Lukas blushed and hoped that nobody would notice in the darkness. Why was it he felt immediately that Giovanni had seen through him? He was clearly the cleverest of the three fencing performers, as he had boasted. Lukas would have to watch out for him.
“A few of the mercenaries took me under their wing and taught me a few tricks,” he replied in a firm voice.
“A few tricks?” Jerome chuckled. “Mon dieu, you fought like an old warhorse, ah, what am I saying, as elegantly as a Frenchman!” He looked around approvingly. “If you ask me, he could join us right away. We can use another young performer, can’t we? What do you think?” he asked the group.
“I’d like a chance to put in a word.”
The voice had come from the other side of the fire, where the man with the longsword had been crouched down—the man who Lukas had thought was fast asleep. Now he stood up, staggering slightly, and for the first time, Lukas could see his face. The man was by far the oldest one in the group, with gray hair and a beard, and he reminded Lukas of a sly old wolf. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was full of little red veins and a number of scars. His leather cuirass, smooth from wear and reinforced with bands of metal, squeaked as he approached Lukas threateningly while reaching for his sword.
“You probably thought the old drunk was sleeping, didn’t you?” he growled. “Ha! No sooner has the cat left the house than the mice start dancing on the roof!”
“Indeed, we thought you would allow yourself a well-deserved rest, Master Scherendingen,” Giovanni replied, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Who could be more deserving of that than you?”
“Save your fine words for the women, you macaroni kid.” The man whom Giovanni had called Master was now standing almost toe-to-toe with Lukas and pointing his sword directly at Lukas’s heart.
“Do you know who I am?” he snapped.
Lukas just shook his head, trying not to show his fear.
“I am Dietmar von Scherendingen,” the old soldier continued, “sword master of the swordsman’s school in Greifenfels, with a certificate in the use of the longsword. I’m the leader of this shabby band, and a little urchin like you is something I eat for breakfast.”
A tense silence settled over the camp. Lukas heard the hissing and crackling of the burning log in the fire.
“They say you can fight with the sword,” the sword master went on abruptly. “Guards? Feints? Doubling, failers, winding, and riposte? The entire dance?” He bent down, and Lukas could smell the brandy on his stinking breath. “Because there’s one thing you must know. Sword fighting is like a dance, and your dancing partner is none other than the Grim Reaper in person.”
“I know, Master.” Lukas nodded. “That’s . . . something my father always said.”
Dietmar von Scherendingen suddenly grinned mischievously. “A clever man, your father. So show me you can dance.” He pointed at Lukas’s sword and stepped back a few paces.
“Prime!” he ordered, clapping loudly.
Lukas remembered this command from the lessons his father had given him. It was the first of the guards of sword fighting, a position in which the small finger of the sword hand pointed upward and the blade extended forward toward the opponent.
“Ox!” said Scherendingen, indicating Lukas should proceed to the next position.
Lukas swung the blade over his head so it looked like the horn of an ox.
“Plow! Fool! Key! Unicorn!” the master continued, reeling off the names of the other guards of the sword.
In a single, sweeping motion, Lukas changed from one position to the next, and he followed it with a few slashes and thrusts while he whirled around in place. Lukas had studied all these moves as often as possible with his father in the woods and in the castle courtyard and could perform the individual attacks, parries, and feints smoothly and gracefully, as if it were a dance. The mulled wine had warmed him inside, and soon, despite the icy cold, sweat was pouring from his forehead.
“Thwart cut, wrath guard! High cut! Rising cut! Crooked cut!”
The commands were coming faster and faster now. Lukas swung the heavy sword just as he had once brandished the stick—quick, precise, without hesitation. The blade whizzed through the air, hissing and humming, and it sounded almost like a soft melody.
The melody of death, thought Lukas, and for a moment the image of Marek with the blade impaled in his heart flashed through his mind.
“Ox and finis! Hurry up!”
The sword master’s last command brought Lukas back to reality. Breathing heavily, he reverted to his original position. With his head high, he took his place in front of Dietmar, who looked him up and down carefully, then started to sway back and forth. None of the others around the fire said a word.
“Didn’t I say so? As elegant as a Frenchman,” Jerome finally whispered, “a real master swordsman despite his young years.”
Scherendingen stared at Lukas angrily, then broke out into loud laughter.
“A little urchin who dances like a saber-rattling dervish!” he said after a long pause, and shook his head as he continued laughing. “Damn, I don’t know who taught you to fight like that, whether a Frenchman, a German, or an Italian, but in any case, he did a good job.” He suddenly turned dead serious again. “But you still have a long way to go if you want to become a master swordsman. The thwart and the low cuts were a bit sloppy, and the last ox came too late. But what difference does that make? Everyone begins somewhere.” He extended his arm and squeezed Lukas’s left hand so hard it seemed he was trying to crush it. “So what is it?”
“What is what?” Lukas asked, confused and still completely out of breath from his sword dance.
Giovanni stood beside him, laughing. “What is it? Well, welcome to our group, and just don’t say no, or we’ll toss you to Balthasar for a snack.”
Lukas smiled wanly. “Very well,” he said, “but only under one condition.”
“What would that be, you little squirt?” Scherendingen growled.
“First, I’d like to have a place to sleep here by the fire, and then tomorrow you can do with me what you wish.”
Completely exhausted, Lukas collapsed onto the furs, his head sank into the lap of the beautiful, dark-haired Tabea, and almost at once, he fell fast asleep.
VIII
The next few weeks were the most difficult and at the same time the most exciting in Lukas’s young life. With Scherendingen’s group, he traveled eastward, into Frankish territory. At the time, peace still reigned there, but stories of the atrocities committed by Swedish troops attacking the German Reich from the north were already going the rounds. It wouldn’t be long before King Gustav Adolf’s soldiers would be rioting and burning here in Franconia and Bavaria, as well. People wanted more than anything else to find something to take their minds off their daily suffering and fears, and so the actors and fencing shows were well received in the villages and cities.
Soon, Lukas learned that Dietmar von Scherendingen, though an old drinker, was still a good commander of his troupe. Usually the actors stayed a ways out of town in fallow fields or forest clearings but were allowed to enter the market squares with their carts, where they were usually eyed suspiciously by the inhabitants. First, Red Sara and Tabea performed a scarf dance to the melodies of the two musicians, allowing their scarves to fall suggestively, one at a time, thereby attracting a larger audience, mostly male. Then came the Jannsen Brothers, riding bicycles and performing somersaults, and finally walking across a thin rope running from the roof ridge of a house on the square to one of the actors’ wagons. The next item on the program—Ivan the Strong Man and his bear, Balthasar—always caused great excitement in the crowd. The strong man played his fife while the bear danced to the music, growling from time to time and lunging toward its master. By this time, the first cries of horror could be heard coming from the audience, but they quickly changed to loud applause when Ivan finally took an iron bar, bent it, caught the bear with the crook of the bar, and led
the beast back to its cage.
The main attraction, however, was the fencing performance at the end, in which Giovanni, Paulus, and Jerome were introduced in ringing tones as young hotspurs banding together against the old warhorse von Scherendingen. As the battle raged back and forth, the combatants lunged, shouted, cursed, and exchanged blows, and sometimes Scherendingen pretended to be close to defeat, only to disarm his young opponents at the last moment.
Secretly, Lukas admired the skill of the three boys. Each had his own unique way of fighting. The large, muscular Paulus preferred a heavy backsword, a cross between saber and sword, and flailed it around wildly, while the handsome Jerome tended more toward the refined French school with his graceful rapier, always aware of appearances and taking care that his clothing was properly cared for. Giovanni fought like Lukas with a somewhat heavier basket-hilted sword, a weapon that could be used to deliver both thrusts and blows. Giovanni’s attacks were always well conceived, like the long, complicated sentences with which he introduced them. Often, in his left hand, he also held a parrying dagger to ward off the blows of his opponent. All three boys, despite their youth, were already true masters of the art.
But they were all overshadowed by Dietmar von Scherendingen. In battle, the old sword master used a so-called bastard with a medium-sized hilt, permitting him to use it either one- or two-handed. Despite his age, he spun around with it like a madman, and sometimes he appeared almost to be flying.
It took a while for Lukas to understand that all the moves in this show battle had been practiced. For their daily exercises, the four actors did not use their actual weapons, but practice swords that were more elastic and had a dull point so that injuries were rare. After a few weeks, Lukas was also allowed to take part in these exercises. To his great disappointment, Dietmar gave him only a strange wooden sword in the shape of a saber, which, instead of a hilt, had only a finger hole in the back third.
“That’s a dusack,” the sword master explained when he noticed Lukas’s disappointment. “It’s the best weapon for practicing the art of swordsmanship. It’s easy, has a dull point, and can be wielded like a short sword.”
“But I’m already a good fighter!” Lukas protested.
“You don’t know a damn thing. The greatest enemy of a good fighter is his own arrogance. You have a lot to learn before you become a master, and the dusack will teach you humility.” Scherendingen grinned. “You can really hurt people with this weapon, you see. Watch!”
He seized his own dusack and went into position in front of Lukas, pointing his wooden weapon at Lukas’s sword hand.
“You’re left-handed, unlike most of us,” he said. “In battle, it gives you a distinct advantage, as your opponents are not accustomed to fighting left-handed people. Use this opportunity to strike a few unexpected blows at the very start. Like this, for example.”
Scherendingen suddenly stepped forward a pace and brought his weapon down from the top. Lukas managed to parry, but his opponent slid his own wooden blade smoothly along Lukas’s blade until it almost touched his face. Lukas pushed back, but Scherendingen unexpectedly stepped aside, and his young opponent took a tumble. Then, with a violent blow, the sword master struck the dusack out of Lukas’s hand. He groaned softly, pain pulsing through his bleeding fingers.
“I said you could really hurt someone with it,” Scherendingen said, smiling again. “That was the so-called waker cut. I thought we’d begin with that. Like all our exercises, it comes from the fencing book of the legendary sword master Joachim Meyer, and . . .” He hesitated, and a shadow fell over his face as he carefully looked Lukas up and down. “It’s strange,” Scherendingen mumbled. “You remind me of someone else, another left-handed fighter. If I only knew . . .” He shook his head. Then he pointed brusquely at Lukas’s dusack, lying before him in the snow. “Raise it up, then into the boar’s guard, with your hand low and the point up toward your opponent. Now do it!”
Lukas assumed the position, and the battle continued.
On many more occasions in the following weeks, Lukas had to pick up his dusack out of the dirty snow, but Scherendingen gave him no pause. Every morning he woke him, usually with a splash of water in the face, before anyone else and, after a quick breakfast, took him behind the camp. He called it the morning dance, though for Lukas, it was more a morning torture. Soon he had more black-and-blue marks than he could count. His fingers ached even when he was holding nothing but a spoon, but at least it helped him forget his worries.
Lukas was grateful for anything that took his mind off his dark memories.
“If you really want to be a sword master, you must be able to dance with the sword even in your sleep,” Dietmar declared as he drove Lukas back against a wagon with a few well-placed blows. “Wrath cut, steer guard, parry, blind cut, winding cut . . . it must all be part of you—in your blood.” The blows rained down heavily on Lukas. “Roaring cut, parry, rose cut, failer, feint, then back to the thwart cut.”
There were so many different positions, thrusts, and blows that Lukas’s head was starting to spin. His father had taught him some, but most were new to him. To use them in a fight, he had to repeat them dozens and dozens of times, like an endless dance. Often, at the end of the day, he fell into the straw beside Giovanni, Jerome, and Paulus and was asleep even before he could turn over.
Sometimes they practiced together next to the camp with a stump of wood that already looked quite battered. The master had placed a cross on the stump that separated it into four parts corresponding to the various parts of the body. The young fighters used this to practice moves as Scherendingen barked commands that mostly applied to Lukas.
“Damn, how lame you are, lad! An old farmer can strike a better blow than that with his scythe. Just look at Jerome; he’s faster than his shadow. And once more—change, bar, slide, and back to the first position.”
Scherendingen always made sure Lukas knew he was not yet satisfied with him. Often the others were allowed to go into the village after an hour to enjoy themselves, but for Lukas, practice continued relentlessly.
“On guard!” the master cried. “Are you rooted to the ground, lad? Your feet are like two little warriors fighting their own battles. Begin again, and then—”
“Hey, Master, give the lad a rest. You’ll kill him yet with these miserable exercises.”
It was Giovanni, who had just returned from the village. Stepping out from behind a cart, he said sarcastically, “If you’re looking for an opponent to shout at and beat, take it out on the stump. That wood can take it.”
“Indeed. A stump of wood is a better opponent than that kid there.” Scherendingen stepped away from Lukas and motioned to him, indicating that the day’s instruction was over. “Now take off before I throw your dusack at you, you good-for-nothing.”
Breathing hard, Lukas walked away with Giovanni.
“The master is right, I’ll never be a good sword fighter,” Lukas muttered. He was having trouble suppressing his tears. His fingers ached as if they were all broken. “I’m one big disappointment.”
“Oh, come on,” Giovanni said. “The old man likes you and believes in you.”
“He believes in me?” Lukas just stood there in astonishment. “Why then does he pester me all the time and shout at me as if I were a failure?”
“That’s his way of saying he thinks you have a lot of talent.” Giovanni grinned. “He just wants to push you, that’s all. So you have better control of your anger. He told me himself he soon wants you to take part in the show battles.”
“Really?” Lukas’s heart beat faster. “Together with you? Then I could finally prove I’m worth something.”
“You’re already an excellent kitchen boy,” Giovanni replied with a laugh. “And Red Sara and Tabea are already crazy about you.” He winked at Lukas. “Especially Tabea. Perhaps you should just become a cook and travel with the army.”
“Wouldn’t that be great,” Lukas replied glumly. “Spend all my life washing p
lates and peeling vegetables. I’d rather throw myself on my sword.”
In the meantime, they’d left the camp behind them. For several days, the troupe had been resting just outside a pretty village still unscathed by the war. Spring had already arrived, and the seed was growing in fields still partially covered with snow. In the budding trees, birds were chirping.
“I think you deserve a little diversion,” Giovanni said as they approached the small town. “There’s a fair in the village where people are celebrating, drinking, and dancing.” He paused. “And there are a few pretty girls there, too. So, what do you think?”
Soon they’d arrived at the village tavern, which was full of noise and music. Inside, the furniture had been cleared, people were dancing to the music of a fiddle, drum, and bass, and the air was full of the odor of sweat and roasted mutton. At the tables along the side sat a few maids and journeymen exhausted from dancing, drinking wine out of huge tankards.
“Hey, look at that. Giovanni brought the kid along!” Paulus bellowed. He had taken a seat at one of the tables in the rear and was arm wrestling with a broad-shouldered young farmhand. “I thought the old man would never let the little one out of his clutches.” Paulus pushed his opponent’s hand down onto the table and swept up a few more coins, with a grin. “A good business I’ve got going here,” he said as another journeyman stepped up to his table. “With three or four more contests like this, I’ll be able to set up a fencing school in this town.”
“How about a school for brawling, wrestling, and drinking—wouldn’t you like that better?” Giovanni laughed. “Where is Jerome?”
“Where else? Naturally, where you can find the best cherries for picking.” Paulus pointed to a neighboring table, where handsome Jerome was at that moment reading the palm of a young maid. He was surrounded by a crowd of girls, all looking at him with fluttering eyelashes.