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Chapter nine
Spanish swords. Scottish Lips.
TwoMasterSwordsmensharing the same fencing school could easily be a recipe for disaster, but so far, the English and Scottish merger had proceeded surprisingly well. Ferguson had the good sense not to try and change what was already working, and Grandma kept him in her thrall with a potent combination of charm and oatcakes while the rest of the fencers simply fell into line. This harmonious state of affairs might have continued indefinitely had Cavendish not insisted on inviting a group of Spanish swordsmen to train.
“It is only for a few hours a week,” he argued. “What better way to show our nation’s goodwill to our Spanish visitors than by sharing a piste?”
Rather than bowing to Lord Cavendish’s decree, her father exploded in spectacular fashion insisting it was folly and lunacy and bound to end in grief. “For years we have been training to fight the Spanish dogs. How can you expect us to welcome them with open arms?” As if to drive home his point, he made his declaration with his one and a half arms firmly crossed and clamped to his chest.
Ferguson did his best at playing peacemaker, insisting that the Spaniards would only fight among themselves. All they needed was the piste and some training weapons. After several hours of stalemate her father eventually yielded. Whatever hold Cavendish had over him must be more powerful than any misgivings he held.
“They better abide by all the rules and not make any trouble,” he warned. Cavendish assured him the Spanish swordsmen were diplomats and not soldiers, yet it was Father who had the last word. “I still do not like it,” he grumbled. “You cannot turn an enemy into a friend overnight. Be it on your own head if it all goes wrong.”
Politics had never been of any interest to Lucinda, but now somehow it had landed in her own home. For all of her twenty years Spain was the enemy. It had always been so even though the armada was before she was born. English memories are long, and the Spanish had proved their treachery time and time again. Only a few years ago Spain had sided with the Irish in the uprising that had cost her father his arm, so it was hardly surprising the thought of Spanish swordsmen in his academy was unthinkable.
In pursuing peace the new King was asking Englishmen to trust a nation that had been the enemy for more than fifty years. Now for reasons she failed to understand, Cavendish had decided that Whitefriars was the place to start. It was like asking a swordsman to deliberately drop his guard. She might only be a woman but, like her father, she saw trouble ahead. Oh Lord how she hoped Cavendish was right.
Twice a week on a Tuesday and Thursday the Spaniards were allocated the long piste as this best suited their style of rapier fencing where the travel is more in a straight line. It was Lucinda’s responsibility to lay out a selection of weapons and keep the fencers supplied with all their needs. Although no different to her usual duties, Cavendish and Ferguson impressed on her the need to keep their foreign visitors happy for much depended on maintaining their goodwill. McCrae made sure to stay close at hand, spying for his uncle she assumed. In his new role as assistant to the Scottish fencing master he was spending a great deal of time at Whitefriars, a situation of which she was acutely aware. He even had his own key, and she never knew when he might suddenly appear. Whenever she looked up it seemed their eyes would meet as if he was following her every move. At first, she found it unnerving. Her face would flush, and her limbs would freeze. When eventually she dared to hold his gaze, she was rewarded with a wisp of a smile. It became a game between them, to see if she could catch him looking her way. Now instead of blushing, she challenged him with a defiant tilt of her chin and a confident stare.
No other man’s scrutiny had quite the same effect. Something about the way Robert McCrae looked at her never failed to set her body all astir, like wind whipping up dust into a turbulent swirl. His eyes were upon her right now as she finished preparing the long piste for two Spaniards who were limbering before a bout. A rapid exchange of Spanish took place between the fencers accompanied by much gesticulating of hands.
“Hoy! Wench! Come over here!” One of the Spaniards called out with an imperious clap of his hands. If any of the English or Scottish fencers had dared call her wench, she would have turned her back and pretended not to hear.
“May I be of assistance?” she said, Cavendish’s warnings chiming in her ears.
“This training sword it is useless!” He flicked the blade rapidly up and down, then grasped the tip to flex it this way and that. “The blade is stiff as a corpse! And the grip it is all wrong for my hand. I cannot work with inferior quality such as this.” He held up his hand which was of an average size and marked by the usual scars and gouges common among fencers, though nothing that should affect his grip. She really did not see what his problem was.
“We have many different styles of training rapier to choose from. I can fetch another weapon that is more to your liking.”
“What would a woman know about swords? I shall use my own rapier instead of this caca.” Turning his back on her he stepped off the piste and seized a rapier from among his belongings, drawing it from its scabbard and checking the blade. She stepped in front of him and blocked his way so he could not return to the piste.
“I am afraid sharpened weapons are not permitted in training.” She held out her hand for his sword. “If you let me feel it, I can find something in our armory with a similar weight and balance and a comparable size hilt.”
The Spaniard stepped up to within a foot of her, his rapier still in his hand. “Stupid woman. You know nothing of weapons if you think you can find something to compare to the finest Toledo steel!”
His companion had followed behind her and began to try and persuade his compatriot to change his mind. While another rapid to-and-fro of Spanish bounced between them, Lucinda picked up the training rapier from where he had thrown it and began to compare it to the sharpened rapier he held in his hand. The training sword had a T-piece perpendicular to the grip of the hilt, whereas the Spaniard’s rapier had a sweeping S shape guard and a spiral-grooved hilt.
“I am sure we have a weapon with a grip and guard much like this—
“Imbecile female. It is the whole balance of the weapon that is wrong! What would you know?”
“I know what we have in my father’s armory.” She kept her voice even and civil though it took a great deal of self-control. “I clean and care for all the weapons.”
“Cleaning a sword gives you the knowledge to question a master swordsman?” He stepped toward her again, his eyes hooded and menacing, using proximity to intimidate her as much as his unsheathed sword. “A little knowledge in a woman is a dangerous thing.”
“I find ignorance to be more of a problem,” a voice behind her said, a voice with the smooth Scottish burr of Robert McCrae. Part of her was relieved at his intervention, part of her cross at how he loved to interfere. McCrae continued to address the two Spaniards softly in their native tongue, so it was impossible to know what was said. From the way they leaned and postured, McCrae was laying down the house rules in no uncertain terms. She thought she caught mention of Cavendish. Typical McCrae to use his connections. The upshot of the “discussion” was that the disgruntled Spanish swordsman packed up his things and thundered off.
“I shall not forget this.” He pointed his finger at McCrae. “I do not forgive such insults.”
The other Spaniard did not follow him but instead elected to stay. “I apologize for Signor Corvacho. He lets his passions run away with him. I believe that is how you say it in English?”
Ever the diplomat McCrae replied. “I trust I can provide you with a good match in the absence of your friend.”
“Signor Corvacho has many enemies, but I do not know of a single man who would call him a friend.”
That made her feel slightly better, but the whole incident left a very bad taste. Her father was right. You cannot bury a long-held hatred overnight. King James might seek to make peace with Spain, but there were many who viewed negotiations as the coward’s way out. Victory was the only outcome any soldier or nation could pursue with pride. The long war with Spain had been debilitating and costly, but peace also came with a hefty price. To a swordsman, backing away from a contest was like laying down your sword and running away.
McCrae sought her out while she was in the storeroom, the very same storeroom where they had first met after she tested his sword. He brought the rapier Corvacho had complained about with him.
