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“There is more. I took the rope to the ropemaker, the one we visited where the girl lost the baby.” Lucinda waited a few moments for this information to seep in, for the small furrow to form on Grandma Jones’ brow. “The ropemaker’s wife confirmed this is the same type of rope that was stolen from their store the day Mary was left on her own. It is quite distinctive, and they are the only rope shop that imports it.”
Grandma leaned on her knees with her hands, breathing in and out through pursed lips.
“Which also means,” Lucinda started.
“There have been three women attacked and tied up with the same rope.”
“Three that we know of. So you see why the lessons are so important?”
Grandma slowly straightened up on the hiss of an exhaled breath. “It seems a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”
“Tis better than doing nothing to help them.” Lucinda’s hand drifted to her dagger, fingering the smooth well-worn handle while Grandma Jones thought it over. When she had her thinking face on Lucinda knew better than to interrupt.
“Perhaps there is something we can do. Your other friend, has she had someone examine her? In case she is with child or has been damaged or diseased.”
“I do not believe so.”
“Tell her to come and see me before the lesson. I have been thinking for a while of setting aside a day each week when women can come to have their women’s troubles seen to. It would be less travelling for me, and I would have all my supplies close at hand. The more I think on it, the more the notion appeals, a whole day when the fencing academy is overrun by women while the men go to their meeting and tell their tall tales. See how Cavendish and your father will like that.”
“Should we warn people about what has happened, what this evil man is capable of?” Lucinda asked.
“Warn who? Every woman in London? More harm would be done by the panic that would ensue.”
Much as she hated to agree, Grandma Jones was right, which only made her more determined to try and find this monster. She could not have it on her conscience if another woman suffered needlessly at his hands.
With Grandma on her side they could start to fight back.
The best negotiation, Grandma explained, was one where you gained exactly what you wanted but the other party thought they had the best of the exchange. Although she was not privy to exactly how Grandma negotiated the new arrangement, Lucinda was certainly delighted with the result. In essence they were granted the run of the fencing academy every Wednesday while Father attended his meetings and trained with the other senior Masters of Defense. Father was able to appear magnanimous while Grandma got her infirmary and Lucinda her very own clandestine all-female fencing academy. She had never dared to imagine such a possibility, not even in the wildest of her dreams.
Everything was carefully planned. Grandma’s infirmary was to be held in the morning. The fencing lessons were to run after midday, but if anyone asked, all the women were attending Whitefriars to have their “women’s problems“ seen to. This ensured that no man would ever probe too closely for as soon as you uttered the magic phrase “women’s problems“ a man would nod politely and walk away leaving the women to whatever it was that women did.
The fencing academy had always been closed on a Wednesday, but just in case, Lucinda made a sign and tied it to the door. The sign had a picture of a male fencer with a cross through it, and Nathan had added the word CLOSED written large underneath.
Wednesday Women’s Day.
It had a certain ring.
Not a patch on the Sisters of the Sword, of course but that name was never to be spoken aloud.
Apart from Lizzie, four women turned up for the initial morning clinic. First was a fourteen-year-old girl, brought along by her mother. The girl suffered terrible cramps at the start of her courses each month. Next, a young wife desperate to have a child. After nine months of marriage, nothing had happened, and she was convinced she must be doing something wrong. A third woman complained of a tormenting itch in a delicate location, and the last was troubled by painful cracked nipples when feeding her infant of six months. It was the usual mix of complaints Grandma Jones dealt with, dispensing salves, advice, and reassurance in equal measure. The patients left well before noon, and while Grandma mixed some new remedies in her storeroom, Lucinda checked the training swords and other equipment for her class. Her plan was to do some drills then one-on-one fencing, finishing with some methods for self-defense.
Fighting with a sword was all well and good, but women did not go abroad carrying swords about their person. Hence, she had come to the conclusion learning sword craft had its limitations. In reality women needed to know how to defend themselves in all situations and use whatever they had to hand. It was Nathan who had taught her the basic skills of street fighting: how to wrestle a stronger opponent, how to twist your way free of a grapple and use another’s body weight to send them sprawling to the floor; methods which she had practiced and refined when they were young and carefree before war and the plague and the business of survival took their toll. With nothing left to do she went to eat a small midday meal with Grandma, content in the knowledge that everything was ready and prepared. Though her hunger was dulled by anticipation she forced herself to eat a modest portion of potage and an apple, chewing every mouthful thoroughly, before making her way to the fencing room to wait.
It felt different this time.
When she was younger and could pass as a boy, she had fought many, many times in her father’s academy. She had been taught by men, sparred with men, even instructed other men in the art of fencing, until womanhood had made that life a thing of the past. Now here she was mistress of her own fencing academy, albeit a secret academy exclusively for women, and she was fretting more than she had ever done in her life. It was not merely the fear of discovery that fed her anxiety. Thanks to Grandma that worry had been muted. Nor was it because she wouldn’t have her father’s knowledge to fall back on and must rely solely on her own resources. What truly had her palms sweating and her stomach bunching was how desperately she desired success. If the Sisters of the Sword were to survive and thrive, the outcome hinged on her. Everything was prepared. She was worrying over nothing. With all the work they had put in what could possibly go wrong?
“Lucinda! Lucindaaaaa! Help. Come quickly.” Grandma’s voice pierced the thickness of the stone walls. Lucinda was already running, snatching a dagger along the way. She grabbed the door and hurled it open ready to leap into the fray, only to find the door blocked by Grandma Jones’s sturdy body. Her feet were fixed firm as fence pickets while her arms braced the door frame like the spokes on a wheel.
“What is wrong? What alarms you? You gave me such a fright.”
“This man will not take no for an answer.” Grandma tossed her head with contempt. “He says he is here for a fencing lesson. I said, no men are allowed.”
“She is here for a fencing lesson. Her name is Moll.” Grandma looked from Moll to Lucinda, disbelief written large on her face.
“But he––”
“She,” Lucinda interrupted.
