Part 11 (2/2)

”No. Well...” He had briefly picked up a sword in a gaol cell in Fount Royal, but it was more to get rid of it than use it and so he didn't think that incident counted for much. ”When I was a boy...I mean, a very young boy...I was running with a gang at the harbor. Not a real gang, I mean. But just...you know...boys. Orphans, like I was.”

”There's a point to this?”

”Yes sir. We used to fight each other with sticks and pretend they were swords. You know. Mock wars.”

”Ever kill anyone with a pretend sword?” Greathouse approached him, looming over Matthew like a giant and getting larger still, if just in Matthew's sensibility, as his shadow was thrown across the wall.

”No sir.”

”Ever kill anyone with anything?”

”No sir.”

”Can you fight? Use your fists?”

”I'm...sure I remember fighting with the gang. But it was a long time ago, and I really was a different person. I've changed since then.”

”You should have kept that part of yourself.” Greathouse stopped before him and sized him up from toe to head as if for the first time. Washed with lanternlight, the man's face was haughty and dismissive. It occurred to Matthew that either Greathouse had tremendous recuperative abilities over the effects of alcohol or he could simply drink a keg down and keep going.

”You're spindly,” Greathouse said, and began to walk in a circle around him. ”You look weak as water and pale as a moonbeam. Don't you ever get outside in the daylight and work?”

”My work is...predominantly mental, sir.”

”That's the trouble with young people these days. They sit on their mental and call it work. Well, you think you're so smart, don't you? So clever at chess. I think you've let yourself go to rot. You're more a ghost than a man. How'd you get that scar on your head? Fall down and hit it on a d.a.m.ned chessboard?”

”No sir,” Matthew said. ”I...got it in a fight with a bear.”

Greathouse stopped his circling.

”If I may ask,” Matthew ventured, ”how did you get your scar?”

Greathouse paused. Then at last he said, ”Broken teacup. Thrown by my third wife.”

”Oh.”

”You don't ask the questions,” the man snarled. ”I ask the questions, do you understand?”

”Yes sir.”

Greathouse continued his circling, around and around. Then he stopped directly in front of Matthew. ”If you want to see a scar, take a gander at this.” He unb.u.t.toned his ruffled s.h.i.+rt and displayed a truly ugly brown scar that began just beneath the left collarbone and crossed to the center of the chest. ”Dagger strike, fifth of March, 1677. He was going for my heart, but I caught his wrist in time. An a.s.sa.s.sin, dressed in monk's robes. And here.” He pulled the s.h.i.+rt off his right shoulder to show a dark purple crater. ”Musket ball, twenty-second of June, 1684. Knocked my arm out of the socket. I was lucky there, no bones broken. The ball went through the woman who was standing in front of me at the time. Look here, then.” He angled his body so Matthew could see a third gruesome scar across the ribs on the right side. ”Ninth of October, 1686. That's what a rapier can do to you, even when it doesn't bear a cutting edge. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d swung instead of lunged. I did suffer two ribs broken on that one. Spent a month laid up, almost lost my mind but for the dear Contessa.” He touched the injury gently, as if in reverence. ”I can foretell rain by three days.” He shrugged his s.h.i.+rt back into place and b.u.t.toned it once more, his expression now more pleased than petulant.

Matthew had to ask, ”Is that what I have to look forward to?”

Instantly Greathouse pressed a finger against Matthew's chest so hard Matthew thought he was about to receive his first battle-mark. ”Not,” Greathouse said, ”if you're smart. Not if you're lucky. And not if you let me teach you how to defend yourself.”

Matthew said nothing, but Greathouse seemingly read his mind. ”I will tell you,” said the swordsman, ”that I was fighting four men when one got his rapier swing past my guard, so yes I can be a competent instructor. Anyway, he had no rhythm and he was all herky-jerky panic. It was good luck for him and bad luck for me. Until I got my breath back and spilled his puddings all over the alley floor. I gave another one a cut to the face that went through one cheek and out the other and then they all ran for their lives.”

”Did you spare them?”

Greathouse examined his gnarled knuckles, which Matthew noted also were marked with numerous small scars. ”I followed the blood and tracked the wounded one down. A thrust to the throat and he was finished. It was a dark night, though. Only that saved the other two, though I suppose my own blood and broken ribs also might have slowed me a step.” Abruptly he walked to the armory and chose two swords. He unsheathed both, turned one, and offered Matthew the grip. ”Take it. Thrust at me.”

”Sir?”

”Take the rapier and thrust at me.”

Matthew accepted the sword. It was a d.a.m.ned heavy thing. Unbalanced, it felt to him. An unnatural way to get yourself killed, trying to move this sluggish piece of steel through the air. He wagged the sword back and forth, watching the light glint and jump from its surface. It seemed to him that the business point was too slow by far to get where he intended it.

”You're holding it like a baby with a rattle,” Greathouse said. ”Take a man's grip and lock that thumb down. All right now, just thrust at me.”

”How do I stand?”

”Don't worry about the stance yet. Come on, do as I say.”

”I don't feel comfortable with this. Do you have one that's not so heavy?” Already Matthew could feel the muscles of his forearm protesting. A swordsman he was not meant to be.

”That's the lightest of the bunch, moonbeam. Just hold the sword out, then. Bend your elbow a little. All right. Tight grip. Tighter. Drop your shoulder. Not your arm, your shoulder. Right there, stay still.” Greathouse brought his sword around and hit Matthew's flat-to-flat with a ringing sound and, though not with much power, the vibration coursed up Matthew's arm right to the skull. ”Just get a feel for it,” Greathouse said, as he brought his sword around on the other side and struck again. He continued from one side to the other. The carriage-house sounded like a belfry. ”The rapier has two parts, the blade and the hilt. Of the hilt there is the pommel-that little ball at the end of the hilt-the grip, and the guard. The parts of the blade are the strong-the forte near the grip-and the weak, which would be the feeble near the point.” The two swords continued to sound out their steel music. ”Always block-or parry-a strike or thrust at the forte, you see as I'm allowing here. If you try to parry a blow at the feeble, you likely will either lose your weapon or have it broken. Or you'll be run through. The rapier is not fas.h.i.+oned for cutting strikes, though of course you've seen it can cut with enough force behind it. It's meant for lunging strikes, using the sharp tip to drive through your target. You're weakening your grip, hold it steady. Now we shall get you accustomed to the feel of the weapon, and then we'll move to the fundamentals of quarte, terce, approach, lunge stretch, distance measure, break measure, the feint, the riposte, beating, binding, time and-”

”I think I have this under control,” Matthew interrupted, though his forearm ached like a bad tooth.

”I'm glad you think so,” said Greathouse, who instantly brought his rapier around with a little more power and at a different angle and suddenly Matthew's fingers shot open as if his hand had been hornet-stung and the sword flew away like one of Increase Mather's comets.

”I'm sorry, I lost my grip,” Matthew said, as he tried to shake the sting out of his hand.

”You never had a grip. I told you to keep that thumb locked down. Go get the sword and come back right where you stand.”

Matthew obeyed. Greathouse said, ”Make your body thin. As if it isn't thin enough, but at least that's to your advantage. Show only your right side. Keep your feet in line with me. Not so far apart. Now they're too close. You want to have optimum power when you thrust, but keep your feet not too close or your balance will be unsteady. All right, that's much better.” He walked in a slow circle just beyond the lanterns. ”Keep your sword pointed outward, don't let it slope down unless your opponent is three inches tall. Very well, sink down as if you're about to sit. A little more. Left arm behind you, like a rudder.” He stopped in front of Matthew again. ”Sword tip pointed. Slightly higher than the hilt. All right, that's good. Now you're going to stretch forth your right arm and step forward with your right foot as far as you can, keeping left arm, body, and sword in line. Thrust at me. Do it!”

Matthew pushed himself forward. Long before his sword broke the circle, it was knocked aside by Greathouse's blade.

”Again,” Greathouse said. ”Keep your body in line. Don't lift your left foot or let it drag. And when I say thrust, I don't mean jerk like a sun-addled mule. I'm looking for economy of motion; speed will come later.”

Once more Matthew thrust, once more his sword was nearly knocked from his hand.

”I held it!” he said proudly. ”Did you see?”

”Yes, my mistake.” Greathouse took a single step forward, his blade came in with a quick twist, and again Matthew's hand spasmed open and the sword stabbed dirt ten feet away.

”The next time you lift that thumb up,” Greathouse glowered, ”you shall need only nine-fingered gloves. Go get it and return to your position.”

Matthew again obeyed. His forearm was killing him, but he gritted his teeth and was determined to make at least a show of fort.i.tude.

”Take the quarte. That's the position I just showed you. Now I want you to just move the sword. Cut to the right, return to position, thrust in the center, return to position, cut to the left, thrust in the center. Keep your back firm. Bend your knees a little more. More still, you won't fall. Keep moving the sword until I say to stop.”

b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Matthew thought. He didn't know how much more of this his arm could take, but d.a.m.ned if he'd give up.

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