“Nonetheless, ladies, there are some ways that are better and some that are worse. Let’s just start with how to hold a sword.” He proceeded to demonstrate; he showed them how to hold the sword like a hammer, how to hold it like a fishing rod, how to hold it with a thumb on the flat of the blade.

“Now, Your Grace . . .” he said to Blanche.

Blanche nodded her head graciously. “My lord,” she said. “I would like to propose, as I really do wish to learn this, and as it takes so very long to say our titles and so little time to say our names, that for the duration of these lessons, we all refer to each other by our baptismal names.”

Michael laughed. “You know, Blanche,” he said, “in my whole life of training to arms, my master never referred to me as anything but ‘you idiot.’”

“I draw the line at ‘idiot,’” Blanche said. “I’ll accept ‘you incompetent ninny.’”

“Duly noted,” Michael said. “Now, if you could take the sword in your hand properly and strike the pell?”

The pell in question was a large stake of hardwood planted deeply in the courtyard, with a crisscross of marks showing that Clarissa’s men-at-arms, at least those who had survived the siege, practiced regularly.

“Don’t you teach us a guard and a cut first?” Clarissa asked.

“No,” Michael said. “See if you can find it for yourself.”

“Jesus,” muttered Kaitlin.

Blanche strolled up to the pole, stopped with the sword behind her, held out like a tail, and then snapped the blade forward in a flat cut at the pole, just above waist height.

The sword cut deeply into the hard wood and a chip the size of a woman’s hand shot away. The sword was stuck and Blanche started to lever it out, and Michael put a hand over hers.

“Whoa!” he said, as if she were an awkward horse. “Someone has strong arms. Nice cut, Blanche. I pity the bogglins. But only take the blade out on the same line you put it in. Otherwise you use up a lot of blades.” He took his hand away and she worked the blade out gently, and got it free.

Beatrice stepped up. Unlike the other three women, she was dressed in a kirtle and overgown, where they were in men’s hose, and in moving, she caught the sword point in her overgown. She shook her head. “Sorry.” She made a face. “I’m clumsy,” she said.

“I doubt it,” Michael said. “Take some cuts.”

Beatrice was interested in the idea of having her thumb on the flat of the blade, and she stood there, her tongue between her teeth, playing with the feel of the sword in her hand. “I could cut myself very easily,” she said.

“Nothing to worry about,” Michael said.