Page 20 of Under a Spanish Sky

‘We haven’t had a blizzard like it so late in the season for years.

’ The buxom barmaid leant forward and Luc had little doubt that a bored pilgrim would have found ways of passing the time in this hostelry in such conditions.

After his recent intimacy he barely blinked at the girl and simply asked for a jug of warm water.

With an expression that could have been of disappointment she disappeared into the kitchen.

He turned and looked around at his fellow travellers, with whom he would be spending this day at the very least. They were a fairly average bunch consisting predominantly of olive-skinned, jet-black-haired Spaniards with a sprinkling of other nationalities.

‘Here’s your water.’ He turned back and was pleased to see that her smile had returned.

Maybe she had reflected upon the fact that, because of the blizzard, he along with all the others would be there for the whole day and the next night.

He took the heavy jug and went back to the bedroom.

Leaving it with Aimée, who was just stirring, he returned to the bar and ordered breakfast.

Luc had only just started on his big bowl of porridge with warm milk and honey when the front door of the inn was thrown open with a crash that threatened to rip it off its hinges. A flurry of snow came rushing in, together with a group of men. Everybody looked up, but nobody dared to move.

‘Barman. Food and drink for my men and make it quick.’

There were four of them, all covered in a thick coating of fresh snow.

The biggest was a huge figure of a man with long black hair and a patch over one eye.

Immediately behind him was a thin, sallow man who carried a sword unsheathed in his right hand.

At his shoulder was a turbaned Moor, his dark skin in distinct contrast to the white robes he wore beneath a fur jerkin.

Luc shrank down as much as possible behind a group of guests, glad that Aimée was still in the bedroom.

He did his best to stay inconspicuous while he summed up the situation.

He watched as the leader of the group, the man who had shouted, emerged from the shadows into the flickering light of the fire.

There was no doubt about it. This was the one.

The scar down the side of his face gave him away.

Even without the whip attached to his wrist, Luc recognised him from Aimée’s description.

The eyes, when the firelight caught them, were soulless, lifeless and without pity.

For a moment Luc felt them pass over him, pause and then continue round the room.

Slowly and deliberately, Luc reached into his sleeve until his right hand closed reassuringly around the handle of the dagger.

His eyes watched every move that the leader and the rest of his group made.

The landlord, woken by the noise, looked up and blanched.

He was just dragging himself to his feet when, to Luc’s horror, Aimée came out of the passage into the light of the room, the empty water jug in her hand.

She stepped into the room and stopped dead, her nostrils flaring, a scream rising in her throat.

‘Well, well, well. That’s more like it.’

The man with the scar turned towards her, a look of anticipation on his face.

His weasel-faced companion beat him to it, racing across to the doorway and grabbing her.

His hands tore at her clothing. With a smile on his face, he reached forward for her and died instantaneously, Luc’s dagger buried in his throat.

The action froze to slow motion as Luc’s voice rang out authoritatively.

‘Drop to your knees, Aimée. Now. Do it!’ The tone of his voice cut through her panic and she obeyed without question.

‘Now get back into the bedroom and bolt the door.’ As he spoke, he sensed the swish of a missile.

He ducked in his turn as the wicked curved sword of the Moor whirled past his head.

It crashed against the wall behind him. It was immediately followed by the Moor himself, a dagger in his hand.

Now unarmed, Luc grabbed the heavy jug of hot milk. He threw the contents into the Moor’s face, temporarily blinding him. Taking advantage of this momentary respite, he reached forward and smashed the jug straight into the dark face, sending him flying backwards.

He turned and leapt for the Moor’s sword on the floor, but found it was wedged under a bench.

He glanced up as the one-eyed man threw himself at him, from the top of a neighbouring table.

Luc was able to half turn his shoulders to absorb the weight of the charge, but he was knocked back against the granite fireplace.

Swarthy hands scrabbled for his throat and he felt himself being pushed back into the fire itself, the flames scorching his breeches.

He braced himself against the stone upright and then, suddenly, viciously, he stabbed forward with his knee into his assailant’s groin.

There was a satisfying grunt of pain. The pressure on his throat relaxed, as the man clutched despairingly between his legs.

His mouth was wide open, sucking in desperately laboured breaths.

Luc followed up his advantage with a blow learnt from the Assassins.

His stiff fingers slammed into the man’s windpipe, just below the chin, and the man dropped like a stone.

Luc ignored him, turning his attention back to the rest of the room. The assembled group of guests sat wide-eyed at the events of the last few seconds. To his relief he saw the scar-faced leader still standing where he had been a moment before.

‘Who are you?’ The man was staring at him fixedly.

There was no fear on his face, just an expression of surprise and rising anger.

Luc shook himself violently, angry in his turn.

He kicked out at the table in front of him and had the satisfaction of seeing it spin off, to smash spectacularly against the far wall, narrowly missing a group of cowering onlookers.

‘You scum!’

There was an intensity of hatred in his voice that everybody in the room could feel. Even the scar-faced man took a half-step backwards at his tone.

‘I said, who are you?’

The commanding voice had disappeared, to be replaced by a questioning tone. Luc jabbed his right leg at another table that tipped back out of his way. There was only a bench between the two of them now.

‘Tell me, sir. Who are you? How is it that you’re such an accomplished fighter? I’ve never been in the presence of one such as you. Please tell me who you are, and where you’ve learnt your skills.’

The man’s words echoed insincerely around the room.

With an instinctive movement, born of years of combat, Luc threw himself to one side just as a heavy iron mace slammed into the bench beside him.

He caught the handle, ripping the spiked head out of the wood with a shower of splinters, and whirled round.

The Moor was leaning back against the far wall, his face a mask of fresh blood where the jug had cut him, his arms bent back with the effort of throwing the mace.

Without hesitation Luc spun the evil weapon back at him.

He was already turning back to the leader as it smashed into the other man’s face with a dull, final thud.

‘You were saying?’

He took a pace forward and tried to bring his breathing under control.

There was something about the other man’s eyes that screamed caution at him, while his whole body was crying out for swift, decisive action.

His hands dropped to his belt and reminded him that, without his dagger, he was totally unarmed, walking towards a heavily armed killer.

His brain took control. The scar-faced man made no movement, his eyes still on the crumpled body of the Moor, his expression neutral.

Luc stared at him in disgust and spoke in a strong, level voice.

‘I’ll tell you who I am, scum. I’m here with the girl you raped, beat and blinded on a rock up on the Somport two months ago. You may not remember what happened, but she does and she always will. Does that answer your question?’

The other man’s expression didn’t change. He spat on the floor just in front of Luc’s feet. ‘Well, from where I’m standing, I’d say you were an unarmed fool, about to be chopped into little pieces by me.’ There was still resistance in his voice.

As he spoke, the bandit swept a well-used sword out of its scabbard and pulled a dagger from his boot.

He stepped back lightly, feeling his balance.

Luc realised he was up against an adversary of a decidedly higher calibre than the other three.

He ripped his leather belt from his waist and wrapped it roughly around his left arm, as a primitive form of defence.

His right hand, however, remained empty.

A glance around him brought nothing but the knowledge that the tables were clear.

There was not so much as a mug for him to grasp.

In spite of his predicament, he continued in the same tone.

‘The last time I saw an animal like you, I crushed it under my foot.’

The other made no response, remaining impassive.

Luc was again conscious that this was a worthy adversary.

He eyed the sword blade warily and noted the fact that it was rock solid in the other man’s hand.

There was no shaking or trembling. The faint light from the only window in the room reflected off the blue-grey metal straight into Luc’s face, without wavering in the slightest. He looked deep into the other man’s eyes and saw uncertainty, but still no trace of panic.

He kept his eyes locked onto the other man’s and continued to walk slowly towards him, regardless of his lack of weapons.

The thought of Aimée burnt in his mind, what she had suffered and what she would always suffer.

There was a crash. Both men turned towards the noise.

A flying jug of wine smashed onto the tabletop beside the scar face, accompanied by a piercing scream.

The scream came from Aimée at the door. Beside her, the innkeeper was reaching for something else to throw.

Luc glanced back at the man with the scar. This glance saved his life.

He caught the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye as he looked back.

He was just able to turn his chest away from the blade, before it hit him and he gave a roar of pain as the dagger stabbed into his shoulder.

He flung himself forward, before the bandit could attack him with the sword.

His ankle caught the bench and he tripped, his forehead smashing into the edge of a neighbouring table.

As he fell, he was dimly aware of the inn door crashing open. Then he lost consciousness.