“You blasphemous pig, murdering unarmed holy men,” Stephen spat out as their swords clanked together. “I shall send you to the devil!”
Stephen thrust his sword toward the man’s heart. At the last instant, the man leapt to the side. He was right to worry more about this one than de Roche. Still, he would take the man.
From the corner of his eye, he saw de Roche take a step forward to join the fight. The fool had his back to Isobel. She was already reaching for her dagger. Stephen wanted to shout at her not to take the risk, but his warning would draw de Roche’s attention to her.
Stephen whirled around to parry behind his back. While the wild stunt did keep both men’s eyes on him, the black-haired man’s sword nearly caught him. Stephen felt the blade slash the back of his tunic as he spun out of the way.
De Roche screamed and threw his arms up, arching his back. Eyes bulging and mouth agape, he looked caught between shock, outrage, and agony. God’s blood, Stephen hoped it was a death blow. If not, the man would turn on Isobel with a vengeance.
Damn, he needed to finish this monk killer and help her. But the man was good. Too good. De Roche’s scream reverberating in the small room did not distract him.
The man did not even flinch.
Their swords flew in a blur of movement as they parried and thrust back and forth. Stephen worked his way closer to Isobel. When de Roche turned and staggered toward Isobel, Stephen gave de Roche a kick that sent him sprawling at her feet.
“Isobel, here!” He tossed his short blade onto the bed and shouted at her, “Kill him now! While he is down!”
Stephen dropped to the floor. As he rolled, he felt the wind from the blade passing over his head. It would do Isobel no good to kill de Roche if he let this son of Satan get the better of him. She stood no chance against a man as skilled as this.
With Stephen on the floor, his opponent committed fully to his thrust, believing it to be the final one. Stephen sprang to his feet, sword forward. Before his opponent could recover and withdraw, Stephen slashed the man’s sword arm.
The man did not spare a glance at the blood soaking his sleeve. The wound was not fatal, but his eyes held a fury that might serve, as well. Rage could cloud a man’s judgment and make him rash.
Not so with Stephen. His anger was hard and cold. It sharpened his senses and focused his mind.
He pressed the worthless scum, attacking again and again and again, until he pushed him into a corner. His opponent had no room to maneuver, no means to escape Stephen’s sword. Stephen saw his opening. Right through to the heart, in one swift thrust. Just as he was poised to deliver the piercing blow, Isobel cried out behind him.
Stephen fell a half step back and took a quick look over his shoulder. Sweet Lamb of God! Isobel’s chest was covered in blood! The breath went out of him.
De Roche was sliding down her body to the floor, leaving a swath of blood. Isobel stood, a bloodied knife raised in her hand. The blood was de Roche’s. Not hers, praise God! The realization took no more than an instant.
But it was time enough for his opponent to knock the sword from his hand.
Stephen backed up slowly, one step at a time. For a certainty, he could not save himself. What he must do is live long enough after the first blow to take the man with him.
“You cannot save her,” the man said with a thin smile, guessing Stephen’s intent. “No man is that good.”
The man inched forward, backing Stephen closer to the bed and Isobel.
“ ’Tis a pity I cannot spare her, since she saved me the trouble of killing de Roche,” the man said. “I came to regret helping him wed my half sister.”
“Odd that bigamy should offend you when murder does not.”
“What are a few monks more or less?” the man said, lifting an eyebrow. “I have but one sister, and I would not have her shamed.”
Stephen decided how he would do it. He would deflect the sword from his heart with his left arm and grab the dagger from the man’s belt with his right. By the time the man brought his sword back, Stephen would be plunging the dagger up under the man’s breastbone.
Neither would live, but Isobel would get away.
Stephen took another step back from the point of the man’s sword. He felt Isobel just behind him. It was time.
“Your hand,” she whispered.
Cautiously, he brought one arm to his side. When her hand brushed his, he felt a rush of gratitude. One last touch before he died. He sucked in his breath and prepared to make his move.
Chapter Thirty-four
With LeFevre’s attention riveted on Stephen, Isobel sidestepped to the foot of the bed as quickly as she dared. One half step. Then another. And another.
