Free PIRATE: Privateer by Tim Severin Page B

as a knife also appeared in Yannick’s hand. ‘Then it’s time you tried your luck,’ he replied, and jabbed the blade towards his opponent.
    Anne-Marie knew it was futile for her to intervene. More and more men were emerging from the open door of the tavern. They hurried up to form a ring around the two fighters. Shouting
encouragement, they urged the contestants to get on with their fight. The air was thick with blood lust.
    Rassalle began to circle to his right, shuffling across the sand. Yannick kept pace, moving sideways so that he kept facing square to his opponent. Whenever Rassalle changed direction and moved
in the opposite direction, so too did the Breton. They stared at one another, eyes locked in mutual hatred.
    Abruptly Yannick hurled himself across the gap, slashing with his blade. But Rassalle had seen the Breton gather and tense before he sprang and anticipated the attack. He skipped away as the
crowd hurriedly fell back to give him room. Now it was Yannick’s turn to jump out of arm’s reach.
    ‘Get on with it!’ someone shouted from the crowd. ‘If you want to dance, I’ll call for the fiddler.’
    The spatter of laughter from the onlookers goaded Yannick to try again. This time he stabbed rather than slashed with his blade. He extended his arm forward like a swordsman and thrust, aiming
for Rassalle’s chest.
    Rassalle was too quick for him. He turned his body sideways and avoided the point of the knife. Grabbing the Breton’s wrist before Yannick could withdraw, Rassalle stepped forward, forcing
Yannick’s knife hand downward and closing with his opponent. The two men collided with a thud. For a couple of seconds they stood, chest to chest, grunting and straining against one another
as Rassalle maintained his grip. Only when Yannick used his free arm to launch a punch at his enemy’s head did he succeed in breaking clear. By then Rassalle’s knife had done its work.
He had slid the blade deep into the Breton’s stomach, low down on the left-hand side.
    Yannick stepped back, apparently untroubled. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving. For a long moment he stood upright, still glaring at his opponent. He raised his left arm and wiped the
back of his hand across his mouth, then gave a slight cough. A look of puzzlement crossed his face. He made as if to step forward but seemed to lose control of the movement. He let go his knife and clutched at his side. Then he dropped to his knees on the dirt.
    A tremor ran through the watching crowd. Rassalle remained standing where he was. He looked down at his victim with narrowed eyes, knife in hand and waiting.
    Yannick coughed again and tried to get back on his feet. He pushed himself half upright with one hand, the other still clutching his belly. In that instant the crowd could see the stain of blood
spreading across the front of the shirt. Then the effort was too much for him and he slumped forward face down.
    There was a commotion to Anne-Marie’s right. Her two other brothers were pushing their way through the crowd, which opened out to give them space. Roparzh and Yacut were even more drunk
than their brother. Their eyes were bloodshot and they could barely stand. They came to a halt at the edge of the ring of spectators and looked down stupidly at Yannick on the ground. Yacut gave a
great, rum-sodden belch as he turned towards Rassalle. Something in his addled brain urged him to take revenge. He shook his head as if trying to clear his vision and let out a low growl of
anguish. With his hands held out like claws in front of him he began to advance on Rassalle, who watched him come on, his bloodied knife at the ready.
    A shot rang out.
    Rassalle snapped forward, folding in half. He screamed in pain. He took a pace backwards. Then he too sank to the ground and curled up in a ball, whimpering with anguish.
    The startled crowd turned their gaze on Anne-Marie. She stood with the pistol still held out in front of her, the barrel at