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Parry, Riposte, Remise II, 26th early afternoon- Xmas 1677


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The big Scotsman smirked at Chatham’s reply. “Indeed.” Both his opponent and Turnbull liked to talk, to throw insults at each other; likely both would be darlings of the witty circle. Douglas had never quite fitted in there, he had the wrong combination of seriousness and devil-may-care attitude; he didn’t take seriously the things they did, and vice versa.

 

Chatham slid into a classic guard whilst Douglas chose to take a page from Destreza; legs straight, body sideways, sword-arm straight with the point directed at his opponent’s face, a straight line from tip to shoulder, so that Chatham was looking down – or rather up – a length of blade.

 

It was a fun guard because any attempt by one’s opponent to close without properly controlling the blade resulted in instant skewering. The matter was complicated slightly by the fact that Douglas held his rapier in his left hand; the big Scotsman was sinister. Douglas balanced on the balls of his feet and waited to see what Chatham would do.

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"That's an odd choice of guard." Charles commented idly, head cocked quizzically.

 

It was. Oh, it amplified Dundarg's advantage in reach, certainly, but standing straight like that meant that his centre of gravity remained too high for rapid manoeuvring and his extended arm would make subtle bladework difficult. Further, regardless of how strong one might be or how light one's blade was, holding the line like that for any length of time was hell on the shoulder and wrist, particularly if some utter prick decided to beat the blade with force.

 

In summary, it simply had to be a trap.

 

The wiser choice would almost certainly have been to wait Dundarg out, but his blood was up and his patience run thin so Charles advanced, probing. His blade whirled out to beat his opponent's, inside then out, seeking to provoke a reaction before he darted backwards out of distance, ready to parry should Dundarg try to lunge after him.

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“Tis favoured by the Spanish.” Douglas replied. Indeed, one might see two Spaniards facing off, each using the stance, circling footwork and just the tips of their blades moving as each sough to gain the superior line on the other’s before engaging.

 

If one didn’t intend to spend all day doing that, then some other kind of move was required; for example a beat, a powerful slam against the opponent’s blade. Charles clearly knew what he was about.

 

Blade movement wasn’t about lightness but about balance. An unbalanced blade required movement from the elbow direct, which was slow and clumsy; a well balanced blade required only the movement of the wrist to move, which was exactly what Douglas did as Charles came in to beat his blade.

 

He moved his wrist to lift the tip of his blade over Charles’s incoming one, if the timing was right, before lifting his left hand up and out in a guard designed to stop Charles’s blade come back into him. At the same time he lunged forward - and he had impressive lunge – but this time he went further, his right knee all the way to the floor, his left knee forward at full compression, so that his body was low to the ground, his blade coming in straight towards Charles’ chest in a movement from the Italian books known as a passata sotto, a ‘passing under’.

 

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OOC: Would you like to have Charles respond and then we can probably ask BG for another dice roll?

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As Charles had more than half expected, the stance was a trap. He had had no intention of committing to the beat attack. Even as Dundarg cut over his blade he was dancing back out of range. But his opponent launched a far deeper lunge than he might have expected, coming in low.

 

Still, easy enough to deal with.

 

Charles turned his wrist in a smooth semicircular parry octave, seeking to divert Dundarg's blade past his side and launch the riposte at an opponent too over committed to recover in time.

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Jumping back cost Charles a precious second as he then launched a parry designed to deflect Douglas' blade and turn the tables on the tall Scot. As luck would have it, the Scotsman's blade tapped Audley's arm near the wrist before the counterstrike was fully delivered. It might well have worked given the Scot's position; but, Charles had been touched already.

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It was a risk, and Douglas knew it, for people expected him to use his range, but as the tip of his blade caught Chatham’s write, Douglas knew it had paid off. Pushing himself back off his front foot, Douglas was suddenly several feet away from his opponent.

 

“Guid roond.” He acknowledged Chatham. “Tis a difficult guard tae coonter.” Which was why he liked it. “Wuid ye care tae try’t?” He suggested. After all, he’d understood from Turnbull that the purpose of the exercise was to learn from each other.

 

Subtitles

* “Good round. It’s a difficult guard to counter. Would you care to try it?”

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That should not have happened.

 

Charles glared at his feet and hand, outraged at their betrayal.

 

Yet it did happen. How?

 

The thoughts came in his father's voice, dripping contempt and vitriol.

 

Could it be that you are getting old and fat and slow? This is how it starts you know. Things taking that fraction of a moment long than they should.

 

Charles felt his left hand clench convulsively, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to deny it, but could not. The Charles of a year ago would chop the Charles of now into fish bait.

 

Ah, you haven't gotten old. Soft, perhaps, but we can rectify that, can't we? Up with the sun, frequent sword exercise, tennis if we find the time.

 

Entirely too fast to be balanced, the storm clouds of anger cleared from his face. Charles looked up and laughed loudly, genuine pleasure radiating from the sound.

 

"Damn fine touch, Dundarg. My feet are still half asleep, obviously." He paused for a moment, considering, and shook his head. "No, I don't think it quite fits the way I fence, useful though it undoubtedly is in general. Another bout, though, if you've the time and inclination?"

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"Certainly." Douglas replied to the request for another bout. "Thairs allus some o' the lads here in th'hall if e'er ye hae a mind tae practice."* He added, clearly meaning the other Life Guards ranged about they place. All were gentlemen's sons - usually younger sons - and so all versed in swordsmanship. The Life Guards particulary were encouraged to maintain their skills.

 

Saluting his most honourable oponent, Douglas settled this time into a more classical stance. “I enjoy practicin’ diff’rent styles.” He revealed. “Ye ne’er ken whin yer opponent haes ne’er cam across Spanish, er German swordmanship.”** And something they’d never seen before invariably threw people.

 

Subtitles

* "Certainly. There's always some of the men here in the hall if ever you have a mind to practice."

** “I enjoy practicing different styles. You never know when your opponent has never come across Spanish, or German swordsmanship.”

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"Well, then I shall probably make a pest of myself. I clearly need the practice, heh?" Charles laughed and returned Dundarg's salute, coming on guard with an invitation in sixte, leaving his right shoulder exposed.

 

"I see your point, but personally I've always believed in focusing on my own strengths rather than planning around hypothetical weaknesses in a hypothetical opponent. 'He who cases two hares will catch neither,' after all." Charles shrugged. "To each his own."

 

Charles was feeling inclined to be patient this time. He wanted to see how the big man moved.

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Douglas was of the opinion that they all needed the practice. He’d been lucky in the last bout, but he never declined the opportunity to come up against a new opponent; you never knew what you might learn.

 

Chatham opened with a fairly standard stance, with his guard across his body, leaving his right shoulder exposed. An invitation, which he would no doubt expect a novice to take and a more experienced fencer to be extremely wary of. Of course, it all depended on how you viewed it. Where before Douglas had played the waiting game, now Chatham seemed inclined to. Fair enough.

 

The big Scotsman viewed the guard as a challenge, a puzzle to be solved. The guard was already somewhat open, could that be encouraged further?

 

Rather than attach Chatham’s invitingly open shoulder, Douglas combined a step forward with a beat at the sword itself, seeking to push the blade further off line.

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As Dundarg advanced, Charles retreated, each step carrying him backward but also infinitesimally to his right, Dundarg's left. Half the trick to fencing left handers was to get outside of their blade on the right. They tended, as a rule, to expect to control that line and attacks in it often surprised them. Charles hoped that his slow edging would help disguise the movement.

 

Dundarg closed the distance quickly and attempted the beat. It was not an unexpected ploy from a left-handed fencer and Charles dipped his point, disengaging under his opponent's searching blade before bringing his own up to bind it. He stepped in, crushing the distance, simultaneously drawing back his sword to strike. He aimed to place his point in Dundarg's left flank.

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The quick flick of Chatham’s sword under his own as Douglas attempted a beat suggested some experience with the Spanish school after all. That left Douglas over-reached with his left side exposed, and Chatham wasted no time in stepping in close, sword aimed for the bigger man’s ribs on the wrong side of his own sword. A canny move, and it showed Charles held no fear of a larger opponent.

 

Douglas’s left elbow came back and up, his sword dropping into a prime-like guard, almost vertically down before pushing outwards in an awkward effort to block Chatham’s sword. As he did so he made a passing step in, bringing the two of them virtually chest to chest, and brought his forhead down sharply towards Chatham’s in an effort to show him how they kissed in Glasgow.

 

The question was whether he moved fast enough to deflect Chatham’s blow?

 

OOC: Would you be kind enough to roll a dice for us BG?

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  • 2 weeks later...

It was a curious sensation, Charles reflected, the sweet rush of victory intermingling with the heated throb of pain. Not unfamiliar, but curious nonetheless. Almost as curious was the grudging respect he felt for the man responsible for the latter. Fitzjames clearly had as little time for convention as Charles did.

 

(He'd been tempted, for a bare instant, to respond to the headbutt as he would have in a real fight and bite Dundarg. But sinking one's teeth into other peers, even Scottish ones, would create quite the wrong impression, and he had resisted the impulse.)

 

I don't appear to be bleeding, at least. That's something.

 

Charles gave Dundarg a careful nod, smiling wryly. It was important to give the other man no hint whatsoever of how painful that brief gesture had been.

 

"If you don't mind my saying Dundarg, you have a bloody hard head. You've infought before, too. Flanders, if I had to guess."

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  • 1 month later...

Douglas laughed. “Ye arenae the first tae sae so.”* He replied good-humouredly. It had been an ungentlemanly blow, but then that was part of the point. He suspected that, had things been more serious, at that range knives and other weapons might well have been deployed. The head butt came not without cost to the deliverer either, though Douglas tried to ignore the warning ache.

 

“An’ if these were real blades my man wuid be cursin’ ye fer ruinin’ a shirt, nae tae speak o’ the man aneath.”** He added, plucking at the supposedly offended fabric. It would not only be slashed but by now bright red; he knew all too well how that kind of wound could bleed.

 

Chatham was fast, and inventive, and clearly no stranger to less than gentlemanly fighting, all things that Douglas respected. When the chips were down there was no time to worry about form and schools. Perhaps it was time to take a break however, and with a motion of his sword towards the benches he suggested that they take a brief reprieve.

 

The man’s earlier observation deserved an answer for its accuracy. “Ye pick weel.” He admitted. “Flanders aye; d’ye ken Maastricht?”*** He asked, naming a Dutch town on the border of that region that had fallen to the English.

 

“I’m thinkin’ that ye didnae learn aw yer skills in the fencin’ haw either.”+ He observed with a quiet chuckle as he settled onto the bench. Chatham moved too much like a man who knew what it meant to fight for his life. As he spoke the big Scotsman fished in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a hip flask. Taking a healthy swig he then offered it over wordlessly; it contained a fine, single malt whiskey.

 

Subtitles

* “You aren’t the first to say so.”

** “And if these were real blades my man would be cursing you for ruining a shirt, not to speak of the man beneath.”

*** “You pick well. Flanders, yes; do you know Maastricht?”

+ “I’m thinking that you didn’t learn all your skills in the fencing hall either.”

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"The man underneath is a damn sight faster than most, in both thought and deed," Charles commented dryly, "which is why your manservant would only be lamenting the loss of your shirt rather than your lungs."

 

Dundarg had responded to that last ploy both swiftly and correctly, which argued that he either spent a great deal of time considering his own weaknesses and how to deal with them or possessed a remarkable talent for improvisation, both of which were things Charles respected. And Dundarg was personable enough that, as they moved to the benches, Charles decided to be magnanimous and forgive him his vices of being willfully both a Scot and a cavalryman.

 

"Educated guess," he explained. "You're too tall to have been comfortable in the fleet, which leaves Tangiers and Flanders as likely places for you to have seen active service. You haven't the look of a Tangerine, somehow, so Flanders is the most probable answer."

 

Charles smiled wryly at the mention of Maastricht. "Oh, I know it about as well as you do I fancy, which is to say considerably better than the residents would have preferred. A sharp bit of business, though positively civilised as sieges go I'm told." Unconsciously, his left arm flexed slightly.

 

Charles chuckled along with Dundarg. "Oh, I've had a little formal instruction, but most of my learning was done in Tangiers, with continued education in Flanders, the Alsace and the Palatinate."

 

With a nod of thanks he took the offered flask and sipped, breaking into a pleased grin as he realised what it contained.

 

"Proper whiskey! Ah-ha! I've perforce been a brandy drinker these last years- can't get the right stuff on the Continent at all. Not to say that what you do get isn't as good in its own way, of course. Here." Charles fished out his own flask and offered it to Dundarg. "Armagnac brandy."

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Douglas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. Speed in a fight was one of the reasons that he was still alive. He was, first and foremost, a soldier, and until recently had been little more besides.

 

“Yer poowers o’ logic do ye credit.” The big man acknowledged. “I focht in Flanders wi’ the Royal Scots.” The Regiment du Dumbarton had served under Monmoth with French allies during the Dutch War, including at the siege of Maastricht. He was interested to hear that Chatham had been there as well. “T’was the place tae be, t’seems. Laird Melville was thair as weel.” Chatham obviously had served in a different regiment to the two Scotsman.

 

So much of the war effort had converged on that ill-fated city. “T’was a civilised siege,” he acknowledged, “richt up till we broke’t.” An evil smirk curved the Scotsman’s full lips. “I was first o’er the wawl.”** And he’d survived, a feat which had earned him a reputation as both a military hero and a crazy berserker, things his actions since had only reinforced.

 

They’d both seen action in that war. Douglas noticed Chatham flex his arm at the memory, and the Scotsman rolled his right shoulder. No one left such confrontations unscathed, and from the sound of things Chatham had seen a fair bit of action. “The Royal Scots served in Lille, Flanders, Maastricht an’ Rhineland, whaue’er the French were fichtin’.” Which was a few different places. “T’weel be interestin’, if this war wi’ France gies ahead.”*** Much as he was raring for what he knew best, they would be fighting against those he had once fought along side of. After the near end of the Royal Scots at Trier, where Douglas himself had been badly wounded, he had applied to the Life Guards.

 

Ah, so Chatham appreciated a good drop. “Aye, frae Aberdeen, nae sae far frae Dundarg.” He assured the other man. “I allus bring a bluidtub doon wi’ me; I’ll send ye a bottle.” The whiskey you got in London shops was either abysmal or extravagantly priced. At the offer Douglas inclined his head and accepted Charles’s flask and sipped, savouring the taste in his mouth and the hint of fruit in the back. “Verra fine.”+ He allowed, handing the flask back.

 

“Sae I wuid assume yer Laird father passed recently, tae bring ye back tae London.”++ He asked, blunt yet solicitous, since the man was a military one but also an Earl. That also suggested he might not have been the elder son.

 

Subtitles

* “Your powers of logic do you credit. I fought in Flanders with the Royal Scots. It was the place to be, it seems. Lord Melville was there as well.”

** “It was a civilised siege, right up until we broke it. I was first over the wall.”

*** “The Royal Scots served in Lille, Flanders, Maastricht and Rhineland, wherever the French were fighting. It will be interesting, if this war with France goes ahead.”

+ “Yes, from Aberdeen, not so far from Dundarg. I always bring a bloodtub down with me; I’ll send you a bottle. Very fine.”

++ “So I would assume your Lord father passed recently, to bring you back to London.”

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"Pilate's bodyguard!" Charles exclaimed delightedly, using the Royal Scots' nickname, which he had always been fond of. "Fine body of men. I was with the Lord Admiral's at the time, but serving as one of Monmouth's gentlemen volunteers at Maastricht."

 

He nodded respectfully as Dundarg mentioned his own contribution to the siege. "Bloody business, that escalade. I was in the breach." Which had been bloody enough on its own, though Charles had come out of it well enough for le Roi to entrust him with a regiment, something he considered well worth the star shaped bullet scar on his arm.

 

Charles smiled thinly as Dundarg mused on the possibility of future war. It was always a pleasure to discuss his (for want of a better word) trade with a fellow professional.

 

"Hmm. They're not quite as good as everyone thinks, and le Roi might well keep his best general at home." Charles might have felt sorry for Orleans, continually kept in his brother's shadow, had the man not been an absolute prick. "But it will be interesting, yes, assuming the question ever becomes more than academic. The French are going to move early as is practical in spring and we won't have anything worth putting in the field organised until midsummer at least, even if we do enter the war."

 

The offered scotch provided a timely distraction from matters of strategy. Charles smiled in genuine good humour at Dundarg's offer to gift him a bottle.

 

"Dashed decent of you. I shall reciprocate, of course, if that meets with your approval," he said, holding his own flask out.

 

He was neither offended nor surprised by Dundarg's bluntness. One had to expect that sort of thing from Scots and professional soldiers both.

 

"You assume correctly. An ease to him in the end, I'm told."

 

Despite his best efforts, Charles did not appear awash with grief or filial piety.

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Douglas laughed delightedly as Charles identified his regiment by one of its more infamous nicknames. “Indeed!” He confirmed, pleased that they were recognised. “Ye mun be a naval man thain.” He observed. That explained a few things. “His Grace is an excellent tactician; I servit as Captain of York’s Ain for some time.”* He revealed, wondering whether Charles had been here at court for that change; he didn’t think so. There were, of course, a lot of men at court with military experience, but Douglas found himself pondering whether, with the war looming, those numbers might begin to swell.

 

They’d both seen the bloody side of Maastricht then; something else in common. It had been a crucial point in the war; and thoughts of wars past turned to thoughts of wars future. “I’m thinkin’ that thaim o’ us wha hae fochtit alongside the French afore weel be best placed tae predict thair tactics noo.” He observed. Of course, the opposite also held true. “Monsieur isnae popular here, efter the King’s weddin’.”** He added darkly. The assassination attempt had traced back to the Ambassador’s bastard son, and Le Roi’s brother had been a close compatriot of both.

 

“Steel,” Douglas rubbed his jawline with his thumb thoughtfully, generating a rasping noise, “His Majesty an’ Le Roi er close; abody haes tae wonder hou lang the war weel be.”*** Just long enough for them to gain some glory, hopefully.

 

The offer of brandy in return was graciously accepted with a slight bow. “Verra kind o’ ye.” Sometimes it helped to be reminded of the fine things in life; the things one went to war to protect. “Ye hae my condolences.” The big Scotsman said gravely, when Audley confirmed his supposition. The man didn’t seem particularly distraught; these things happened. Suddenly he had a title and income; what else was one to do but come to London?

 

Which proved the good fortune of him and others, as Chatham seemed an amiable sort of fellow, when he wasn’t trying to skewer you. “I’m thinkin’ o’ gittin’ a few o’ the lads taegether at the pub one nicht, if ye’d care tae join us?”+ Douglas offered.

 

Subtitles

* “Indeed. You must be a naval man then. His Grace is an excellent tactician; I served as Captain of York’s Own for some time.”

** “I’m thinking that those of us who have fought alongside the French before will be best placed to predict their tactics now. Monsieur isn’t popular here after the King’s wedding.”

*** “Still, His Majesty and Le Roi are close; a person has to wonder how long the war will be.”

+ “I’m thinking of getting a few of the boys together at the pub one night, if you’d care to join us?”

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"At the time, yes. I was in the garrison at Tangiers before that, colonel of one of the amalgamated battalions in French service after that, and currently have the honour to be a major in his Majesty's First Foot Guards." Charles made no comment on Dundarg's former command. The other man was still a captain, so any move had been a sideways one at best. (Unless he was Albemarle in cunning disguise, in which case that gentleman had developed hitherto undreamed of powers of deception.)

 

"We might be," he allowed of Dundarg's suggestion that they and those like them had greater insight into the French mind. "Tell you what, we"ll get a map and have a gentlemen's wager to see who, if any, can predict the French line of advance for spring." (Charles would gamble on anything.)

 

He snorted as Douglas commented on Monseigneur's popularity. "Orléans isn't popular in his own household, never mind over here." Charles had no idea if that was true or not, but it sounded plausible, and why let the truth get in the way of a pithy remark? In any case, Dundarg had given him an opening to introduce a subject he was curious about.

 

"Hmm. Now I don't mean to impose, impugn or imply anything, but how did that plot come close to succeeding? What little I heard did not make the would be assassins sound like the most competent bunch of cutthroats ever to try their hands at political assassination." That was not quite the aforementioned topic but it was a good approach to it, or so Charles judged.

 

He shrugged as Dundarg pondered the prospective length of any hypothetical war.

 

"I can't see it lasting terribly long either way to be honest. Either the French force a quick end before we enter in earnest, or they have to try and hold the sea, their coastline and their colonies against us, the Dutch and the Spanish while fighting us, the Dutch and the Germans along the length of the Rhine. That is not a winning proposition, and le Roi is too intelligent to waste resources chasing unattainable victory."

 

He gave the polite response to the Scotsman's condolences, which was to say a manfully silent nod. Dundarg's talk of the pub, by contrast, prompted a much more effusive response.

 

"I'd be delighted. Frankly, I've missed the company of soldiers." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, but it's damnably pleasant to be in company where you don't need to watch your bloody tongue so much."

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