The Cordia Rapier

Closely based on the Wallace Collection's A634, this North-Sea-style rapier captures the feel of the many museum originals that follow this design, while including some adaptations for comfortable fencing.

Lighter than the original, it is a willing and versatile sword with a central mass. Able to nimbly dart around parries, yet equally confident in finding and dominating the line, it can fill many roles.

The complex guard works well with single-finger-up and thumb-up grips, and offers comprehensive hand coverage when held at the correct angles.

Meanwhile the overall basket shape including the pierced shells, heart-shaped bar terminals and striking fish tail pommel give the sword a strong Northern European aesthetic, complemented by a gleaming brass wire grip.

The sword is named for the heart-shaped terminals, the word "cordial" literally meaning "heartfelt" - as a well-aimed thrust to the chest from this beauty would certainly be!

Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.

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∴ Specs ∴

• Total length: 116.6cm

• Blade length: 101.5cm

• Blade width at ricasso: 1.8cm

• Blade width at widest: 2.2cm

• Grip length: 8cm

• Grip and pommel: 14.5cm

• Grip to guard space: 5.25cm

• Quillon span: 14.5cm

• Weight: 980g

• Point of Balance: 14.5cm from cross

• Right-handed

• Blunt edges & rounded tip

• Fencing safe flex

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∴ Notes ∴

The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are blackened to a matte finish. The swept hilt is formed of diamond-section bars, with one quillon downturned and the other sweeping up to form the knuckle guard.

The guard features a single ring with a diagonal loop joining the quillons to the hilt-arms alongside vertically projecting prongs. The counter guard is formed of an asymmetric cross, with carving to the centre. Both front and counter guards feature filled and pieced ports, and all bar terminals swell into heart shapes with circular piercings.

The oak grip is carved into a spiral shape, and wrapped in brass and steel wire, with Turk's head knots to the top and bottom. The striking fishtail pommel is hexagonal in section, with a false peening block placed within its fork.

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∴ Gallery ∴

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∴ A Cordial Encounter ∴

You bow precisely: respect, contempt, and tradition, all bound up in one elegant dip. Emil returns the gesture, stiffly. You glance to your seconds, who nod and step back. Formalities out of the way, you are now permitted to kill each other.

Your sword gleams in the dawn light as if sensing its cue, like a thoroughbred racehorse champing at the bit. Black bars curve into heart-shaped finials, silvered notches marking past grievances.

With a yelp, you break measure and dart into the dance. You are under no illusion that this is anything other, as strictly choreographed as the Galliard you leapt through last night, laughing as you promenaded past Emil, his sister's hand in yours.

Your steps and turns are by the book: no strikes below the belt, no cuts to the face, both of you seeking a clean thrust. A good death. Even here, where dishonour boils over into bloodshed, one must consider reputation.

Steel scrapes against steel. You step into close measure and he panics, twisting his sword arm inelegantly to break away. The air in his wake stinks of whiskey and fear. He has been drinking. That explains his poor form: you have fenced Emil since he was a boy of thirteen, and never has he been caught out by that move before.

You don't know which you feel more strongly: disgust or pity. But you do know that neither has a place here, in the measured, meticulous quiet of the duelling ground. Shaking of sentiment, your blade finds the line: unobstructed, elegant, final. A thrust to the heart, so perfect that it could be a painting.

But as you lunge, you pull. The point halts against his doublet, pressing into brocade but not flesh. He looks down at where the pain should be but isn't, and then back up to meet your eye. His chest heaves with panted breath.

His eyes grow round with questions, with another kind of pain. The intimacy of the moment is almost improper, both of you stood together on the border of life and death, neither sure what should come next.

Embarassed, you tuck your sword away and bow again. Shallow, precise.

“It is over,” you say.

He recovers himself and nods once, as if you’d asked him to pass salt at the table.

You both turn to your seconds and silently shrug into your overcoats: alive, ashamed, and atoned for, in all the proper ways.