Margaret smiled to see Olivia’s face of horror.
“Why,” said Stukeley. “Why, Livy, that’s what they do in this country. What are old what’s-his-name’s swords like? Look here, for a sword. Eh? There’s a temper. Look here. See?”
“That’s a fine piece of steel,” said Margaret. “Is it Milanese?”
“Milanese? Milanese? Milanese in your eye. Are you touched? It’s Spanish. Comes from a place called Toledo, if you’ve ever heard of it. Spanish motto like the other. Old Howard must collect Spanish things.”
“What is the motto?” Olivia asked.
“No me saques sin razon: well. Do not draw me without reason. Unless he spits in your face, for instance. No me envaines sin honor: Nor sheathe me till. Well. Till you’ve made sure.”
“Made sure?”
“Seen that the other fellow’s juice is pink. Stand still, Maggy, till I see if you’ve got red blood in you. I could prod you from here just under your fourth rib. Ping. Eh? This sword just suits me. Look, Olivia. Look how they’ve inlaid this hilt.”
“What beautiful work, Tom. And what a waste. To put all that beautiful work on to a sword.”
“A sword’s a knight’s weapon,” said Margaret. “How could we defend Olivia Stukeley if our swords weren’t worthily made.”