I HEARD SHOUTING IN THE HALL.
I dropped my quill and picked up my candle and ran down. My soles slapped the stone steps.
Just before I reached the gallery there was a huge thump, then a crash.
The refectory table was lying on its side, and Sir William and Lord Stephen were facing one another across it. Jugs and beakers and spoons and knives were lying on the floor, and red wine was oozing across the stone slabs.
My father was sodden with wine, blind with anger.
“You worm!” he bawled. “You lump of filth! How dare you? Behind my back.”
Lord Stephen didn’t reply, but Sir William’s anger was fueling itself.
“She’s worthless! Just a Welsh drudge. You grub! You meddlesome dwarf! What’s it got to do with you? Or Arthur?”
My father kicked at a broken jug and advanced to the near end of the table. I could see his right eye glittering. Then he saw me.
“Talk of the devil!” he snapped, and he lurched towards me, waving. “When people start digging,” he said, and his voice grew cold as steel, “they may find their own bones. Isn’t that what I told you, Arthur? Their own bones.”
My father belched, then he turned towards Lord Stephen again, and spat in his face. “Black bubbles!” he muttered.
Lord Stephen drew himself up a little. “No, Sir William,” he said. His voice was quiet and firm. “Not their own bones. The bones of a dead man.”
Sir William growled.
“I believe you threatened Arthur’s mother. You forced her to bed with you, then you murdered her husband.”
My father drew his knife from his belt.
I clenched my fists.
My father stepped forward.
“No!” I yelled. “No!”
Sir William lumbered towards Lord Stephen and pulled back his right arm.
Lord Stephen just stood there, blinking. “Dear God!” he said in a surprised voice. He didn’t even move.
I leaped down from the gallery.
I was too late.
Sir William stabbed him. I think he aimed for Lord Stephen’s heart, but the blade went into his left shoulder, right up to the hilt, and then Sir William drew it out, dripping.
For a moment Lord Stephen still stood upright. Then he turned whey-pale and toppled backwards. His head cracked against the stone floor.
I threw myself at my father, howling. I grabbed him from behind and wrapped my arms around him.
We wrestled.
With my left hand I seized his right wrist. I squeezed it.
He bit my knuckle.
I tried to make him drop the knife. I could hear myself gasping.
“You bastard!” he panted. “You runt! I’ll have you too.”
I squeezed, I squeezed. He filled his lungs with air. His whole body expanded and he heaven-bellowed. He roared.
My father leaned back, grunting. I still had his right wrist. He wrenched himself forward, and almost threw me over his head.
He reeled. He fell. He’ll always be falling…
My father fell forward and I fell with him, still clutching his wrist; the stone floor smacked against his arm, and crushed it, and he drove his blood-blade deep into his body.
He buried the knife in his own heart.