Regal and renaissance-inspired, this cup-hilt rapier was designed with our client's fencing style in mind. Light and nimble at 1040g, it provides comprehensive hand coverage while returning swiftly to the central line after each action. The blade is slender yet present, tapering from 8mm stock to give it a slight back balance and ready rotation about the central point. This feels light in the hand while preserving a historical balance point.
The custom-sized grip is suited to our client's hand shape, allowing the pommel to nestle into the large muscle of the thumb base, supporting the sword in an extended guard. The smallest finger can also add firm pressure in a cut or bind without power coming from the wrist. This promotes speed and precision, allowing the wielder to fight for longer without tiring.
It is named for the royal red "rubrum" and gold "aurum" of the grip that gives this sword its character. The hardened, historically-sized cup holds another regal surprise: it is hot-brassed to the inner, adding a delightful hint of decadence to the whole.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 120cm
Blade length: 107cm
Blade width: 2.3cm at base
Blade stock: 8mm
Grip length: 7cm
Grip and pommel: 11cm
Quillon span: 29cm
Grip to guard: 4.5cm
Point of Balance: 14cm
Weight: 1040g
Ambidextrous
Blunt edges
Rounded tip
Fencing flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated cup hilt, guard and pommel are polished to a satin finish. The guard features straight quillons with twisted carvings and flared terminals with decorative lines, matching the carvings to the knucklebow. The inside of the cup is hot-brassed, giving it a warm glow.
The oak grip is wrapped in oxblood leather and finished with strips of brass to the top, bottom, and running down the length of the grip. The spherical pommel is finished with a faceted nut.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Lordling's Ransom ∴
The floor of the stable is hard, cold and dirty. You know you must look absurd here in your armour of red and gold, a gem amidst the dung. That’s what the man must be thinking as he watches you struggle, a half-smile toying at the hard edges of his mouth.
Again you pull against the splintering beam with your bounds, hoping to fray the rope that holds your hands, or better yet, break the beam and watch the whole rotting roof fall in around you. In the ensuing commotion, you could probably make a break for it.
Your uncle said you oughtn’t go. He said you were too young and too untested to see battle at the bridge. But your noble notions got the better of you: you could hardly let men serve under your banner without being willing to bleed yourself.
And bleed you did: great spatters of crimson against the golden stubble of the cornfields. It was not the blow that unhorsed you, but the dead swoon you fell into at the sight of the damage.
When you came to, you were here. Gagged and bound. Desperate. Defiant. Doomed. Your life in the hands of some lowborn traitor, no doubt imagining the tales to be told of him as he turns your rapier in his rough hands.
You clench you teeth about the foul-tasting gag to see the sword handled so. It was a gift from your father, its elegant grip in the colours of your crest. The colour of blood against shorn stalks of corn. Your captor smiles - for real this time - as the golden inner of the cup glints in the evening sun. Then, as if arriving at a decision, he crosses the space between you.
With a surprisingly deft cut, he severs your bindings with the blade, and you immediately wrench the rough, dirty cloth from your mouth.
“What is it you want?” you demand, only a slight tremor to your voice. “Return me to my men, and I will see you paid handsomely. Gold. Land. Hell, a title. I have an estate in the Fenlands…”
The peasant waits patiently until you run out of offers.
“I’ll take the sword,” he says, flicking it through the air with a whistle.