that skill.’
With a tired grin, Henry said, ‘Good thing, ’cause I’m nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.’
‘Or your grandfather, or your father,’ said the Swordmaster dryly.
Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, ‘Or my little brother.’
‘Or that lad who works at the blacksmith’s.’
‘So, what you’re saying is, I should win this.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, ‘Fence!’
Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.
Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.
With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.
Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.
‘Oh …’ said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.
Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted – the tunic just below the face-guard – a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.
But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Ty’s foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.
The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, ‘Judges?’
Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henry’s end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henry’s blade. ‘This is really uncomfortable,’ Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.
‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.
The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’
Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his opponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.
Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’
As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’
‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’
‘What’s taking the judges so long?’
‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’
‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’
‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’
Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’
Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’
The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’
‘We must withdraw.’
There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’
‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’
Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’
Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’
‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.
The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’
The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.
When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’
Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.
‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months, years even.’
Hal nodded his acceptance of the offer.
The two finalists and their companions were escorted to the royal box where they bowed before the King of Roldem. King Carol was an ageing man with grey hair, but he still looked alert and happy. Next to him sat his wife, Queen Gertrude, and to her side stood their youngest son, Prince Grandprey, who was only a few years older than the two combatants and was dressed in the uniform of a general of the Royal Army; and his sister the Princess Stephané, resplendent in a gown of softly folded yellow silk, which spread gracefully out to the floor. Her shoulders were bare and her somewhat daring décolletage was hidden by a sheer shoulder wrap of the same hue. Her choice