This is a brief excerpt from my first novel, The Fall of the Sparrow.
Howard ignored them all and just stepped out, slowly and tentatively, in the direction of the dark haired girl. He caught her eye and she turned toward him so that he could have a full-frontal view of her low bodice framed with her silky, shining hair, darker than the night sky. Howard drew in his breath. He could feel himself shaking and he was sure that he was about to lose his courage, turn and run, but the girl boldly fixed her gaze, those enormous pools of blue luminosity, on him. Like a force greater than the pounding surf and inexorable tides, her eyes drew him into the sphere of her power and the deft practice of her art.
Howard’s friends broke off their extended debate on the nature and destiny of man to notice that one man, at least, had already taken matters into his own trembling hands. They felt as if they were watching someone in a dream, walking through a door without any knowledge of what he might find on the other side. They were both happy and afraid for him, and not one of them thought to call out any words of banter or of advice. Howard was beyond their sphere, well past the need for anyone’s advice.
They were so taken up with Howard’s chosen path that they failed to notice the return of the shadows in the recesses of the nearby booths. Suddenly and inexplicably, the workers all disappeared under their stalls and the girls abruptly broke their poses and fled into three of the adjacent alleys, amid the crinkling of skirt against shifts. Howard’s dark beauty was the last to leave, with a momentary, side-long glance in the direction of the besotted youth permitting her to mouth the words, "Ask for Julie." Before the friends knew what was happening, eight dark and emaciated youths emerged from the streets behind them.
Their clothes were rags and their hands and faces were black with soot and street dust, but their eyes were luminous and predatory like wolves. Five of them were holding make-shift clubs, torn from the large hanging branches of trees, and the others brandished fists that shown by the light of a near-by torch with the lurid red of bloody scabs and old scars. The four friends stood like rooted trees, exposed to the elements, when they realized that the eight youths were ignoring them. Instead, the predators were circling like a pack toward four small figures who had just had the misfortune to emerge from one of the three alleys into which the prostitutes had fled just moments before.
The strangers’ clothing was dark, so it was difficult to distinguish them at first. There was a man, a woman and two children, girls, the youngest of which could not have been older than seven years. The man wore a plain jerkin, tied, at the waist, with a broad belt over loose fitting
trousers and high boots. There was neither lace collar no any mark of contrast about his dress, and on his head, he wore a tall hat that looked like a tower with a broad rim about the bottom. The woman was equally plain in her attire, without the slightest hint of colour or ornament, and her hair was completely hidden beneath a tight-fitting white bonnet tied neatly beneath her chin. As the children, too, were bonneted, without a single, playful hair in sight, in dresses as devoid of colour as that of their mother, the friends concluded that this must be a family of Huguenots who had just emerged from an evening prayer service in the home of one of their co-religionists.
Slowly, the eight youths encircled the hapless family of four moving ever closer and hissing “heretics, heretics” through uneven, yellow and clenched teeth. The parents instinctively formed a kind of human barrier between the manoeuvring attackers and the children, mother and father each on one side, arms joined and bound around the little ones.
A particularly vigilant street vendor must have given a thought to the protection of his wares and run off to find one of the mounted companies of the Duc de Guise who were currently enforcing the peace in the city, for presently, a troop of five armoured horsemen entered the square and took up position at the far end. As soon as they realized that only a Huguenot family and not the vendors’ stalls were in any jeopardy, they hung back, with exchanged sniggers and some relief, to watch the spectacle.
A tall youth, who occupied the forward juncture point of two columns of ruffians, launched
himself at the tight family formation, delivering a blow to the father’s kidney causing him to fold and collapse in pain. A second youth then moved in to separate the other three, roughly pushing the smallest child aside. She cried out as her elbow made contact with a cobble stone, before she skidded to a halt, face down in the street. Two other youths now grabbed the mother and older daughter from behind and held them while the leader made for the woman’s skirts and taunted her about what he intended to do.
All of a sudden, Howard heard a cry like the roar of an enraged animal and saw his philosophical friend, Testagrossa, lurch at the assailants closest to the women, his fists clenched and his head lowered into a battering ram. He struck the lead youth from behind, sending him flailing to the ground on all fours. Surprised and momentarily confused by the assault on their leader, the two youths behind them released the women’s arms and regrouped with two others who had come around to assist.
“Courez!” (“Run!”), Testagrossa shouted at the released captives. The mother darted to where her youngest lay and, grasping her firmly by the hand, moved away, one daughter trailing from each hand.
By now, the leader was back on his feet and organising a counter attack. Testagrossa and the father stood back-to-back and positioned themselves between the youths and the fleeing women. Suddenly, the Italian student and the father were flanked by Howard and Dormoy, who answered his friend’s questioning eyes through clenched teeth: “I hate bullies!”
The assailants, now faced with a new enemy, were in need of fresh tactics. One of the youths, who had let go his hold on the women, pick up a loose cobble stone and prepared to throw it at Testagrossa’s large head. As his torso pivoted and his right hand moved behind his ear, some one hit him from behind at the knees. He was lifted into the air, his legs flying in front of him as he fell to the ground in a heap. His attacker, of course, was Gaudin, who grinned at his friends to indicate that the tide of this battle had clearly turned.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, read more in The Fall of the Sparrow, available on Amazon and anywhere books are sold.
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