was enough to send them into flight.
‘Tully, I’m going to see what food there might be in the inn. Come and tell me when you’ve finished.’ That was answered with a slow nod. Markham was tired and hot, and well aware that imbuing this lot with discipline was going to be an uphill struggle. All of which added real force to his response.
‘The correct response is “yes, sir”, and don’t you ever forget to use it again. If we retreat, I intend to poison that well. The quickest way, I’ve found, is to tip a dead body into the water.’
What emerged from Tully’s throat wasn’t the right response, but it was close enough to satisfy a man more interested in a drink than the exercise of authority. Taking his hat off as he ducked under the low lintel, he could feel the coolness of the interior on the rim of sweat that circled the top of his head. It was dark, too, after the bright sunlight of the roadway, so his eyes took time to adjust. The empty flagons that littered the tables engendered curiosity, which was immediately forgotten as the assailant shot towards him.
Chapter four
If they’d come at him together he wouldn’t have stood a hope in hell, and he was glad that the first one tried to crown him with a bottle rather than get him with a knife. The backlift required to put any force into the blow slowed what was intended and gave Markham just enough time to duck under it, so that it took him on the shoulder rather than the head. He still felt a sharp pain followed by a spreading numbness, but the amount of effort used by the attacker knocked the bottle out of his hand, and it clattered onto the stone floor and shattered.
Markham had already managed one loud shout, praying that the combination of noises would bring him help. He could only see two men, but in the dingy interior there could be dozens. He got his arms round the waist of the bottle smasher and turned him towards the second man, whose access was impeded by a table. He was carrying a knife, of the small variety, sharp, vicious and curved, used for gutting and filleting fish. Frightened that he was about to skewer his companion, he pulled the weapon to one side, which, surprisingly, threw him off balance.
Loosening one hand, Markham struck viciously for the groin, jabbing first. Then feeling the loose sack of skin, he took a tight grip. His assailant shot bolt upright, emitting a scream, his lips pulled back to show a fine set of white teeth. Markham tried to get his free hand across to unsheathe his sword, but his own arm was in the way.
The man with the knife had staggered round the table and was coming at his unprotected side when help finally arrived. Tully, standing on the elevated doorstep swunghis boot high and took him right on the side of the head. Markham had a fleeting impression of a swarthy complexion , dark curly hair and slightly glazed eyes, before the light went out of them and the attacker crashed to the floor. Tully stepped forward, his bayonet out, and dropped to one knee.
‘No!’
The shout made his fist tighten even more, producing another scream from the man he was holding. But it failed to stop Tully, who in one swift movement jabbed forward with the eighteen-inch blade and cut his victim’s throat from the inside out. Vaguely aware of Hollick standing in the doorway, Markham pushed hard, sending his attacker reeling across a table. The distance thus opened allowed him to get his sword out, and the tip, laid on the man’s ribcage, just above his fine waistcoat, removed any notion of continued fighting from his mind.
‘Hollick, take charge here.’
As soon as the trooper responded, his own bayonet replacing the sword, Markham walked over to look at the other assailant, now on his back with a stream of blood running from his neck on to the stone floor. He noticed that he was dressed like a servant, his clothing of quite good quality without being as fine as that of the man on the table.
‘Damn you, Tully, there
‘Tully, I’m going to see what food there might be in the inn. Come and tell me when you’ve finished.’ That was answered with a slow nod. Markham was tired and hot, and well aware that imbuing this lot with discipline was going to be an uphill struggle. All of which added real force to his response.
‘The correct response is “yes, sir”, and don’t you ever forget to use it again. If we retreat, I intend to poison that well. The quickest way, I’ve found, is to tip a dead body into the water.’
What emerged from Tully’s throat wasn’t the right response, but it was close enough to satisfy a man more interested in a drink than the exercise of authority. Taking his hat off as he ducked under the low lintel, he could feel the coolness of the interior on the rim of sweat that circled the top of his head. It was dark, too, after the bright sunlight of the roadway, so his eyes took time to adjust. The empty flagons that littered the tables engendered curiosity, which was immediately forgotten as the assailant shot towards him.
Chapter four
If they’d come at him together he wouldn’t have stood a hope in hell, and he was glad that the first one tried to crown him with a bottle rather than get him with a knife. The backlift required to put any force into the blow slowed what was intended and gave Markham just enough time to duck under it, so that it took him on the shoulder rather than the head. He still felt a sharp pain followed by a spreading numbness, but the amount of effort used by the attacker knocked the bottle out of his hand, and it clattered onto the stone floor and shattered.
Markham had already managed one loud shout, praying that the combination of noises would bring him help. He could only see two men, but in the dingy interior there could be dozens. He got his arms round the waist of the bottle smasher and turned him towards the second man, whose access was impeded by a table. He was carrying a knife, of the small variety, sharp, vicious and curved, used for gutting and filleting fish. Frightened that he was about to skewer his companion, he pulled the weapon to one side, which, surprisingly, threw him off balance.
Loosening one hand, Markham struck viciously for the groin, jabbing first. Then feeling the loose sack of skin, he took a tight grip. His assailant shot bolt upright, emitting a scream, his lips pulled back to show a fine set of white teeth. Markham tried to get his free hand across to unsheathe his sword, but his own arm was in the way.
The man with the knife had staggered round the table and was coming at his unprotected side when help finally arrived. Tully, standing on the elevated doorstep swunghis boot high and took him right on the side of the head. Markham had a fleeting impression of a swarthy complexion , dark curly hair and slightly glazed eyes, before the light went out of them and the attacker crashed to the floor. Tully stepped forward, his bayonet out, and dropped to one knee.
‘No!’
The shout made his fist tighten even more, producing another scream from the man he was holding. But it failed to stop Tully, who in one swift movement jabbed forward with the eighteen-inch blade and cut his victim’s throat from the inside out. Vaguely aware of Hollick standing in the doorway, Markham pushed hard, sending his attacker reeling across a table. The distance thus opened allowed him to get his sword out, and the tip, laid on the man’s ribcage, just above his fine waistcoat, removed any notion of continued fighting from his mind.
‘Hollick, take charge here.’
As soon as the trooper responded, his own bayonet replacing the sword, Markham walked over to look at the other assailant, now on his back with a stream of blood running from his neck on to the stone floor. He noticed that he was dressed like a servant, his clothing of quite good quality without being as fine as that of the man on the table.
‘Damn you, Tully, there
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