Chapter 48: OF DAYS IN GREEK LANDS 11

Sir Gaston wasted little time once Remy had returned. The man carried himself with that same grounded certainty that had drawn others beneath his banner, his presence neither overbearing nor easily ignored. It was not long after Remy had settled that he was approached with purpose.

He was told to spar with everyone.

Remy found the suggestion unnecessary. There were better uses of time. Preparation, logistics, observation. Steel against steel within the confines of a courtyard offered little that he did not already understand. Yet Sr Gaston had spoken with a firmness that made refusal more cumbersome than compliance.

“You have great talents,” Sir Gaston had said, his voice even, his gaze direct. “A sharp mind and a strong sword-hand. But you have flaws, Sir.”

Remy had regarded him without comment.

“You lack care for those under you,” Gaston continued. “I know you do not desire our company. That much is plain. But there are days where you must speak with others. You said yourself, Sir. No man’s an island.”

The words lingered.

Not because they were profound, but because they were accurate enough to be inconvenient. Remy did not contest them. There was little value in doing so. Instead, he inclined his head once, a gesture neither agreement nor dismissal, and made his way to the courtyard where the company had gathered in various states of leisure.

They had grown comfortable.

That was the first thing he noted.

Comfort dulled men. It softened edges, slowed reaction, introduced hesitation where instinct should reside. The hospitality of Constantinople had been generous, and they had accepted it fully. Why would they not? They have good food. Warm quarters. And time without immediate threat.

It showed.

He gathered them without raising his voice.

One by one, they turned, attention shifting toward him with varying degrees of readiness.

He let his gaze pass over them before speaking.

“You’ve grown fat,” he said, his tone dry, the faintest edge of jest beneath it. “So we’ll see if you can still wield your sword and spear. Especially with how eager you all are to reach Jerusalem.”

There were a few quiet reactions. A snort from one. A restrained grin from another.

But no one protested.

Steel was drawn and worn.

The first to step forward was Sir Otto Kuhlbrandt.

Otto moved with confidence. His longsword came to guard smoothly, his footing balanced, his eyes fixed with the focus of a man accustomed to measured exchanges. There was speed in him. Discipline as well.

Remy allowed him the initiative.

Otto struck first, a clean cut aimed to test reaction rather than commit fully. Remy met it without strain, turning the blade aside with minimal movement. The second came faster. More intent. A shift in angle meant to catch him adjusting.

It was predictable.

Remy stepped within the arc rather than away from it. His blade slid along Otto’s, guiding rather than opposing. There was a moment, a fraction, where Otto’s guard opened.

Remy took it.

The riposte was precise as his hilt struck Otto’s wrist just enough to disrupt grip, and the following motion twisted the longsword free from Otto’s hand. It struck the ground with a dull clatter.

Remy’s blade hovered at his throat.

Otto exhaled, then gave a short nod.

“Yield,” he said.

Remy lowered his weapon and stepped back.

“Too eager,” he remarked. “You show your intent before your blade completes it.”

Otto retrieved his sword without argument.

The next forward was Sir Theophilos Rhakotos.

He had a a spear and shield.

A different problem.

Sir Theophilos did not rush. He held distance well, the spear tip steady, the shield angled to obscure his line. It was a defensive posture designed to frustrate advancement.

Remy circled.

Theophilos adjusted with him, maintaining spacing, probing lightly with the spear to test reach. Remy did not overextend. He waited.

Patience was often mistaken for passivity.

When the thrust came with greater commitment, Remy stepped in rather than away, catching the shaft near its midpoint. His blade shifted into half-sword, one hand sliding along the steel for control.

The spear glanced aside.

In the same motion, Remy ran the flat of his blade along the shaft, guiding it down and away, while his foot hooked behind Theophilos’ leg. A simple leg movement, but efficient.

Theophilos lost balance.

He struck the ground with a muted thud, shield shifting just enough to expose his neck. Remy’s blade found the opening immediately, resting against it without pressure.

Theophilos stilled.

“Yield,” he said.

Remy stepped back again, releasing the weapon.

“Distance is not defense if you do not punish entry,” he said.

Theophilos inclined his head, absorbing the correction.

Sir Władysław Grzymała followed wielding his poleaxe.

Remy adjusted his stance a little.

Sir Władysław knew his craft. That much was clear from the first exchange. The reach of the poleaxe was used properly, not wasted on unnecessary motion. Each swing carried weight, each feint threatened commitment.

Remy did not meet force with force.

He moved.

Circling, always circling. Testing. Drawing reactions. The poleaxe cut the air where he had been, not where he stood. Sir Władysław maintained discipline longer than the others, refusing to overextend, keeping Remy at bay through control of space.

It was good.

It made the opening more meaningful when it came.

Remy shifted rhythm. A quicker step in, then out. A feint toward the weapon head, then a withdrawal. Again. Again.

Like a wolf, always pacing, then the mistake.

A slight adjustment in grip. A momentary lapse in guard as Władysław anticipated another feint.

Remy closed the distance fully.

His blade dipped low, thrusting toward the knee. Not with intent to injure, but to force a reaction. Sir Władysław adjusted to block, just as Remy pivoted past him, slipping inside the arc of the poleaxe.

The throat was exposed.

The flat of Remy’s blade touched it lightly.

Sir Władysław froze, then gave a short, appreciative nod.

“Well taken,” he said.

Remy stepped away.

Sir Bernat d’Urgel approached next, rapier in hand. Bernat wasted no time. His blade flickered forward in a series of probing thrusts, each one aimed to test guard, to find weakness through speed rather than force.

Remy watched.

Timing, not strength.

He parried once. Twice. On the third, he shifted angle rather than meeting the blade directly. Bernat adjusted quickly, attempting to recover line.

But it was too late.

Remy’s hand struck his wrist with the flat of his blade, sharp and controlled. The rapier slipped free, clattering to the stone.

Remy’s sword followed, stopping just short of Bernat’s chest.

Bernat exhaled, then raised his hands slightly.

“Yield.”

Remy lowered his weapon.

“Speed without variation becomes a pattern,” he said.

Bernat retrieved his blade, thoughtful.

Sir Henri de Montclar followed.

With a sword alone he was competent and direct.

Henri fought well enough. His cuts were clean, his guard was stable. But he relied too heavily on the blade, his body remaining secondary to his weapon.

Remy pressed him.

A sequence of exchanges, measured and controlled. Henri held for a time, adjusting, responding, maintaining form.

Then Remy shifted for a close engagement.

Steel locked briefly.

Henri focused on the blades.

Remy did not.

His left hand moved. His armored gauntlet struck Henri along the side, just beneath the ribs. Not enough to break, but enough to disrupt breath.

Henri staggered, guard dropping instinctively.

Remy’s blade rose to his throat.

Henri winced, then gave a tight nod.

“Yield.”

Remy stepped back.

“You have more than a sword,” he said. “Use it.”

Sir Raimund von Falkenberg came next with a shield and sword.

He was a wall.

Raimund did not yield ground easily. His shield was used with intelligence, not simply as a barrier but as a tool. He absorbed strikes, redirected force, and closed lines before they opened.

Remy tested him once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each attempt met resistance. Not brute resistance, but structured defense. Raimund waited for overextension. It did not come.

So Remy changed approach.

He increased pressure. Not recklessly, but persistently. Forcing engagement. Forcing response. Forcing movement.

The fourth charge broke rhythm.

A slight misalignment. A fraction of delay in Raimund’s shield.

It was enough.

Remy slipped past the guard, blade angling inward, stopping at the throat once more.

Raimund exhaled slowly.

“Yield.”

Remy nodded.

“Well held,” he said.

Sir Marco della Torre followed, his rapier held with less confidence than Bernat’s.

Remy observed before engaging.

There was stiffness in the wrist. A subtle hesitation in movement. Injury, perhaps. Or strain.

He tested it.

A light exchange. A few measured strikes. Then, deliberately, he brought the flat of his blade against Marco’s wrist with a controlled snap.

The reaction was immediate.

Marco released the rapier, wincing as it fell.

Remy did not press further.

“Rest it,” he said. “You’ll lose more than grip if you don’t.”

Marco nodded, rubbing his wrist.

Then came Sir Aldred Hawkwell.

The Englishman was different.

Sir Aldred did not rush. He watched. Studied. His guard shifted subtly as the engagement began, testing angles rather than committing to them.

Remy felt it almost immediately. Aldred had been paying attention.

The first exchanges were cautious and probing. Sir Aldred adjusted to Remy’s movement, shifting his line of attack toward the right side more frequently, forcing Remy to respond, to defend consciously rather than reflexively.

Remy allowed it to continue.

Pressure built gradually. Aldred increased tempo, pushing the right side, attempting to create a pattern.

Remy broke it.

A sudden shift. A cleave, direct and forceful, cutting through Aldred’s guard before the adjustment could be made.

Steel met resistance of mail.

The impact halted just enough.

Remy withdrew immediately, the motion controlled.

Aldred stepped back, breathing steady, then lowered his blade.

“Yield,” he said.

Remy studied him briefly.

“You learn quickly,” he said.

Aldred inclined his head.

The courtyard quieted.

Most had been tested.

Most had been found wanting, though not without merit.

Only one remained.

Sir Gaston stood where he had been from the beginning, watching. Not idle. Not passive. Observing.

Remy turned toward him fully.

Steel still in hand.

The air between them settled, the earlier exchanges fading into something more deliberate.

Gaston stepped forward at last.

No flourish. No announcement.

Only readiness.

***

Sir Gaston proved a different matter entirely.

Remy had known as much before the man ever stepped forward. It was not merely the way Gaston held himself, nor the steadiness of his gaze. It was the absence of wasted motion. The quiet confidence of a man who had endured more battles than he cared to recount and had survived them not through strength alone, but through understanding.

They faced one another without flourish and with steel in hand.

Remy moved first.

Not out of impatience, but intent. He closed the space with controlled speed, testing Gaston’s response with a measured strike aimed not to land, but to provoke.

Gaston answered cleanly. His blade met Remy’s with a firm deflection, not yielding ground, not pressing forward. Simply absorbing, redirecting, and resetting.

Remy adjusted.

He was stronger. Faster. That much remained true. But Sir Gaston did not meet him where those advantages mattered most. He anchored himself behind structure, behind timing, behind an understanding of leverage and weight that forced Remy to reconsider the rhythm he had established against the others.

The armor played its part.

Where others had given openings through hesitation or imbalance, Gaston invited pressure. The plates along his torso and shoulders absorbed glancing blows without consequence, demanding that Remy commit more force, more precision, more risk if he wished to do anything meaningful.

It altered the engagement.

Remy shifted his grip, testing angles, seeking the seams rather than the surface. He circled, probing for weaknesses along the joints, the underarm, the back of the knee. Gaston tracked him with minimal movement, shield absent, relying instead on positioning and the integrity of his harness.

A strike came.

Remy aimed behind, a quick step meant to slip past Sir Gaston’s forward guard and find an opening at his flank. It was well-timed. Clean.

But Sir Gaston read it.

The counter came as Remy’s guard dipped just enough to commit. A heavy blow landed against his side, the force transferring through armor and into flesh. It did not break, but it struck deep enough to rattle breath and send a dull shock through his ribs.

Remy stepped back, exhaling once, steadying.

Gaston did not press recklessly.

He waited. That, more than the blow itself, forced adjustment.

Remy shifted his stance, bringing his sword into a two-handed grip. More control. More force. Less room for error.

He advanced again.

This time, he baited.

A strike was offered deliberately, angled in such a way that Sir Gaston would be inclined to avoid rather than meet it. The motion carried through, then paused just enough to invite reaction.

Gaston moved to evade.

Remy changed direction mid-motion.

The blade shifted, snapping toward Sir Gaston’s hand. The contact was solid, not enough to cripple, but enough to disrupt grip, to introduce imbalance. In the same instant, Remy drove forward, closing distance fully.

His shoulder struck Gaston’s chest.

The impact pushed the older knight back a step.

Remy followed.

Momentum carried him into the next strike, a downward blow meant to capitalize on displacement, to break structure before it could reform.

But he overextended.

It was a small error.

But it was enough.

Sir Gaston dipped beneath the arc of the strike, then with a sharp upward blow that struck against Remy’s helm with enough force to jar his vision and send a ringing through his skull.

For a moment, the world narrowed.

Not blindness. Not disorientation beyond recovery. But enough to disrupt timing.

Remy stepped back, regaining footing, reasserting control over breath and balance. The ringing faded quickly, but the opening it had created did not.

Sur Gaston advanced.

Not with speed, but with certainty.

Remy raised his guard, prepared to meet the next exchange, but Gaston did not strike.

He closed.

A full-bodied motion.

The tackle came with weight and intent, armor against armor, force driving forward with the accumulated experience of a man who understood when steel was no longer the most efficient tool.

Remy met it, but not fully.

His footing, still recovering, gave just enough.

They went down.

Stone met armor with a dull, heavy sound. The impact carried through Remy’s back, jarring but not incapacitating. His grip held, his blade angled instinctively to avoid turning the fall into something worse.

Sir Gaston followed through, maintaining control of the engagement even as they hit the ground.

For a moment, neither moved to strike.

Then Gaston shifted his weight, ensuring position, ensuring advantage.

Remy looked up at him.

Sir Gaston was grinning.

“Never let your guard down, Sir,” Sir Gaston said, his voice carrying that same grounded tone as before. “You know how mad old fools are.”

Remy exhaled once, steady.

The old man was still good at it.

“I yield,” he said.

Gaston held his gaze for a moment longer, then shifted back, rising with the ease of long practice. He extended a hand, not as a victor to the defeated, but as one soldier to another.

Remy accepted it.

He rose without haste, adjusting his stance, rolling his shoulder slightly to settle the lingering impact along his side. The ache would remain for a time. It was not unwelcome.

The courtyard was quiet.

They had seen the exchanges. The successes. The failures. The difference.

Remy retrieved his composure fully before speaking.

“You use your weight well,” he said, his tone even.

Gaston shrugged slightly.

“I use what remains,” he replied. “Youth may leave. But habits stay.”

Remy inclined his head.

There was no need to say more.

The lesson had been clear.

Strength and speed carried advantage, but they did not guarantee control. Experience filled the gaps left by time. It turned mistakes into opportunities. It punished overconfidence with precision rather than force.

Remy had known this.

But knowing and applying, however, were not always aligned.

He glanced briefly at the others.

They had been tested.

So had he.

Gaston regarded him for a moment, then spoke again, quieter this time.

“They will follow you if you give them reason,” he said. “Not because you are the strongest. But because you see them.”

Remy did not respond immediately.

The words settled alongside the earlier ones.

He exhaled lightly, then turned his attention back to the group.

“Rest,” he said. “You’ll need it if you intend to keep up.”

Remy sheathed his sword.

He needed to reflect.