was an indifferent fencer, but for reasons political, he rarely lost a bout. Tal had no doubt he had waited in the nearby changing rooms, under the soothing hands of a masseuse, waiting for word of Tal’s sessions being over. ‘That’s no trouble, Highness. I haven’t left the floor yet, so I would be happy to accommodate you should you wish a bit of a challenge.’
Several of the Prince’s party exchanged glances. On his best day the Prince would be no match for Tal on his worst, and few thought the Champion of the Masters’ Court likely to allow a victory to the Prince, given that Tal had never lost a bout and if he continued to win until the next Masters’ Court Tournament he would be the undisputed master of all time.
Prince Matthew forced a smile. ‘Again, a pity. I’ve already booked my opponents.’
Three young fencers stood nearby, one of them being the youth, Anatoli. He beamed as he stepped forward and said, ‘Highness, I would gladly surrender my place to allow the Champion to accommodate you.’
If looks could kill, Anatoli would have been instantly reduced to smoking debris. Instead, the Prince said, ‘How kind, young sir. I shall be sure to remember.’
Tal tried to suppress a grin. ‘Why don’t you begin with the other two, Highness, while I finish my lemon-water? When you’re finished with them, I’ll be delighted to be your last opponent.’
The Prince smiled, for at least Tal offered him a way to save face. He would win his first two bouts, after which being defeated by the Champion would be no shame. And, who knows, perhaps the Champion might seek to curry favour by allowing a draw – certainly he had done so before.
Tal wandered back to the buffet and helped himself to another piece of apple. The Prince quickly disposed of both his opponents who contrived to lose in an almost convincing fashion.
Tal put down his cup of water and returned to the floor. ‘Congratulations, Highness. You barely broke a sweat.’ In fact the Prince was puffing like an old horse that had been run uphill all day.
‘Kind of you … to say that … Squire.’
‘Let’s say to seven? That will give us both a good workout.’
Master Vassily glanced at Tal with narrowed eyes. To seven meant best of seven touches. The usual match was to three touches. Tal would win without difficulty, but would have to score on the Prince four touches instead of the usual two out of three. The Prince was caught exactly where Tal wanted him, unwilling to decline. He said, ‘Of course.’
Then Tal said, ‘And if you would be so gracious, we’ve already both matched with rapiers. I could use some practice with a heavier weapon. Sabres? Or longswords, perhaps?’
Everyone within hearing range fell silent. Prince Matthew was indifferent with the rapier, but it was his best weapon. The heavy cavalry blade required quick, powerful attacks, and the infantry sword required stamina. The Prince elected the lesser of two evils. ‘Sabres, then, Squire.’
Tal motioned for one of the floor staff to hand him his helmet and sword, while another attendant brought the Prince a practice sabre. Master Vassily approached and whispered, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Squire?’
‘I just thought it about time someone took some of the wind out of that pompous fool’s sails, Master Vassily.’
The Master of the Floor stood dumbfounded. His entire experience with Squire Hawkins had led him to believe him a young man of exceptional social adroitness. He could charm nearly every woman he met and most men wanted to be his friend. Yet here he stood ready to humiliate a royal prince. ‘He’s the King’s cousin, Squire!’ hissed Vassily.
‘The fact of which the swine makes sure we never forget,’ said Tal, trying to sound venomous. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
From the moment they took their places, Tal knew he could have his way with the Prince, injure him, or even kill him if he wanted. Despite the padding and the helmet, a sabre – even a practice sabre with a blunted edge – could wreak great harm in the hands of a master, and no man was more of a master than Tal.
Reluctantly, Vassily took his place and raised his weapon. ‘Places!’
Both men approached and touched blades, and when Vassily ordered, ‘Begin!’ the Prince attempted a quick but feeble overhand strike.
Tal knocked it aside effortlessly. The Prince was already overbalanced and Tal should have without hesitation riposted with a strike to the shoulder or exposed side of the body for the point. Instead he retreated a step. ‘Why don’t you try that again, Highness?’ he said in a voice that merely hinted at mockery. It was almost as if he was turning a practice duel into a lesson.
Tal took his position, sabre down at his side, waiting, while the Prince retreated and approached with his sword at the ready. The Prince tried the same move, even more clumsily than before, and Tal easily blocked to the side. Prince Matthew overbalanced and was open to any number of light taps that would win Tal the match, but at the last instant, Tal slashed hard with a punishing blow to the ribs, hard enough to bring an audible grunt of pain from the Prince.
‘Score, Squire Hawkins!’ announced Vassily, as he looked at Tal with an expression halfway between a question and outrage.
With a gasp, Prince Matthew pulled himself upright, his left hand across his stomach, clutching his ribs. Affecting concern, Tal asked, ‘I trust I didn’t hurt you, Highness?’
For an instant Tal wondered if the Prince was going to be sick, for his voice sounded as if he were swallowing between words. ‘No … I’m … fine … Squire.’
Brightly, Tal suggested, ‘Let’s try another.’
For a moment it appeared as if the Prince might decline, but instead he returned to his position and Tal said, ‘Be careful not to over-extend, Highness.’
With barely-concealed anger, Master Vassily approached. There was nothing he could do, really. As Master of the Floor he could halt any match for any reason, and over the years he had stopped several matches in which an advanced student was bullying a novice. But this was a royal prince of the House of Roldem and to halt this bout because Tal was punishing him would only humiliate the Crown.
Tal scored two more brutal touches, and by the time the Prince approached the line, Master Vassily whispered, ‘Squire, this is more than enough!’
‘If His Highness wishes to retire, I will not object,’ Tal said with as much contempt as he could manage in his tone. He let his voice carry just enough that all those nearby could overhear.
Prince Matthew was a proud man, even if that pride was founded in vanity rather than achievement. He seemed to be choking back tears when he said, ‘I’m not going to quit.’
Brightly, Tal said, ‘Well said, Highness. Let’s give the gallery something to remember, shall we?’
When Vassily instructed them to start, Prince Matthew held his ground, waiting for Tal to make the first move. Tal feinted and the Prince reacted. In quick order, Tal knocked the Prince’s sabre from his hand, then slipped the point of his sabre under his helmet, flipping it off his head. Then he stepped past the Prince and administered as hard a blow across the buttocks as he could. The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous. Gasps of astonishment were mixed with catcalls and jeers. The blow was so hard that Prince Matthew fell forward to his knees, hand stretched out before
