wizard!"
"Quick thinking," Matt approved. In fact, maybe too quick. "You'll understand, then, that I'm not exactly outfitted for a tournament."
"Nay, certes! One could not expect a wizard to fight with sword or lance!" Sir Guy's voice became velvet itself. "It would seem, then, that we must find weapons we both may use, with good conscience."
Matt shrugged. "Got any handy?"
"These." Sir Guy yanked off his gauntlets and held up his fists. "The peasant's weapons, that all men do own to."
Matt's smile vanished. Sure, he'd done the usual fist fighting when he was a boy and had even had a YMCA boxing class when he was a teenager-but that had been more than ten years ago. Still, a knight might be very well-trained with sword, spear, lance, mace, and battle-axe-but wrestling was for peasants, and Matt couldn't remember offhand any reference to boxing in medieval literature.
He nodded slowly. "Sounds good, Sir Guy. I'll try you a couple of rounds."
He walked past the Princess's shocked stare, shrugging off his sport coat. Sir Guy grinned, swung down from his horse, and got busy unbuckling his armor.
"Art thou mad?" Stegoman demanded, lumbering up near him. "This knight is trained in all forms of martial exercise!"
"All forms?" Matt raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I didn't think there was much training in fist fighting here."
"Indeed, 'tis mere brawling and could not be glorified with study of system and method; yet he is a warrior. And thou?"
"I," Matt said grimly, "have had some training in the use of my fists, including the system and method you sneer at-which should give me an edge, even in so lowly a sport."
"Sport? Nay, good Lord Matthew! Be assured, this knight will not fight in jest!"
"A point to consider," Matt said, nodding. "Even if this is more of a social bout than anything else, he'll still fight for keeps. Thanks for the reminder."
"Are you in readiness?" Sir Guy asked, stepping out into the meadow and holding up his fists. He'd stripped down to a loose linen shirt and trousers. Matt eyed the padding he'd tossed on top of his armor and decided the man might be ethical.
"Ready whenever you are, Sir Guy." He stepped forward, holding up -his own fists.
He was right about having an edge. Sir Guy had the right crouch, but his fists were only chest-high, and at the same distance from his body. Which one did he think he was going to block with?
Good question-but Matt remembered Sir Guy holding his lance in his right hand. No, he wasn't a southpaw.
Matt started circling, warily. Sir Guy held his ground, rotating to follow him. Matt realized the knight was studying him closely, taking his measure, and returned the compliment. Sir Guy was on the short side, by Matt's standards-five eight or so. Of course, that was above average height here. But he was heavily muscled, with shoulders that would have done credit to an ox, and with an oiled smoothness to his movements that spoke of speed and precision. He had shiny black hair, cut straight across the forehead in front, ear-length at the temples, and halfway down his neck behind the ears. Very military-no hair to get in his eyes, but enough at the back to help protect his neck, in case chain mail and quilted padding didn't quite make it. He had a sleek black moustache that trailed down past the corners of his mouth, a square chin, large eyes set wide apart, and a nose that had been broken at least once. All in all, though, he looked friendly, cheerful-and wide open.
Suddenly Sir Guy moved, like a turnstile at rush hour-fast and abrupt, the right-hand side of his body slashing forward in a round-house lunge. Matt jumped, but a little too late-rock-hard knuckles jarred his cheekbone, and he staggered back through an instant of black shot with bright points of light. He kept on going back, though, shaking his head-Sir Guy wasn't the kind to allow recovery
"Quick thinking," Matt approved. In fact, maybe too quick. "You'll understand, then, that I'm not exactly outfitted for a tournament."
"Nay, certes! One could not expect a wizard to fight with sword or lance!" Sir Guy's voice became velvet itself. "It would seem, then, that we must find weapons we both may use, with good conscience."
Matt shrugged. "Got any handy?"
"These." Sir Guy yanked off his gauntlets and held up his fists. "The peasant's weapons, that all men do own to."
Matt's smile vanished. Sure, he'd done the usual fist fighting when he was a boy and had even had a YMCA boxing class when he was a teenager-but that had been more than ten years ago. Still, a knight might be very well-trained with sword, spear, lance, mace, and battle-axe-but wrestling was for peasants, and Matt couldn't remember offhand any reference to boxing in medieval literature.
He nodded slowly. "Sounds good, Sir Guy. I'll try you a couple of rounds."
He walked past the Princess's shocked stare, shrugging off his sport coat. Sir Guy grinned, swung down from his horse, and got busy unbuckling his armor.
"Art thou mad?" Stegoman demanded, lumbering up near him. "This knight is trained in all forms of martial exercise!"
"All forms?" Matt raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I didn't think there was much training in fist fighting here."
"Indeed, 'tis mere brawling and could not be glorified with study of system and method; yet he is a warrior. And thou?"
"I," Matt said grimly, "have had some training in the use of my fists, including the system and method you sneer at-which should give me an edge, even in so lowly a sport."
"Sport? Nay, good Lord Matthew! Be assured, this knight will not fight in jest!"
"A point to consider," Matt said, nodding. "Even if this is more of a social bout than anything else, he'll still fight for keeps. Thanks for the reminder."
"Are you in readiness?" Sir Guy asked, stepping out into the meadow and holding up his fists. He'd stripped down to a loose linen shirt and trousers. Matt eyed the padding he'd tossed on top of his armor and decided the man might be ethical.
"Ready whenever you are, Sir Guy." He stepped forward, holding up -his own fists.
He was right about having an edge. Sir Guy had the right crouch, but his fists were only chest-high, and at the same distance from his body. Which one did he think he was going to block with?
Good question-but Matt remembered Sir Guy holding his lance in his right hand. No, he wasn't a southpaw.
Matt started circling, warily. Sir Guy held his ground, rotating to follow him. Matt realized the knight was studying him closely, taking his measure, and returned the compliment. Sir Guy was on the short side, by Matt's standards-five eight or so. Of course, that was above average height here. But he was heavily muscled, with shoulders that would have done credit to an ox, and with an oiled smoothness to his movements that spoke of speed and precision. He had shiny black hair, cut straight across the forehead in front, ear-length at the temples, and halfway down his neck behind the ears. Very military-no hair to get in his eyes, but enough at the back to help protect his neck, in case chain mail and quilted padding didn't quite make it. He had a sleek black moustache that trailed down past the corners of his mouth, a square chin, large eyes set wide apart, and a nose that had been broken at least once. All in all, though, he looked friendly, cheerful-and wide open.
Suddenly Sir Guy moved, like a turnstile at rush hour-fast and abrupt, the right-hand side of his body slashing forward in a round-house lunge. Matt jumped, but a little too late-rock-hard knuckles jarred his cheekbone, and he staggered back through an instant of black shot with bright points of light. He kept on going back, though, shaking his head-Sir Guy wasn't the kind to allow recovery
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