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Chapter seven
The Hangover
Muchalehadbeen consumed in Lucinda and Grandma Jones’ absence. Half a dozen empty jugs were lined up on the floor. Cavendish and her father were trading war stories while McCrae rocked onto the back legs of a stool. By the grin on his face he was excessively pleased with himself, excessively inebriated, or both. It was not his fault this should aggravate her sorely but aggravate her it did. With the events at the blacksmith’s fresh in her mind, it seemed incongruous that anyone should be in a celebratory mood.
“Ah! The beauty returns,” Cavendish said. She had the impression he was deliberately trying to put her off balance, testing her in the way a stonemason examines a lump of stone for its fault lines before taking to it with a mallet to make it crack.
“A toast to the lovely Lucinda!” McCrae joined in, raising his mug before draining it and turning it upside down onto the barrel they were using as a table.
“Fetch us some more food, and while you are at it, our tankards need to be refrill-refilled. There’s a good lass.”
“Yes Father,” she said arranging her teeth into what might pass as a pleasant smile but was in reality a grimace if you looked close enough. “If there is any ale left to fetch,” she added under her breath while picking up one of the many discarded jugs. She found Grandma Jones already busy with a knife cutting thick slices of bread and cheese.
“They need plenty of this to soak up what they’ve drunk,” she said, attacking the loaf with enough force to cut through wood. “I have never known your father to allow heavy drinking among all the weapons. He must have a compelling reason to break his rule.”
“Do you think so much ale could bring Father’s affliction back?”
“Tis possible. Who knows? It is certainly a risk, but as I said, he must have his reasons.”
“Why do you make excuses for him? Any foolish behavior by a man, there must be a good reason, yet it is women who are left to clean up the mess!”
“Save your breath complaining. Tis why men cannot do without women, but a widow can do quite well without a man.”
“I never want to have a man. They are more trouble than they are worth.”
“That is what you say now. Hush. Here comes your father, sniffing after his food. The tonic I gave him for his agitation makes a man uncommonly hungry,” she said, which to Lucinda sounded like another excuse. He lumbered and shuffled until he was wedged between them.
“Me an the Shcottishers have come up with a most eggschellent palan,” he declared, crushing first Lucinda then Grandma Jones with a one-and-a-half-arm embrace.
“Do you not think perhaps you have had enough?” Grandma Jones said. “You have not long recovered from your affliction.”
“No! No! The night ish yet rung. You mush join ush to toast our gorious future. Afferall tiz your future too.” Whatever he was talking about had put him in a fine mood. Whatever was discussed at the meeting must have been fruitful. All the more reason to be concerned. He picked up two extra ale tankards, following behind Lucinda who was tasked with carrying the jug of quarter ale.
“The ladeesh will be joining us,” Father announced with a flourish of his stump.
“A splendid idea,” Cavendish said as Lucinda set down the jug. Father dipped one finger in the ale, ignoring the look of disapproval on Grandma Jones’ face.
“Quarter ale? We need full shtrength.”
“I am afraid the full strength is all drunk,” Grandma said.
“We cannot drink a toast with this!”
“Never fear, my good host, I have the perfect solution.” From somewhere about his person Cavendish produced a silver flask that was suspended in its own leather case. “You do not know you are alive till you have tasted Scottish aqua vitae.” He directed McCrae to fetch two more stools for the ladies while he poured the contents of the flask sharing the liquid evenly between each of the mugs. Divided between five there was only a small quantity in any given mug.
“Barely enough to get a tadpole drunk,” Father complained.
“Dinna be fooled. A wee dram will put steel in your rod.”
“Before we toast this grand plan, may we know what we are toasting?” Grandma asked, which was exactly what Lucinda also wanted to know.
“Pleash, go ahead,” Father said with a nod in Cavendish’s direction.
Cavendish cleared his throat and paused a moment to gather his thoughts before looking each of them over with a discerning eye. Yet again she felt like a landed fish being inspected for size and quality to be assigned either to the table or tossed aside for bait. Cavendish appeared less inebriated than McCrae or her father, so he had either been pacing his intake or had more experience in holding his drink. The only discernible signs of him being in his cups was a more pronounced rolling of his ’r’s and a glittering intensity about his eyes.
He began a rambling oration as though giving an address to parliament. “Today is a momentous day in the esteemed annals of Scottish and English swordsmanship for we have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. This fine and well-regarded establishment, known as the Whitefriars Fencing Academy, under the direction of one of London’s most senior and adept Masters of Defense, Master John Evans, shall henceforth be joined by my own personal master fencing instructor and a small group of younger but highly trained Scottish swordsman, including my own nephew here, to form a combined academy of sword skills, the purpose of which is to share knowledge, expertise and techniques for the further development of the Noble Science of Defense and the glorious conjoining of our two countries under one King, one throne and now one combined System of Sword and Battle Skills. I propose a toast to the venture’s unqualified success.” He tapped his ale mug twice on the barrel top, then held it aloft. “To Whitefriars,” he loudly cried, adding as an aside, “we shall keep the name of course.” It took a while for the full import to sink in, to truly believe what she was hearing, but by the end of the speech, her sense of horror was so great it crowded out all other feeling.
With great effort Lucinda joined them in raising their mugs, the clinking of mug against mug feeling as violent as a physical assault. McCrae and Cavendish both tossed back their “wee dram” of aqua vitae in one swift head-tipping gulp. Grandma took a circumspect sip and Lucinda followed suit. The liquid hit her tongue and her throat in a crashing succession of burning. This was hardly the water of life. It was liquid fire! Unfortunately Father was too far gone for good sense to prevail, and following the Scots’ lead, he too tossed the lot down in one gulp where it remained only briefly. In a reflex action of self-protection, his gut rebelled and ejected the liquid which came spurting forth staccato-fashion between bouts of coughing and spluttering, raining down upon McCrae who was directly opposite him in the line of fire.
