Kydd(68)

There were four body postures, and they practiced them all.

The cutlass positions were more difficult; some out to the side but covering the upper body, some hanging vertically down; in all, seven possible moves. Lockwood himself demonstrated them.

After an hour’s work, he was able to bark a position and they could instantly assume it. “Guard — inside half hanger! Assault! St. George!”

Kydd could see how they fitted into a web of defensive and offensive moves — an outside guard, for instance, could well be the thing to ward off an assault, but in this he would wait and see. The main point seemed to be that for every act of offense there was a corresponding defensive move.

The cutlass felt less of a deadweight in his hands, but he knew that he would need much practice before he could feel confident — it would almost certainly save his life one day.

“Stand down — secure arms.”

Reluctantly Kydd handed in his cutlass and prepared to go below.

“Hold!” Lockwood called. “Prince o’ the poop!”

The seaman who had acted as his assistant grinned — then, snarling like a pirate, swarmed up the quarterdeck ladder to the poop deck. There he snatched up a wooden sword and flourishing it in the approved first position prepared to take on all comers. Lockwood smiled widely. “Robbard is defending, and is prince o’ the poop for now — but any man may challenge him for the title, if they dare!”

There were cheers and catcalls.

“The man who is in possession of the poop at eight bells receives from me a fine bottle of claret,” Lockwood declared.

The first man up was treated mercifully. Robbard circled him and tried a point. The man parried with an inside guard, which he tried to turn into an extended point of his own. Robbard saw it and swayed inside, tapping the man none too gently on the head. His opponent swore and started a furious assault, which Robbard met like a rock, his sword flicking this way and that in a monotonous clack, clok. The man tired and drew back, at which Robbard gave point and pierced the man’s hurried St. George while he was off balance.

Roars of appreciation greeted the defeated challenger ruefully descending the ladder. Rudely pushing him aside was the next man, an experienced able seaman with a tarry queue and thick-set body, who bounded up the ladder.

“Have at yer, Sharkey mate!” he shouted.

Robbard chuckled and came to guard.

They were well matched, and Kydd watched fascinated. They drove forward and back over the whole deck, their eyes holding each other unblinking as they thrust and parried.

Once Kydd had delivered an elaborate wig to the small fencing school in Chapel Street. He had stayed to watch, gripped by the deadly swordplay, the glitter of rapier blade, the slither and clash of steel on steel. The combatants had worn wire masks and the lethal questing of the blades as they probed and parried was carried out in chill silence, a ballet of death.

Here the pair grinned or stared ferociously by turns — Kydd guessed they would look different when boarding a hostile deck.

Kydd felt an elbow in his ribs and turned to see Whaley offering him a tankard. He accepted it gratefully and noticed that a crowd of appreciative onlookers had gathered. He turned back to the combat in time to see the two grappling — Robbard’s guard being slowly overborne by his adversary’s head stroke, pressing down. Their eyes were inches apart as they forced against each other, when suddenly Robbard let rip with a raucous raspberry. The other man jerked in surprise, and Robbard’s sweeping half-circle would have laid open the man’s ribs — according to the umpire.

“Damn me eyes, ’n’ I’ll challenge ye again!” shouted the man. It took a pot of grog to persuade him to yield the deck.

Robbard strutted about on the poop, whirling his wooden sword in the air and crowing, the crowd cheering him on. The easy sail left little for the watch on deck to do and they joined the spectacle. Over to the westward the spreading red of a sunset tinged the scene and its players a ruddy color.

“That’s your tie-mate, ain’t it, Tom?” Stirk gestured with his pot. There was a swirl in the crowd and there was Renzi, mounting the steps in lithe, decisive movements.

Robbard stopped his capering and sized up the challenger.

Renzi threw off his jacket and stood in his plain waistcoat, his dark eyes fixed on Robbard’s. He picked up his sword. A subdued murmur went up from the spectators.

Renzi said nothing, his mouth in a hard line, his expression ruthless. He stamped once or twice as if to test his footing, then whipped up his sword to the salute. Robbard mistook the move and came to a halfhearted guard, but did not return the salute.

Down came Renzi’s blade, flicking in short, testing movements like a snake’s tongue — darting, deadly. Robbard gave ground warily, circling to the left, all traces of comedy vanishing.