Hector’s eyes narrow. “You’re sure about this, my lady?”
She smiles. “Do be gentle on an old woman, though.”
He shrugs. Then, with lightning speed, he feints left, but sweeps right with the blade, arching it toward her belly.
She shifts to avoid it, and her arm blurs in a flurry of ruffles. Hector grunts. The dagger clatters onto the floor again.
Their eyes lock. Ximena holds his wrist, pinching it in such a way that his grip has relaxed and his hand flops uselessly. The sleeve of her voluminous blouse is torn.
“The Royal Guard trains in hand-to-hand combat,” she says, “so you know as well as I do how easy it is to disarm someone.” She lets his wrist go and steps back. “It is especially easy to disarm someone who is not adept with knife work. Which means, in essence, that the enemy ends up holding an extra weapon.”
Hector rubs his wrist, frowning. “I did go easy on you,” he says.
“Thank you,” she says solemnly, but her eyes twinkle.
He turns to me and says, “Your nurse has a good point. But I insist on training you to defend against a knife attack, even if you don’t choose to keep one.”
It’s a fair concession. “Agreed.”
“I’d like to teach you to use some kind of weapon,” he says. “Maybe a quarterstaff?”
“A quarterstaff is not very subtle,” I say. “Or handy. If a kidnapper comes at me, what am I supposed to do? Say, ‘Excuse me, my lord, while I pull my enormous quarterstaff out of my bodice?’”
Hector rubs his jaw. “You’re right. I’ll give it some thought. But for now, we’ll start with the easiest escape maneuver.” He gestures with his hand. “Come here and turn around.”
Feeling suddenly unsure, I glance at Ximena, who gives a nod of approval.
I approach, turn around. He presses up behind me and wraps his left arm around my torso, across my breasts, trapping my own arms to my sides. My head fits snugly and perfectly beneath his chin. The mink-oil scent of his rawhide armor pricks at my nose.
“It’s instinct,” he says, his breath tickling my scalp, “for an attacker to think of your arms and hands as dangerous. He’ll subdue them as soon as possible. And it’s instinct for the victim thus subdued to feel powerless.”
“I see.” I don’t feel powerless at all. Pulled tight against Hector, hearing his voice shift low, I feel safer than ever. “I could stomp on your foot,” I tell him.
“That’s exactly what you should do. The instep of the human foot is made up of hundreds of tiny bones. You can do immense damage with one good stomp. So try it. Gently, please.”
I comply by halfheartedly sending my heel onto the top of his foot. The force can’t possibly be enough to hurt him through his boot, but he releases me instantly.
I turn to find him grinning at me.
He says, “Now that you have momentarily incapacitated me, what do you do?”
“I run?”
“Like you’re being chased by a sandstorm.” I begin to think that maybe I should practice running. “Come back. Let’s do it again.”
This time, when his arm slides around me, it feels slower, more deliberate.“The trick,” he says in my ear, “is to be wholly committed to your action. No hesitation.” His arm tightens in a little jerk, and I catch my breath. “Do you understand, Elisa? You might have to stomp to live.”
I swallow hard. “I understand.”
“Lady Ximena, can you bring us a few pillows?”
My nurse rustles around on the bed. She must know exactly what Hector has in mind, for she strides into my field of vision and, without being asked, crouches down to cover Hector’s right foot with cushions.
Hector says, “Now come down as hard as you can on my foot.”
“No! I don’t want to—”
“Do it.”
I lift my knee high and slam my heel into his instep.
He gasps, releases me.
I spin to face him. He is bent over slightly, regarding me with wide eyes. Then he says, “Well done!”
I wilt with relief. “It hurts,” I admit, flexing my toes.
“That’s why I had Ximena bring cushions. You must be willing to hurt yourself a little in the short term.”
I laugh. “The cushions were for your protection. If not for them, I would have broken your foot.”
He shrugs. “You’ll have to stomp a lot harder than that.”
My mouth opens in surprise. Then I realize he’s trying to goad me. It’s working.
Without breaking his gaze, I say, “Ximena, please fetch more pillows. Hector is going to need them.”
As she hurries away, he says, “Think you can learn this faster than your seven-year-old heir did?”