The Long Sword(231)

            As a result, the spearman and I went close, and the Hungarian danced away.

            In that beat of my heart, I knew he was a good swordsman, and that he was going to kill me. But I had my point under my other adversary’s right arm. I released my top hand – my left – punched him in the head with my mailed fist, reached past his shoulder and caught the point of my spear as his head snapped back, which changed everything. I threw him. In fact, I ripped him off his feet and tossed him at the Hungarian. He went down hard and the Hungarian went down with him.

            Fiore put his pommel into one man and pivoted on his hips, parrying his second opponent as if he’d practiced fighting three men all his life. Having made his cover, he brought his sword back up; not a very strong blow, but he made his second opponent stumble even while the first collapsed.

            All that while I caught one breath.

            I put a steel-footed kick into the downed spearmen and the Hungarian regained his feet while I pulled out my spear point in to finish my foe.

            That’s what you do when you are outnumbered. Make sure the men who are down stay down.

            The Hungarian had a steel cap on over his maille hood and there was enough light, reflecting off smoke, making everything a ruddy haze except our blades that flickered like red-hot iron, that I could see his face clearly, his high cheekbones, his heavy, long moustaches, and his smile.

            ‘Ah, Sir William,’ he said.

            He cut at me. He made three simple blows – mandritto, reverso, mandritto, just as Fiore drilled us, and I covered all three. I had my spear point low, the butt high in my right hand – one of Fiore’s guards. In this guard, and with my good steel arms, I could ward myself all night, as long as I had the strength to keep the spear steady. With my advantage in distance, the Hungarian was limited to fast attacks and withdrawals.

            I thrust low, at his hands.

            He leaped back and I stumbled after him – armour is heavy, and I had forgotten the spearman on the ground.

            The Hungarian thrust with one hand: I made my cover high and late, and his point slapped my visor.

            Dead, except for my armour.

            I cut; a simple, heavy fendente with the spearhead to buy time. He was faster than anyone I had ever faced – faster than Fiore, faster than Nerio. As fast as the Bohemian I had fought in Krakow.

            But my simple fendente slammed into his outstretched sword even as he was withdrawing it, and knocked it well to the side. I passed forward, and so I was in a good low guard when he hurled his sword like a thunderbolt. Against an unarmoured man, in the darkness, it might have proved decisive, but I slapped it aside with my spear and cut at him.

            I was standing at the top of a low wall, and he’d leapt to the bottom.

            In the red darkness, I could see him crouch. I was wary; I saw the corpse and then the crossbow.

            I ducked back. Behind me, Fiore was down to just two. I turned and stabbed one of Fiore’s opponent’s in the neck. My spear didn’t penetrate his aventail, but I assume I broke his neck.

            I turned back to the wall, but the Hungarian was gone.

            Fiore and I were still panting like horses after a race when John the Turk rode up outside the rose garden and called out.

            He had Ned Cooper and Gawain. He also had a dark bay – someone else’s horse adrift in Hades.

            We collected George and Maurice at the back of the tall building that was now shooting flames fifty feet into the air. They were stripping dead men of their purses like the professionals I’d taken them for and I was impressed that Maurice tossed a purse to John.

            George nodded to me. ‘Get the Hungarian?’ he asked.