PROLOGUE

Everything depended on my final year at school; I had to focus, work hard, and above all, stay out of trouble. Last term I nearly got expelled, but instead, they kicked me off the fencing team. Yesterday, I made a list to help me stay on track:

1. Stay out of trouble.

2. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE.

3. Get back on the school fencing team.

4. Win my colours.

5. Make the top eight at the Under - 18 Nationals.

6. Study like a demon.

7. Study like a BLOODY demon.

8. Pass the Bac.

And if I did all that - and passed the Baccalauréat - I’d be heading to Notre Dame on a sports scholarship. I would be going to America.

Well… That was the plan.

CHAPTER I

THE NIGHT BEFORE

It was the first day of the summer holidays, and I was back, ready to fight. I wondered who would be in tonight. I tightened my laces, picked up my bag, and pushed open the changing-room doors.

Well-dressed members mingled in the grand reception hall, waiting for friends and guests to arrive. Others arrived from off the street; some carried fencing bags. A beautiful movie star wearing a flowing red dress glided up the wide marble staircase. She was an excellent fencer.

Fencing was the reason Club Paris had been founded - to teach gentlemen the art of survival. Now, it’s more of a social club. Not many fencers went upstairs - the restaurant and bar were very expensive.

I could have kept on training here after I was kicked off the school team, but I decided that if I couldn’t compete, I wouldn’t bother. Instead, I made a bunch of new friends. I met some really cool people, like musicians and art students, a couple of journalists, and an astrologer called Brenda. They were great fun, but they were much older and smarter than I was, and spending time with them made me realise that I should be following my own dreams.

Entering the fencing salle, I received a huge shock. I held my breath and looked around. Everything had changed - I’d been gone for less than a term - what on earth had happened? Where were the old rapiers? And where were the grand portraits of fencers and professors from yesteryear? Over five hundred years of history had vanished. The oldest fencing salle in Europe had been hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the wood panelling had gone. Everything was now painted white. I could smell the fresh paint. Everything sounded sharper. Everything was so bright. The only thing remaining was the sprung wooden floor. What had they done?

I joined Club Paris when I was 10 (it was Dad’s idea to stop me from stick-fighting with school friends in the garden), and at first, I didn’t pay much attention to the rusty rapiers scattered haphazardly around the wood-panelled walls. I preferred the dozen or so well-hung portraits of good old boys with bushy whiskers, posing in army uniforms and old-fashioned fencing kit. Then one day, the Professor told me that one of the displayed rapiers had been used to kill the ancestors of quite a few esteemed club members (the ones who went upstairs). I asked the Professor which one, but he didn’t say. That story captured my imagination, and now those ancient swords fill me with awe. Which one had been used in mortal combat? And I started to wish, with all my heart, that I had been born in a different era - an era where a man could make a difference with his sword and sharp wit, and I constructed elaborate daydreams of swashbuckling my way to victory and being a great hero (glorious adventures to daydream of in Maths). But as the years passed by, and the simple ‘one-two’ lunges continued to hit me elegantly on the chest, ‘Touché!’ I’d thank heaven that fencing was only a game. Sometimes, before bed, I would inspect the tiny bruises peppering my torso and realise, with a shudder, that my everyday mistakes - not so long ago - would have meant certain death.

“No footwork tonight, André?” Asked Joe cheerfully.

The footwork class, dressed in tracksuits and breeches, faced Joe, the junior fencing coach. Footwork is as important as blade work, and many people will tell you it’s even more important.

“No, not tonight, Joe. What happened in here then?”

“It was falling down, too expensive to restore,” Joe shrugged.

“Too expensive? Absolute joke! Where’s everything gone? Where are the old swords? And the pictures…”

“All upstairs now. Decorating the restaurant and bar.”

“Bloody vandals!” I exclaimed. “They should have renovated it properly. They’ve got all the money in the world upstairs.” I glanced up at the restaurant and bar where the great and the good (and the bad and the beautiful) dined and drank and watched the fencers fight.

Joe chuckled. “Good to see you, André.”

“Good to see you too, Joe.”

I had missed Joe’s easy friendship. That’s the thing when you stop fencing. Fencing friends fade away when you don’t have weapons in common. I had lots of new friends now, but none of them owned any swords. They all owned bongs.

A bunch of beginners, some of whom I vaguely recognised, sat on a low-slung wooden bench pressed against the wall. They should have been doing the footwork class - but it wasn’t compulsory. Some were gossiping and feeling the balance of each other’s weapons, others worked on their tips.

The tip of a rapier is a simple affair. The tip of an épée (about the size of a flat nail head) is more complicated. Simply put, when the tip is pressed, it completes an electrical circuit and scores a hit.

Most of the girls sitting on the bench had one eye on Jacqueline. It looked like she was having a tough fight. I’d known Jacqueline for years; we started fencing around the same time. She was the best female fencer in the club by far and the current under-18 French national champion.

Jaqueline’s opponent, an Englishman called Sam, was quite a bit older than us; his father was a diplomat at the British Embassy. He was training to be a chef. I dumped my bag beside their piste, signalling I was next in line to fight the winner.

Jacqueline needed one more hit to win. She flèched, but her timing was off. The Englishman had all the time in the world. He bent his knees and jabbed beneath her wrist as she flew toward him. Sam missed - and Jacqueline hit him square in the chest in slow motion. The green light on the electric box blinked: 7:10. I grinned. He should have parried instead of going for the stop-hit. As Jacqueline hurtled past (she’d picked up speed by now), Sam straightened his legs and knocked her with his shoulder. There was a collective gasp from the spectators as Jacqueline, all elbows and knees, scattered across the floor.

It would be impossible to prove that Sam had knocked her down on purpose. Professional fouls are like that. Accidentally on purpose or just poor timing?

Sam lifted his mask. “Sorry,” he said. He didn’t look very sorry. And he didn’t offer his hand to help her back up. In the olden days, I would have slapped him in the face with my glove and challenged him to a duel for ungentlemanly conduct.

Tight-lipped, Jacqueline passed me the spool. It was winner stays on. It was her right to stay on, but she had nothing to prove.

I plugged myself in.

“First to ten?” asked Sam.

“First to five,” I said

“Suit yourself,” he said.

I nearly said first to one. First to five was a fair compromise. He got the message.

Jacqueline asked the fencers sitting on the bench if they thought I could beat the English bully. Because Sam was bigger and older, no one quite knew what to say. One of the beginners, a blonde youth whom I didn’t recognise, jumped up and cheered, “Go for it, André! You can do it!”

My chances of winning were excellent. In the past, I’d usually beaten Sam. He was tall, awkward, and about five years older, but the English are notoriously poor fencers. English fencing is like English tennis (not very good).

Smack in the face! Bang! The red light blinked: 1:0. Focus!

A hit on the mask doesn’t hurt (obviously), but it does wake you up. It’s not just the noise that shocks you (a terrifying echo), it’s also the thought. In that moment, you can imagine everything for real. Even pretend swords can be lethal if you don’t wear the proper equipment.

We returned to the middle of the piste to start the next hit. Smack in the face again! 2:0. Another ear-ringing explosion. My head snapped back, more from shock than anything else. Our audience gasped at Sam’s bad sportsmanship. He hadn’t started even a fraction of a second before I was ready; it was more like five seconds before I was ready. He might as well have hit me a week earlier in my sleep. Instead of making a scene, I said nothing. I used the insult like a spur. I took my position on guard, this time ready for anything.

The same attack twice in a row. I remembered that Sam had a limited repertoire, but I never remembered him being so quick. Then, like a rock guitarist playing a monotonous chord, he flèched again. I ran back, knocked his blade out of line, and hit him on his back foot as he sailed past. At last, a green light: 2:1. I was off the mark.

A moment later, it was 3:1. Sam had copied my last move and hit me on the back foot. Marvellous. Hitting your opponent on the back foot is an absurd choice of target. Sam never used to have flair.

The next hit was a mess. My attack failed. The distance closed, and we punched our épées like pistons. Both lights, red and green, blinked together, and my blade snapped in two. The hit was a double: 4:2. Focus. If Sam hit me again, I would lose. It wasn’t looking good. I should have asked for ten hits instead of five.

The thing about swords (i.e., blades) is that each one has a different character. When fencers think about a blade’s character, they consider its balance and weight, and how it retains its shape after a hit. It’s impossible to find a bunch of identical blades (which is what everyone would like to do), so anyone with more than one sword has a favourite. My spare épée was slightly heavier and a little bit stiffer. Not bad, but if I broke this one, I’d be in big trouble; I’d have to borrow one, and borrowing someone else’s sword is not recommended - it’s like wearing their shoes.

I’d made the oldest mistake: I underestimated my opponent. In the time I’d been away, Sam had found an extra gear. He was no longer a rabbit. And just to prove he had moved up the food chain, he unleashed a fearsome compound attack. A compound attack consists of multiple feints; it was well played. I felt his tip touch my shoulder. Damn it! I lost. But the hit was too light; it didn’t complete the electrical circuit. Sam hesitated and looked at the box. No light. I straightened my arm, and the green light blinked. It was a gift: 4:3. Getting closer. Time to even the score. Focus.

I started flicking, aiming for my opponent’s arm and wrist. Got him! 4:4. Even-stevens down to the last. Game on. Excitement erupted from the bench. Focus.

When it’s down to the last and all to play for, people are usually cautious. But Sam had a different strategy in mind, and he charged like a crazy unicorn. I wasn’t expecting an aggressive attack. I was expecting a war of attrition. I darted back, twisting desperately to avoid losing the point. Before I was forced over the end of the piste (which would have been a hit against me and cost me the fight), I squatted as low as I could, with my forehead almost touching the floor, and thrust my sword upwards, reaching for the sky. Sam’s forward momentum forced him to hurdle me. As he jumped over, I managed to hit him on the leg. Yes! I clenched my left fist in victory.

Sam then complained and said the last hit should be annulled, because I’d scored the hit after he passed me. The rules get complicated here, but I argued my case and told him he was speaking rubbish. Sam countered by saying the position I’d been in (just before I’d scored the hit) had been unsafe. The back of my neck had been dangerously exposed, and in a competition, the referee would have restarted the fight for safety reasons. It was one of those moments. If the Englishman had got the hit, he would have thrown off his mask and declared himself the victor. Instead, he threw off his mask and had a tantrum.

So, we fenced the final hit again. This time it was a war of attrition. Sam really had improved. I wondered what his cooking was like. It was probably quite good by now. When the English want to improve their cooking (and fencing) they come over to France.

Sam flicked the tip of his blade under my wrist.

“Eh la!” he shouted in triumph.

If you got points for shouting, Sam would have won.

I pointed at the box. It was the green light. My flick to the top of his wrist got him first. It was game over. A collective murmur of approval emanated from our audience. What a great stop-hit!

“Well played, Andre!” Jaqueline called out.

Sam knew when he was beaten. He looked resigned. We shook hands (as you are meant to at the end of a bout).

The beginner bounded over. “André, can I fence you please?”

“I have got to go now.” The beginner looked disappointed. “Fight Sam,” I said. “You get tough by fencing tough people.” I unclipped the spool and passed it to him.

“See you around, Sam,” I said.

“See you, André. It won’t be as easy next time you know.”

“It will be for me,” I said.

“In your dreams,” he replied.

Sam insisted on having the final say, which was very irritating. But he was becoming quite good. He was probably getting lessons from the Professor now. I never realised he was so ultra-competitive. That was interesting. I wanted to have a chat with Jacqueline, but she was fencing with someone else. It was time to go home.

Home was twenty minutes away by fast train. It was steak night tonight, my favourite, and after supper I’d watch a film with Dad, then do some revision. If I didn’t get into Notre Dame, I’d probably end up working for Mum at her hang-gliding club. For me, going to university wasn’t about the degree; it was all about fencing. A sports scholarship gave me three years of fencing - competing worldwide - with all expenses paid. The degree wasn’t important. I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do after school, and I certainly didn’t know what to study if I got into university. Maybe a bit of history or something. My only ambition was to fence at the Olympics, and the chances of that were slim. But it was something to aim for. You have to have something, right? And if it all fell apart and I didn’t get the scholarship, a job with Mum at her hang-gliding club would let me carry on training here at Club Paris, and maybe one day I’d make it to the Olympics.

The changing-room doors swung open and out stepped the Professor, dressed like the Michelin Man in his protective padding. I’d been dreading this meeting.

“Hello, Professor,” I said.

“André! What a surprise. Why are you leaving so soon?”

“Not fit,” I said. “Pulled a muscle.”

“You didn’t warm up,” he chortled. “You should have done the footwork class,” The Professor scrutinised my face. “You need a haircut.” I smiled in agreement. There was an awkward silence.

“I need to get back on the school team for my sports scholarship to uni,” I said.

“Good lad,” he said.

The Professor’s neat white hair and sharp, angular features gave him an air of trustworthy knowledge. He knew everything about fencing and the history of swords, and he held strong opinions on almost everything else. He was my mentor and coach, and I felt I’d let him down.

“What’s the most popular day now?” I asked. “It used to be Wednesday, but there’s only Jaqueline and Sam here tonight.”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he replied.

“What about Fridays?”

“There are a few good Blades here on a Friday, but they don’t stay too long.”

Suddenly, two men rushed past us. They were wearing grubby jeans and black leather jackets, and each one hefted a bulging rucksack.

“Who are those two?”

The Professor ran into the changing rooms. “Thieves!” he cried. “I thought they were behaving strangely.”

What a mess: the changing rooms had been ransacked. I grabbed my broken épée (the one I broke fencing Sam) and dashed outside.

The Professor followed closely behind. I glanced at him as my feet hit the pavement; he seemed to be smiling. Was it a look of approval, or was it an old man’s grimace? I took it for approval.

The two thieves escaped in a large, dirty white van. Without thinking of the consequences, I ran straight across the road and punctured the van’s rear tyre with my broken, jagged blade. The vehicle’s back end shimmied out of control and catapulted into the oncoming traffic.