Chapter One
The metallic clatter of clashing blades accompanied by the familiar bellowing of one of the coaches, became louder as I shouldered through the sports hall door. I was a little late and the session was already in progress, looking for a safe spot to dump my kit bag I was distracted by the victorious howling of two saburers on the furthest piste, both were claiming the point and the poor president looked bewildered. On the piste closest to me two épéeists stood staring each other out for an indeterminate time before their blades finally met, guards ringing like a bell as they both stabbed one another on the leading wrist. I rolled my eyes, classic épée. It was the middle two pistes that I was interested in. I was a foilist; the narrow rapier like blade had a much smaller target area than the other two, comprising just the torso, and arguably demanded more skill. That’s not saying I didn’t indulge in the other weapons when I felt the urge, I was proficient at all three, but the needle like foil was my favourite.
I had been at the excavation all day and work had been slow. Jerry and I had spent most of our time shovelling half a ton of dirt out of a pre-historic hillfort ditch, finding only two scrappy pieces of pottery. The intense heat of the day had sapped my energy earlier but the competitive, predominantly testosterone filled spirit of the hall was enough to jump start my adrenaline. I loved the thrill of playing with swords, the de-stressing opportunity to “stab” an opponent, alongside the tactics of chess, played at something akin to light speed. Even better was that here I had new opponents as my own club was closed for the summer.
I’d been tempted to stay on site with my dig team this evening, basking in the sun and lazing around in the field as we had done most nights for the last few weeks. This evening’s plan, according to Sarah, was a big pre-historic style cook out with a fire and stew pot. I strongly suspected this would be replaced with a disposable barbecue pretty early on. But it sounded fun and I had promised to join them later if I could.
Focussing on the task in hand I dragged my white fencing jacket on, noticing as I did so, another new fencer. He was tall, and athletic looking, with the emblem of the Spanish flag stitched to the left shoulder of his jacket, and I wondered idly if he was internationally ranked. If he was, he would surely be a difficult challenge, and I liked the sound of that. The stranger was already on the piste gaining the upper hand against one of the more experienced members of the club. Gathering my gear together, I offered to play the winner of the match, hoping that it would be the newcomer.
I was in luck, Mr Mysterious easily dispatched his opponent and, leaving his mask on, preserving his anonymity, accepted my offer to play. He was taller than I had thought, almost a foot taller than myself, this could be interesting. Flashing a quick salute at my new adversary and the match president, I took a deep, cleansing breath, pulled my mask down over my face and raised my sword.
We began slowly, just sparring, feeling each other out, making simple attacks that were easily parried. He slipped a deft Prise-de-fer up my blade and caught me square in the chest for the first point. Behind the cloaking mesh of the mask I smiled to myself, he wouldn’t be making that move again, I had seen where it was coming from and easily slipped through his defence for my own first point. Then, confidence won, I jumped off the mark at the command to play; charging down the piste with a flurry of well thought out feints, all of which he managed to parry until, I changed my line, cut over his blade and, landed a smart flick to the tiny target of his right shoulder. Eliciting a low whistle of approval from Mr Mysterious.
I made a mistake with my next attack, putting too much into a thrust that wouldn’t reach. He deftly parried it aside and landed a neat repost to my chest, before stepping back with a slightly condescending shrug.
It was a good fight, and I was enjoying myself. The stranger and I seemed evenly matched and for a while we levelled each other point for point. Until I managed to disengage his blade, catching him under the arm three times in a row, putting me four points ahead. It was then I noticed that he fidgeted with his left hand as if he were agitated or perhaps not normally right handed. His defence was good though, almost impenetrable, and every hit I landed was drawn out and painful as he clawed his way back with a series of counter parry ripostes.
We were both tiring as the battle closed. I could feel droplets of sweat running down the side of my face, stinging my eyes. I blinked clearing my vision, just one point from victory. He was still several behind. Standing on the base line I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, bringing my focus back to the blade, blocking out the outside world.
He moved quickly off the line with a straight attack. I parried, sliding down his blade, the tip of mine skimming his jacket, but not enough to register a hit. His counter was fast and I stepped closer, bringing my blade up to defend. He stepped back smartly, blade still extended. Almost desperate I twisted to the side, pulled my arm back and quickly cut over the top of his blade as he changed the angle of his line. I threw all my energy into the move. Thrusting forward in a very long lunge, stretching my muscles to their full extent to bury my point high in his left shoulder. His blade had gone wide. The point, and the match was mine, despite the reckless move. It wasn’t pretty but it had worked.
Smiling I removed my mask, relishing the feel of cool air on my sweaty face and held out my ungloved left hand, ‘Good game.’
‘Sí, usted es cercador talentoso.’ He replied. Removing his own mask and finally revealing his identity.
I froze, feeling suddenly embarrassed, my extended hand shaking slightly in the air as I recognised him. Simon Matherson, the person I and the others of the dig team had been attempting to ignore for the best part of a week. He was a sixth former from St. Peter’s Private School and had been dumped on us, the smallest group, by an unapologetic site supervisor.
His addition to our excavation team had not been a welcome one. As ex-comprehensive school students we wanted nothing to do with the posh nobs, especially not ones from St. Peter’s. Which was after all, the most prestigious private school in Manchester, Eton’s northern equivalent. Its students comprised of the arrogant offspring of banking and software tycoons, people who still owned the various Tudor manor houses in Bramhall. Simon’s father was likely some billionaire who owned a yacht on the Mediterranean, drove a Maserati, and would be leaving his pretentious aristocratic son a multi-million pound legacy. In fact, Claire had even recognised his name ‘Matherson’, but couldn’t recall if it were software related or not.
Standing on the piste I chewed my lip, feeling guilty and trying to recall any of my year nine Spanish, eventually managing a hesitant shaky, ‘Hola.’
Simon laughed, his guarded but handsome face cracking into an amused smile as he extended his own ungloved left hand. ‘I have not been bested like that since my last match against Eton.’ He replied. Switching smoothly to his softly accented English. ‘You play well, for an ignorant comprehensive school pupil.’
I looked up sharply at him, feeling a familiar flare of anger, before I realised he was teasing me. ‘Easy firecracker,’ he said laughing again, ‘I was joking, you seem far from ignorant.’ He unclipped himself from the piste, watching as I did the same. ‘What do you say to starting over? Let us suppose that the last three days on the excavation did not exist, and that this is the first time you and I have had the pleasure of meeting one another?’
Eyeing him suspiciously I nodded feeling a crushing sense of embarrassment and guilt about our conscious efforts to ignore him on site. This was actually the most I had heard him speak in three days, none of us had any idea he was foreign. Now, meeting him properly the posh boy seemed nice, easy going, gracious in defeat and not so bad to look at either.
‘Excellent.’ He smiled and held out his left hand once more. ‘My name is Símon, but English people murder the pronunciation so, please call me Simon. I was born in Valencia and I lived there until I was twelve, when my mother moved here to be with my father.’
Slipping my hand into his I tried to match his grip. ‘I’m Suze, native Mancunian, and technically shouldn’t be on the excavation as I’m only fifteen.’
Surprise flickered across his face, ‘My God, it speaks. I was beginning to wonder. These last few days have been phenomenally dull. And how on earth did you manage to sneak your way in?’
I shrugged noncommittally. ‘Not important, but I’m gonna owe my brother for a while. Anyway, they told us you were a posh nob, and we didn’t want you lording it over us, parading your superiority.’ I risked a glance at his face, and noting his amused expression continued; ‘Besides I know I can beat you up now.’
There was a moment of stunned silence before he replied. ‘Did you win, or did I let you?’
I had been at the excavation all day and work had been slow. Jerry and I had spent most of our time shovelling half a ton of dirt out of a pre-historic hillfort ditch, finding only two scrappy pieces of pottery. The intense heat of the day had sapped my energy earlier but the competitive, predominantly testosterone filled spirit of the hall was enough to jump start my adrenaline. I loved the thrill of playing with swords, the de-stressing opportunity to “stab” an opponent, alongside the tactics of chess, played at something akin to light speed. Even better was that here I had new opponents as my own club was closed for the summer.
I’d been tempted to stay on site with my dig team this evening, basking in the sun and lazing around in the field as we had done most nights for the last few weeks. This evening’s plan, according to Sarah, was a big pre-historic style cook out with a fire and stew pot. I strongly suspected this would be replaced with a disposable barbecue pretty early on. But it sounded fun and I had promised to join them later if I could.
Focussing on the task in hand I dragged my white fencing jacket on, noticing as I did so, another new fencer. He was tall, and athletic looking, with the emblem of the Spanish flag stitched to the left shoulder of his jacket, and I wondered idly if he was internationally ranked. If he was, he would surely be a difficult challenge, and I liked the sound of that. The stranger was already on the piste gaining the upper hand against one of the more experienced members of the club. Gathering my gear together, I offered to play the winner of the match, hoping that it would be the newcomer.
I was in luck, Mr Mysterious easily dispatched his opponent and, leaving his mask on, preserving his anonymity, accepted my offer to play. He was taller than I had thought, almost a foot taller than myself, this could be interesting. Flashing a quick salute at my new adversary and the match president, I took a deep, cleansing breath, pulled my mask down over my face and raised my sword.
We began slowly, just sparring, feeling each other out, making simple attacks that were easily parried. He slipped a deft Prise-de-fer up my blade and caught me square in the chest for the first point. Behind the cloaking mesh of the mask I smiled to myself, he wouldn’t be making that move again, I had seen where it was coming from and easily slipped through his defence for my own first point. Then, confidence won, I jumped off the mark at the command to play; charging down the piste with a flurry of well thought out feints, all of which he managed to parry until, I changed my line, cut over his blade and, landed a smart flick to the tiny target of his right shoulder. Eliciting a low whistle of approval from Mr Mysterious.
I made a mistake with my next attack, putting too much into a thrust that wouldn’t reach. He deftly parried it aside and landed a neat repost to my chest, before stepping back with a slightly condescending shrug.
It was a good fight, and I was enjoying myself. The stranger and I seemed evenly matched and for a while we levelled each other point for point. Until I managed to disengage his blade, catching him under the arm three times in a row, putting me four points ahead. It was then I noticed that he fidgeted with his left hand as if he were agitated or perhaps not normally right handed. His defence was good though, almost impenetrable, and every hit I landed was drawn out and painful as he clawed his way back with a series of counter parry ripostes.
We were both tiring as the battle closed. I could feel droplets of sweat running down the side of my face, stinging my eyes. I blinked clearing my vision, just one point from victory. He was still several behind. Standing on the base line I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, bringing my focus back to the blade, blocking out the outside world.
He moved quickly off the line with a straight attack. I parried, sliding down his blade, the tip of mine skimming his jacket, but not enough to register a hit. His counter was fast and I stepped closer, bringing my blade up to defend. He stepped back smartly, blade still extended. Almost desperate I twisted to the side, pulled my arm back and quickly cut over the top of his blade as he changed the angle of his line. I threw all my energy into the move. Thrusting forward in a very long lunge, stretching my muscles to their full extent to bury my point high in his left shoulder. His blade had gone wide. The point, and the match was mine, despite the reckless move. It wasn’t pretty but it had worked.
Smiling I removed my mask, relishing the feel of cool air on my sweaty face and held out my ungloved left hand, ‘Good game.’
‘Sí, usted es cercador talentoso.’ He replied. Removing his own mask and finally revealing his identity.
I froze, feeling suddenly embarrassed, my extended hand shaking slightly in the air as I recognised him. Simon Matherson, the person I and the others of the dig team had been attempting to ignore for the best part of a week. He was a sixth former from St. Peter’s Private School and had been dumped on us, the smallest group, by an unapologetic site supervisor.
His addition to our excavation team had not been a welcome one. As ex-comprehensive school students we wanted nothing to do with the posh nobs, especially not ones from St. Peter’s. Which was after all, the most prestigious private school in Manchester, Eton’s northern equivalent. Its students comprised of the arrogant offspring of banking and software tycoons, people who still owned the various Tudor manor houses in Bramhall. Simon’s father was likely some billionaire who owned a yacht on the Mediterranean, drove a Maserati, and would be leaving his pretentious aristocratic son a multi-million pound legacy. In fact, Claire had even recognised his name ‘Matherson’, but couldn’t recall if it were software related or not.
Standing on the piste I chewed my lip, feeling guilty and trying to recall any of my year nine Spanish, eventually managing a hesitant shaky, ‘Hola.’
Simon laughed, his guarded but handsome face cracking into an amused smile as he extended his own ungloved left hand. ‘I have not been bested like that since my last match against Eton.’ He replied. Switching smoothly to his softly accented English. ‘You play well, for an ignorant comprehensive school pupil.’
I looked up sharply at him, feeling a familiar flare of anger, before I realised he was teasing me. ‘Easy firecracker,’ he said laughing again, ‘I was joking, you seem far from ignorant.’ He unclipped himself from the piste, watching as I did the same. ‘What do you say to starting over? Let us suppose that the last three days on the excavation did not exist, and that this is the first time you and I have had the pleasure of meeting one another?’
Eyeing him suspiciously I nodded feeling a crushing sense of embarrassment and guilt about our conscious efforts to ignore him on site. This was actually the most I had heard him speak in three days, none of us had any idea he was foreign. Now, meeting him properly the posh boy seemed nice, easy going, gracious in defeat and not so bad to look at either.
‘Excellent.’ He smiled and held out his left hand once more. ‘My name is Símon, but English people murder the pronunciation so, please call me Simon. I was born in Valencia and I lived there until I was twelve, when my mother moved here to be with my father.’
Slipping my hand into his I tried to match his grip. ‘I’m Suze, native Mancunian, and technically shouldn’t be on the excavation as I’m only fifteen.’
Surprise flickered across his face, ‘My God, it speaks. I was beginning to wonder. These last few days have been phenomenally dull. And how on earth did you manage to sneak your way in?’
I shrugged noncommittally. ‘Not important, but I’m gonna owe my brother for a while. Anyway, they told us you were a posh nob, and we didn’t want you lording it over us, parading your superiority.’ I risked a glance at his face, and noting his amused expression continued; ‘Besides I know I can beat you up now.’
There was a moment of stunned silence before he replied. ‘Did you win, or did I let you?’