This distinctive sabre is a simplified sparring version of an original sword housed in Castle Coburg in Germany.
Our client wanted the striking shape of the extant ornate sabre, dated to 1604, without any of the princely trappings and gilded features. The pared-back guard features a thumb ring for control in casting actions, as well as flared ribbon-work terminals to the quillons.
The original sabre, courtesy of the Veste Coburg collection.
The pommel is part-hollow, reducing the weight slightly and lending itself to a strong rotation around the centre paired with a light tip. The result is a sabre that feels authoritative yet fast in the hand, ideal for close, mobile cut and thrust fighting.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 116.5cm
Blade length: 90cm
Blade width at shoulder: 4cm
Blade stock: 6mm
Quillon span: 24cm
Grip length: 17cm
Grip and pommel: 25cm
Grip to guard space: 4.5cm
Point of balance: 8.5cm
Weight: 1826g
Right handed
2mm edges and swollen tip
Fencing safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are blackened to a matte finish.
The guard features flat-section bars including curved flaring quillons, one of which sweeps up into a knuckleguard.
The partially hollow pommel has a typical beak shape, and the oak grip is covered in linen thread then wrapped in wine red kidskin, bisected with a steel ring.
The curved blade features four fullers to the forte.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Near Escape∴
Red-dyed flags flicker at the periphery of your vision, great strings of the things, swagged between tent poles and pillars. You close your eyes and the flickering crimson remains. A deep breath and you open them again, to no avail. Gazing past the gaudy grandeur of the tournament grounds, you see only the hunched, hard-edged figure of the Duke as he straps on his armour.
Your teeth clenched, you mirror his movements, adjusting your armour and taking up your sword. The sunlight glances from its curved blade, dazzling you for a moment as you clutch the blood red leather of its grip in your gauntleted hand, your thumb pressed readily against the ring.
You feel his steely gaze locked on you as you step onto the platform, and it is the stare of a predator. The crowd’s cheers surge like a crashing wave, their anticipation like a metallic tang on your tongue. You step into measure, and give a curt bow, your eyes never breaking contact with his.
His response is only to pour forward across the wooden platform, moving like an incoming storm instead of a man. You swallow your fear: your every move must be calculated. The rising excitement of the onlookers is a distant echo as you focus in on your opponent.
Minutes pass. You feel a trickle of sweat spilling over your brow as you struggle to gain the upper hand. You can see the dogged determination in the Duke’s eyes, and can only hope that he sees the same in yours.
Tired and reckless you cast your sword forward in a sweeping cut, landing a swift strike that sends the Duke’s sword clattering to the ground. The crowd erupts into cheers, caring not who wins so long as the fable of the duel reaches its end.
Yet with a start, you realise this is not the end. The Duke spares not even a moment’s glance for his sword cast to the floor, drawing instead the dagger from his belt and surging toward you.
Time slows.
You are dimly aware of gasps from the crowd, of an urgent trumpet announcing the duel’s end.
You close your eyes. The blood red flags still flicker there.
You open them.
You strike.