Page 156 of The King's Man
Kit kept his eyes on Morton, only sparing Thamsine a quick glance to reassure himself that she was unharmed. She stared at him open-mouthed. Mercifully, the child stopped screaming.
Absolute silence descended on the room.
‘You’re dead!’ Morton’s voice held a note of hysteria.
Kit’s eyes met Morton’s. He saw genuine fear in the handsome face and knew he had the advantage.
‘Dead?’ Kit shrugged and took another step into the room. ‘I may be just an apparition … or I may not be. Are you willing to find out?’
Kit balanced the pistol lightly in his hand, trying to give an impression of confidence he did not feel. ‘I assure you, the ball in this pistol is real enough,’ he said.
‘As is the ball in this one,’ a cool voice to his left said.
Kit grimaced. He had forgotten Lucy. He glanced at the large, heavy pistol she held pointed at him.
‘Shoot, Lucy,’ Morton said.
Kit’s eyes met Lucy’s and he knew in that instant that she wouldn’t fire.
‘This is between you and him,’ she said, lowering the pistol.
Morton gave a strangled cry and Kit turned back to face him. Kit tightened his grip on the pistol butt and raised it, his finger resting on the trigger. He pulled the hammer back and fired. Nothing happened. The powder was damp. He threw the useless pistol to one side and reached for his sword.
Morton seized the advantage.
‘You really do have a death wish, don’t you, Lovell?’
Ambrose’s own weapon hissed from the scabbard. He balanced it lightly in his hand.
‘This will be interesting. You were a good swordsman, Lovell, so I hear. But I’m better and left-handed you’ll be no match for me.’
Kit hardly heard his words, only saw the red flashes of anger before his eyes. He did not need reminding of the reason he now fought with his left hand. He forced his breathing to slow.Never, never fight in rage, his sword master had told him. The same sword master who had taught him to fight with his left hand.
Kit stepped forward. The two swords engaged with the barest ring of metal. Kit, calm now, met his opponent’s eyes and they circled, gaining each other’s measure. Morton gave first with a lightning attack. Kit countered with a stop thrust, his blade grazing the sleeve of Morton’s jacket.
Morton stepped out of reach and regarded Kit with a new wariness in his eyes. He had underestimated his opponent and Kit took advantage of Morton’s uncertainty, striking on the pass. This time his blade seared through Ambrose’s sleeve, drawing blood. Ambrose hissed and responded with a furious forward attack, forcing Kit back against the table. Kit parried and riposted, thrusting Ambrose away from him and allowing him to slide out from underneath his opponent’s sword.
Ambrose moved in again, forcing Kit onto his back foot. Backward and forward they moved across the room, their swords making sparks in the dim light. Ironically, the fact Kit fought left-handed was to his advantage. A right-hander faced with a left-handed opponent would take time to get the measure of his opponent and Kit could see the beads of perspiration on Morton’s brow.
They knew each other’s physical weaknesses. Kit had a bad leg, had been weakened by illness and hampered by having to use his left hand. Morton had the advantage of height, reach and fitness but the injury to his left ankle, the legacy of his encounter with Jem, obviously troubled him, so Kit did what he could to force Morton onto that foot.
Back and forth they moved across the room. Sheer determination and a burning desire to kill this man pushed Kit on against an opponent who seemed to be tiring. Sweat sheened Morton’s forehead and his lips parted as he tried to draw in breath. Morton drew back before renewing his attack, his mouth set in a line of cruel determination. He feinted, drawing Kit’s sword out of line and then closed in with aredoublement. Kitrealised he had been trapped and stepped out of reach but, with a wall to his back, he had nowhere to go.
With a flick of his sword, Morton twisted Kit’s sword from his hand, the point of his sword resting neatly at the base of Kit’s throat.
‘You surprise me, Lovell,’ he said. ‘You’re a far better swordsman than I gave you credit for.’
As Kit’s exhausted mind tried to formulate a plan to extricate himself, Morton’s sword wavered and his face contorted in pain.
Kit seized the moment and slipped out from beneath the blade. He scrambled for his sword. As he straightened, prepared to meet Morton again, the other man staggered backward, his sword falling to the floor with a clatter. With a cry, he fell to the floor, doubled over and vomiting.
The youngest girl started to scream again. Lucy stepped forward and stood beside Kit. She looked down into Morton’s pain-wracked eyes.
‘It’s a horrible death,’ she said.
Kit stared at the woman. He had never seen such utter calm before.
‘What have you done?’
