‘Perhaps,’ said Dragulya. ‘But I have wondered, while studying this bold crusader, how ill it might serve our cause should he live for another hundred years. This victory of which we are certain will be his as well as mine, and though I will determine its violence while our armies are united, he might go back to Gaul a stronger man, his reputation redeemed. It has occurred to me that it might be better for all of us were Richard to be a casualty of the war. If he seeks to make a martyr of himself, I am inclined to let him.’
‘A martyr might serve the cause of chivalry as well as a living prince,’ murmured Beheim, ‘unless Blondel falls with him.’
‘I do not think so,’ answered Dragulya. ‘He might be a martyr to the cause of chivalry this morning, but when we have stained these terraces with the blood of ten thousand Maltese, his martyrdom will be counted to the cause of Attila’s wrath. Let us wait to see what will happen before we decide what it will mean.’
They had not long to wait, for Langoisse did not let the dawn precede him by many minutes. He approached at a wary canter, on a grey stallion which looked every inch a warhorse, though it was not protectively hooded as Richard’s was. The pirate wore no armour, and his thick leather jerkin had no sleeves, exposing the bright red cloth of his shirt along his arms. In his right hand he carried a sword much lighter than Richard’s, with a hemispherical handguard where Richard’s had only a bar. In his left he had no shield, but was carrying a white banner. This had brought him safely through the ranks of Richard’s artillerists.
Dragulya judged by the way Langoisse held himself that the pirate had sustained a wound in his side, but it did not seem likely to affect his sword-arm.
When he saw Richard waiting, Langoisse cast his flag of truce aside, and steadied his horse.
‘The man is but a fool, ’ said Michael Beheim, in a disappointed tone.
‘Which one?’ asked Dragulya, drily.
‘Now that you ask me to choose, I am torn,’ admitted the minstrel.
‘But it was the pirate I had in mind this time. He could have escaped the destruction which will fall upon those who are trapped in Mdina; he had only to sail away, and take up his former life. He is a vampire now, and should be more wise than to throw his life into a dicing-pot in such stupid fashion.’
‘Whichever loses is the greater fool,’ said the voivode, watching the two combatants as they faced one another, pausing while Langoisse rested his horse. ‘Richard is a fool for taking the risk at all, but if he wins, it will make a great difference to his pride. The ignominy of losing Britain has probably hurt him more than he guessed when he let it go, and he would dearly love to be a hero again. The battle for Mdina could not suffice, and he does not like the thought of its after?math. If he wins, Blondel will make a flattering legend for him.’
‘I know that art only too well,’ said Beheim, ‘but I will not beg you to give me like opportunity. Such an act as this would seem stupid in a man like you.’
‘Never fear,’ said Dragulya. ‘It is a Gaulish glamour which these two seek, which would mean little in our way of weighing a man. Our saying has it that he who is careful with his blood is careful with eternity, but theirs is different; they shrug their shoulders and declare that even a vampire dies, while a legend lasts forever. They have never quite forgiven themselves their own immortality. But hush now, Michael, the thing begins.’
Richard and Langoisse walked their horses slowly forward until they stood no more than a dozen yards apart. No word was spoken or signal exchanged, but each man urged his mount into a trot, the prince’s bay accelerating a fraction faster than the pirate’s grey. The mounts converged at a canter, each rider steering to ensure that he would pass on the other’s left, so that their swords could engage one another. Richard had to raise his high, so that its weight would help him in the downward sweep, but Langoisse drew his own weapon back, ready to stab if he could.
Richard had the taller horse, and was himself as tall as the pirate, so he had no need to seek further height than he already had, but Langoisse stood up in his stirrups as they came together. Richard’s hooded horse kept straight, but the pirate’s was not trained for this kind of work, and shied away, as much from the plated hood as the descending blade. The shy took Langoisse out of range of the sweeping blade, but he had not the slightest chance to put in any blow of his own, and there was a murmurous jeer from the great crowd as the combatants carved at the empty air as if in play.
Langoisse was quick to turn his horse, and guide it quickly behind the other, so that he came up alongside the armoured man on his left hand side. Had Richard had no shield he would have been forced to turn, to make his heavier mount buffet the lighter one, but instead he simply lashed out with the shield as Langoisse came to strike, hoping that the greater advantage of the exchange would fall to him. The pirate’s sword glanced lightly off" the prince’s shield, but neither man was unbalanced.
Now Richard turned his mount, wheeling to the left and raising his shield to take a second blow, but Langoisse, seeing what would happen if the bay made the turn complete, made the grey run through, and took a space of a dozen yards before turning him. Richard, in consequence, interrupted his own turn, and again the men and their horses faced one another, standing quite still.
‘Time has not calmed thee, then?’ said Richard, not unpleasantly. ‘Thou wert ever a fluttering presence, darting hither and yon, with no steadfastness at all.’
The words, spoken so low that they could not have been intended to be heard by any other ear, though Dragulya heard them, were no taunt. Indeed, they might have been taken to conceal a great compliment, in using the intimate form of address; but Richard knew, as Langoisse had when addressing his challenge, that more than one interpretation of that mannerism was possible. Richard, despite the cohort of vampire ladies which his court must have for appearance’s sake, saved the intimate form of speech for his intercourse with other men – and that had been the half-forgotten origin of the ill-feeling which led to this quarrel.
‘Nor has time awakened thee,’ replied Langoisse, speaking loudly, more conscious of the watching crowd. ‘For thou’rt as slow and slumbrous as ever was, as leaden in thought and character as a turtle in a stagnant pool.’
Richard’s temper was not hot enough, at any rate, to ignite with ire at such an insult, and when the prince came forward again he came steadily, with arm well-balanced and sword tight-aimed. Langoisse found his horse reluctant to respond, and had first to win that battle of wills before he was ready to contend with the real conflict. His victory over the animal was too slow, and this time he could not avoid Richard’s blade entirely, but could only wriggle so that it skidded down his back. While he did so, though, he thrust with all his might at the prince’s side.
The force of Richard’s blow was much the greater, and Dragulya knew that Langoisse must have felt his skin uncomfortably flayed from his ribs as jerkin and shirt were cut to ribbons. The fact that he was already hurt there would make the new cut more troublesome. Nevertheless, it was the pirate’s blow which was better aimed to wound deeply, and it was straight enough that the scaly armour could not deflect it. Langoisse’s blade penetrated to a depth of an inch and a half between Richard’s third and fourth ribs. In the meantime, the horses, brought together by the thrusts, clashed saddle to saddle, bruising the legs of both fighters and causing such a rebound that for a second or two it seemed that one or other mount might fall.
This time it was no jeer which was voiced by the watching men, but a cry of excitement. Little blood was spilled, but these fighting men knew well enough that the hurt of a vampire was never accurately signified by gory stains, and no one doubted that these earnest blows had provoked real consequence.
Langoisse, anxious lest his mount was not long to be trusted in this affair, wasted not a second in commanding the grey to close again with all possible expedition, and while Richard’s heavy-laden beast was labouring for balance, the pirate managed another dart with his blade, this ti
me aimed at the prince’s groin, below the hem of his coat of armour. Again the blade went home, though it was only the tip which bit, and Richard, though he could not raise his own sword to deal a fatal blow, was able to bring his shield crashing across, smiting the pirate in the face and hurling him backwards, unsighted and markedly dazed.
Had the grey stallion crumpled then and dropped his man, none could have said that the beast was entirely to blame, but it seemed rather that panic lent the unpractised horse greater strength and wit, for it brought its master away quite cleverly, charging on to take him out of reach while the bewildered bay did nothing, waiting for the urging of the bridle.
There was a full minute’s pause, while the separated combatants collected themselves, put hands upon their damaged parts, and disciplined their minds to make the pain remote. Langoisse had to blink his eyes to clear his vision, but he was looking away from the sun now, and had no longer to contend with its brightness.
From where he watched with Michael Beheim, it seemed to Dragulya that Richard had had the best of it, and though neither fighter had yet sustained a dangerous wound, Richard had been less disturbed by the first exchanges. But when the two horses came together again, it was the prince of Grand Normandy who seemed less easy in his adjustment for the clash.
It was at this moment that the difference in training between the horses became plain. The grey would not suffer itself to be guided into another close pass. It tried hard to turn away, and when Langoisse wrenched forcefully on the reins to prevent it from so doing it threw up its head, and reared up on its hind legs. This left Langoisse hopelessly exposed, his sword-arm waving uselessly, open to be cut all along his right side.
But Richard never got in the one blow which might have ended the contest, for one of the grey’s flailing hooves caught the armoured bay full upon the iron hood. The hood came loose. The shaped metal, held from falling by its strap, moved so as to prick the bay in the eye, whereupon the horse cried mightily in pain, leapt up in the air, and quite deliberately tossed its heavy rider.
Richard, cumbersomely armoured, with one arm anchored by his weighty shield, had no chance at all to control the horse, and fell lumpenly to the ground. The jarring impact must have knocked all the wind from his lungs, and every man watching knew it. The soldiers who were close by, Walachians and Normans alike, cried out in distress.
Richard must have known full well how desperate was the need to raise himself to his feet, and he must have fought to fetch air into his lungs though it seemed that a vice had been tightened about his gasping throat. The nearest watchers could hear and see the effort in his face, and those who had themselves been direly winded at some time knew what a terrible pain would be in his chest, capable of defying for a moment his vampiric power of control. Though this straining would last no more than a few seconds, it left him helpless in the meantime, and Langoisse came quickly at him to take advantage.
The pirate did not attempt to dismount, or even to calm his horse, but simply used the length of loose rein which remained outside his clutch, whipping it back and forth to scourge the horse’s neck, while he forced the angry beast full-tilt towards the fallen man. The flying hooves rained down on Richard’s fallen body as he struggled to rise, hammering at the armoured torso and the mailed head.
Richard managed to raise his shielded arm just a little, and must then have felt the air returning to his lungs in a great gasping flood, but it was too late. An iron horse-shoe struck his temple with such force that consciousness was blasted out of him, and he fell flat again.
A great roar went up from the watching men: dismay from Richard’s bowmen and Dragulya’s musketeers, eerily echoed in the triumphant calls of the guardians of the distant walls.
Langoisse leapt clear of his mount; it was hard to judge whether he stepped down or whether he was thrown, but he landed on his feet, and bounded quickly to the stricken prince, to stand over him. Without pause, he raised his sword two-handed, and brought it down in a mighty chopping motion, almost as if it were an axe. It would surely have broken had it been cast from poorer iron.
Then Lucien Villiers, called Langoisse, reached down to seize the severed head of Richard the Norman, to whose disfavour he traced the origin of every misfortune which had blighted his long and arduous life; and he held that trophy high aloft, wordlessly yelling his delight to the deep blue vault of heaven.
He was facing the walls of Mdina, so the volley of shots which was fired by Dragulya’s musketeers took him full in the back.
The marksmen were good enough, and the range so short, that the bullets nearly tore Langoisse in half, and while the cheering that had begun upon the walls of the city was still fading away in shock and alarm, the musketeers ran forward to make sure that even though the pirate was a vampire, he would never recover from his wounds.
Dragulya watched them at their work, admiring their thoroughness.
‘A fool,’ said Michael Beheim, ‘as I claimed.’
‘A legend, though, in the Norman way of thinking,’ answered Dragulya, ironically. There was nothing in his voice to indicate that he would have preferred it if the prince had emerged the victor. ‘We must not forget the legend, which will last when even vampires are gone to their graves.’
EIGHT
The bombardment of the walls of Mdina continued all through the day and long into the night. Though the artillerists of the city replied as best they could, few of their guns had the range of those which the enemy had brought from Italy, whose number was now greatly swelled by cannon which Dragulya’s men had captured in Pietâ and Kalkara. The cavalry and infantry of Gaul and Walachia were camped well behind their cannoneers, beyond the range of any of the city’s weapons. It was plain to the defenders that this host need only delay its attack until their cannon had opened up half a score of breaches into which they might pour to be well nigh certain of victory. The men whose task it would be to meet the eventual assault – vampires and common men alike – laboured hard to repair what damage they could, and grew wearier while they worked.
Seigneur Durand, who commanded the Maltese batallions inside the city, was urged by some of his captains to lead a company against the besieging forces, in order to carry the fight to the enemy. This he steadfastly refused to do. To charge the ranks of Dragulya’s musketeers would be suicidal, and Durand knew how necessary it was that the outnumbered defenders should have the benefit of whatever barricades could be erected in the damaged sections of the wall. His men, whether mortals or vampires, did not like to labour under the cannonfire, struggling to pile up massive blocks of stone wherever the walls were shattered; but that was by far the best work they could do to make the task of their enemies as difficult as could be.
The Barons Sceberra and Inguanez had not yet given up hope that the knights of St. John from la Valette’s fleet and the forts of the Grand Harbour might contrive to regroup and assault the besieging forces from the rear. Nor had they altogether ruled out of account the possi?bility that the Mohammedans might yet decide to strike a blow for themselves against this awesome Christian army. Durand, though he knew such hopes to be frail indeed, did not entirely discourage their optimism. He knew that there was nothing to be done save to fight to the death. He had travelled to Byzantium in former days, and had once seen Dragulya there; he was one of the few who fully understood what the Maltese had to face in the Walachian warlord.
When the guns finally ceased their blasting, the silence seemed no less menacing than their deafening roar, for it promised no mercy and mocked the people of the city with an invitation to sleep for an hour or two before the dawn. There could be no sleep, in any case, for the soldiers in Mdina, who must continue their efforts to maintain the fortifications. While they toiled they knew that their adversaries were obtaining refreshment denied to themselves.
Noell Cordery had removed himself from his laboratory, where the work was finished, to the residence of the archbishop which stood beside the cathedral. There he had a bedroom under the
eaves, where he would wait for the outcome of the conflict. It was not that he was standing aside, to leave everything in the hands of others; he had done his part, and the real consequences of the battle, as they extended across the years and the centuries, would be the consequences of his actions and his decisions.
Because the cathedral was at the very edge of the town, looming above the wall, it had suffered several blows from stone and iron shot hurled by Dragulya’s bombards; but this was perhaps the strongest point of all the town’s defences, and the damage was slight. From the topmost floor of the residence it was possible to look out over all the great array of the attacking forces, and Noell had been drawn to the window while the guns were firing, like a moth drawn to a flame. He had looked long and soberly into the comfortless darkness, while the night itself seemed to speak with a terrible voice, spitting flame and exhaling smoke, hurling destruction at the wall. The city came to symbolise, in his estimation, the world of men beleaguered by the despot Death. The cannonade put Noell in mind of Shango, the Uruba god of storms, whose voice was the thunder. Shango had fired destructive bolts at the earth far greater than those which were tossed by Dragulya’s cannon, attended by lightning infinitely more fearful than the powder-flashes which erupted from the firepans of these bombards. But in the end, Shango was only a boy in a fabulous mask; a mere charade.
There was a charade in this too, for all the real murder that was going on. Attila’s empires were in the process of being unmasked; the idols of vampire hegemony were being cast down.
Even when the guns had stopped, Noell could not tear himself away from his window, though he could see very little of what was happening. His short sight made the fires of the besiegers blur into amorphous ribbons of light, and he could not make out the lines of their tents. For all that he could truly see, he might as well be looking through the earth and into one of the brighter regions of Dante’s inferno.
Empire of Fear Page 46
