He punched out hard. Smith could easily have dodged the punch, but he took it full on the breastbone. Nicholas pulled back his bunched fist with a gasp of pain.
‘See?’ said Smith. ‘It hurt you more than me. I’ll have a small bruise tomorrow but no more. Why? Not because you’ve no more meat on you than a sparrow – though you haven’t. But it’s a very, very rare man indeed who can really throw a hard punch. Forget it. It’s a fool’s fighting. Whereas to seize a sturdy oak joint stool and clout a fellow in the sconce. That would show some wit.
‘So: use an object. You hear me? Never, ever use your fist. Always—’ his voice rose to a sudden roar – ‘ seize the nearest object! ’
And at the same time as he bellowed these words, Smith seizedthe wooden stave from Hodge’s hands and charged at Nicholas like a maddened bull.
It happened in the blink of a bird’s eye, the twitch of a wren’s tail. The boy had time to glance about – fear did this, they said later, fear slowed the sun on the dial and gave you time. There was only one thing within reach, the corner of an empty hemp sack weighed down under a coil of rope. Nicholas saw the end of Smith’s stave driving hard at his belly and knew Smith would not stop. He meant to injure him.
His only weapon of defence, a scrap of hessian, flew up in Smith’s face. At the same time Nicholas twisted and the stave struck his bare flesh aslant, only lightly grazing it in passing. He fell on the stave and gripped it, until Smith wrenched it back with his far greater strength and left the boy’s hands burning from the friction.
Smith said, ‘See? You fought off an armed man with only a bit of hopsack.’
‘Not just a man either,’ said Nicholas. ‘A Knight Grand Cross of St John.’
Smith cuffed him on the side of his head with a great paw.
The closest he came to praise.
All that day the rules were drummed into them. Never use your fists. Kick but rarely. Thrust, don’t slash. Any hard object can kill a man. Care for your sword. Go for eyes, throat and stones. One backward step may be as good as a shield.
There were harder lessons the next day, and the next. Never leave an enemy merely stunned or injured. Kill him. Never go to the defence of a wounded comrade before one still fighting. He will do the same by you.
And there were the rules of chivalry. Never hurt a woman, always defend her. Nor child nor beardless boy. Never insult or spit on the enemy dead. Always honour and bury your own.
‘Beyond that,’ said Stanley, ‘there are many oaths and vows that bind a sworn Knight. But if you still mean to fight with us at Malta—’
‘We do.’
‘Then you will fight only as gentlemen volunteers.’
‘I will be a Knight of St John after.’
‘It takes years.’
‘I’ve got years.’
It was after dark with the ship sailing slow over a starlit sea before the boys finally devoured their evening ration of bread and cheese and bacon and fell asleep almost instantly. Smith and Stanley let them sleep for ten hours that night, they were so exhausted. They would be just as exhausted tomorrow night, but then they would have only eight hours. The night after, seven. By Malta, they would have learnt to live on five.
They murmured to each other of how they had gone to England for sacks of gold, for cases of guns, for knightly volunteers, and come back with a bundle of swords, a couple of purses, and two errant boys who had hardly raised a sword in their lives. A pretty success. They could guess the Grand Master’s verdict all too well. His words stung in their ears like imagined hail.
Yet tonight the sky was clear and studded with stars, the wind gentle from the west, making hardly a sound in the sails. Only the gentle swish of the bow wave below them.
The knights prayed to God for wind, for storm, for tempest. Anything but this damnable pacific calm, anything to hasten them. For they felt it in their bones.
The enemy was sailing too.
The boys
‘See?’ said Smith. ‘It hurt you more than me. I’ll have a small bruise tomorrow but no more. Why? Not because you’ve no more meat on you than a sparrow – though you haven’t. But it’s a very, very rare man indeed who can really throw a hard punch. Forget it. It’s a fool’s fighting. Whereas to seize a sturdy oak joint stool and clout a fellow in the sconce. That would show some wit.
‘So: use an object. You hear me? Never, ever use your fist. Always—’ his voice rose to a sudden roar – ‘ seize the nearest object! ’
And at the same time as he bellowed these words, Smith seizedthe wooden stave from Hodge’s hands and charged at Nicholas like a maddened bull.
It happened in the blink of a bird’s eye, the twitch of a wren’s tail. The boy had time to glance about – fear did this, they said later, fear slowed the sun on the dial and gave you time. There was only one thing within reach, the corner of an empty hemp sack weighed down under a coil of rope. Nicholas saw the end of Smith’s stave driving hard at his belly and knew Smith would not stop. He meant to injure him.
His only weapon of defence, a scrap of hessian, flew up in Smith’s face. At the same time Nicholas twisted and the stave struck his bare flesh aslant, only lightly grazing it in passing. He fell on the stave and gripped it, until Smith wrenched it back with his far greater strength and left the boy’s hands burning from the friction.
Smith said, ‘See? You fought off an armed man with only a bit of hopsack.’
‘Not just a man either,’ said Nicholas. ‘A Knight Grand Cross of St John.’
Smith cuffed him on the side of his head with a great paw.
The closest he came to praise.
All that day the rules were drummed into them. Never use your fists. Kick but rarely. Thrust, don’t slash. Any hard object can kill a man. Care for your sword. Go for eyes, throat and stones. One backward step may be as good as a shield.
There were harder lessons the next day, and the next. Never leave an enemy merely stunned or injured. Kill him. Never go to the defence of a wounded comrade before one still fighting. He will do the same by you.
And there were the rules of chivalry. Never hurt a woman, always defend her. Nor child nor beardless boy. Never insult or spit on the enemy dead. Always honour and bury your own.
‘Beyond that,’ said Stanley, ‘there are many oaths and vows that bind a sworn Knight. But if you still mean to fight with us at Malta—’
‘We do.’
‘Then you will fight only as gentlemen volunteers.’
‘I will be a Knight of St John after.’
‘It takes years.’
‘I’ve got years.’
It was after dark with the ship sailing slow over a starlit sea before the boys finally devoured their evening ration of bread and cheese and bacon and fell asleep almost instantly. Smith and Stanley let them sleep for ten hours that night, they were so exhausted. They would be just as exhausted tomorrow night, but then they would have only eight hours. The night after, seven. By Malta, they would have learnt to live on five.
They murmured to each other of how they had gone to England for sacks of gold, for cases of guns, for knightly volunteers, and come back with a bundle of swords, a couple of purses, and two errant boys who had hardly raised a sword in their lives. A pretty success. They could guess the Grand Master’s verdict all too well. His words stung in their ears like imagined hail.
Yet tonight the sky was clear and studded with stars, the wind gentle from the west, making hardly a sound in the sails. Only the gentle swish of the bow wave below them.
The knights prayed to God for wind, for storm, for tempest. Anything but this damnable pacific calm, anything to hasten them. For they felt it in their bones.
The enemy was sailing too.
The boys
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