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“What manner of swordmaster allows himself to be ruled by a woman?” Corvacho adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves his voice dripping with derision. “Tis the English malaise. First a virgin Queen ruling over them and now a King who is more like a woman than the old Queen.”
His comment was greeted with a combination of sniggers and embarrassed silence. Lucinda bit at the inside of her cheek to stop herself saying something she would later regret. She certainly would not forget the comments and would take great delight in reporting them to McCrae, but she must also keep everyone happy. She must maintain the peace. She withdrew to the other side of the room, partly to distance herself and her tongue from temptation, but mostly to check on Moll, that is, Mal. To her relief Moll had not let her down but was faultlessly filling the part of rapier instructor despite a cluster of Scottish and English fencers looking on. If only they knew what they were witnessing – a female cutpurse teaching a Scottish warrior how to fight. She hugged the delicious irony to herself.
So carried away did she become in the moment she reverted to her role of instructor, forgetting she was not in front of the Sisters of the Sword but instead surrounded by a swamp of swordsmen. “Keep your sword level when you start the lunge,” she called out, not fully appreciating how loud her observations were, “or else the tip droops when you complete the thrust.”
One of the onlooking fencers shouted back. “Angus! Dinna ye hear that? The lassie says your wee sword is drooping. Ye dinna want to disappoint the lassie!” Which prompted all those gathered around to fall about laughing. It also distracted the hapless student and allowed Moll the chance to execute a perfect low lunge, landing a blow directly at his cod piece.
“Och! A direct hit to the wee sporran,” the sideline commentator added, garnering an even more raucous response.
Moll’s grin was as wide as her opponent’s face was long, so Lucinda felt obliged to come to his defense. “Grant the man some quarter. Any man would have difficulty stopping his sword from drooping with a motley crowd such as you lot looking on.” Another round of laughter broke out. “Away with you all and do something useful.”
“Ooh aye! The lassie has some spirit as well as an appreciation of swordplay. Fancy a wee sword dance wi me some time?” He waggled his hips at her and presumably his sporran as well.
Amid the bawdy laughter a voice cut through the noise. “She also knows how to defend herself from idlers such as you McDonald.”
Robert McCrae. Interfering again.
The man was defending her ability to defend herself… by leaping to her defense!
“Tis nothing,” she said, “merely a bit of entertainment. Besides we are done here.” Holding out her arms she announced. “A Spanish invasion of the piste is imminent. If you wish to see some masterful swordplay, then I invite you to stay and learn how it is done in Spain.”
“I assure you we do not do it with a drooping tip,” said one of the more handsome young Spaniards in heavily accented English. He smiled at her and gave her a wink. “We have our own rapiers. Thank you for clearing the piste.” She did not need to look at McCrae to feel him bridle behind her. Moll caught her eye and lifted her eyebrow at the exchange.
“My pleasure,” she replied, “Signor?”
“DeGuerra. The pleasure is all mine.” He took her hand and kissed it in the foreign way. The heat in her cheeks rose, and she feared the onset of a blush. He was as handsome as he was charming and spoke to her in such a way to make her feel she was the only person in the room, the effect of which was to turn her face into a large strawberry and her legs into custard. How could it be that she was not in the least perturbed to face a man with a sword, yet lost the power to control her own limbs when a man like DeGuerra or McCrae rained some attention her way? With a halting voice she introduced herself and still DeGuerra did not release her hand. She was in no rush to relinquish it either, relishing the effect the lingering introduction had upon McCrae. As McCrae puffed and fumed, she happened to look up and scan the room to see that Grandma along with Nathan were headed her way. How much had they witnessed? Was she in for another scolding, a reprimand for being over familiar? She had not asked for the Spaniard’s attention. All she strived for was a little order in among the chaos, a return to some form of equilibrium.
It was always best to be on the front foot with Grandma Jones, so she greeted her with enthusiasm and offered to help her unpack. Nathan gave her a quizzical look as she brushed past him. “Later,” she whispered. So much to explain and yet she could not say anything while McCrae hovered around her like a midge. Most of the fencers not currently engaged in training were gathered to watch the Spanish swordsmen which gave her and Grandma some precious time to catch up. After bringing Grandma up to date on the recent decline in Father’s condition and informing her that the other situation had been “dealt with”, there was not much else she was at liberty to disclose. She could not tell her she was now obliged to spy for Cavendish. She could not reveal the assignment she must share with McCrae. She could tell Grandma nothing of any real consequence, which went against all her instincts to make use of her grandmother’s wisdom. It was an impossible situation but not one she could change.
Then she remembered there was one thing she could tell her. “You will be pleased to know we have a new employee.”
“About time,” Grandma said.
“Moll has agreed to be our fencing assistant.”
“Moll the cutpurse girl who comes to your classes?”
“We are calling her Mal. No one has questioned it. She really can pull off a pair of breeches.”
This revelation seemed to please Grandma well enough, though she also offered a caution. “As long as your father does not find out about her criminal past all should be well. Or the fact she is a woman. If he found that out, it could induce a fit he might never recover from.”
While Grandma went to check on Father, Lucinda ventured out into the fray. Over the last two days she had slept about two hours in total, so she needed to be very careful. Tiredness and good judgment do not go hand in hand.
Almost the instant she stepped back into the training area, she was the target of three separate men, all streaming toward her like boats aiming for the only space on the dock. Nathan reached her first. “Shall I start on the ledgers or do you want me to be a training partner?”
“The ledgers first please. We are so far behind. I am so glad you could be spared from rehearsals.”
“Sadly only for a few hours courtesy of Master Cooper. Your Grandmother recently confirmed he is to be a father again, and he was so delighted he sent me here winging to the rescue.” Lowering his voice and giving her the melting-eyes treatment he said. “I have missed you even more than I have missed coming here.”
McCrae materialized at her elbow, using his gaze on Nathan like a bee would its stinger before turning to address her. “My Uncle sends his best wishes and enquires after your health.” Although his voice was smoothly courteous, his remark could also be interpreted as a veiled threat, or at the very least, a reminder to keep her mouth shut.
Almost at the same time, the handsome Spaniard, De Guerra sauntered over. “Mistress Evans, what is your opinion of our Spanish style of rapier play?” The Spaniard was now the target of both Nathan and McCrae’s attention, their homicidal glares stabbing him from both front and behind.
“I am afraid I was busy with my duties and did not have the privilege of watching,” Lucinda explained.
“We shall have to address that lack some other time,” DeGuerra said. He turned to McCrae and showered him with the same drenching of charm. “You are Lord Cavendish’s nephew, are you not?” McCrae tersely agreed that he was. “I am often called upon as an interpreter and frequently cross paths with your uncle. He is a very cultured and learned man. I believe he even speaks a little of our language?”
Lucinda struggled to read the undercurrents that were at play, but she could certainly feel them buffet and swirl across her. McCrae did not answer DeGuerra’s question about his uncle’s linguistic abilities, so the Spaniard changed course to fish another stream. “Do you fight with the rapier, Master McCrae?”
