gilt-framed mirror dominated one side of the broad hallway, while the other wall held an astonishing display of curved cavalry sabres and scabbards, arrayed in a circular formation that must have been almost eight feet in diameter. The hilts were highly polished, but the blades had the dull bluish sheen and pitting that marked them as well-cared-for antiques and not cheap modern replicas. Other more exotic swords held individual pride of place in glass cases, some of them with jewelled hilts and great curved blades inlaid with gold and silver.
Charlotte led him past numerous oak-panelled doors to the carpeted stairway. ‘You know the way.’ The smilefaded and she reached out to touch his arm. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your friend.’
What she called the ‘play room’ was actually a large gym that filled most of the top floor of the house and before he reached it, Jamie could clearly hear excited shouts and the clash of metal on metal. He felt his blood begin to rise as he walked through the doorway and almost smiled. There was something about a battle of wills that brought out the best and the worst in him. Two anonymous figures faced each other on a narrow mat that ran virtually the full length of the twenty-five-yard-long room, sharply lit by the sunlight that filled the white-walled space. Each wore a mesh mask that covered the face and neck and a smooth white jacket with padding to protect the chest. As he watched, the man on the right advanced warily, a long narrow sword held aggressively in front of him, forcing the fighter on the left to retreat step by step. The button tip of the sword made slight threatening movements and it seemed certain the attacker had the advantage. So fast the eye could barely register it, the defender’s sword flicked out, forcing the attacker to parry and retreat in his turn, and following up with a whirlwind series of attacks that lasted only a fraction of a second. The swordsman on the left attempted another desperate parry and followed it up with an attack, but the point of his opponent’s sword made a solid hit on his chest and the blade bent into an arc.
‘My match.’ The victor’s muffled voice sounded hollowand alien as the two men stepped back, allowing their blades to drop and removing their masks one-handed. Adam Steele’s face glowed pink with exertion and his breath came in short gasps, but his eyes shone with an almost messianic light. Steele’s opponent was short and compact, with narrow, suspicious features, cropped sandy hair and a mouth set in a sardonic smile. For a fleeting second, Jamie thought he noticed a hint of anger before the face dissolved into a wry grin. ‘Fair and square, boss.’
Steele smiled and introduced Jamie to the stranger. His voice was still fuelled by the adrenalin coursing through his body, the words emerging in machine-gun bursts. ‘Jamie Saintclair. Gault. Don’t ask. Just Gault. He does bits and pieces for me. Ex-squaddie, Special Forces type, sort of intelligence officer. Doesn’t like getting beat. Can be bloody wearing, but makes for a good contest. Fancy a crack? I’m just getting warmed up and there’ll be a vest to fit you. Nothing too strenuous. Best of five hits?’
Jamie murmured something about time being short. He knew Steele to be a fierce competitor, who would make the bouts last and who wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t win. They’d met by chance for the first time since Cambridge at a south London fencing club a year after Jamie had taken up the sport. Steele had been by far the more experienced, with a passion for the sport, but Jamie proved to have the speed, coordination and downright bloody-mindedness to give him a contest,with the result that they practised often together. He hadn’t lifted a blade since Abbie’s death and really didn’t feel like it today. Yet Adam Steele persisted, and there was a challenge on the man Gault’s face that was almost a sneer.
He shrugged. ‘All right then,
Charlotte led him past numerous oak-panelled doors to the carpeted stairway. ‘You know the way.’ The smilefaded and she reached out to touch his arm. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your friend.’
What she called the ‘play room’ was actually a large gym that filled most of the top floor of the house and before he reached it, Jamie could clearly hear excited shouts and the clash of metal on metal. He felt his blood begin to rise as he walked through the doorway and almost smiled. There was something about a battle of wills that brought out the best and the worst in him. Two anonymous figures faced each other on a narrow mat that ran virtually the full length of the twenty-five-yard-long room, sharply lit by the sunlight that filled the white-walled space. Each wore a mesh mask that covered the face and neck and a smooth white jacket with padding to protect the chest. As he watched, the man on the right advanced warily, a long narrow sword held aggressively in front of him, forcing the fighter on the left to retreat step by step. The button tip of the sword made slight threatening movements and it seemed certain the attacker had the advantage. So fast the eye could barely register it, the defender’s sword flicked out, forcing the attacker to parry and retreat in his turn, and following up with a whirlwind series of attacks that lasted only a fraction of a second. The swordsman on the left attempted another desperate parry and followed it up with an attack, but the point of his opponent’s sword made a solid hit on his chest and the blade bent into an arc.
‘My match.’ The victor’s muffled voice sounded hollowand alien as the two men stepped back, allowing their blades to drop and removing their masks one-handed. Adam Steele’s face glowed pink with exertion and his breath came in short gasps, but his eyes shone with an almost messianic light. Steele’s opponent was short and compact, with narrow, suspicious features, cropped sandy hair and a mouth set in a sardonic smile. For a fleeting second, Jamie thought he noticed a hint of anger before the face dissolved into a wry grin. ‘Fair and square, boss.’
Steele smiled and introduced Jamie to the stranger. His voice was still fuelled by the adrenalin coursing through his body, the words emerging in machine-gun bursts. ‘Jamie Saintclair. Gault. Don’t ask. Just Gault. He does bits and pieces for me. Ex-squaddie, Special Forces type, sort of intelligence officer. Doesn’t like getting beat. Can be bloody wearing, but makes for a good contest. Fancy a crack? I’m just getting warmed up and there’ll be a vest to fit you. Nothing too strenuous. Best of five hits?’
Jamie murmured something about time being short. He knew Steele to be a fierce competitor, who would make the bouts last and who wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t win. They’d met by chance for the first time since Cambridge at a south London fencing club a year after Jamie had taken up the sport. Steele had been by far the more experienced, with a passion for the sport, but Jamie proved to have the speed, coordination and downright bloody-mindedness to give him a contest,with the result that they practised often together. He hadn’t lifted a blade since Abbie’s death and really didn’t feel like it today. Yet Adam Steele persisted, and there was a challenge on the man Gault’s face that was almost a sneer.
He shrugged. ‘All right then,
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