She leaped back and saluted him and bowed.
‘Fra Peter, it is too seldom that I get to face a swordsman,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘And you a poor weak woman.’ He shook his head. ‘If I had to fight in a wool gown, I doubt I could do as well.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘If you plan to pity me, perhaps I should just shave you.’ Her eyes glittered.
Fiore stepped forward. ‘May I have the pleasure of a bout?’ he asked.
She looked him up and down. ‘I have to copy letters,’ she said. ‘You must promise to be careful.’
He frowned. ‘Are you suggesting that I lack control?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Messire, you have put a spear through Sir William’s cheek, cut his thumb, pinked Messire Juan, and worn the poor English squire to a rage.’
Fiore looked hurt. But he bowed.
Fiore was so tentative that she mastered the first cross and touched him on his sword arm. And then she turned her sword in the same wind as she had lost to Fra Peter and although she didn’t touch him, Fiore stepped back and bowed. ‘You might have hit me,’ he admitted.
‘Yes,’ she said, and stepped forward again, this time warding his guard with her buckler as she advanced.
Fiore lifted his weapon and struck her lightly on the side.
She stepped back and laughed. ‘Usually, after I hit a man twice in two crossings, he folds,’ she said.
Fiore frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.
Fra Peter stepped between them. ‘Juan is waving. Sister, put up your sword before the university provost arrests us all. Fiore, she played you. From the moment she accused you of having trouble controlling your blade, she was controlling your actions.’
Fiore wiped an arm across his face and frowned at me. ‘It is like facing a rival fencing master,’ he said.
As Sister Marie disappeared up the steps behind the stables, Fra Peter collected the swords. ‘She is a rival fencing master, Messire dei Liberi. She teaches monks and nuns; indeed, she has a special licence from the Pope to do so anywhere she goes.’
I flushed. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I tried to protect her from some carters this morning.’ I thought back over various other comments I’d made. ‘She’s old enough to be my mother,’ I added. And then, ‘If she has a licence, we were in no danger—’
Fra Peter stood up straight and put a hand to the small of his back. ‘And I’m old enough to be your father. What difference does that make?’ He nodded to me. ‘Surely you have learned from your Janet that it is one thing to have official approval and another thing to be the woman in the armour? Eh?’
That afternoon, Fra Peter introduced Fra Ricardo Caracciolo, who had been the papal commander of the city and was now accompanying Father Pierre. He was a tall, grey-haired Italian, with heavy eyebrows and a lively laugh. We exchanged bows, and I liked him immediately.
‘By the Blessed Saint John,’ he said in accented English. ‘It is good to see my Order can still bring the best young knights.’
Who doesn’t like praise?
But his next words chilled me. ‘My squire has just come from Milan,’ he said. ‘Do you know the Count d’Herblay?’
‘Why?’ I asked.
Fra Ricardo shrugged. ‘My young Giovanni only mentioned it because we know you follow the good Fra Peter.’ He shrugged. ‘The man is looking for you. Or so my Giovanni says.’