The Macduff – Morten – did not respond to these sallies. He was ominously polite and glum to a degree. When Dougal swung at him, lost his balance and ran, as it were, after his own weapon, wild-eyed, an expression of great concern upon his face, Morten allowed himself a faint sneer. When Dougal finally tripped and fell in a sitting position with a sickening thud, the sneer deepened.

‘The balance!’ Gaston screamed. ‘How many times must I insist? If you lose the balance of your weapon you lose your own balance and end up looking foolish. As now.’

Dougal rose. With some difficulty and using his claymore as a prop.

‘No!’ chided Gaston. ‘It is to be handled with respect, not dug into the floor and climbed up.’

‘This is merely a dummy. Why should I respect it?’

‘It weighs exactly the same as the claidheamh-mor.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Again! We begin at the beginning. Again! Up! Weakling!’

‘I am not accustomed,’ said Dougal magnificently, ‘to being treated in this manner.’

‘No? Forgive me, Sir Dougal. And let me tell you that I, Gaston Sears, am not accustomed to conducting myself like a mincing dancing master, Sir Dougal. It is only because this fight is to be performed before audiences of discrimination, with weapons that are the precise replicas of the original claidheamh-mor, that I have consented to teach you.’

‘If you ask me we’d get on a lot better if we faked the whole bloody show. Oh, all right, all right,’ Dougal amended, answering the really alarming expression that contorted Gaston’s face. ‘I give in. Let’s get on with it. Come on.’

‘Come on,’ echoed Morten. ‘“Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out.”’

Whack. Bang. Down came his claymore, caught on Macbeth’s shield. ‘Te-tum. Te-tum. Te – Disengage,’ shouted Gaston. ‘Macbeth sweeps across. Macduff leaps over the blade. Te-tum-tum. This is better. This is an improvement. You have achieved the rhythm. We take it now a little faster.’

‘Faster! My God, you’re killing us.’

‘You handle your weapon like a peasant. Look. I show you. Here, give it me.’

Dougal, using both hands, threw the claymore at him. With great dexterity, he caught it by the hilt, twirled it and held it before him, pointed at Dougal.

‘Hah!’ he shouted. ‘Hah and hah again.’ He lunged, changed his grip and swept his weapon up – and down.

Dougal leapt to one side. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he cried. ‘What are you doing?’

Grimacing abominably, Gaston brought the heavy claymore up in a conventional salute.

‘Handling my weapon, Sir Dougal. And you will do so before I have finished with you.’

Dougal whispered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’ve got the strength of the devil, Gaston.’

‘No. It is a matter of balance and rhythm more than strength. Come, we take the first exchange a tempo. Yes, a tempo. Come.’