CHAPTER X
Mal had hoped to question Smith again, but the assassin was hanged at dawn on Raleigh's instructions. Two other newcomers to the crew were accused of being his co-conspirators, since no one could vouch for them. They protested their innocence most piteously, and in the end Raleigh relented and had them put ashore at Bordeaux to find their own way back to England.
As the Falcon made her way down the coast of Portugal the weather improved, and Mal was able to think about teaching Ned swordplay as they had agreed.
"We'll be in Venice within the month at this rate," he said, as they ate breakfast one morning. "That's nowhere near long enough to teach you the finer points, but at least you can learn how to block a blow and give one back."
Ned made a noncommittal noise around the hard biscuit. Probably afraid of making a fool of himself in front of the men who assaulted him. The bruises were faded to yellow, but he grew quiet whenever Hansford was around.
"Wasn't that the bell for first watch?" Mal went on. "Perhaps we should wait until the crew have changed places before we get in their way."
After a moment Ned took the hint. Hansford and his accomplices were in the third watch, and would be going to their hammocks soon.
"All right," he said. "But we only have one sword between us. How will we manage?"
"I don't trust you yet with edged steel," Mal said with a smile. "I've no wish to die of a festering cut before we reach Venice. There's bound to be something on board we can use as wasters."
He got to his feet and went in search of the ship's carpenter. Half an hour later he returned with two short poles, similar in size and weight to cudgels.
"I'm afraid you'll get a few bruised knuckles, since there's no cross-guard," he told Ned, tossing one of the poles across the table.
Ned caught it easily.
"I've had worse," he replied with a grin.
They practised every morning on deck after that, starting about an hour after breakfast and stopping only when the sun got too high in the sky. Their route had taken them south of Spain, within sight of the North African coast, before heading northeastwards into the heart of the Mediterranean, and the weather was now as hot as a summer's afternoon in England, though it was only the middle of March.
Mal was right about the rapped knuckles, Ned thought ruefully as he braced himself for another attack. He had always wondered if the fancy hilt of Mal's rapier was just for decoration, but he was beginning to appreciate how its graceful curves might deflect a blow away from its wielder's fingers. He was not as badly outmatched as he had feared, though; Mal was still unsteady on the pitching deck, and had been impressed by the ease with which Ned had mastered his footwork.
"Good," Mal said, after another repeat of their usual drill. "Now, I'm going to come at you and I want you to defend yourself. Don't try to hit me back; you're not going to kill a man in a fight if you get killed first."
Ned tried to relax into the stance he had been taught: right foot forward, waster level with the ground and pointing inwards towards his opponent, left hand raised close to his body to stop a backhand blow. Mal kept his weapon low, his eyes never leaving Ned's, challenging him to guess where the next attack would come from.
Mal's cudgel moved in a blur, but somehow Ned blocked it, his arm seeming to move of its own accord.
"Very good. Again."
Each time the blow came in at a different angle. Sometimes Ned parried; often he did not. At least these bruises were well-earned.
At last Mal called a halt.
"I think that's enough for one day," he said, tossing his cudgel to Ned.
Ned caught the weapon and sagged against the rail. Both their shirts were soaked with sweat and sticking to their backs, but Mal was otherwise as fresh as when they'd begun. Ned watched in mingled admiration, envy and lust as his former lover strode, slightly unsteadily, across the deck to their cabin.
"Fancy a trial o' the ratlines?"
Ned looked around sharply, fearing to see Hansford, but it was just one of the younger sailors, a man of about his own age with spiky blond hair and a powder-burn cutting a swathe through his scrubby beard. He stood on the rail, holding onto the rigging, as if it were the most natural place in the world.