Chapter 22

My Heart Strings Come Undone

The following day, when Max entered the fencing Salle, Harriet was there.

He didn't look at her directly, he needn't, for he saw her red hair at a glance. He hung his hat by the door and kept her at the edge of his vision as he crossed to his place in the front row. His intention was to ignore her, for she had chosen Gilbert, and his letter had not been answered.

Still, he felt her presence strongly.

Finding his mark, Max exchanged nods of greeting with a couple of others, took stock of where Ginger was (he had half a mind to break his nose if he so much as tickled him with a foil), turned to face the front and tried to relax. Together the class waited in near silence for the arrival of their tutor. The Captain entered a moment later.

“Good afternoon students. Please get yourself a foil and return to your places. Go!”

The Blacks surged forward to raid the barrel at the front, while the Whites produced practice foils from bags, cases or whatever else they used to transport their own personal weapons. During the movement Max kept away from Ginger and forced himself not to look at Harriet.

“En garde!” barked the Captain and as one, the four ranks of students dropped into the classic starting position. “And hold,” continued von Tempsky as he began to pace the rows examining each student's stance. As always he wore his lose black shirt and cavalry breeches.

“I am at a conundrum,” he mused out loud as he strolled. “See I vish to move you all onto ze sabre. But your foil is still pitiful! I have half ze mind to delay ze introduction until next year.” He continued his walk, lifting a foil or even a chin, here or there with the scabbard of his own sword. “Zis is vot we shall do zhen. Two more veeks vith ze foil. Zen we shall judge. If zere is no great improvement, zen we stay with ze foil.”

A small collective groan came from the class at this, for Sabre was the tool everyone wanted to be using. Although it wasn't the reality, the class seemed to have formed the opinion that foil was basically a training medium and sabre the main event. Foil is to sabre what pony is to horse. No one appreciated the delay.

Max however was unconcerned. He had felt his own skills almost double in the time since he had begun to spar with Julian Roil. And of course, they were already onto sabre.

Not only was his physical prowess increasing, including the ability to pass under an opponent’s blade and come up behind him, forcing a complete swap in position, he was also beginning to understand a little of the psychological side of fencing. On this front the battle was fought with bluffs, fakes, poses, feints, and counter-feints, and by the ability to recognise the use of these tricks by one's adversary, without falling for them.

“Ve shall begin!”

What followed was a very intense work out, lasting almost an hour and covering all the basics, before finally touching on the application of fundamental feinting techniques. But not once did two foils touch. The captain kept them in their ranks, working solo, and receiving much critique from him.

As was his tradition The Captain intended to finish his class with an instructional exhibition.

“Miss Leith! I had begun to zink that you might have finally abandoned us. But alas I see you have returned.”

A number of heads swung around to peer at Harriet. She lifted her chin as Von Tempsky continued. “If zen you cannot be dissuaded, maybe it is time ve saw, as they say; vhat you have. Please step forward.” The Captain clicked his fingers to add emphasis to his command, Harriet didn't move. “Now Miss Leith, if you vill! Master Lavisham, please accompany your lady for the sake of seeing to her outfitting.” As the pair came forward and began arranging a mask, gloves and a protective plastron the Captain's eyes searched the students for a match he deemed suitable for Harriet.

A feeling had started to grow in Max the moment von Tempsky called Harriet's name, the same feeling he had had in the first class when he fought Lavisham. At once his mind started tripping over; Not good, not good, not good... For he knew again what was going to happen. A chill dread seemed to rise from the wooden floor and seize his stomach, then climbing higher, grip his neck. He tried, in his mind at least, to make himself smaller. To be unnoticed. But it didn't help, as he knew it wouldn't. The Captain's cold grey eyes came to rest on him.

“Ah Mr Skilton. Let us see how you have progressed over the last few veeks.” The Captain swept his arm toward the front of the room. “If you vill.”

Max remained staring forward for a long moment, his own eyes distant and his jaw set hard. He shook his head in disbelief.

Of all the pairings.

“Mr Skilton!”

Max set off, stalking forward rigidly to the duelling line, where he turned slowly on the mark to face Harriet. Julian Roil arrived a moment later and began outfitting Max.

This is madness. Poetic, cruel, madness.

Harriet did not look at him, but instead studied the floor between them.

That at least is appropriate. She hangs her head.

Gilbert however hardly took his malicious eyes off Max, as he pulled small belts and fastened buckles behind Harriet. Thus, Julian completed the task before him.

Max bared Lavisham little thought, looking ahead only at Harriet.

So, this was to be their first meeting after... after that night. Ironic. Maybe she would use her sword to complete the job.

Roil slipped the mask over Max's head.

“Be careful not to hurt her,” he whispered and with a pat on his back, was gone.

Gilbert was also addressing Harriet, who now also had her own mask in place and had finally lifted her head.

“Lavisham! Be avay!” snapped The Captain. “You slow ze proceedings tediously vith your murmurings.” Gilbert threw Von Tempsky a withering glare and retreated, ignored. A few of the class risked sniggers.

“Using all you have learnt. Von round, to ze first blood... sorry, ze first point. En-garde!”

Max paused, just one moment. He then enacted the old salute and took the position. Harriet remained motionless.

“Miss Leith! En-garde!” barked The Captain. Harriet turned her masked head to regard their tutor.

“Miss Leith, En-garde,” repeated Von Tempsky with a stage whisper, while trying to penetrate through her mesh visor with his fierce eyes. Harriet turned back to Max and then with the bell of her foil held before her hidden eyes returned the salute.

“Yes, very good,” snapped The Captain, growing even more impatient. “And begin!”

Max did not know what he was going to do. A few days ago, with his imaginary broomstick sword he had both beheaded and disembowelled her, and something in that and his subsequent duels with Roil had let his anger burn out. Now he was empty toward her, only coldness within. The writing of a letter had offered some small, momentary hope, but that too had faded with the passing of time.

But she too was different, head hung, reluctant. Today he hadn’t seen the green fire in her eyes, the flaming highlights in her hair. Maybe it was only his accursed infatuation that had gone out, finally freeing him from such fancies. He was glad of it. But now what of her? He no longer feared her. Should she be pitied?

“Get on with it!” roared Gilbert Lavisham from the back rank. Harriet seemed to start and come out of herself at his words. The point of her sword rose.

Seeing the movement Max lifted his steel to meet hers. But again, they stood as if paralysed. Even though no one in the room could guess at the pair's short relationship, all sensed a tension between the combatants, something that hadn’t been present in any of the earlier exhibitions they had witnessed.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Max had never seen Harriet fence. But he knew from 'talk' that she was supposed to be good; all the whites were. He knew also that this should worry him, that humiliation at the point of her foil was the most likely outcome from this meeting.

However, it didn't. As charged as the air had suddenly become, he did not care. He could not let himself care. He felt like he had aged a hundred years in the last week, like he had seen the world for what it was, and all his naivety had fled from him. Now he was an old man. A bitter old man. He tapped the edge of her foil with his.

Nothing happened. Max shrugged and tapped it again. This time, after a moment, she tapped his back. He returned the tap. She swiped back. Small blow for small blow they matched each other, without enthusiasm or much intent. But as natural as water flowing downhill those small hits sped up. Now they duelled like children or circus performers, working together, intent on hitting the others sword and not their person.

This went on for a time. Then one or other of them tested toward a body shot and was parried aside. The next time this happened the parry was followed by a riposte, a counter attack. Then like a locomotive reaching speed the duel proper began.

Until now Max had kept his feet firmly anchored in place, left arm behind his back, motionless on the line, his sword arm doing all the work. But suddenly as Harriet lunged in he sprung back, her lance missing his stomach by inches. Then he sprung forward bringing his own attack, only to have it likewise turned aside by a flurry of blows. They came apart.

Max didn't wait however and feinted low-right before suddenly driving high-left. Harriet only just turned the thrust aside in time. Then all at once they were both working hard, and Max had never duelled so long without a point being scored. He knew it could only be seconds away.

For a time, the masked person in front of him had ceased to be Harriet, whom he had loved. It was only a faceless adversary, a spectre with a length of steel in its hand. But her sword play began to betray little hints of her personality, the cheeky bluffs, the intense exchanges. Max could not escape from the fact that he was locked in combat with… his love. Suddenly the concealing mask seemed to slip away from her and he saw again, in his memory, her beautiful face, as it had appeared that night on the speeding locomotive or the next morning over breakfast. He almost gasped out loud at the feelings that his image conjured but controlling himself he drove his weapon in with all his force.

Bang! The button on the end of Harriet's foil struck Max a pointed jab right on his heart.

“A heart shot! Very good!” cried the Captain in the silence that followed the sudden end of the combat. Max remained for a moment, skewered as it were on Harriet's blade, while Von Tempsky checked his fob. “Outstanding! And ve have time for von more,” he confirmed snapping the silver lid closed. Max stepped back, the Captain's words, a heart shot! A heart shot! echoing in his mind.

“En-garde,” Von Tempsky announced, and they both returned to the ready stance. “Begin!”

Harriet drove forward on a new attack. Max opened his arms and for a second time the end of her foil found his heart. Bang!

“Master Skilton!? Vot are you doing?”

“I'm sorry Sir,” answered Max evenly. “I fell for Miss Leith's skilful feint. She fooled me and wounded my heart. I shall not let it happen again.”

Von Tempsky looked at him sceptically.

“See that it does not. En-garde. Begin!”

This time Max exchanged a couple of blows with Harriet before he opened his arms once more and took another hit to his chest. The onlookers sniggered. Max spoke before the Captain.

“It appears that I grow weary. And like a fool left myself open a second time. I am beaten and have no further appetite for this engagement.”

“So you vill not fight her?”

Max shook his head.

“She is too good for me.”

Harriet's arms hung at her sides. Max knew she understood his double meanings.

“Beaten by a girl!” shouted Lavisham. At least half the class laughed at this. Max noted which ones; Ginger, Ihaka, Raxworthy, any of the other classical architects present, even Gilbert seemed to be enjoying his own joke.

Max looked back to Harriet in time to see her rush toward him, foil across her chest. He got his own sword up just in time to block her. She stopped, her face inches from his, their foils forming an X.

“You have to fight me!” she said.

“Do I?” he responded casually.

“You have to fight me!” she repeated with more urgency, pushing against him. Max returned her push and thrust her away. He was turning to leave when she called out with near breaking voice, “Please Max, fight for me.”

Max was almost off the line when the apparent double meaning of her words reached him. He turned to look at her. The mask still covered her face, and although she stood, her body seemed to have collapsed in on itself.

Please Max, fight for me.

He stared at her for a long moment.

What was that supposed to mean? How could fighting her be the same as fighting for her? Unless she meant it like 'dance for me, beg for me, my little pet.'

But Max knew it wasn't that. She wasn't even speaking about fencing. The plea was an acknowledgement of their one-time connection. She was making herself the goal, the trophy; fight for me. He snorted at the idea.

He looked down at her and almost walked away. Almost. And although his body shook with anger and hurt, it resumed, almost by itself, a default of training, the engarde position. Slowly she collected herself and matched him.

“Begin,” sighed Von Tempsky.

Before the class the two combatants drove in at each other, their flashing blades becoming a silver blur between them. Max fought with a new ferociousness that surprised everyone, himself included. But it wasn't a wild, blind thing. It was a new clarity. As if something that had held him back had suddenly broken and now the way was clear. The effect was that whenever she thrust at him he seemed to see the angle of attack from the moment the action formed. His sword was always where it needed to be. It was as if he could foretell what move she would make the split second the command from her brain telegraphed out to her sword arm. Even before that. She couldn't touch him. He liked that; she can't touch me.

At the other end Harriet was beginning to struggle to turn his ripostes, lunges, and thrusts aside. No sooner, in fact the instant, he parried away a thrust of hers, his own attack would snake back at her; high, low, at the mid line, at the mid line again, low, on and on...

Max knew what it was. Bitterness.... no, bitterness was something. This was the complete lack of any emotion... of any caring. The cold emptiness of total disregard. He could not care for her, he could hardly even care for himself.

Now he worked her guard high with a series of strikes that made her lift her defence while neglecting her low guard, in the belief that this was not his focus. Then, as Julian Roil had taught him, with perfect timing and like lightning, he shot forward, under her weapon and out behind her. Half turning, he thrust back and drove the point of his rapier between her shoulders so that it's thin blade arced up into a half circle.

Everything stopped. Harriet's arms came up in surrender as Max held her by the single tip of his sword. Her own foil tumbled from her gloved fingers to clatter on the floor.

The room was completely silent for a long moment, until Captain Von Tempsky started a slow, cynical clap. He was about to congratulate Max when his student turned on his heel and strode for the door. Like a thrown spear Max cast his foil so that it landed perfectly in the storage barrel at the front. Then retrieving his bowler hat from the coat-stand by the door, he pulled the brim down over his eyes and left the room.