The Cardinal's Blades

16

Inside the inn on the road to Clermont, no one had dared to speak or move since the five mercenaries had entered.

“Malencontre,” their leader repeated, tucking his flaxen hair behind his ear. “It’s a memorable name for a warrior, isn’t it?”

He was still seated at Leprat’s table and, having ordered wine, made conversation in a tone that was too self-confident to be at all innocent. Three of his men gathered together behind him while the last of the band, the drac with slate grey scales, guarded the door and kept an eye on everything.

“And yet,” continued Malencontre, “my name means nothing to you. Do you know why?”

“No,” said Leprat.

“Because all those who have heard it from my mouth, without being my friends, soon met their end.”

“Ah.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“Hardly.”

Malencontre scraped the scar at the corner of his mouth with a fingernail, and forced himself to smile.

“You’re right. Because you see, today, I happen to be in a merciful mood. I am ready to forget the numerous difficulties which you have created for us. I am even disposed to forgive you for the two bodies you left on the bridge at the border. Not to mention that trick you played on us in Amiens. But…”

“But?”

“But you have to give us what we seek.”

The mercenaries smelled victory. They were five against a single adversary who had no hope of reinforcements. They smiled, anticipating the moment when they would draw swords and let blood spill.

Leprat appeared to take stock of his situation, and then said: “Understood.”

He slowly plunged his left hand into his dusty doublet and withdrew a letter sealed with a blob of red wax. He placed the document on the table, pushed it in front of him, and waited.

Malencontre watched this, frowning.

He made no move to pick up this missive which had already cost two lives.

“That’s all?” he said in surprise.

“That’s all.”

“You simply comply? Without even making a show of resistance?”

“I’ve already done enough, it seems to me. I will no doubt be held accountable for my actions, but it does not serve me at all if, in the end, you pluck a piece of paper from my corpse, does it? In any case, I must have been betrayed for you to have found me so quickly. Someone told you which route I would follow. I believe that this authorises me to take a few liberties as far as my masters’ orders are concerned. One owes nothing to those who prove unworthy of one’s trust.”

When the other continued to hesitate, Leprat insisted: “You want this letter? Take it. It’s yours.”

In the shadowy room, lit only by the faint red flames of the hearth, the silence grew as it does just before the fall of an executioner’s axe, when the upraised blade catches a ray of sunlight and the crowd holds its breath.

“So be it,” said Malencontre.

Slowly, he extended a dirty-nailed hand toward the letter.

And if he glimpsed, at the last moment, a gleam awaken in Leprat’s eye, he was too slow to react to it.

The mercenaries were caught short by their leader’s screams: Leprat had nailed his hand to the table with the greasy knife he had used to slice up the fowl. Malencontre freed his tortured hand and spat: “KILL HIM!”

On his feet, Leprat had already seized his sheathed rapier.

With a violent blow from his heel, he propelled the table into his attackers’ legs and added to the confusion by forcing them to spread out before they could draw their swords. Malencontre, his bloody hand held tight against him, jostled them in order to reach the drac who was coming to his rescue. Backed against the curtained window, Leprat was forced to retreat. But he still had enough space to fight. Calmly, he slashed the air with his sword and managed to dislodge its scabbard, which slid across the floor.

Then he placed himself en garde.

And waited.

The tables around them finished emptying in a clatter of moving furniture. Silent and anxious, the inn’s patrons huddled tight against the walls or on the steps of the staircase leading to the first floor. No one wanted to receive an ill-judged blow. But they all wanted to watch. The innkeeper himself had taken refuge in the kitchen. It seemed he lacked the stomach for this type of entertainment.

In a corner, the drac wrapped up Malencontre’s hand with shreds torn from the first handy piece of cloth. The other three, finally untangled and ready to fight, prudently deployed themselves in a semicircle. Without taking his eyes off them, the chevalier d’Orgueil allowed them to approach.

Closer.

Much closer.

In reach of a blade.

That should have worried them, but they realised it too late.

Leprat suddenly thrust his right hand behind him and pulled open the curtains. Brilliant daylight burst into the darkened room, clearly revealing his dark silhouette and striking the mercenaries in the face. Without waiting, he struck. The ivory rapier found one blinded freebooter’s throat and produced a scarlet spurt which the villain tried in vain to staunch with his fingers. He fell, blood bubbling from his mouth and nostrils. Leprat broke off his attack immediately and dodged a clumsy lunge from another mercenary, who was still protecting his eyes from the sun with his elbow. Leprat doubled him up with a blow from his knee and sent him smashing, headfirst, into the mantelpiece. The man’s skull cracked. He fell face-first into the hearth and began to burn; the smell of scorched hair and cooking meat was quick to impregnate the room. The third brigand, who could now see better, was already charging him from behind, brandishing his sword. Leprat didn’t turn. In one movement he reversed his sword and wedged it beneath his armpit, took a step back, and dropped to one knee, allowing his attacker to impale himself on the ivory blade. The man stiffened, arm raised, face incredulous, and lips dribbling pink spit. Leprat slowly returned to his feet, pivoted, and finished driving his blade into the body, up to the hilt. He stared deeply into the dead man’s eyes, and then pushed the corpse away, to fall backward to the floor.

Less than a minute had passed since he had opened the curtain, and three assassins were already lying dead beneath blows from the chevalier d’Orgueil. He was well known in Paris, in the Louvre as well as in all the fencing schools, as one of the best swordsmen in France. Evidently his reputation was not undeserved.

Malencontre was in no state to fight, but the drac was still waiting to enter the fray.

Leprat sized him up. He snapped out a sharp movement with his rapier which spattered the floor with red droplets, drew a dagger from its sheath over his kidney with his left hand, and resumed the en garde position. The drac seemed to smile. In his turn, he crossed his arms before him and simultaneously drew a straight sabre and a dagger.

He would also fight with two weapons.

The duel was furious from the very first exchange. Tense and concentrated, the drac and Leprat exchanged attacks, parries, counterattacks, and ripostes without holding back. The reptilian understood who he was fighting and the chevalier quickly realised the worthiness of his opponent. Neither seemed to have the upper hand. When one of them retreated a few paces, he was quick to reclaim the advantage. And when the other was forced to parry a flurry of blows, he always managed to take the initiative with his next attack. Leprat was an experienced and talented swordsman, but the drac had greater strength and endurance: his arm seemed indefatigable. Steel against ivory, ivory against steel, the blades spun and clashed together faster than the eye could see. Leprat was sweating, and could feel himself tiring.

He had to finish it quickly.

Finally daggers and swords crossed at the guards. Pushing one against the other the drac and Leprat found themselves nose to nose, their arms extended above them like a steeple. With a mighty bellow, the drac spat a mouthful of acid into the chevalier’s face, who replied with a powerful head butt. He managed to stun his opponent and, seizing the moment, wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve, but the drac was already rushing at him with foaming mouth and bloody nostrils. It was a weakness of dracs: they were impulsive and quick to abandon themselves to blind rage.

Leprat saw an opportunity that wouldn’t present itself a second time.

With one foot, he slid a stool into the drac’s path. The reptilian stumbled but continued his charge, half running, half falling as he came. His attack was fierce but inaccurate. Leprat stepped aside and pivoted toward the left as the reptilian passed him on the right. He managed to turn and slash, arm extended horizontally.

The ivory rapier sliced neatly through its target.

A scaly head spun and, at the end of a bloody arc, bounced against the floor and rolled a considerable distance. The decapitated drac’s body fell, releasing a thick jet of liquid from its neck.

Leprat immediately looked for Malencontre. He didn’t find him, but heard cries and the sound of hoofbeats out in the courtyard. He rushed to the door in time to see the man escaping at a gallop, watched by those who had remained outside and were only now emerging from their hiding places.

Stained with the blood of his victims, the remains of the acidic reptilian spit still clinging to his cheeks, Leprat went back inside the inn. He was the focus of attention of all those present, whose reactions wavered between horror and relief. So far no one was inclined to move, and certainly not to talk. The soles of nervous feet scraped against the raw wooden floor.

Weapons in hand, Leprat contemplated the carnage and disorder with a tranquil air. Amidst the upturned furniture, the broken plates, and the trampled food, three bodies lay in thick pools of blood, while the fourth continued to burn in the hearth, the greasy flesh of his face crackling in contact with the flames. The smell, a mixture of blood, bile, and fear, was appalling.

A door creaked open and the innkeeper came out of the kitchen brandishing an antique arquebus before him. The fat man wore a ridiculous-looking helmet on his head and a breastplate whose straps he was unable to fasten. And due to the trembling of his limbs, the barrel of his weapon-gaping open like an incredulous mouth-seemed to be following the erratic path of an invisible fly.

Leprat almost laughed, but succeeded only in smiling wearily.

It was then he saw the blood running from his right hand and realised that he had been wounded.

“All’s well,” he said. “In the king’s service.”