Rob sucked in a deep breath and repeated the gesture, then fell into his fighting stance. Tweng had had them drilling in the blazing sun since daybreak, mercilessly running them through their paces with quarterstaff and heavy weights until their muscles were numb and their reflexes hammered into nothingness. This final test, blade to blade and without shields, had become a ritual, the last ordeal of each day, a ceremony religiously pursued at the close of every training session in order to remind the trainees that, though they were within days of achieving knighthood, none of them had yet managed to best their mentor and taskmaster.
There were eight trainees, all senior squires, and the swords they used were blunted, their edges filed flat and their central spines augmented with narrow strips of lead solder to increase their weight, making each one half again as heavy as a normal sword blade. But the solid weight of them on impact was barely less lethal than a keen-edged blow would have been, and John Bigod, nursing his bruised hand, was the last of seven who had been newly reminded of that. This was the final half day of formal training for the youths, and the knight seemed determined to sweat the last ounce of fight out of them before he released them for the last time at noon. By tradition, the night ahead would be theirs as soon as they were dismissed, an entire night in which to celebrate together in the knowledge that their training was complete and there would be no pre-dawn run and no soul-numbing drill the next day. Instead, the following afternoon, they would be ceremonially bathed and shriven in preparation for the solemn rites of the eve of their knighting. At sunset they would be escorted into the castle chapel to stand vigil, spending the entire night in prayer, in full armour, under the watchful eyes of priests. The next morning, ritually purified, they would be knighted by the King himself, their manhood and nobility formally acknowledged in the eyes of all the world.
Sir Marmaduke tilted his head slightly to one side, questioningly, and Rob gripped his sword more firmly and moved to the attack. He saw his opponent back away respectfully, his eyes watchful and his movements slightly tentative, but he knew from experience that the move was designed to tempt him to strike out. It had been successful in the past, but this time he ignored the invitation and concentrated on how he could change his established pattern of engagement. Tweng had taught them well, and Rob, at least, had finally learned that fighting patterns were predictable to a self-possessed antagonist, especially after months and years of familiarity with the fighters. And predictability, when the matter at hand was combat with swords, was invariably lethal.
Today, this last bout, Rob was determined not to be beaten as easily as he usually was—as all of them always were—and a thought flicked into his mind. He sprang forward, eyes and point centred upon his opponent’s breast in a full frontal lunge, but before he committed himself fully he went down on one knee, almost as though his foot had slipped, opening himself up to a punitive rap from Tweng’s ever-ready blade. As his knee touched ground, however, and the knight’s sword came slicing towards him exactly as predicted, Rob thrust his blade upward, straight-armed, to catch the descending edge on the braced bar of his own. In the brief moment of Sir Marmaduke’s surprise, Rob twisted with his entire upper body to sweep the knight’s sword to the side with all his strength, then, with a two-fisted grip, whipped the blade down to land solidly on the outside of Tweng’s knee. The knight stumbled sideways and back, off balance but already swinging his blade back awkwardly to defend his centre. He was too late, though, for Rob had immediately launched himself into a lunging, two-handed thrust, driving himself forward and up from his kneeling position with churning legs, his sword striking like a lance solidly against the very centre of the knight’s armoured breast, with all of Rob’s uncoiling strength and weight behind it. He heard the roar of approval from his fellows as Sir Marmaduke Tweng crashed full-length on the flat of his back. He was suddenly appalled at what he had done and stricken with fear by the stunned silence that followed.
In the distance, a bullock bellowed in outrage, but no one moved. Rob swallowed hard, feeling himself begin to shake, then bit down on his own teeth and thrust the blunted point of his sword into the ground, leaning on it to force it home, He stepped forward and stood looking down at Sir Marmaduke, one nerveless hand extended in a timid offer of assistance. The knight lay still, looking up at him with wide-open eyes. Then he blinked and moved his head to one side, to where the others of Rob’s group stood staring in awe.
“I have never seen any of you from this viewpoint before,” he said evenly, “but I must admit it is no more flattering than my normal view of you.” Still no one moved and no one dared to smile. Tweng did, however, his strong white teeth showing suddenly in a bright grin. “That, gentlemen,” he said, looking up at the seven gaping observers and then back at Rob, “is what these past months have been all about. That was the triumph of a fighting man. A stratagem that came from inside, unsought—and unplanned, I believe—and perfectly executed. Help me up.” He gripped Rob’s proffered hand and heaved himself to his feet. “Well done, Robert Bruce,” he said, his smile still in place. “We’ll make a fighting knight of you after this.” He hesitated. “It was unplanned, was it not?”