Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [103]
“A lefty? Oh, cack-handed, ye mean. Aye, always have been. The schoolmaster used to tie that one to my belt behind my back, to make me write wi’ the other.”
“Can you? Write with the other, I mean?”
He nodded, reapplying the injured hand to his mouth. “Aye. Makes my head ache to do it, though.”
“Do you fight left-handed too?” I asked, wanting to distract him. “With a sword, I mean?” He was wearing no arms at the moment except his dirk and sgian dhu, but during the day he customarily wore both sword and pistols, as did most of the men in the party.
“No, I use a sword well enough in either hand. A left-handed swordsman’s at a disadvantage, ye ken, wi’ a small-sword, for ye fight wi’ your left side turned to the enemy, and your heart’s on that side, d’ye see?”
Too filled with nervous energy to keep still, he had begun to stride about the grassy clearing, making illustrative gestures with an imaginary sword. “It makes little difference wi’ a broadsword,” he said. He extended both arms straight out, hands together and swept them in a flat, graceful arc through the air. “Ye use both hands, usually,” he explained.
“Or if you’re close enough to use only one, it doesna matter much which, for you come down from above and cleave the man through the shoulder. Not the head,” he added instructively, “for the blade may slip off easy. Catch him clean in the notch, though”—he chopped the edge of his hand at the juncture of neck and shoulder—“and he’s dead. And if it’s not a clean cut, still the man will no fight again that day—or ever, likely,” he added.
His left hand dropped to his belt and he drew the dirk in a motion like water pouring from a glass.
“Now, to fight wi’ sword and dirk together,” he said, “if ye have no targe to shelter your dirk hand, then you favor the right side, wi’ the small-sword in that hand, and come up from underneath wi’ the dirk if ye fight in close. But if the dirk hand is well shielded, ye can come from either side, and twist your body about”—he ducked and weaved, illustrating—“to keep the enemy’s blade away, and use the dirk only if ye lose the sword or the use of the sword arm.”
He dropped low and brought the blade up in a swift, murderous jab that stopped an inch short of my breast. I stepped back involuntarily, and at once he stood upright, sheathing the dirk with an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry. I’m showin’ off. I didna mean to startle ye.”
“You’re awfully good,” I said, with sincerity. “Who taught you to fight?” I asked. “I’d think you’d need another left-handed fighter to show you.”
“Aye, it was a left-handed fighter. The best I’ve ever seen.” He smiled briefly, without humor. “Dougal MacKenzie.”
Most of the cherry blossoms had fallen from his head by now; only a few pink petals clung to his shoulders, and I reached out to brush them away. The seam of his shirt had been mended neatly, I saw, if without artistry. Even a rip through the fabric had been catch-stitched together.
“He’ll do it again?” I said abruptly, unable to stop myself.
He paused before answering, but there was no pretense of not understanding what I meant.
“Oh, aye,” he said at last, nodding. “It gets him what he wants, ye see.”
“And you’ll let him do it? Let him use you that way?”
He looked past me, down the hill toward the tavern, where a single light still showed through chinks in the timbers. His face was smooth and blank as a wall.
“For now.”
* * *
We continued on our rounds, moving no more than a few miles a day, often stopping for Dougal to conduct business at a crossroads or a cottage, where several tenants would gather with their bags of grain and bits of carefully hoarded money. All was recorded in ledgers by the quick-moving pen of Ned Gowan, and such receipts as were needed dispensed from his scrap-bag of parchment and papers.
And when we reached a hamlet or village large enough to boast an inn or tavern, Dougal would once more do his