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farter than anie Englishman...
Padua, who kept a fashionable establishment in London, teaching dance, ballistics, and the new- fangled art
of the rapier to London courtiers and their fashion- conscious entourage.of the rapier to London courtiers
and their fashion- conscious entourage.
The Italian, carried along by the enthusiasm of his prosperous claque, was overheard stating that in all his
years in England (and he had arrived in 1590) "there was not yet one Englishman who could once touch him
at the single rapier, or rapier and dagger."
To the Elizabethan ear, this was strong stuff indeed. It implied that English-trained fencers -- both amateurs
and professionals -- were so inadequate they could not even score a lucky hit against the man.
Naturally, the local team was alerted by a Piqued Englishman.
Less than a half hour later, a tall man entered the inn and, cap in hand, approached the gentlemen. This was
Bartholomew Bramble, Wells' own accredited Maister of Defence. And his deference was not at all out of
place, since after all, he was a "man of his hands" and the group he was approaching consisted of bonified
nobles.
Now imagine their consternation when this fellow not only approached but dared to speak to them: If
Maestro Vincentio would please to take a quart of wine with him.
Inch-for-inch the patrician, Vincentio leaned back: "Why should you give me a quart if wine?"
"Why, sir, because I hear you are a famous man at your weapon.".
And the Piqued Englishman chimed in: "Maestro Vincentio, I pray to bid him welcome. He is a man of your
profession."
My profession?" Vincentio twirled his goatee. "What is my profession?"
"Well, he is a master of the Noble Science of Defence."
"Why," said Maister Vincentio, "God make him a good man."
And he turned to resume his conversation. But Bartholomew Bramble was not to be shrugged off. Not after
that One Touch business he was not! So again he pressed his quart of wine on the Italian.
Annoyed, Vincentio looked up: "I have no need of your wine."
"Sir, I have a school of defence in town, will it please you to go thither?"
"Thy school? What shall I do at thy school?"
"Play with me," said the Maister, "at the rapier and dagger, if it please you."
"Play with thee? If I play with you, I will hit thee 1, 2, 3, 4 thrusts in the eye together." And Vincentio
demonstratively shifted the gilded hilt of his rapier into plain sight.
"Then, if you can do so, it is the better for you and the worse for me. But surely, I can hardly believe that
you can hit me. But once again, I heartily pray you, good sir, that you will go to my school and play with me."
"Play with thee?" Vincentio had had it. "By God," he spat,
"Me scorn to play with thee."
That did it for Bramble. The Italian's "scorn" had not yet reverberated through the room when his large fist
hit Vincentio squarely in the jaw that he fell over, flipped, and landed with his legs against a buttery hatch.
Vincentio, his rapier dragging on the floor, sprang to his feet: His right on his dagger, his left index finger
pointing at the Maister, he hissed: "I will cause you to lie in jail for this, one, two, three years."
Bramble, weaponless and facing the heavily armed Italian, grabbed a half-full jack of beer, and with gusto
emptied it in his face: "And well, since you will drink no wine, will you pledge me in beer? I drink to all the
cowardly knaves in England, and I drink thee to be the veriest coward of them all."
They left it at that. Saviolo's friends probably pulled him back.
A duel proper -- even after the double whammy of a physical insult -- would be impossible. After all,
someone with high social pretensions could not challenge a "base mechanick". And the innkeeper probably
made sure Bramble didn't make the illustrious customers spend the cold hard coin of the realm with the
competition.
Saviolo, however (who had nothing to gain and everything to lose putting his skills to the test against a native
master) had an opportunity to prove that he indeed was the ultimate Machiavellian.
Accidentally running into Bramble the next morning, he plays nice-nice, takes Bramble over to a mercer,
buys him some silk buttons: "You remember how you misused me yesterday. You were to blame, me be an
excellent man. Me teach you how to thrust two foote further than any Englishman."
Fencers Quarterly Magazine, 848 South Kimbrough, Springfield, MO 65806
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