He pointed with his sword towards the crowd of boors in the doorway.
“Out!”
“By cock, you young ruffler, I can take blows better than words.”
He had his blow, a flat buffet across the face given slantwise with a lightning sweep of the sword-blade. He staggered, jerking up his arms, his nostrils reddening with blood. There was a crowding in of the smocked figures through the doorway, but Guy the Stallion bellowed them back.
“All hell shall stir for this! Let no man meddle.”
He sprang towards Fulk with huge and flamboyant sweeps of the sword.
“Guard, you adder; I’ll teach you sword-play.”
And so the fight began.
Fulk had drawn back into a corner of the hall where he could hold the ground before him without being taken on the flanks. Guy the Stallion came at him with a swaggering rage, and for the moment the boors held back to watch the tussle, such a smiting together of swords not being seen on every day of the week.
Fulk was as calm as a frosty morning, his face looking serenely through all the whirl and pother of the swashbuckler’s blows. Roger Ferrers had been a great man at his weapons, and Fulk had swung a sword with Roger before he was four feet high. He let this swaggerer slash as he pleased, guarding himself and smiling into the Stallion’s eyes.