The Long Sword(5)

            One evening in Lombardy, with the mountains clear on the northern horizon, still snow-capped in late May, he and I were fencing with spears in harness in the yard of yet another farm. Let me add that my squire, Edward, was back with John Hawkwood, and that meant that all three of us were back to scrubbing our own harnesses – and Fra Peter’s – like boys of fifteen. And that meant that getting thrown in the rain-soaked dung of an Italian farmyard was not just a petty humiliation – it represented the reality of an hour’s work.

            And in answer to your question, we fought with sharp spears. By our Saviour, gentles! We didn’t carry blunts on campaign, and it is only by playing with sharp weapons that a man loses his fear of them.

            Nor were we playing in visors. Truly, it is a miracle we made it to Avignon alive.

            Now, when I met Fiore, I thought myself a good man of arms. After he disabused me of this, with many of the same lessons I’d had to learn in pain with Jean le Maingre and du Guesclin and others, I learned from him mostly by simple emulation. Fiore didn’t teach in the way a master-at-arms teaches. He simply stood in different ways – some subtly different, like his version of the Woman’s Guard, and some startlingly different, like his low guard which he called ‘The Boar’s Tusk’.

            But it was in spear fighting that he departed most from the established manner. Yes? This interests you, messieur? I thought it might. So I’ll say this. Most men who fight with a spear fight with the long spear; they vary in length, but in Italy we usually had them nine or ten feet long. But long spears break easily, and have only a temporary advantage over swordsmen.

            Fiore preferred a shorter spear, just six or seven feet with a stout shaft, octagonal in cross section. We talked about such weapons, but it was not until we had a day in Milan that we were able to purchase a pair, and then he was avid to fight with them.

            And he refused to fight as other men did – and still do. Most men, even trained men, face each other with their points crossed. On the battlefield, men will advance until the spears cross, and then fence with them as if they were long, stiff swords.

            Fiore had different words for everything and he made us learn them. He called this tactic the ‘Point in line’. He meant that it kept your point in line with the body and head of your opponent. It made sense to me, for this was the best defence against a spear, kept my weapon in the middle of the fight, and allowed me to push with my superior strength against the shaft of most of my adversaries.

            Enough digression. That evening north of Milan, the light was fading, we were in harness, and there were six pretty farm girls pressed along the edge of the yard watching the knights duel with spears.

            Fiore sprang into the yard and took up one of his fantastic positions – the boar’s tusk, in fact – with the spear point low to the ground in front of him, right foot forward, spear on his left hip. I had mine up high across my body in two hands, right foot forward and spear point level with Fiore’s unvisored face.

            ‘Try to hit me,’ he said. From another man, it would have been a taunt, but Fiore never taunted. He merely said what he thought.

            I aimed my blow for the centre of his breastplate. Fiore was the fastest man I ever faced – thanks be to God for the mercy of never facing a man like him in mortal combat! – but not enough faster than me to have a decisive advantage.

            I thrust.

            He snapped his spearhead up from its low position, exactly like a Tuscan boar tossing its head to gore you. He slapped my spear out of line, and while I tried to recover, he stabbed me with the spearhead through the cheek.

            I spat a tooth and sat down, blood pouring out of my mouth, and Fiore flung his spear down and started a steady stream of apologies.

            I had been a single inch from death, and the shock of it was as bitter as the copper taste in my mouth. The cheek wound took a week to close and left me with this little twist on my mouth. And there are few things as hard to get off armour as blood! Sweet Jesu, it etches steel faster than acid! And of course, I sat in the wet dung.