Bob knocked her dagger-hand aside and sat up violently, throwing her into a backward somersault. She'd have landed on her head except that he caught her upper arms in his hands and spun her over – or something rather complicated and dangerous – all she knew was that, when it was over, she was dizzy, and her heart had skipped a few beats, her hair was in her face and her dagger-hand was empty. Bob was behind her, using her as a screen while he pulled his breeches up with one hand. His other hand had a grip on her laces, which he was exploiting as a sort of bridle. 'You should never have straightened your arm,' he explained quietly, 'It tells the opponent that you are unable to make a thrust.'