With a growl low in his throat, Thomas felt the rage wash over and smother him. It was enough. The taunts had served to flare his frustration and fear into flames of rage, and as he looked at Ivo, there was a red mist, as though there was a fine spray of blood between them. Thomas leaped for him, grabbing for Ivo’s long robe, even as his brother gave a short squeak of alarm and bolted up the road.
Thomas didn’t hesitate. He gave chase, reaching with his long arms for the flapping material before him, and as they reached the Reeve’s house, he caught it. Snatching it quickly, he stopped his brother in his tracks.
Ivo scarcely knew what had happened to him. In an instant he had been halted by an immovable force that reached about his shoulders. He felt like a horse he had once seen, which had been pulling a heavy cart up a track, when a wheel had collapsed. The horse had been going along smartly, and the shock of suddenly halting had caused it to collapse in a heap on the track.
He didn’t intend copying it. Thrusting an arm backwards, he let the cloth fall from him, then gripped his staff in that hand while letting the other sleeve loose. Before his brother could grab at him, he shot off again.
Thomas was caught off balance. He gazed blankly at the stuff in his hands for a moment before balling it and hurling it from him with a snarl and setting off again after his brother.
Ivo had a head start and made good use of it. He turned a corner past the inn and hared down into the pasture bounding the river. Ivo was already almost halfway along towards the river, and he cast a glance over his shoulder as Thomas started to catch up with him.
Ivo had wanted to rouse his brother, but he hadn’t expected the mad bastard to take off so quickly. Thomas looked so slow, with his dim expression and dull eyes, Ivo had felt safe, but Thomas had managed to spring forward like some sort of cat as soon as his restraint was gone. Ivo had expected him to snap, but he had miscalculated, thinking he could lead Tom back up towards the Reeve’s house where he could have him arrested for being a danger to all, but the speed of Tom’s attack had thrown him completely. Instead he had run straight past the Reeve’s place not daring to pause, and now he was in the open land behind the tavern. There was no one here, no one to whom he could appeal for help. As he ran he cursed his decision to taunt and insult Tom, but the idea had seemed too good. Little brother Tom was always swift to rise to the bait and Ivo wanted to show him to be dangerous so that he would be imprisoned – and then he could have a free hand with little Nicky.
Oh God, Nicky! She was so beautiful. A peach. She would grace any bed, with her calm eyes and rich, comfortable body. Her accent itself was enough to excite Ivo, with that soft, nasal French of hers. Ivo had fancied her with a chronic desire ever since that first time he had met her, when little brother Tom introduced them, and the desire hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t really slept with her, of course, that was a lie, but it seemed to have worked – rather too well.
He glanced over his shoulder, only to see that his brother was gaining on him. With a squeak of panic, Ivo tried to force himself forwards with a little more speed, but at his belly was the early cramp of a stitch, and his chest felt ready to explode. Little sparks flared and glowed in front of his eyes, and he could feel his feet growing heavier, as though there was lead in them. In a vain attempt to speed his flight, he threw away his staff, the only defence he had.
Perhaps it helped a little, but soon he could hear Thomas’s stertorous breath behind him again and knew he must be caught. Swiftly he darted right, back towards the chapel. He daren’t look over his shoulder, but an explosive grunt told him all he needed to know: Tom had grabbed for him and missed. In doing so, he’d continued onwards, unable to turn to follow Ivo.
Ivo saw that there was a small group of men standing up near the cookshop by the tavern. He set his feet for them, praying that he might reach sanctuary with them.
‘Stop, you evil shit!’
Tom’s voice sounded as ragged and worn as that of a man who had run a ten-mile course, and it lent Ivo a fresh spurt of energy. In a few moments, he had broken in among the waiting men. ‘He’s gone mad!’ he panted, gripping one man by the shoulder as he bent almost double. ‘He wants to kill me! Call for the Reeve.’
‘He taunted me! Told me he’d slept with my wife!’ Thomas roared.
‘Is that true, Bel?’
The flat, uncompromising tone was familiar. Ivo looked up into Henry Batyn’s unsympathetic face. William Taverner stood at his side with Edgar, and all eyed him coldly while Ivo tried to gather his breath. ‘Help me, save me!’ he managed.
Batyn pushed Ivo from him, and watched Thomas approach, flexing his fists. ‘It’s not right for brothers to fight like this.’
Thomas grated, ‘This is between us. If you don’t like it, don’t watch.’
‘He wants to kill me!’ Ivo squealed.
‘He said that three times he cuckolded me! Would you tolerate that? I warned him, but he wouldn’t shut up.’
‘You’ll be breaking the King’s Peace,’ Taverner said, but there was a tone of excitement in his voice.
‘Leave us alone. We won’t upset anyone else,’ Thomas promised, trying to grab his brother again.
‘Wait, both of you,’ Batyn said, and ran lightly to his house. He soon reappeared, carrying two long staves. Throwing one to each, he stood back. ‘If you’re serious, use these. At least you’re less likely to kill each other than you would be with knives.’
Ivo clutched his staff desperately. He hadn’t used one in years and wasn’t sure he could remember how to – there was skill in using the stances and defences. Thomas looked as though he hadn’t used one for an age either. He stood holding it in one hand as though he was expecting to use it as a lance and was only waiting for a horse to carry him. Then, to Ivo’s faint surprise, he set it down and began to take off his shirt, pulling it from him and throwing it against the cookshop’s wall. Finally he picked up his staff and, holding it before him, he pointed it at Ivo and advanced slowly.
He had no choice. Ivo grabbed his own staff and knocked away Thomas’s as it poked towards his face, then his belly, before swinging in low at his legs. Ivo retreated, but almost fell when his ankle turned on a loose stone.
Immediately Thomas swung back at his legs and Ivo felt the material of his hose rip as a splinter caught. He roared as the blunt end of the pole thudded into his thigh and then scraped all the way down his leg, taking his woollen hose with it. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he whimpered.
‘He won’t save you,’ Thomas hissed.
He thrust again, and Ivo felt the wood strike his breast. This time he was slammed down onto his back, the breath knocked from him, and he saw Edgar hold Thomas back until he was on his feet again. As soon as he was up, Edgar stood back again and Ivo saw the thick pole aiming at his face. He managed to block the main blow, but it came down and thudded into his shoulder and he cried out with the shock. Suddenly his hand felt weakened, and he couldn’t keep a firm hold of his own weapon.
With the next attack, his staff was knocked aside with contemptuous ease, and Ivo felt the same raking pain as the point tore down his shirt, ruining it. He tried to retaliate, swinging his own heavy staff at Thomas’s head, but his blow was too puny and Thomas merely swept the stave away with a swing of his forearms, and then gripped it in his fist and pulled.
Ivo’s arms were outstretched, his pole useless at his fullest reach, and he was unbalanced. When he saw his brother yank on his staff, he realised he was too late. Thomas slid his hands along his stave, gripping it like a quarterstaff, and brought the butt around. Ivo tried to bring his own pole back to parry, but he was already too late, and at the last moment, as he saw Thomas’s staff thrusting towards his nose, he closed his eyes.