unnoticed either, he knew, but he had no choice. He walked away from all the revelry just as two knights were beginning to circle each other with drawn blades in a hastily cleared space on the floor.
It was a fine night, and by the time he walked out through the city’s gates towards the harbor, he had left the sounds from the dining hall far behind him. But then there were other loud voices being raised ahead of him, and he heard the clash of steel on steel again, more urgent than the sounds he had left behind in the hall. The knights in the hall had been fighting for sport, in an arranged bout, else they could not have drawn steel in the King’s presence. These men ahead of him had no such restraints, and in all probability they neither knew nor cared where the King might be. He could tell from the noise of the curses being thrown around that blood would be spilled quickly and perhaps copiously. He knew, too, that the fighters would be men-at-arms and that if he went closer to them he would be bound, as an officer and a knight, to intervene. And at this time of night, to confront unknown, angry, and drunken foot soldiers and try to face them down would be madness. No one but a total fool would expose himself to such a risk; an unknown, unaccompanied officer alone in the dark could be an irresistible target to an angry, disenchanted ruffian.
He stopped and stood listening, peering into the darkness ahead of him. He was close enough to hear what was happening but too far away to see or be seen. He hesitated a moment longer, then made up his mind and walked away from the sounds of the brawl, and mere moments later he realized that he was walking towards the small plateau where Richard and Isaac Comnenus had met earlier that day. As he recognized the place, the towering shape of Isaac’s imperial pavilion came into view, ringed about and illuminated by the flickering torches of Richard’s guard, who had been assigned to ensure the comfort and security of their former foe.
Knowing he would surely be challenged if he continued on his present route, he turned again to head back towards the beach, the noise of the brawl now faint, off to his left and moving away from him. A full moon emerged then from behind a cloud, and its light flooded the entire plain, making it almost as clear as day, so that he could see the forest of masts in the harbor ahead of him, outlined against the sky. Something stirred at the edge of his vision, in the direction of Isaac’s pavilion, and he glanced that way but saw nothing. Intrigued then, because he knew something there had attracted his attention, he stopped and stood watching for a while, one upraised foot propped on a knee-high boulder, bent knee serving as a brace for his elbow, to see if whatever it had been would move again. It did not, and as he stood there, hunched forward and motionless, one of Richard’s guardsmen came marching on his rounds. The man passed solemnly on his way without even a slight pause to check for irregularity, and soon disappeared from view behind a fold in the terrain.
And then, in the instant before Andre straightened up to resume his walk, a figure darted out from the shadows of a pile of rocks and began to move quickly but furtively straight towards Andre. Whoever the man was, he was almost scuttling, crouched over and flitting from one patch of shadow to the next and turning to peer back over his shoulder every few steps. Andre did not move. He remained bent over, watching the running man and wondering what he was witnessing, aware that if he straightened up and the runner saw him, he would have to give chase and might lose the fellow. But who could he be, and what was he doing? Clearly, he had come from Isaac Comnenus’s pavilion, and equally clearly, he was doing everything in his power to avoid being seen by the King’s Guard. The running man must be one of Isaac’s Cypriots, Andre reasoned, for no one in Richard’s army would have dared to risk offending the King by doing something foolish to the Cypriot Emperor. But then again, what if one of Richard’s own men, perceiving Isaac to be a greater threat than he really was,
The moon had gone behind a cloud again and the night now appeared to be darker than it had been before. Andre straightened up and moved quickly forward to intercept the man, and as he did so he heard a startled intake of breath, followed by the quick slither of steel from a scabbard and then the whistling hiss of a hard-swung sword blade. He had no time to draw his own weapon and only his own reflexes saved his life. He dropped down, tucking himself into a forward roll, diving beneath the slashing blade and bowling his adversary over, sweeping the legs from beneath him. He spun on his shoulders as he felt the other man go flying and thrust himself up and onto his feet, drawing his dagger as he rose.
The other man had landed well and had not lost his grip on his weapon, and he was already surging back to his feet again, one arm straight-braced against the ground and the other, his sword arm, extended for balance. Andre made to lunge forward, meaning to kick away the bracing arm and knock the fellow down again, but the other man was catlike, fast and strong, and he brought his weapon in and down again in a scything blow that would have cut through anything it met. Fortunately, Andre had seen the danger and changed direction, springing backward instead of forward, and the tip of the blade swept by his right knee, missing it by a hand’s breadth. He threw himself forward again, flipping the dagger to his left hand and leaping as soon as his left heel touched the ground, lunging straight armed at the other man’s neck, then sweeping his right leg forward and around to kick the swordsman’s legs away. He almost succeeded, but the other man was already springing back and away. Andre’s foot caught him on the ankle and sent him staggering, and by the time he regained his balance, Andre had his own sword in his hand.
The sounds of their blades clashing brought the guards running from the pavilion, and the sight of them coming spurred the runner to greater efforts. He loosed a flurry of blows that Andre was hard pressed to withstand, and then he stepped in and slammed a shoulder into Andre’s chest, sending him staggering, so that he fell on his back, the sword jarred from his hand. Casting a swift glance towards the running guards to make sure they were still far enough away, the other man reversed his grip upon his sword, holding it two-handed above his head and pointing downward like a spear, preparing to stab it down into Andre’s breast, chain mail and all. But as he reached the height of his extension and hesitated as he aimed the blow, the iron hilt of Andre’s dagger, thrown from the ground with all St. Clair’s strength, struck him in the throat, crushing his Adam’s apple and dropping him like a pole-axed ox.
Moments later, three running guards arrived and crouched, weapons drawn, around the two supine men, and when Andre tried to rise, one of them stepped forward and held a sword point to his neck. Andre subsided and raised his hands.
“I have no weapons. My name is St. Clair. Sir Andre St. Clair of Poitou, vassal to King Richard. You have a sergeant among you called Nickon. He knows me. Is he on duty with you tonight?”
“Aye,” one of the men growled, glaring truculently. “What of it?”
“Take me to him. But first, let me look at this fellow.” He rose slowly to his feet and the guards came closer, keeping their weapons ready. Andre leaned over the fallen runner, reaching to search for a pulse beneath the jawbone. He found one, and it seemed strong and steady, but then the moon came out again and he saw the face of the man who had tried to kill him and might possibly have killed Isaac Comnenus. More puzzled than ever, Andre rose to his feet and waved the guards’ threatening sword wearily away.
“Come,” he said. “I need to talk with Nickon, at once. One of you may hold a weapon on me if you feel a need to ensure I won’t try to escape, but I want the other two to keep close watch on this fellow. I suspect him of murdering the Cyprus Emperor, the one you are supposed to be guarding. I watched him pass through your patrols as though you were not there, and he came from the pavilion. So until we know what he was doing there, keep him here, on the ground and under guard. And if he tries to leave, tie him down. Now, one of you take me to Nickon.”
They found Nickon surrounded by his fellow guards, in hot debate, and Andre was mildly suprised to note that Nickon, whom he had taken to be just another guardsman, evidently ranked higher and had more authority than his fellows, all of whom clearly looked to him for guidance in whatever was at stake here. St. Clair interrupted their wrangling and tugged Nickon aside, then launched into what he suspected his prisoner might have done. But the angry incredulity on the guardsman’s face quickly leached the certainty from his suspicions and he stopped speaking, almost in mid-word.
“Isaac’s not dead,” the guardsman said. “He’s gone, with all his people, on horseback, headed for the mountains at full gallop. Ran over two of my guards on the way out and killed one of them, one of my very best. My lads were looking to their front, never expecting to be struck down from behind … especially not by the people they were guarding. I don’t know what’s going on, but that whoreson Cypriot will choke to death on his own bile if I ever set eyes on him again.” Andre pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb. “I have a prisoner back there, a French knight. I caught him running from your guards, from this pavilion. Two of your men are holding him now
