The Long Sword(28)

            Then Fiore turned to young Miles. Miles Stapleton was, if anything, worse than I had been when I arrived in Avignon, and Fiore took him on immediately, with his usual brusque impatience. Fiore had little understanding of other men and women, and he didn’t see why young Miles couldn’t immediately grasp the essentials of the postures he was shown.

            I’d like to say that Juan and I leaped to help Miles, but what we really did was to spend an afternoon laughing our fool heads off as Fiore cracked a waster over the boy’s head. Fra Peter joined us before vespers – he had attended father Pierre all day – and he laughed, too.

            Fiore stepped back from poor Miles, who was a sweat-soaked bundle of nervous failure.

            I had, despite my laughter, been watching carefully. I had seen that, despite our ridicule, Miles had learned steadily for over an hour. But as Fiore’s criticism was relentless and accurate; eventually the younger squire could no longer concentrate on all the errors he was supposed to correct, and he began to fail. And as he failed, Fiore bore down, spitting out his criticisms fast and more insistently, because Fiore felt that somehow he was failing. Miles all but collapsed.

            ‘And now you cannot even stop a simple cut to the head,’ Fiore said, stepping back.

            Young Master Stapleton didn’t burst into tears. A lesser man might have.

            I jumped up. ‘Eh, Fiore, give the boy a rest and let’s have another bout.’

            Fra Peter gave me a slight nod, which was often his warmest sign of approbation.

            Fiore was angry, feeling that he had failed, but he took three breaths – I told you, it was the summer of breathing – so he was outwardly calm, and we took our guards and engaged.

            At the third or fourth pass, I got Fiore’s sword in a bind at the crossing, but I was so surprised at my little triumph that I didn’t move my hand correctly to place the blade on my cross guard, and got a nice cut across the back of my thumb even as I struck him lightly on the shoulder. Now, let me say, I had hit him before. He was not yet the master he is now, but it was a moment for personal rejoicing for me or Juan any time we landed a good blow.

            He smiled and pointed his sword at my hand. ‘Another pair of gloves ruined. You need to fix that.’ He seemed to be ignoring that I had hit him. ‘You rely on your iron gauntlets. In a street fight, you could lose your thumb.’

            Well, of course he was correct, and I had just ruined another pair of three-florin chamois gloves.

            I consoled myself that I had the thread and needles to fix them up, if the bloodstains weren’t too bad. Gloves were expensive.

            ‘Let me have some exercise, Sir William,’ Fra Peter said. He nodded to me – we were all knightly courtesy when we had live swords in our hands, and I recommend such behaviour to any man-at-arms. Heightened awareness deserves heightened courtesy, eh?

            Fra Peter began in a low guard, and Fiore began high. They met with a heavy crossing (I wouldn’t have risked such a heavy strike) and Fiore leaped forward to strike with his pommel – and Fra Peter passed back and took Fiore’s blade out of his hand as easily as a thief takes a purse on Cheapside.

            Fiore grinned from ear to ear, while the rest of us clapped, and I discovered that I had Sister Marie behind me.

            ‘Show me that again,’ Fiore said.

            Fra Peter grinned, suddenly one of us and very human indeed. ‘No, I think I need to have something on you, since you have youth and speed!’ But he relented, and began to demonstrate.

            The laugh of it was that it was just like one of Fiore’s dagger defences – in effect, the pommel strike turned the mighty longsword into a dagger. We all began to learn it.

            I noted Sister Marie moving her hands through the disarm.