Very few swordsmen actually want to hit the person they’re fighting. It’s something Harry’s learned in countless tournaments. They shut their eyes at the last moment, aim for the sword rather than the man, or wait too long for their opening.
Iain has no such qualms. It’s exciting. Every swing, he’s aiming to kill. Harry’s sword is just an inconvenience to be batted away so he can continue to move his blade towards Harry’s body. Iain doesn’t have full mobility because of the leg irons, but it simply means he can’t advance as fast as he wants. Retreat doesn’t occur to him as a possibility.
Iain lays on another full-strength blow, and Harry dances a step backwards, leaving Iain to swing at nothing but air.
‘Stop,’ Harry commands. ‘You have no pacing. There’s no point going full strength on a blow you know is going to be parried. You’ll just tire yourself out. And you’re parrying too far. It’s a waste of energy.’
‘Won’t matter if I’m tired, when you’re dead,’ Iain pants through his wolf’s smile.
‘Look,’ Harry says, walking back towards Iain and gently nudging at the boy’s sword with his own. ‘What do you think you’re accomplishing by parrying this far—’ and Harry pushes Iain’s blade about eighteen inches away from his body— ‘versus this far?’ Harry taps aside Iain’s blade just enough that it will miss his body by an inch or two.
Iain wrinkles his nose. ‘It gives me more time if I’ve hit your sword way over there.’
‘But then your sword’s way over there too,’ Harry says mildly. ‘And if you commit that hard to the parry, I can do this.’ He motions for Iain to parry his swing. Just as Iain commits, Harry flicks his wrist, sending the tip of his sword on a sweet little disengage under Iain’s blade. Then he extends and pokes Iain in the stomach. ‘See? You left yourself completely open.’
Iain stares at him, head cocked, mouth slightly open. ‘Do that again,’ he says.
Harry swings, Iain parries, and Harry dips his blade around Iain’s again, this time tapping him on the helmet.
Iain mutters to himself in Gaelic, then squares up. ‘Again,’ he says in French.
Harry holds up a finger. ‘Let me show you one refinement that works better in real-world situations. Go slowly, so you can see this.’
Harry swings, Iain parries, Harry disengages again and brings his blade under and around to the inside of Iain’s, then rides his blade up the edge of the boy’s sword, keeping it locked up to the side where it can’t damage him as Harry’s own sword-point pokes into Iain’s shoulder.
‘And honestly,’ Harry says, ‘going for the shoulder or the chest or the head is all very tempting but their forearm is closer and if you stab it good, they’ll drop the sword. Nobody recovers from losing their weapon. Other squires will try to be heroes, waiting for a clean shot at your head or chest. Just nail ’em in the hand or arm, Iain. Then finish ’em.’
Iain’s gone still. Harry can’t tell what the boy is feeling. His expression is distant, as if he’s performing calculations in his head. The boy’s shoulders are slumped, his sword hanging listlessly at his side.
Harry bites his lip. Maybe he’s being too hard on him for a first day.
‘Iain, listen,’ he says. ‘You’re good. You’re a natural, and you’ve clearly had some training. You could be great, though. And I’m selfish.’
That makes Iain look up.
Harry grins. ‘Think how Montagu’s gang will feel when my Scottish squire wipes the floor with all of their English squires at the first tournament we roll up to.’
Iain doesn’t smile but his eyes glitter. He raises his sword up to a garde.
And when, about half an hour later, he manages a perfect disengage and stabs Harry hard enough in the bicep to make him yelp, Harry swears that Iain grins under his helmet.
When the church bells ring Sext, the manor’s dinner hour, both Harry and Iain are soaked with sweat. Harry peels off his practice jacket and helmet, and staggers over to stick his head in the horse trough near the paddock gate. As he slicks his wet hair out of his eyes, he smiles at Iain. ‘Feels good to get the blood moving, eh?’
Iain unlaces his shirt collar and pushes the baggy linen garment down around his waist as he shuffles up to the trough. His face is back to its impassive, sullen mask. He doesn’t say anything as he dunks his head, then splashes the cool water on his bare chest.
Harry frowns. He’d hoped for more, somehow. He thought that the sparring had broken the ice between them. But Iain turns away from him and shuffles towards the hall, silent again.
Harry can’t understand where he went wrong. He sets off after Iain, afraid of letting him out of sight.
Harry hears Ralf stride up beside him, and glances up at the big blacksmith. ‘Thanks for standing by today.’
‘My pleasure,’ Ralf says, his eyes on Iain’s back. His next words are a whisper. ‘He’s determined to hate you.’
‘I know,’ Harry breathes.
‘And he’s furious with himself that he’s failing,’ the blacksmith continues.
Harry looks at Ralf in amazement. Ralf smiles and pats him on the back. ‘I must get back to my forge. Keep trying, Harry. The best steel is strong and takes much effort to shape, but with patience, it can become something beautiful.’
Harry catches up with Iain, his head dizzy from Ralf’s parting words.
Iain instinctively turns right, towards the stairs to the solar, but Harry takes his arm and brings him to the short table at the head of the hall. He pulls the bench out and settles down, indicating for Iain to sit next to him.
Iain takes his place and gazes out at the hall, at the couple of dozen servants and farmers and visitors who have assembled for the big midday meal. They’d all stopped talking when Iain came
