The Grand Melee was not a sport; it was a controlled war. The arena had been cleared of the jousting fences. Fifty knights, on foot, formed two opposing lines. The objective: stay standing. The last man vertical won.
Geneviève positioned herself on the left wing. She wielded her Tournament Greatsword. She did not throw herself into the savage pile-up in the center, where axes and maces were already denting helms. She walked. She was a reaper. A knight from Bastonne charged her with a tower shield and a short sword.
Geneviève used the Posta di Donna (Lady's Guard—high guard over the right shoulder). When the knight tried to strike her legs, she did not parry. She performed a Void (passing step), pulling back her left leg and letting the enemy blade cut the air. In the same instant, she unloaded a descending slash (Oberhau) onto the shoulder of the enemy shield. The force of the blow bent the metal rim of the shield and dropped the man to his knees. A front kick to the chest sent him to sleep.
One after another, opponents fell. Geneviève did not fight with anger. She fought with economy. Every movement was calculated to conserve energy.
After an hour of iron and sweat, only two remained. On one side, Sir Gilles, the black giant. On the other, Sir Henri de Lyonesse.
Henri was not big like Baron Odo. He was tall, slender, and wielded a hand-and-a-half sword (bastard sword) with lethal grace. He was known as "The Silver Viper." He had eliminated twenty men by himself, aiming for joints, backs of knees, fingers. He was fast. Perhaps as fast as she was.
The two faced off in the center of the arena, surrounded by the groaning bodies of the defeated and the tense silence of the crowd. King Louen leaned forward from the box. This was the fight he wanted to see. Strength versus Technique. Or rather, Technique versus Superior Technique.
They began to circle. Henri assumed the Pflug guard (The Plow), hilt at the hip and point aiming at Geneviève's throat, ready to snap into rapid thrusts. Geneviève responded with the Vom Tag guard (From the Day), sword high above her head, threatening a devastating blow that would smash through any static parry.
Henri snapped. A thrust to the face. Geneviève did not block. She rotated her torso and struck Henri's blade with the forte (strong part) of her sword, deflecting it laterally (Absetzen). But Henri was fluid. He used the momentum of the parry to rotate and strike with a back edge cut (Zwerchhau) toward Geneviève's temple. Geneviève had to duck sharply, feeling the opponent's blade screech against the crest of her helm. He is good, she thought. Using my strength against me.
Henri realized that at a distance, Geneviève had the reach advantage. He decided to close the distance. He launched himself into gioco stretto (close play). The blades crossed inches from their faces. The Bind. Henri pressed with all his weight, trying to drive his point into Geneviève's visor. Geneviève felt the pressure. Instead of opposing with brute force, which Henri expected from a "beast" like Gilles, she did the unthinkable.
Winden (Winding). She rotated her wrists around the axis of the enemy sword, bringing her blade to the other side of the bind and aiming at Henri's throat. Henri, surprised, had to release the pressure and jump back to avoid being impaled.
The crowd held its breath. They had seen a maneuver of a swordmaster, not a jousting knight.
Henri was frustrated. His speed was not enough. He changed tactics. He began aiming for the legs, forcing Geneviève into low parries that left her head exposed. Low feint, high thrust. Geneviève fell for the feint. She lowered her guard. Henri's thrust came straight for the left eye slit of the helm. There was no time to parry with the sword.
Geneviève did the only thing possible. She let go of the grip with her left hand and grabbed Henri's blade with her bare hand (protected by the dwarf gauntlet). The enemy blade stopped a millimeter from her eye. Geneviève's gauntlet sizzled against the sliding steel.
Henri was locked. His sword was in Geneviève's iron grip. He smiled under his helm. "I've got you, Gilles. You are half disarmed." He tried to draw a dagger with his left hand to finish the job.
Geneviève felt time stop. The pain in her left hand, the fatigue, the noise of the crowd... everything vanished. Only the Sword remained. She understood that the sword did not need two hands to be lethal. The sword was lightning, and she was the storm.
With a shout that started from her diaphragm, Geneviève did not try to break free. She pulled Henri toward her using the enemy blade like a rope. In the same instant, she let go of her own sword's handle with her right hand, grabbing her own blade halfway up (Mordhau or Murder-Stroke). She used her sword like a warhammer, striking with the crossguard and pommel.
The blow described a perfect arc. The heavy steel and lapis lazuli pommel crashed into Henri's helm, right on the temple. BONG. The sound was like that of an out-of-tune bell. Henri's helm dented deeply. The knees of the "Silver Viper" gave way instantly. Henri collapsed to the ground, unconscious, his sword falling from his hands.
Geneviève remained standing, panting. She held her sword inverted, gripping it by the blade like a steel crucifix. She looked around. There was no one else standing. She was alone in the center of the arena.
Slowly, she righted the weapon. She sheathed it with a fluid movement that produced a satisfying click. She raised her arms to the sky.
"THE WINNER!" shouted the herald, voice almost breaking with emotion. "SIR GILLES OF THE MOUNTAINS!"
Duke Tancred stood up first, followed by the King. It had not been an elegant duel. It had been a lesson in Kunst des Fechtens (The Art of Fighting). Geneviève had demonstrated that there are no desperate situations, only solutions not yet applied.
As the surgeons carried away poor Henri, Geneviève approached the royal box to claim her prize. She did not want gold. She did not want lands. She wanted the voice. And now, with blood pulsing in her ears and energy flooding her tired but triumphant muscles, she knew that no one could ever tell her to be silent again.