their skulls were like the wounds you inflicted on Lord Francesco and Preneste.'
Enrico's eyes widened.
'Now, isn't life strange, Inglese? Everything goes in full circle. You saw the skeletons of your ancestors killed by men from Italy. And now you, an Englishman, are going to be killed by me.'
He turned sideways, adopting the classical pose of a duellist, dagger hand slightly up, blade pointed towards the ground.
'Inglese, goodbye!'
He moved as lithely as a cat, sword tip jabbing at my chest, swinging round with his long dagger. I jumped backwards, moved forward, lunging at his throat. Enrico, using sword and dagger, beat off my attack, then we closed again. Our blades seemed like glittering arcs of light. I became desperate. He was so fast, so skilful, hardly moving. He would launch an attack at my chest then, suddenly, his sword was aiming at my throat, my groin or my leg. My arms flailed like a windmill and the sweat broke out on my body. He withdrew, breathing a little heavily, and then we began again. At first I panicked, but the slap of our feet against the floor, the rhythmic clashing of our blades, the deadly intent and the deep urge to survive calmed my mind. At the same time the skills my Portuguese duelling master had taught me made themselves felt. No longer did I retreat but, turning sideways, managed to parry his blows and, on one occasion, even nicked him slightly on the arm. He stepped back, shaking his sword arm and smiling. He returned, swift as a striking adder.
'You are good, Inglese,' Enrico breathed. 'But do not grieve, you and your dwarf woman will soon be together again.'
As God is my witness, I don't know whether it was his words or that awful smirk on his ugly face, but I broke all the rules of duelling. We drew apart, he was flexing his sword again and I played a trick learnt in the dingy alleyways of London. I changed sword and dagger from hand to hand. He moved a little further back in preparation for this but, instead of closing, I grabbed my dagger by the hilt and flung it full at his chest. It took him deep, just beneath the heart. Enrico stared in stupefaction, mouth gaping, his sword slipped from his hands. He took a step forward.
I moved in and thrust my sword into his stomach beneath the rib cage.
'Get you to hell!' I hissed. 'And tell the Lord Satan I sent you there!'
I withdrew my sword and stepped back - a dying man could still be dangerous. Enrico had now dropped his dagger. His face contorted with pain as the blood flowed and bubbled out of his wounds. He looked up as if to say something, sighed and crumpled to the floor. I threw my sword and dagger to the ground and crouched, arms crossed, and gave full vent to the terrors seething within me. All I could do was stare at that evil man, watching the blood ooze around him. He was lying on his side. I went over and pulled my dagger out. There was an awful sucking sound. I threw it to the floor, staggered to my feet, went back to the table and drank a goblet of wine, faster than I had in many a day. I returned upstairs. Maria was lying on the bed, her little body covered. My master was beginning to stir. I was so exhausted, so terrified, that I just lay down beside him.