AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I have seen thrashing convulsions with childbirth fever and after a blow to the head. They can also be a sign of the falling sickness. I have heard symptoms such as this can be brought on from over-exertion or exhaustion which is most likely the case with your father. The danger is passed. He should sleep a good few hours before he wakes. Why don’t you take a rest?”
Lucinda had been holding back tears but now one large, traitorous drop escaped. She brushed it off her cheek... “I was afraid he would die. He will not die, will he, Grandma?”
Grandma Jones laid a reassuring hand on Lucinda’s shoulder. “He will not.”
“Should we clean him up? “ Her face reddened at the prospect.
“That can wait until he wakes but you can help me to lift him onto a pallet and drag him away from the door.”
Grasping the corners of the bed cover underneath him, Grandma Jones at the feet end and Lucinda at the head, they lifted Father onto a straw-filled mattress. It was an easy matter to then drag him through the door and into the sleeping quarters. While Lucinda sat with him, Grandma Jones prepared a nourishing broth using chicken gizzards, bones and herbs which they ate with a heavy rye bread. Lucinda was surprised she had the appetite for anything at all but quickly cleaned off the bowl.
“What happened to your dress?”
She had forgotten all about it. “I had an altercation with a large puddle.”
“Get changed into your night clothes and go to bed. I will watch over your father.”
She started to object but was swiftly hushed. The thought of bed was most appealing. Dumping her ruined dress she pulled a nightshirt on and climbed under the covers. She wanted to believe Grandma Jones was telling her the truth, Father would swiftly recover, and life would go on as before, but living in London had taught her that so much came down to chance and luck. You could rage and rant and rail against fate, pray and plan and prepare, but still, your life could change in an instant and there was not a single thing you could do to change it back.
Her head seemed to have only just hit the pillow when she awoke to the first light of morning creeping into the room through the small leadlight window set high above their beds. Grandma Jones was already bustling in the kitchen, the fire alight and potage cooking in the hearth.
”Is he still sleeping?”
“That he is. Like a babe.”
“What shall we do about his students today? We shall have to turn them away. Unless I put on breeches and...”
Grandma hushed her with her hand. “Do not even think of it. Your father has forbidden you to touch a sword. I have sent word to Blackfriars to see if Nathan can help until your father is back at work which should not be long, I am sure––”
“You do not know that. He has not even woken up yet.”
“He will.”
As if he knew he was the subject under discussion, a groaning came from the next room sending them both rushing to Father’s aid. He struggled to sit up, wincing as he tried to put pressure through his arms.
“Where am I?” his voice was groggy like a man who has had too much drink. “My whole body feels as if I was thrown under a cart.”
Lucinda and her grandmother exchanged a look, the upshot of which was that Lucinda held her tongue.
“You were struck with an affliction yesterday afternoon. Do you not remember what happened?”
“Last thing I remember is my meeting with the other senior swordmasters. We sparred a few hours or so after the meeting but not enough to make me feel like this.”
“Lucinda found you passed out on the floor, thrashing about so much she could not calm or restrain you.”
He tried to push himself up again. “Oh! Argh. The back of my left shoulder.”
Grandma Jones prodded and poked at his back, had him move his arms this way and that. “I suspect you have broken your shoulder blade, perhaps even your spine.”
“No, ’tis nothing. I am bruised but not broken.” He fell back against the bed, grimacing as his shoulder contacted the mattress, giving lie to his protestations that he was not really hurt.
Grandma Jones sent Lucinda out of the room asking her to bring a boiled cloth and some rose water to clean the back of Father’s head where it was matted with blood. Once this was fetched, she attended to her other chores, setting up the fencing piste and laying out her father’s leather jerkin and padded vest.
“He can barely get out of bed. Can’t see him doing any fencing,” she muttered to herself. Yet the man was so stubborn he was bound to try, broken bones or not. If God answered her prayers, her actor friend Nathan could be spared from rehearsals, but if not, they were well and truly sunk.
As Grandma Jones predicted before she left on her own errands, Father completely ignored all their advice and tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. He was surely the most stubborn man in London, if not the entire world, more stubborn than a priest upon the rack.
“This is madness,” she said. “You cannot fight with a broken bone.”
