(standard disclaimer applies)
It was footwork that was most important, Norrington had said. If you didn't have your feet where they should be, if you weren't aware of your opponent's steps, your arm would be useless. Will looked down at his feet for a few minutes, studying the frame into which they put his body. His right arm wavered uncertainly, rudimentary blade gripped tightly. He frowned when a spot of red bloomed on his dusty shoe and lifted his head.
His nose had started bleeding again. Mr. Talbot's vicious mare had knocked it with her head when he'd been shoeing her this morning, and though Mr. Brown had said it wasn't broken, it had certainly felt that way.
Laying the sword carefully down on the table, he plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his leaking nose with it. It was bleeding sluggishly, not gushing as it had earlier, but he hated the wet scent in his nostrils.
As he was sitting down and tipping his head back, Mr. Brown came stumbling through the door. He squinted at Will.
"Don' get blood all o'er th' tools, boy," he mumbled.
"I won't, sir," Will replied, hoping Brown would stagger straight off to bed and leave him to finish the day's work in peace.
But his master came closer, picking up the weapon Will had laid down. Even through the bloody handkerchief, the stench of ale and unwashed flesh assaulted Will's senses.
"You foolin' with this nonsense ag'in?" Brown demanded, leveling the blade at Will. "Sword's a gen'leman's weapon, m'boy." His face split in an unkind grin. "Gen'leman or pirate, that is."
"I'm no pirate," Will snapped, hot anger flooding him. It faded into a bitter ache as he looked down at his work-roughened, crimson-stained hands, thinking of Miss Swann's unspoiled white skin. And I am no gentleman.