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 bastard 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 shirt back into place and buttoned 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 damned 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 fashioned 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 fortitude.
“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.”
Bastard, Matthew thought. He didn’t know how much more of this his arm could take, but damned if he’d give up.
“You’re losing your form,” said Greathouse as he walked the circle again. “You have no power in your arm, do you? Keep going. Don’t lift that left foot. Are you deaf? I said to keep your body in line!”
Sweat glistened on Matthew’s face as he continued to cut and thrust. The rapier now felt as if it weighed near an anvil and his forearm was just nerveless meat. His shoulder, however, was screaming bloody murder.
After what seemed at least fifteen minutes, Greathouse said, “Stop.”
Matthew lowered the weapon and tried to rub the life back into his arm. He was breathing hard. It amazed him how much strength and energy was demanded just to handle the damned sword, much less use it in a combat situation. “How long will it take me to become proficient?” he asked, in between breaths.
Greathouse had sheathed his rapier and hung it by a leather strap across his shoulder. Now he produced a short-stemmed clay pipe from his breeches pocket, lit it with a match from a small tinderbox, and blew out a plume of gray smoke that floated past Matthew’s head. “Ten years,” he answered. “Give or take.” He tucked the tinderbox away.
“Ten years?”
“You’re starting a little late. I began lessons when I was eight years old.”
“Well, maybe I should begin with a sword fit for a child, then.”
“I don’t think I could teach while convulsed with laughter. Anyway, I don’t believe in using wooden blunts for adults. You have to strengthen your hand and forearm and keep your body in line. Blunts only give you a false sense of progress.”
“I’m not sure this is anything I can ever progress at, blunts or not.”
Greathouse took Matthew’s sword, indicating their night’s training was at an end. “Maybe not, and certainly not all men are suited to using a rapier or any other kind of sword. I know there’s a lot to remember.”
