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Chapter two
A Meeting and a Pact
ThenextweekLucinda set off for Southwark, a sabre bound to her side and a basket strapped to her back. She timed her journey across the bridge for after the start of performances at The Globe Theatre, hoping there would be less of a crowd to slow her crossing. Going by the posters tacked to shopfronts, The King’s Men were performing a play called All’s Well That Ends Well, a title she hoped was a good omen for getting to the other side of London with her belongings and her patience intact. Taking a wherry was quicker but the cost soon added up, hence there was always a thick jam of traffic on the bridge: humans, animals and sundry vehicles, all interweaving in a pattern as complex as the basket on her back. Chaos was the general rule, and nothing proceeded in an orderly fashion. She was a bit over half way across the bridge. Things were moving at a trickling pace, just enough to keep tempers in check, until suddenly, all forward progress came to an abrupt stop.
“By your leave, Miss, can you see what is going on up ahead?” a young mother carrying a sleeping baby asked.
Being a full head taller than most women and a good many men Lucinda had a better view ahead. For most of the bridge the timber houses on either side were three to four storeys high, blocking out the light. There was only a small central section where there was a gap between buildings, and you could see a brief slash of sky, the broad grey river below, and the clutter of boats on either side. For the rest of the passage across The Thames, the bridge resembled many a crowded, narrow London Street, making height a definite advantage in the navigation stakes.
“Looks like a hand cart has overturned,” Lucinda said. A collective groan rippled through the crowd. “I cannot see any scrabbling about so with a bit of luck, the load was well tied down and will not take long to right.”
As she spoke, a flash of movement in the corner of her eye put her on alert. Her years of fencing had given her an inbuilt awareness of an opponent readying for an attack. A figure was weaving through the crowd of bridge travelers. As the distance closed between them, it became apparent it was a woman wearing a man’s hat, the brim pulled down to obscure her face.
As if on cue, another woman on the right side of the bridge stepped out of a shop front and cried out, “Stop! Thief! Over there!”
All heads turned to where she was pointing, but not Lucinda’s. She kept her eye on the woman in the man’s hat, who was now right beside her and slightly ahead on the left. In her right hand the tip of a knife poked from beneath her sleeve. When the woman’s arm slid forward to reach for a dangling purse, years of training and instinct kicked in. Lucinda shot out her hand, grabbing her by the wrist, as she made to cut the strings of a well-dressed merchant’s purse.
“Give me the knife, or I will raise the alarm and call the watch.” Lucinda whispered in the cut-purse’s ear, twisting her wrist in such a way as to make the woman gasp and wince.
“I will not. That cost me good money.”
“Stolen money. Hand it over, or we will do this the hard way.” With a lurch and a surge the crowd started moving forward, and, as the hue and cry continued in the hunt for the alleged thief, Lucinda stomped the heel of her boot hard down upon the other woman’s toes. It had the desired effect. Lucinda was now in possession of the knife, and the other woman was in possession of a newly acquired limp. While she still had the advantage of surprise Lucinda took off through the crowd, swiftly increasing the gap between them in case the cutpurse was part of a gang. Disarming a lone would-be thief was one thing; taking on a whole gang was a far more dangerous prospect.
Reaching the other side of London Bridge she took a quick backward glance to check for any pursuers. Here, where the blackened and decayed heads of traitors were stuck on spikes projecting upwards from the parapets, the bridge widened into multiple streets, thinning the crowd and making her progress faster. It also made her much easier to spot. Like a hungry rabbit emerging from the cover of a hedge, she darted into a laneway and waited, her right hand firmly on the hilt of her sabre, just in case. After a while she doubled back and continued on her way, frequently checking behind her for good measure. You could never be too careful. The people on the streets provided a form of protection but where Lucinda had turned left, most of the crowds had turned right in search of an afternoon or evening of entertainment. In the city, trade and commerce ruled. The Guilds, merchants and men of God kept a semblance of order, but over the bridge in Southwark, the pursuit of vice and pleasure was the one abiding rule.
Lucinda followed the road eastward along the river, keeping the spire of Saint Mary Overbury in sight. At a point where the road veered right, she took the towpath to the left and, after another ten minutes of brisk travel, came to a high stone wall with a timber gateway. Pulling a key from a cord around her neck she undid the padlock. A smile spread across her face as she made her way down the shaded towpath. This place held so many memories. She had taught her actor friend Nathan how to fight here. Pity he was too busy now to spar with a lonely and desperate young woman. Making her way to the water’s edge she unsheathed her sabre and removed the basket from her back, eager to make the most of her precious free time.
On a Wednesday the fencing academy was closed while her father met with the other senior Masters of Defense. After attending to the business of organizing prizes and exhibitions, they would spend the rest of the day testing and honing their own skills before finishing in a favorite tavern, or two, or three. This meant that on a Wednesday, as long as Grandma Jones did not need her help, Lucinda had some rare time to call her own. But first she had chores to finish, though this was a chore she quite enjoyed. Selecting a place where the reeds grew thick, she slashed methodically with her sabre, cutting a swathe of reeds into roughly even lengths and stacking them into a thick vertical parcel. Back at the fencing academy they would be packed and bound into tight bundles to resemble a man’s torso and used for sword drills. Long may the owner of this riverbank estate continue as a patron of her father and allow them access to this place, for this was the only place in the whole of London where there was such an abundance of reeds.
It was also the only place in the city where there were no such things as prying eyes.
It did not take long until the basket was packed so tight not another reed could fit in its confines. She began to unbutton the front of her gown and undress. Underneath her gown she wore a man’s breeches and shirt. She was not going to waste her only chance to practice some sword drills tripping over her skirt.
As well as a sabre to cut the reeds she had also brought a rapier along, a rapier being the weapon she preferred above all others. It relied as much on speed and skill as it did brute strength, and in the past, she had been as good with a rapier as any boy and many a man. Selecting a thicket of reeds as her ‘opponent’ she ran through all the guard positions and repeated a series of advances and retreats. In her mind’s eye she imagined the moves of an opposing fencer, and it wasn’t long before she felt the old familiarity return, the feeling of being one with the hilt and blade of the sword. The reeds had the advantage of swaying and jostling in the river breeze, a poor substitute for an actual opponent, but better than none.
Years of her father’s coaching and advice ran like a tune in her head. Sword skill relies on an ability to keep many things in mind at once. Attack and defense are not separate elements but an ongoing dance of movement and response.
“Yes Father,” she responded, her words cast bitterly into the breeze. Why did he bother to teach her so much, only to expect her to give it all away? Angrily she attacked the reeds, setting them whipping from side to side, even gripping them with one hand to execute a backhanded stab. The backhanded stab was a move perfected by her father.
She lunged and thrust and parried, hurling all her rage and frustration into her craft, not stopping until a good hour had passed judging by the declining angle of the sun. A chill wind had whipped up from the Thames setting her teeth a-chatter. Drenched with sweat from her exertions she reached for a cloth and wiped herself dry. Sadly her precious Wednesday was drawing to its end, and she must make the long trip home.
She gathered up her belongings and proceeded to cover her shirt and breeches with her outer dress, the skirt being full enough not to show the bulges of men’s clothing beneath. She squatted to slip her arms into the loops of the basket before hefting it up onto her shoulders with a grunt of effort. If she had not grunted, she might have heard footsteps, but as it turned out, the first warning she had was a disconcerting sensation of lightness as two strong hands slipped under the basket and helped boost her to her feet.
Hands that she did not recognize.
A helpful touch that chilled the marrow in her bones.
“You! What are you doing here?” She spun around, nearly toppling over with the swinging weight of the packed basket.
“Spying on you.” The cutpurse from the bridge grinned back at Lucinda.
“You know I have a sword, and I am quite prepared to use it.”
“True, though it does not concern me.” Nonchalantly she examined her nails and began to pick at the dirt. “I was watching the whole time you know. I saw everything you did. Everything. Dressing as a man. Carrying a sword abroad…”
“What do you want from me?”
“First of all I want my knife back. It is a necessary tool of my trade.”
