She gripped the grail-stone tighter. ‘No.’
Blanchard nodded. ‘I understand.’
He shot her.
There’s no time on that beach. No sun or shadow, no church bells: only grey stillness and the lap of waves. The glassy tide never seems to move.
I examine the lance. I still can’t tell what it’s made off. It feels like stone, though surely stone would have shattered by now. Strange designs run along the shaft, engraved so finely I can barely feel the groove with my fingertip. I carry it down to the sea and wash Lazar’s blood off the tip.
A tremor goes up my arm, a twitch like an adder. Maybe it was a muscle spasm, but I think it came from the lance. I put it back in the boat and cover it with the edge of the blanket.
Power pools in deep reservoirs, Hugh said. It accrues in people, but also in objects. If there are powers invested in the lance, I don’t think they’re good ones.
The day goes on. To kill time, I saw through the hawser that ties the boat to a rock. Hugh’s sword is so blunt it can barely cut the fibres: I find a whetstone in his saddlebag and sharpen it. An easterly wind is blowing down from the mountains, but Hugh’s face is glossy with sweat. His brow’s hot to the touch. I fetch the flask, but it’s empty.
We’ll need more water if we put to sea.
We’re not far from the river estuary — but I daren’t go far unarmed. I strap on my armour and saddle my horse. I take the Welshman’s shield, and Hugh’s spear and sword. I leave the precious lance covered in the boat with Hugh. The tide’s finally reached it. Waves race up to the hull, but they sink away almost immediately. I think it’ll be an hour or more before there’s enough to float it.
I trot over the sand dunes to the riverbank. The water’s brackish, the flask isn’t nearly big enough, but it’ll have to do. I try to fill my helmet, but it leaks out through the rivets. I stare at myself in the river: gaunt, bloodied, filthy and lined with cares. This wasn’t the sort of knight I dreamed of being. If my eight-year-old self saw me now, he’d run in terror.
Flies dance over the reflection, as if picking over a corpse. I put on my helmet and mount my horse one last time. The tide suddenly seems to be coming in faster: I don’t want it to carry away the boat without me. I spur to the top of the dunes and look down.
The boat’s still there — but it’s not alone. A horse is cantering along the beach, a black horse with a black rider. He sees me and halts.
‘Peter.’
The wind blows the name back at him. Giant though he is, the strain in his voice is obvious. He’s been riding and fighting at least as hard as I have.
I ease my horse down the dune and trot out on to the beach. A bowshot away from him, I stop. Waves crash on the shore; the wind snaps at the horse’s mane. We might be the last two men on earth. We lower our spears.
Malegant pricks his spurs. I’m not wearing any, but my horse knows what to do. We charge together, as fast as our horses can manage. The wind sings in my face. I couch my spear and tilt it across the horse’s neck; I crouch in my stirrups, knees bent, head forward, just the way Gornemant taught me.
The collision is immense. Against Malegant’s lance, the archer’s shield isn’t worth two bits of bark. It doesn’t even deflect the blow — the point carries on, cuts through my chain mail and slices open my arm, just missing the muscle. Malegant gallops on, his momentum tearing the shield off my arm. He almost pulls me off with it.
I’m shaking; I can barely hold on to my spear. But I have to get around before Malegant does. I haul the reins in, dragging the horse. This is why they call it the tourney — only now we’re not fighting for ransoms or glory.
I’m fast — but Malegant can match me, and I don’t have a shield any more. We start closer for the second charge, but the horses are slower: it seems to take an age to come together. Plenty of time to dodge Malegant’s lance, though it means my own strike barely touches him.
We wheel again. Now we’re so close there’s no need to charge. We hammer at each other, blunt bodyblows without the power to pierce armour. My foot comes loose from my stirrup; my saddle starts to slip. I feel the girth snap. But my blows are beginning to tell too: Malegant’s having just as much trouble staying upright. He slides back, his spear goes up; I see my chance and lunge, catching him high on the shoulder. He falls backwards out of the saddle and thumps down on the sand.
But the motion unbalances me too. Before I can press home the advantage, the saddle slips round. I dive off, rolling away so as not to be dragged under the horse.
We both leap to our feet and draw our swords. To buy time, and gather my breath, I shout, ‘What was I to you?’
Under the helmet, Malegant’s lips draw back in a sneer. ‘Nothing.’
‘Why did you take me to the Île de Pêche?’
‘To kill you.’
‘Why me?’
‘Unfinished business.’ He laughs. ‘I’d already killed the rest of your family.’
Afterwards, I’ll always wonder if that was true — or just a lie told to provoke me. It certainly has that effect. Numb and dazed from the blows I’ve sustained, I don’t question it. I’m ten years old again, back in the burning compound of my father’s home. And like the boy I was, all I want to do is attack.
No fight is pretty, but this is worse than most. We’re exhausted from last night’s battle, and from the blows we’ve already traded. I lumber towards him across the sand. I swing at him, miss; he steps away, then scythes his sword at my helmet. I duck. Not soon enough: the blow catches it on the crown, snaps the laces and whips it off. My head’s ringing like a bell. He raises his sword to split my bare skull. Instinctively, I throw up my shield arm
But I don’t have a shield. I catch his blow hard on my forearm. The bone snaps; the arm hangs limp and twisted. Blood drips through the links of my armour and drizzles like rain on the sand. Under my sleeve I can feel the bone sticking out through my skin. When I try to move it, the splintered bone catches in the chain maiclass="underline" I scream so hard I almost faint. Malegant laughs.
And yet, and yet — I still have the arm. His sword should have cut clean through — bone, armour and all. The blow was certainly strong enough.
His sword’s blunt: it lost its edge in the night’s battle and he hasn’t sharpened it. My blade is keen and well honed.
The pain brings clarity. I stagger backwards, my sword dangling from my good arm, as if I no longer have the strength to hold it. Malegant sees his chance and comes after me. He’s as tired as I am and desperate to finish me quickly. I slow down; I start to totter. He quickens his pace and aims for my skull.
But though my body’s swaying, my legs are firmly planted. Suddenly I kick off, launching myself forward: my sword comes up. He runs straight on to the blade. All I have to do is hold it firm and let his momentum do the rest.
The point pierces his armour and opens up his belly. He swings his sword, but I’m too close; there’s no momentum behind the blow, and the blade’s too dull to cut me.
I stand back, put my boot against his groin and pull the blade free. Blood leaks from his stomach, but he’s still on his feet. A second blow slashes his helmet, smashing the nose-guard in to his mouth and breaking three teeth. He drops to the ground.
I cut the laces on his helmet and pull it free. He’s still resisting me. A knife’s appeared in his hand; he staggers to his knees. He no longer looks dangerous — just pathetic.