“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 saber—even a practice saber 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, saber 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 overextend, 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 saber from his hand, then slipped the point of his own sabre under the Prince’s 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 him. His face was flushed, and his eyes swollen from the tears of pain he had not shed from the previous blows. But the last strike had reduced him to crying, and despite his best efforts, he could not help himself.
Courtiers rushed forward and helped the humiliated Prince to his feet. Tal turned his back and walked away, another breach of decorum. In the gallery, several young women who had come to the Masters’ Court in the hope of catching Tal’s eye rose and departed, contempt in their eyes as they regarded him.
Master Vassily hurried over and said, “Are you totally bereft of reason?”