Page 69 of The Cornish Princess
“I am me,” he said. “You are you.”
“Bryn said—”
“I know what your poppet says, Princess, but you’ll gain little advantage with a spin. It will not give you more force, nor any more leverage, and will present your back to your opponent. Always remember, your single directive is to avoid being skewered. To do this, you must keep your eyes on your opponent’s blade.”
Like a strange, sensual dance, he seized Gwendolyn by the hand, spinning her about, showing her what he meant, and, suddenly, she found her back nestled against his leathered chest, and he shoved the tip of his sword against her back. The sharp blade did not penetrate her tunic, but it came dangerously close. She swallowed convulsively, trusting him, even though every instinct told her not to.
Gods.
With Bryn, she had never once allowed herself to be so vulnerable, and here they were, leagues away from the safety of her father’s court, with a man whose loyalties she’d once questioned, allowing him to prick her with his deadly blade.
“Notice where the point is,” he whispered, and she heard the pop of the fabric of her leather tunic as the blade penetrated to kiss her sensitive flesh. “If you ever find yourself in this vulnerable position, do not aim for the heart. ’Tis difficult to hit anything of consequence when you stab a man in the back.”
“Here,” he said, pressing the tip a little harder, so it gave her flesh a sting. “Here, to the right, not the left, you will pierce the reins. The pain will be excruciating, and your opponent will drop like a stone.”
Gods.
Gwendolyn found herself frozen, and breathless—torn between longing to extricate herself from his embrace… and wishing to submit…
She had not felt this way in Prince Loc’s arms.
Never did she imagine herself so ready to kiss a man—so acutely aware of every nerve in her body, every inhale and exhale of breath… her own as well as his.
From across the courtyard came a sudden clang of metal, and Gwendolyn peered over to discover her uncle’s farrier working on her mare’s shoe—a favor she didn’t ask for but was grateful for. However, realizing they had eyes upon them now, her body flushed hot, and, after an excruciating moment, Málik withdrew, and Gwendolyn felt the sharp, cold blade ease away from her skin, somehow leaving her strangely bereft as his hand abandoned hers in midair. She turned to eye his sword, dazed and confused, but too curious not to ask. “Why does your sword have so short a grip?”
Málik leveled it before her, positioning one hand against the sword guard, the other on the pear-shaped pommel, demonstrating the proper way to hold it.
“Should I be using this design?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“On what?”
Far more swiftly than Gwendolyn could follow, he performed a crooked strike, meanwhile unsheathing the parrying dagger at his waist, and said, “Whether you wish to fight one-handed or two.”
Gwendolyn inspected her own arming sword, tilting it one way, then the other, attempting the same maneuver he’d only just displayed, but to no avail. She could easily wield a second blade with her own sword, such as the one she kept at her boot, but not whilst employing such an awkward maneuver. And yet she could see why this could be necessary. The most important thing in battle—so Bryn once said—was to remain flexible.
“It’s not possible,” he said. “For two reasons. First, most people need two expert hands to employ such a gambit, but your sword has design limitations as well.”
Gwendolyn attempted the maneuver again and found she lacked the mobility to hold the sword without finding herself in danger of losing it entirely.
“I understand why you were given that sword. Most women don’t have the strength or cause to wield a two-handed weapon. But you are good enough, Gwendolyn.”
Gwendolyn couldn’t help it. She grinned. These were the times she felt most alive—when she was sparring with a partner, wielding her sword. It gave her a sense of control over her life that she wouldn’t trade for all the lace in Damascus.
“Someday I will teach you the other master strikes.”
“Master strikes?”
“The Strike of Wrath, the Cross Strike, the Parting Strike and the Squinting Strike—some of the finer techniques of a longsword.”
“I would like that,” Gwendolyn said, though, at the moment, she was far more curious about his sword. “May I try yours?” she asked.
“Of course.” He traded swords with her, testing the length of hers by measuring it to his heel. It was too short.
Gwendolyn did the same, finding his blade far too long. She had to bend her elbow to avoid scraping the tip across the ground. Clearly, his arms were much longer, and this sword was fashioned particularly for him. Even hers was not so well honed, for she had grown much since her fifteenth year.
“You could have one made,” he suggested. “Of course, yours would be shorter, but this would suit you, and it would allow you more freedom to parry as you please. I have already surmised this is your strength.”
