She shakes her head. Slowly but decisively. Her eyes fixed on the steel in his hand.
‘Very well,’ he says with a shrug. He stands beside Tova. ‘This is a knife. A simple weapon. The simplest. But it’s no less deadly than a sword or spear or axe. It can be just as good, if you know how to use it properly. Show me yours. Show me how you hold it.’
Hesitantly, she draws the blade from the sheath at her left side, placing her thumb along the side of the handle, like she would when cutting her food. That’s what it’s for; she has no idea if it’s sharp enough to do anyone any real harm. She’s never thought about it before. She glances across at Beorn’s hand, to see how he holds his, and is reassured to find he has the same grip.
‘Good.’ He turns to face her. ‘The first thing you have to know is that a knife’s no weapon for defending with. At best you can ward an attacker off for a while. You can’t block or parry. Your best chance if someone comes at you is to make sure you strike first. Now, you’re small, but that’s no bad thing, because it means you can be quick. Quicker than anyone will expect. And quickness is what matters. Be one move ahead of your attacker. Kill him before he kills you. Stay off your heels and keep your weight forward. Not all the way forward so that you’re on your toes, but so that you can easily step in whichever direction you need to go.’
Attack, don’t defend, she repeats silently. Be quick. Stay forward. Strike first. Kill quickly.
Beorn shows her how to stand when facing her foe, her right foot in front of the left, one shoulder back, offering him a narrower target while also presenting her blade edge. How to use her feet to back away when an attacker comes at her. How to cut circles through the air in front of her to ward him off and make him keep his distance. He gets her to try these things while he advances upon her. At first she doesn’t want to, thinking she might injure him by accident, but he laughs off her worries and tells her he’ll be fine.
‘Small movements,’ he urges. ‘Keep your elbows in, or else you leave yourself open. Little circles, like this.’
Over and over they practise it. She protests that she doesn’t need to keep repeating the same thing, that she understands, but he refuses to teach her anything else until he’s satisfied that she really does.
Their shadows in the firelight deepen as dusk quickly fades into night. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the others watching her: Guthred and Oslac in bemusement, her lady with her hand over her mouth in concern. Tova does her best to ignore them, but it isn’t easy. Every time she stumbles she feels her cheeks burning. She expects them to laugh at her, but they don’t. She expects Merewyn sooner or later to try to put a stop to things, but she doesn’t.
‘All right,’ says Beorn eventually. ‘Now you’re ready to try something harder.’
Instead of getting her to back away when an attacker comes at her, this time he wants her to move to one side, so that she gets her body out of the path of his blade. He talks her through it, slowly to begin with, like showing her the steps of a dance: he comes at her, lunging forward, thrusting his knife point towards her chest; she moves neatly outside the line of his outstretched arm. Again they go through the same motions, and again, and again, gradually getting faster.
Then he shows her how, as she moves to his flank, she can slice her blade down across the back of his wrist and use her free hand to force his weapon arm out of the way, leaving his chest exposed, ready for her to stab straight at his heart.
‘That’s how you make a killing blow,’ he says. ‘If you only wound your foe, he’s still dangerous. But if you strike him there, he won’t be getting up. You have to be quick, though, and you have to be sure of yourself. If you aren’t, you’re dead.’
They keep on practising for the better part of an hour, until her brow is slick with sweat and her limbs are aching and her fingers can barely grip the hilt of her blade any longer. Her arms are tiring, her feet hurting, but she clenches her teeth and vows to keep going. She wanted this, she reminds herself. She mustn’t show weakness.
Before long though she’s tripping over her own feet. He sees she’s struggling and says that’s enough for one night.
He sheathes his borrowed knife, then throws his arm around her shoulder and tousles her hair. She squirms away, protesting as she brushes it out of her face, annoyed and yet at the same time quietly pleased because she knows he’s proud.
*
‘They say you saved them from the Normans,’ Guthred says to Beorn when they’re sitting around the fire later.
Beorn has tied a rope between two trees, and over it draped a large sheet made from hides stitched together, which he secures with pegs at each of the four corners to make a shelter. It’s open to the wind but at least it’ll keep the rain off.