Cross it! Don’t flap it like a wet cock! Cross it! Then close me!’ Sir John Cornewaille snarled at Hook.
The sword came again, slashing at Hook’s waist, and this time Hook managed to cross his own blade to parry the blow and, as he did so, pushed forward, only to be thumped back by a thrust of Sir John’s mailed fist. ‘Keep coming,’ Sir John urged him, ‘crowd me, get me down on the ground, then finish me!’ Instead Hook stepped back and brought up his sword to deflect the next swing of Sir John’s blade. ‘What in Christ’s name is the matter with you?’ Sir John shouted in rage. ‘Have you been weakened by that French whore of yours? By that titless streak of scabby French gristle? Christ’s bones, man, find a real woman! Goddington!’ Sir John glanced at his centenar, ‘why don’t you spread that scabby whore’s skinny legs and see if she can even be humped?’
Hook felt the sudden anger then, a red mist of rage that drove him onto Sir John’s blade, but the older man stepped lithely aside and flicked his sword so that the blade’s flat rapped the back of Hook’s skull. Hook turned, his own sword scything at Sir John, who parried easily. Sir John was in full armour, yet moved as lightly as a dancer. He lunged at Hook, and this time Hook remembered the advice and he swept the lunge aside and threw himself on his opponent, using all his weight and height to unbalance the older man, and he knew he was going to hammer Sir John onto the ground where he would beat him to a pulp, but instead he felt a thumping smack on the back of his skull, his vision went dark, the world reeled, and a second crashing blow with the heavy pommel of Sir John’s sword threw him face down into the early winter stubble.
He did not hear much of what Sir John said in the next few minutes. Hook’s head was painful and spinning, but as he gradually recovered his senses he heard some of the snarled peroration. ‘You can feel anger before a fight! But in the fight? Keep your goddam wits about you! Anger will get you killed.’ Sir John wheeled on Hook. ‘Get up. Your mail’s filthy. Clean it. And there’s rust on the sword blade. I’ll have you whipped if it’s still there at sundown.’
‘He won’t whip you,’ Goddington, the centenar, told Hook that evening. ‘He’ll thump you and cut you and maybe break your bones, but it’ll be in a fair fight.’
‘I’ll break his bones,’ Hook said vengefully.
Goddington laughed. ‘One man, Hook, just one man has held Sir John to a drawn fight in the last ten years. He’s won every tournament in Europe. You won’t beat him, you won’t even come close. He’s a fighter.’
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