Cold and sparsely-lit by a smattering of pitch-pine torches and what gray light could slip through a handful of the stair tower’s arrow slits, the groin-vaulted basement provided a secure storeroom for the stronghold’s most valuable provisions while its semi-underground location and thick walls offered a more private arena for James to learn the fine art of lairding than the open bailey where Marmaduke preferred to train.
Careful not to venture near a teetering pile of arrows and crossbow bolts, he paused in the less hazardous shadow cast by a wall of stacked wine barrels. So hidden, he watched as James snatched up his fallen sword and, frowning darkly, thrust and lunged at a side of hanging salt beef.
Lunged most miserably, but not because of any lack of balance. Nay, his legs and well-muscled arms seemed in good working order.
It was the anger in his face that ruined what could have been a perfect parry.
“Would you truly hope to live by the sword, you’d best learn to bury your temper before you unsheathe your blade,” Marmaduke said, striding forward.
James halted mid-lunge and nearly toppled to the stone-flagged floor. “I was-”
“-on the best path to having an arm lopped off,” Marmaduke finished for him, unbuckling his sword belt and placing it atop a creel of rolled oxhides.
Stretching his arms above his head, he cracked his knuckles, then helped himself to a blunted practice sword propped against one of the thick pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling.
He stood still a few moments, testing the blade’s feel.
“Such passion as blazes in your eyes is better spent in a fair maid’s arms than on the field.” Turning slightly to the side, he feigned interest in the well not far from where they stood. “There, in the heat of battle, you’ll only retain your limbs if you keep your wits.”
The warning spoken, he whirled on James, his blade slicing the air with a speed that would have left an onlooker reeling with dizziness. In the blink of an eye, James’ sword hit the floor and the blunted end of Marmaduke’s pressed firmly beneath the younger man’s chin.
“That was your first lesson, my friend. A cool head, or no head. The choice is yours.”
James bristled. “Did I not wish to learn, I would not be here.”
“Good so.” Lowering his blade, Marmaduke used its tip to motion to the fallen sword. “Shall we begin?”
“I thought we had,” James huffed and swiped up his sword.
“A mere exchange of pleasantries until we’ve worked the ire out of you. Now heed the look on my face and imitate it.”
“There isn’t a look on your face. It’s blank.”
“Exactly.” Marmaduke backed up a few paces and took on a fighting stance. “You’d best master appearing disinterested now, because on the morrow you shall have an audience. A comely dark-haired lass whose presence will help you learn to ignore distractions.”
James blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
Marmaduke cocked a brow. “She’ll agree, too. I am certain of it.”
“God’s bones.” James tipped back his head, stared at the ceiling.
“All that stands between you and bettering yourself as a swordsman is proper motivation,” Marmaduke said. “The desire to win Lady Rhona’s admiration will spur your drive to improve your skills.”
“You know I favor her.” James shot him an accusatory glance. Leaning on his practice sword, his chest heaved as if they’d already engaged in a few rounds. “I will not have her here to-”
“Cool your blood or I will fetch her now.”
“She will see my clumsiness.”
“She will see your triumph,” Marmaduke corrected. “If you so will it.”
“Humph.” James eyes narrowed, a cold expression settling over his handsome face as he lifted his sword.
Sensing James was as prepared as he’d ever be, Marmaduke beckoned to him.
“Have at me,” he encouraged, his own sword at the ready. “Pretend you are at a great tourney, your lady is watching and she’s just tossed you a ribbon from her hair. Imagine her eyes twinkling with the promise of later delights.”
James sliced the air with his blade. “You are cruel.”
