The Song of the Nightingale (32 page)

Jehan managed to raise his head sufficiently to look the man in the eyes. ‘What did you do to him?' he demanded.

The big man laughed. ‘We didn't do anything, except give him a bag of gold. He betrayed you, my friend.' He bent down, his face close to Jehan's. ‘A piece of advice: if you can afford to
buy
information rather than torture it out of your captive, you'd be surprised at how much better the results are.' He nodded, as if agreeing with himself, and straightened up. Then he gave a curt nod to the men holding Jehan, and one of them put a heavy foot on the back of his neck, forcing him down again.

Meggie's head was thumping, but she knew she must
think
. These were the king's men, and, once they succeeded in getting Jehan back over the seas to England to face their master, the outlook for him was terrible. She could not let that happen.

She was lying on her side, facing into the room, and the man who had held her was directly in front of her. Nobody was watching her. She drew up her knees and carefully turned over so that her legs were underneath her body. She rested on her elbows for a moment, steadying herself, then, not wanting to wait and risk someone noticing her movements, gathered her strength and pushed herself off the floor, upward and forward, head down, arms held rigid and crossed over her breasts, so that she drove like a battering ram into the big man's back.

He felt as if he were made of stone, and for a terrible moment she thought her desperate plan had failed. But she had caught him unawares and, off balance, he took a step forward, tripped and fell against one of the men holding Jehan. It was enough for Jehan, who was up and on his feet in the blink of an eye, swooping down to pick up his sword and then grabbing her arm with his free hand and flying for the doorway.

She thought they'd got away. But then she felt someone grab her round the legs, and she fell to the ground, her hand dragged out of Jehan's grip. He twisted round, staring at her out of shocked and horrified eyes. ‘Go on!' she yelled. ‘It's
you
they want, not me –
run
!'

He didn't run. Instead, he reached down and helped her to her feet, pulling her out of her captor's grasp. But in saving her, he had condemned himself, for now the big man had hold of him.

‘It is you who must run,' he said. He pushed her very hard away from him, up the deserted street towards the town.

She ran a couple of paces, then turned round. ‘I can't!' she wailed.

He flicked his head round very briefly and, for a heartbeat, his dark eyes held hers. ‘You must,' he said as he turned back to face his assailants. He had wrested himself out of the big man's grasp – damaging him somehow in the process, for the man was doubled up with pain – and was holding him and the others at bay with his sword. ‘I can't come with you just yet. Either they or I must die, for it must end here,' he added softly.

The big man was kneeling on the ground now, but his two companions were edging forward, their eyes on the point of Jehan's sword. They were muttering, heads close together, and Meggie caught a few chilling words that sounded like
let the woman go and
kill him right here and now
.

Jehan shot her another quick look, and there was a message in his expression . . . and she suddenly knew what she must do.

She turned and fled up the street, the sound of her feet echoing off the walls.
Either they or I must die
.
Kill him here and now
. Oh,
oh
, but there were three of them – the big man would surely soon be up again – and Jehan was alone. By herself she could not help him fight them all, but the cathedral was nearby, and surely there were workmen there, maybe even men who knew Jehan, who would help her. If only she could be quick enough – she redoubled her efforts, flying up the street – then there was a hope, a faint hope, that she could bring help before it was too late.

Forcing herself to keep in mind the image of him swinging his sword – that ancient, magical sword with power in its very metal – she burst out of the narrow street and came face to face with the cathedral.

N
inian was deep in his reverie. He felt uplifted; as if some power outside himself was entering into him, filling him with its own strange force. It was odd, he thought – as much as he was capable of thought just then, in his trance-like state – for, although he was in no doubt about the strength of the weird power, he was also quite sure that it meant him no harm. Quite the contrary, in fact; he felt as if he were surrounded with the warmth of love.

He had no idea of how long he'd been down in the crypt, eyes closed, kneeling before the Madonna and child. Time seemed to have stopped; either that, or somehow he had entered another realm that lay parallel to the real one, a place that closely resembled it but yet was subtly different. Could two worlds exist side by side? he wondered dreamily. If so, then maybe he had slipped unwittingly through the portal.

He thought he might risk opening his eyes.

He was in the same place, or it felt as if he was, for it was cool, dark, silent, and both walls and floor were made of stone. But before him there was not a statue in a niche; there was a ragged-edged hole in the ground. It was filled with water, the surface of which seemed to broil slowly and steadily, as if a spring welled up in it.

The very air was filled with unearthly power, and Ninian knew without even thinking about it that he was in the presence of the spirits.

It was enough – oh, God, it was more than enough. He forced his eyes to close again, pressing his hands hard against his eyelids.

He did not know if it was no more than a product of his imagination, but, just before he shut off the extraordinary sights that his mind could not accept, he thought he saw his mother.

He must have fallen into some sort of swoon.

He was awakened by the sound of voices; a woman, shouting, screaming for help; footsteps running hard; angry protests. The woman's voice again.

Despite his efforts to shut it away and forget all about it, he was still half in his dream world, and for a moment he thought the shouting voice was Joanna's.

But then he realized it wasn't.

Leaping to his feet, he raced across the crypt and up the stone steps. Panting, dizzy, he emerged out on to the floor of the cathedral.

She was standing in the middle of a group of cross-looking officials, many of them in clerical robes and all of them remonstrating with her, angry, apparently, at her unseemly behaviour within God's house. She was frantic, pleading with them to help her, go with her, and all of them were shaking their heads in incomprehension.

It was extraordinary, he thought in a moment's clarity, but he was not in the least surprised to see her.

He pushed his way through the clerics and approached her. He spoke her name, very softly.

She spun round – he noticed she had a large bruise on the side of her face – and, after one swift, delighted look, fell into his arms. Then, allowing herself no more than an instant, she pulled away, glared up at him and, as if he had been deliberately detaining her, said, ‘There's no time for that! He's in terrible danger, and we have to help him!'

He didn't even try to get her to explain. Breaking into a run, he followed her across the vast floor, out of the door and down the steps, then across the square and off along one of the dim, narrow little alleyways that led to the artisans' village.

Outside a low, narrow dwelling, three men were held at bay by a fourth, wielding a great sword. His three opponents had lesser weapons, and their reach was shorter. The man with the sword kept sweeping it in broad strokes before him. Even from where he stood, Ninian could see the blueish edge of the steel; no wonder the attackers were keeping their distance.

The man with the sword had deeply tanned skin, a short beard and a gold ring in his ear, and he wore a length of cloth wound around his head. He was dressed in a long robe of an indeterminate shade that was nearest to brown. His eyes, almost black, were narrowed in concentration. He was holding his opponents – the largest of whom was grunting in pain – against the wall of the dwelling. He turned to give a swift glance at Meggie, flashed her a grin and, with a nod in Ninian's direction, said, ‘Was he the best you could find?'

Ninian heard Meggie laugh softly. ‘Just wait,' she said.

Ninian drew his own sword, and the sharp metal seemed to whistle and hiss as it emerged from the scabbard. He went to take up his place beside the man in brown. ‘I'm called Ninian,' he said to him. It seemed only right to identify himself, since he was about to fight shoulder to shoulder with this man. ‘I'm her brother.'

‘Jehan Leferronier,' the man replied. He seemed on the point of adding something, but then changed his mind.

‘What do you want to do?' Ninian muttered. ‘Disarm them and hand them to the constables?'

‘They will not lay down their weapons,' Jehan said. ‘They work for a ruthless master who does not accept such failure.'

‘Very well.' Ninian felt the hot uprush of blood. ‘Let's take them.'

For a moment the brown-skinned man met his eyes. A glance of understanding passed between them –
he too is a fighter
, Ninian thought – and then, moving as one, they advanced on the three men.

The fight was ugly. The long swords that Ninian and Jehan wielded were less useful at close quarters, and soon both men dropped them in favour of their shorter, stabbing knives. It was quickly obvious which of the three men was the greatest threat: the biggest of the trio was a tough, wily brawler who, surmounting his evident pain, seemed to anticipate and counter every form of attack. Then Ninian, who had been trying to wrest the big man's knife out of his hand, felt a sudden blow to the back of his head and, spinning round, saw another of the attackers swinging a club high in the air in preparation for a second blow.

Ninian wriggled out of the way just in time, and the man, thrown off balance by the lack of resistance to his mighty swing, stumbled to his knees. Ninian fell on him, landing on his back and forcing him to the ground. He pushed the man's face down into the dust, clinging on as he struggled, holding him down until the struggling stopped.

As the red fury abated, he looked up.

Jehan was engaged with the third of the opponents, pushing him back against the wall of the dwelling, one hard hand closing against the man's throat, so that his fleshy face was gradually swelling and darkening. A fierce joy swept up through Ninian.

Then he heard a cry of fear.

Meggie
.

She was halfway up the alley, backing away towards the town. The big man was almost upon her, and he had a knife in his hand.

He cannot kill her
, Ninian thought wildly.
It will not happen – it can't
.

The man advanced. Meggie took another pace back.

Ninian struggled to his feet, his head spinning and fizzing from the blow he had received. Swaying from side to side, he hurried off up the alley. He stooped to pick up his sword and all but fainted as he straightened up again.

The big man made a lunge at Meggie: a killing blow, except that she ducked down to her right at the very last moment and, instead of piercing her heart, the knife went into her shoulder. She fell, blood spreading swiftly over the cloth of her robe as the big man withdrew his knife.

Ninian had no idea what she had done to make the big man want to kill her; he did not care. She was his half-sister, his beloved Meggie. He would have given his life for her. The least he could do was take this bastard's life before he gathered himself for another attempt to take hers.

Keep still
, he said to her silently.
Stay right where you are, then he too will not move and I can line up my attack.

He knew he had to get it right first time, for he could not guarantee there would be a second chance.

But she was up, on her hands and knees, backing away from her assailant. The man gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Going to make a game of it, my pretty lass, eh?' He chuckled again. ‘So much the better.'

Slowly, deliberately, he wiped his blade on his tunic and advanced after her.

Suddenly she was up, haring off up the alley. The big man, as taken aback as Ninian, recovered very quickly and ran after her, cursing. Ninian tried to follow, but his legs were heavy, and he felt as if he were trying to run through thick mud. One step –
come on!
– two steps. He found a little strength and managed a loping run for several paces. Then he fell.

Twisting round, his eyes searched frantically for Jehan. But he was still fully occupied with his own opponent, and Ninian did not dare distract him by calling out.

Get up
, he ordered himself. He forced down the nausea, ignored the agonizing banging in his head and got to his feet. Grasping his sword, he ran after the big man.

And saw, in a flash of understanding, that he was too late.

She was only a few paces from the end of the alleyway; she had almost made it out into the square. But by sheer ill fortune, there was a kink in the track just there, and both she and the man about to kill her were out of sight of anyone but Ninian. The big man held her by her hair, which he had twisted round his left hand. He was holding her very tightly; Ninian could see tears of pain in her wide eyes.

The big man's knife was at her throat. He was about to end her life, as a farmer might dispatch a weakling lamb that was not going to survive.

Ninian knew it was hopeless, for he was still too far away and the deadly slice that would take out his sister's throat was even now beginning. He saw a bead of blood on the soft white skin of her neck.

Praying for supernatural strength – for any kind of miracle – he launched himself forward.

The impetus took what was left of his strength, and quickly his vision clouded, until all he saw was blackness. Out of it he thought he heard a voice: a powerful, deep voice. It shouted,
Let her go!