Page 83 of Hers To Command
Unsheathing and raising his sword, De Mallemaison ran at Henry. Before he struck, Henry dropped his sword and jumped out of the way. As he righted himself, he heard someone call his name.
It was Cerdic, surrounded by three men, one of them a Scot.
“Take my ax!” the Saxon called, tossing his weapon to Henry, who caught it with his good right hand.
As he turned back to De Mallemaison, he saw Cerdic whip a dagger out of his belt and silently begged God to help his friend.
“Look at your pretty face, all spoiled,” De Mallemaison jeered as he circled Henry.
“I’m still not as ugly as you,” Henry replied as he tilted the head of the ax toward the ground, letting it slide through his fingers until he held it near the end of the handle.
Gripping his sword hilt with both hands, De Mallemaison raised his sword, preparing to strike. In that split second when his sword was poised above his head, Henry brought the ax around sideways, slicing through the surcoat, mail and gambeson protecting De Mallemaison’s chest.
With a gasp, De Mallemaison staggered back, blood trickling from the wound.
Not deep enough, Henry realized, even as he felt his strength draining. Not yet, he begged God, not until I’ve killed him.
Again raising his sword, although not so high, De Mallemaison lunged. Henry jumped back, twisting to avoid the blow, wrenching his wounded shoulder in the process. He cried out in pain even as he readied himself to strike again.
“The poor boy is hurt,” De Mallemaison sneered, sidling closer.
Keeping his eye on his enemy, using both hands and ignoring the excruciating pain in his shoulder, Henry held the shaft of the ax sideways like a quarter staff, ready to ward off another blow.
De Mallemaison brought down his sword, and Henry raised the ax. The force of De Mallemaison’s blow broke the shaft of the ax in two. Keeping hold of the end with the ax head in his right hand, Henry dropped the other part from his nearly useless left hand.
When De Mallemaison recovered and readied for another blow, Henry swung the portion he still held back, around and up and then threw it at De Mallemaison with all his might.
It sliced off De Mallemaison’s right hand. Together it and his sword fell to the ground as De Mallemaison screamed, blood pouring from his arm.
Panting and sickened with the effort of defending himself and the sight of the dismembered hand, Henry stumbled forward and picked up De Mallemaison’s sword. Grabbing it, he faced De Mallemaison, who clutched the end of his arm, blood dripping from between his fingers.
The mercenary raised his eyes, and his cold, dead gaze met Henry’s.
Winded, sickened and exhausted, Henry lowered his sword.
De Mallemaison fell to his knees, his face pale. His mouth twisted to an angry snarl. “Go ahead, kill me!”
Henry staggered back a step.
“Do it!” De Mallemaison screamed, desperation in his voice. “Kill me!”
If the man could no longer fight, what did he have? Like Henry, he had nothing.
Henry felt no more anger, no more invigorating rage. He held De Mallemaison’s sword limply in his right hand, too tired even to pay heed to the other men fighting around him.
De Mallemaison scowled, and then he let go of his wounded arm and let his life’s blood flow onto the ground.
“May God forgive you,” Henry murmured, turning away—to see Roald de Sayres riding away from Ecclesford.
His grip tightening on the bloody hilt of De Mallemaison’s sword, his swollen cheek throbbing, his shoulder agonizing, Henry thought only of killing the man who was responsible for all this. He started toward him at a lumbering jog, staggering and weaving his way through the other men as they fought, determined to get to Roald before he got away. His left shoulder ached as if it had been cut from his body, and his right arm was like lead. He could no longer see out of his right eye. Perhaps the bones had shifted, more damage done.
He didn’t care, as long as he had the strength to defeat Roald and punish him for what he’d done to Mathilde.
He was exhausted. He didn’t have the strength to catch up to him—and then the Scot who’d been fighting Cerdic appeared as if out of nowhere and grabbed the bridle of Roald’s horse.
“Your cause is lost,” the Scot declared as Henry, panting heavily, drew near. “Nicholas of Dunkeathe has come, and I willna stay to meet his men.”
His brother had come. Thank God Nicholas had come. Now they would win. Now, whatever happened to him, Mathilde would be safe.
