the King’s orders, sir,” murmurs the herald, dipping his head.
I swallow. Brandon’s even bigger than I thought, now I’m close up to him.
Compton’s team of pageboys has been efficient in fetching my equipment; he hands me my broadsword and I weigh it carefully, feeling for the right grip. Its point and edge are blunted, but still it’s a serious weapon – long, tapered and beautifully balanced. The air whistles and sings if you slice it fast.
Down the centre of the hall runs a wooden barrier, like a fence, which prevents collisions in a joust. The herald positions Brandon and me on the near side of it, closest to the viewing platform.
Brandon’s visor is raised – I can see a section of face. It grins. “Be gentle with me, sir,” he says.
“Not a chance.” I slap my visor down.
Then the herald lifts his baton and says loudly, “On guard, gentlemen! Seven strokes each, by order of His Grace the King.”
And so we start. We skirt around each other, keeping a good distance.
It’s all about who moves first. In attacking you seize the initiative but leave yourself vulnerable. If you wait for your opponent to move, you need lightning-quick reactions, to avoid or block the blow and counter-attack, preferably all in the same movement.
Brandon has adopted the inside guard stance now, his sword-arm held across his body, the blade pointing upwards at an angle. I mirror him. We’re both shifting, one foot in front, one behind, knees softly bent, as light on our feet as we can be in our half-armour, ready to move, fast and hard.
He attacks first. The blow swings in towards my head; I move my sword to block it and the blades clank together. I don’t feel much force in Brandon’s arm, and he makes no attempt to slip my block and land another blow; instead he disengages and moves back, on guard again.
And I realise: he’s going gently with me – just playing at it, putting a little boy through his paces. The thought makes me feel sick.
I go for him now, and yell as I do it, loud enough to be heard up on the platform. Everyone laughs when I miss. Brandon’s reach is longer than mine; he only has to lift his sword-arm and my strike, making contact with nothing but air, swings me off balance and sends me stumbling side-first against the barrier.
But I’m angry. Back on guard for an instant only, I attack again, aiming high – at Brandon’s neck. As he wards off the blow, I slip my blade down to cut his thigh, but he blocks me again, and in the same move lands a thrust to my body, jabbing hard against my breastplate.
Before the herald’s even declared the hit, we’ve sprung apart again. I’m breathing hard.
Damn. A point lost. But at least the laughter’s died. And I see Brandon shake himself and take up his stance again with purpose, as if he’s suddenly taking this seriously.
Fighting bareheaded, your opponent’s eyes are what you watch, not his hands or his blade. You get an instinct for the moment of decision; you sense the move a split-second before it starts. I love it – that feeling of being locked in together… daring each other… and then exploding into action. You don’t feel the bruises until later.
But with helmets, and no view of your opponent’s face, it’s much harder. Occasionally I glimpse dark eyes glistening behind the grille of Brandon’s visor, but I can’t read them at all.
And now he’s coming at me in earnest, aiming for my head; there’s a clash of metal as I block and shift to the side. We disengage and then I’m in again, my arm across my face, sword high, as if I’ll strike his right ear. But it’s a trick: as Brandon blocks, I turn my wrist, swinging the blade back over my head, and land a blow to the other side of his helmet.
He staggers; the spectators cheer and clap. But by the time the herald has declared the point, Brandon’s recovered and we’re grappling again. After two bungled engagements he grabs the wrist of my sword-arm and yanks it back,
I swallow. Brandon’s even bigger than I thought, now I’m close up to him.
Compton’s team of pageboys has been efficient in fetching my equipment; he hands me my broadsword and I weigh it carefully, feeling for the right grip. Its point and edge are blunted, but still it’s a serious weapon – long, tapered and beautifully balanced. The air whistles and sings if you slice it fast.
Down the centre of the hall runs a wooden barrier, like a fence, which prevents collisions in a joust. The herald positions Brandon and me on the near side of it, closest to the viewing platform.
Brandon’s visor is raised – I can see a section of face. It grins. “Be gentle with me, sir,” he says.
“Not a chance.” I slap my visor down.
Then the herald lifts his baton and says loudly, “On guard, gentlemen! Seven strokes each, by order of His Grace the King.”
And so we start. We skirt around each other, keeping a good distance.
It’s all about who moves first. In attacking you seize the initiative but leave yourself vulnerable. If you wait for your opponent to move, you need lightning-quick reactions, to avoid or block the blow and counter-attack, preferably all in the same movement.
Brandon has adopted the inside guard stance now, his sword-arm held across his body, the blade pointing upwards at an angle. I mirror him. We’re both shifting, one foot in front, one behind, knees softly bent, as light on our feet as we can be in our half-armour, ready to move, fast and hard.
He attacks first. The blow swings in towards my head; I move my sword to block it and the blades clank together. I don’t feel much force in Brandon’s arm, and he makes no attempt to slip my block and land another blow; instead he disengages and moves back, on guard again.
And I realise: he’s going gently with me – just playing at it, putting a little boy through his paces. The thought makes me feel sick.
I go for him now, and yell as I do it, loud enough to be heard up on the platform. Everyone laughs when I miss. Brandon’s reach is longer than mine; he only has to lift his sword-arm and my strike, making contact with nothing but air, swings me off balance and sends me stumbling side-first against the barrier.
But I’m angry. Back on guard for an instant only, I attack again, aiming high – at Brandon’s neck. As he wards off the blow, I slip my blade down to cut his thigh, but he blocks me again, and in the same move lands a thrust to my body, jabbing hard against my breastplate.
Before the herald’s even declared the hit, we’ve sprung apart again. I’m breathing hard.
Damn. A point lost. But at least the laughter’s died. And I see Brandon shake himself and take up his stance again with purpose, as if he’s suddenly taking this seriously.
Fighting bareheaded, your opponent’s eyes are what you watch, not his hands or his blade. You get an instinct for the moment of decision; you sense the move a split-second before it starts. I love it – that feeling of being locked in together… daring each other… and then exploding into action. You don’t feel the bruises until later.
But with helmets, and no view of your opponent’s face, it’s much harder. Occasionally I glimpse dark eyes glistening behind the grille of Brandon’s visor, but I can’t read them at all.
And now he’s coming at me in earnest, aiming for my head; there’s a clash of metal as I block and shift to the side. We disengage and then I’m in again, my arm across my face, sword high, as if I’ll strike his right ear. But it’s a trick: as Brandon blocks, I turn my wrist, swinging the blade back over my head, and land a blow to the other side of his helmet.
He staggers; the spectators cheer and clap. But by the time the herald has declared the point, Brandon’s recovered and we’re grappling again. After two bungled engagements he grabs the wrist of my sword-arm and yanks it back,
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