The Long Sword by Christian Cameron

time warding his guard with her buckler as she advanced.
    Fiore lifted his weapon and struck her lightly on the side.
    She stepped back and laughed. ‘Usually, after I hit a man twice in two crossings, he folds,’ she said. 
    Fiore frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.
    Fra Peter stepped between them. ‘Juan is waving. Sister, put up your sword before the university provost arrests us all. Fiore, she played you. From the moment she accused you of having trouble controlling your blade, she was controlling your actions.’
    Fiore wiped an arm across his face and frowned at me. ‘It is like facing a rival fencing master,’ he said.
    As Sister Marie disappeared up the steps behind the stables, Fra Peter collected the swords. ‘She is a rival fencing master, Messire dei Liberi. She teaches monks and nuns; indeed, she has a special licence from the Pope to do so anywhere she goes.’
    I flushed. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I tried to protect her from some carters this morning.’ I thought back over various other comments I’d made. ‘She’s old enough to be my mother,’ I added. And then, ‘If she has a licence, we were in no danger—’
    Fra Peter stood up straight and put a hand to the small of his back. ‘And I’m old enough to be your father. What difference does that make?’ He nodded to me. ‘Surely you have learned from your Janet that it is one thing to have official approval and another thing to be the woman in the armour? Eh?’
    That afternoon, Fra Peter introduced Fra Ricardo Caracciolo, who had been the papal commander of the city and was now accompanying Father Pierre. He was a tall, grey-haired Italian, with heavy eyebrows and a lively laugh. We exchanged bows, and I liked him immediately.
    ‘By the Blessed Saint John,’ he said in accented English. ‘It is good to see my Order can still bring the best young knights.’
    Who doesn’t like praise?
    But his next words chilled me. ‘My squire has just come from Milan,’ he said. ‘Do you know the Count d’Herblay?’
    ‘Why?’ I asked.
    Fra Ricardo shrugged. ‘My young Giovanni only mentioned it because we know you follow the good Fra Peter.’ He shrugged. ‘The man is looking for you. Or so my Giovanni says.’
     
    That night, we dined with Ser Niccolò. He had a rented house – really, very like a palace. We did not eat peacock, nor was any of the food gilded. Instead, we ate a number of dishes I had eaten before, but served hot, and not on gold or silver, but on plain pottery dishes. The wine flowed freely, and was served in beautiful cups of brightly coloured glass, green and blue and yellow.
    I can’t remember everything we had, but I remember a fine dish with noodles and duck and truffles, and a game pie. And roast beef served the way the Italians serve it. Several times, Ser Niccolò would rise from his place at the head table and walk among us – there were forty men or more, and as many women, so that for me it seemed a feast in a royal court. He served wine to some, and brought a sauce to another, as if he were a page or squire.
    I sat by Ser Nerio, and after the master had offered me wine – delicious red wine – I turned to Ser Nerio. ‘His wife is very beautiful,’ I said.
    Ser Nerio laughed. ‘That’s not his wife,’ he said. ‘That’s Donna Giuglia Friussi, his mistress and the mother of two of his children.’
    Mistress or wife, she was the hostess of the evening, and she summoned minstrels, applauded a poet, and led the ladies in a fast-paced estampida that seemed more like a fight than a dance.
    After a second dance, she came to our table and we all rose and she seated herself with two of her ladies. She was warm from dancing, and she had a scent I had never before experienced, something from the Levant. ‘You are the famous Ser Guillaumo the Cook!’ she said. ‘Ah, every girl in Florence pines for you, messire. Do not, I pray you, break too many Florentine hearts.’
    ‘Madonna,’ I replied, ‘I promise that,