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“You promised me, no more trouble—”
“I kept my promise. I do not fight in public anymore. I hold my tongue and do not correct the fencers’ errors.”
“And yet you help yourself to another man’s sword. What were you thinking?”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You are right. It will not. From now on, you must not touch a weapon unless it is to clean it, carry it, or hand it to a student.”
“What of our practice together, when no one else is around?
“I cannot allow it to continue.”
“But we have always fought together. Surely you do not expect me to forget everything you taught me? What harm is there if no one sees?”
“But someone did see, didn’t they? My mind is made up.” He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. Although his touch was gentle, the set of his mouth was firm. “The risk is far too great. I would be hounded out of the Masters of Defense if anyone found out. It was wrong of me to teach you sword craft and falsely raise your hopes. I should have stopped long ago.”
Her shoulders stiffened as her anger flared but losing her temper would only serve as vindication for her father’s ultimatum. “You did not think it wrong when you came back from fighting in Ireland with only one hand. It was I who helped you take up your weapons again when your shame and pride would not allow you to train with another swordsman.”
“True. But that was then. This is now. Reputation is everything, and I cannot compromise my livelihood or your future. There are plans afoot which are too important to jeopardize.”
She squeezed her hands together having nothing else to clutch.
“What plans do you mean?”
“Nothing for you to be concerned with. Tis men’s business.’ He waved his shortened arm dismissively, the way he used to when he still had the hand. “Simply do what I ask, and all will be well, and we should be able to put this matter behind us.”
Easy for him to say all will be well; he was not the one being asked to give up the one thing he truly loved. The clang of sword on sword and the encouraging shouts of swordsmen cut across the silence that fell between them, provoking Lucinda into a vehement outburst. “This is so unjust. Making me work here and not use a sword is like locking me in a larder and forbidding me to eat. It is a torture I cannot bear.”
“You do exaggerate.” He dropped his hand from her shoulder and put some space between them. “The desire will fade with time if you do not indulge. You will soon adjust as I have done to my altered situation.” His eyes drifted down to the stump below his right elbow.
“And if I do not care to adjust?” she said through gritted teeth. “What of my desires?”
Her father let out a long sigh. “There are many things you might desire that are never going to happen. I might desire to have a new hand, but I can no more grow a hand than you can grow a beard. There is no place for a woman in the world of swordsmanship. I do not make the rules, but I will not tolerate you flouting them either. So please try and act more womanly. That is my final word.” As he stepped from the alcove, he turned back to tell her. “Take another jug of ale around and be mindful of the Scotsmen. This union with Scotland is our future. We cannot stay stuck in the past.”
Womanly! Lucinda kicked at a shield propped against the wall, sending it clattering and spinning. She had a good mind to throw the thing at her father’s head. Of course she would never do such a thing. Instead, she would do his bidding, handing out ale like a tavern wench and applauding the paltry skills of mediocre swordsmen. She could demolish most of them with her rapier given half the chance. She had lived and breathed the arts of defense every day of her life and now she was supposed to forget about them entirely and act more womanly? How was she to achieve that? Flutter her eyelashes? Smile sweetly? Sway her hips from side to side and draw even more attention to the fact she was a woman stuck well and truly in a man’s world? Why would anyone ever desire to be a woman if a woman could never do anything she desired? And as for Scotsmen! If it wasn’t for the money they brought in, she would banish them all.
She fetched the ale jug and some spare mugs on a tray and attempted to weave her way in a “womanly” fashion between each clump of swordsmen. It was surprisingly difficult to swing your hips without spilling any ale. And as for pouring while leaning forward and offering a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts, well, it was also a considerable challenge, but it did provide a perverse sense of satisfaction when a man was so distracted, he did not notice the ale puddle forming at his feet. As she worked her way among the fencers, she caught Robert McCrae watching her every move, a twitch of amusement clearly evident on his face. A stab of anticipation shot through her chest at the thought of further conversation. She had made no promise. She had explained her actions to him, and yet his eyes still followed her around the room. What color were his eyes exactly? Blue? Green? Something in between? A color she imagined the sea might be, if the sailors who trained at Whitefriars were to be believed. She would be best advised to avoid him, go on as if nothing had happened, and yet she found herself returning his glances, pulled to his gaze as if caught on a surging tide. Curiosity and admiration were a potent combination. And the man did have a mighty fine sword.
To Lucinda’s relief, there was no opportunity for any more conversation with either her father or the too-handsome and too-irritating Scotsman, since before she was finished delivering the afternoon ale, her grandmother came to fetch her.
“I need you to come with me and hasten about it.”
Lucinda did not need any further prompting. The only time she was glad to be born a woman was when she was called upon to help her grandmother in her work as a midwife and healer. Despite the many frustrations and sorrows that came with the role, it was, for the most part, equally fascinating and satisfying. In a strange way sword fighting and midwifery were somewhat akin. In both occupations much was arduous or routine, but the margin between success and disaster was terrifying and slim.
Despite her greying hair and tendency to roundness, Grandma Jones surged ahead, and Lucinda needed to run to catch up, the basket she carried banging at the side of her hip.
“Where is the confinement?” she asked between rushed breaths.
“It is not a confinement we are called to.”
“What then?”
“I do not know. It was not in the message. We shall find out when we get there.”
This was not out of the ordinary. There were many matters of a delicate female nature that people did not care to trust to a messenger. In this line of work you never really knew what to expect. Grandma Jones constantly impressed on her the need to be prepared for all manner of situations and ailments. While Lucinda was prepared to deal with anything that came her way, Grandma Jones’ patients were not always amenable to Lucinda’s presence. Midwives did not as a rule begin to ply their craft until they had birthed a few babes of their own. Grandma Jones would have none of that. “I am already sixty. I might be dead before you have babies,” she argued. “Why waste time and risk losing all the knowledge I have gained?” It was hard to disagree, so Lucinda happily complied with her grandmother’s plan and accompanied her whenever the opportunity arose. Of course if her mother and twin brother had not died when Lucinda was a mere five years old, things might have been very different indeed. Then her mother would be working with her grandmother as a midwife. Her brother would have been helping Father run the academy and she would not have grown up haunted by the notion that the wrong twin had survived.
The room was dark when they entered, and it took some time for her eyes to adjust and locate the source of the whimpering. In a corner of the upstairs room was a simple timber-framed bed where a young woman, close to Lucinda’s age, lay curled up on her side clutching her belly. An older woman knelt by the bed stroking her forehead. She stood to greet them as they stepped through the low door. The dwelling was above a ropemaker’s shop, and the smell of hemp and jute permeated from the workshop below.
