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Chapter six
A Ropemaker, a Blacksmith and too Many Pints
Findingtheropemakerwas far less difficult than convincing her shadow to wait outside. First, she tried what she thought was a subtle hint. “My business may take a while. So if you have something to occupy yourself in the meantime?”
“I have nothing pressing.” She let out an inward sigh. Did she have to make it so plain even a dullard would understand? If McCrae accompanied her inside it could ruin any chance of gleaning more information.
“I must confess,” she said, lowering her gaze coyly, “I have not been entirely transparent. I fear the ropemaker’s wife is quite the gossip, and if she sees us together, she will have us married off and producing a babe before we have even made it to the end of the street. So you see the best course of action is for you to wait out of sight.”
“Married and a child conceived? We have been busy. What a shocking notion. I thought all we had shared was a tussle in the dirt.” Far from looking shocked, he looked highly amused.
“Then we are agreed. Tis best not to feed the gossips any crumbs, so I shall meet you back here when my business is concluded.” She stared directly at him, daring him to contradict her.
“If that is your wish.”
Relief flooded through her, but it was not for the reason he thought. It was not her reputation that was at stake, but the reputation of someone else, someone who had already suffered enough. As she turned to thank him before she went into the shop, he leaned closer to whisper in her ear.
“I wouldn’t mention to the gossip that you have touched my sword.”
Oh how she wanted to swat him with the rope that was still bundled up in her hand, but the rope was far too important to waste on the satisfied grin of Robert McCrae. She waited a moment until the flush of heat subsided from her face. She never used to blush like this, not until she met him.
On entering the store she was glad she took the time to compose herself. Mary’s mother was at the counter, and the flash of fear in her eyes gave away the fact that she remembered Lucinda and how they had met. She glanced around, no doubt checking for Mary’s presence or anyone else who could overhear.
“Good Mistress, pray do not be alarmed, I am merely here to inquire about some rope.” Lucinda lowered her eyes in a sign of respect watching as the woman’s tension eased a notch. Lucinda put her fist on the counter, the back of her palm facing to the top before slowly turning her hand over and opening her fingers to reveal the bunched-up strand of rope. “I came across this and wondered if you might recognize it? It seems a distinctive type of rope.”
Mary’s mother paled and her fingers worried the notch at the base of her neck. She looked down at the rope, clearing her throat and swallowing before she spoke. “I might. W-w-where did you come across it?”
“It was used on a friend,” Lucinda explained, studying her face intently.
“On a friend? Do you not mean by a friend?
“I do not. I meant what I said. You see it leaves a very distinctive pattern...Lucinda let the rope drop from her hand, unwound it from where she had coiled it tightly around her wrist and rolled up her sleeve to reveal the indentation it left. “Quite like a bracelet, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, good God!” Mary’s mother covered her mouth, mumbled words of horror escaping from under her hand. She let her hand fall away and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It is our rope. We import it from Antwerp. It is the finest quality four-strand, quarter-inch hemp. No other ropemaker has it and the last of our stock was stolen...as you know.” She picked up the rope, fingering the cordage. “Wait, you said it was used on a friend. How? When?”
Lucinda nodded gravely. “To bind her wrists and ankles I am sorry to report. By a man, intent upon evil.”
“Your friend. She is alright?”
“She is alive and otherwise unharmed. She is strong. She will survive.”
“I wish I could say the same of my Mary. She has not been the same as she was.” Lucinda reached out to touch the other woman’s hand, registering the tension in her fingers, the anguish in her grip, and the desperation in the brief clasping of their hands. A deep burning anger welled up inside her until finally their hands released, and she reached over the counter to take the rope back.
“If we can find the man who stole the rope, we will know who is responsible for these crimes. I plan to find out who it was.” She coiled it loosely around her hand then stuffed it in her bodice for safekeeping.
“That is a dangerous business,” Mary’s mother said. “Please be careful.” Lucinda assured her she most certainly would. Dropping her voice to a whisper the woman pulled her close, so close their foreheads were touching. “If you find the evil cur, come tell my husband first. We sell a type of rope to bullock drivers that is excellent for castration.”
Lucinda was somewhat taken aback at the woman’s anger, but then she thought about what her father would do if the same thing had happened to her. Castration, it could be argued, might be a fitting form of punishment, given the nature of the crime. But if a rope was used to mete out justice, far better for it to be on a magistrate’s order and carefully placed around the scoundrel’s neck.
A sick feeling in the pit of her stomach came upon her when she left the ropemaker’s shop. The nausea lingered and did not let up. She was only half-listening to McCrae spout forth about the need to foster good relations between Scottish swordsmen and the English Masters of Defense since they were now united under one King and Kingdom after all.
“What do you think?” he said.
“About?”
“The best way to achieve mutual recognition for the prowess and strengths of each other’s fighting styles.”
“You honestly believe that will happen?”
