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“I do not believe you are. He knows you go about London on your own. You need to be careful. I know a rogue when I meet one. Lord knows I am one myself, but that man gives chills to my blood.”
A rush of different thoughts went through Lucinda’s mind until finally one floated to the top. “What if he does seek to stalk me? We could use it to trap him. Use me as bait.”
Moll caught her by the wrist. “No! That would be insanity. It is far too dangerous. Who knows what he might do if he was cornered?”
“Well do you have a better idea? You are the one who is convinced he is the rapist.”
”As a matter of fact I do,” Moll said with an enigmatic smile. “Trust me, it is right up my alley.” Try as Lucinda might to prise further explanation from Moll, she refused to divulge any more.
“We best be going back.”
“Back to the bearpit,” Moll replied.
Bearpit, as it turned out, was remarkably apt.
The moment they went inside it was quickly apparent something was wrong. Instead of fencers being spread out over the training area, they were all clumped together beside the long piste where the Spaniards had been fighting, and there was a great deal of hooting and roaring going on. She pushed her way through the three-body deep wall of onlookers to see what all the fuss was about, trepidation playing a loud drumbeat in her chest.
No. No! She blinked her eyes then looked again. DeGuerra and Corvacho were fighting, but this time, neither had swords. They were down on the floor grappling, punching, and tearing at each other, wrenching this way and that. First Corvacho was on top, then DeGuerra, their legs and arms twisted together like an ever-changing knot. All the fencers stood back letting the two men fight it out. Brawling was not allowed! Where was her father? Where was Ferguson? He should be in there breaking it up, but no, he was watching from the front row and joining in the cheering! She pushed and weaved her way through to him infuriated that he had let it get to this point.
“We must stop this. It will get out of hand.”
“Tis not our quarrel. Let the foreigners sort it out.”
”Isn’t anyone going to do something?” She tossed out the challenge to every man in the room. The large roar from the crowd as Corvacho landed a punch was her answer. “Take these,” she said to Moll, handing her the jugs of ale still in her hands. “Wait here until I am back.” She pushed her way through the throng to reach a storage rack at the other end of the piste and grabbed the best implement for the task ahead. If no one enforced the rules, chaos reigned, and if they were going to act like animals, she would treat them as such.
When Moll saw what she had in her hands, a grin broke across her face. “Now this will be worth watching.”
She followed in Lucinda’s wake, the jugs of ale spilling and splashing from the jostle and shove of the crowd. Yet again Lucinda shouldered her way to the front of the throng.
“Get back, lassie. Ye’ll get hurt.”
Not likely, not with this. Grim faced and determined she strode into the middle of the piste, readied her arm, sighted her aiming point, and split the air with a deafening crack.
“Christ’s blood,” someone cursed, “tis Boadicea come back to life!” which was met by the loudest roar of all from the thicket of fencers.
“Stand back!” she yelled, cracking her whip in front of the crowd, most of whom took a few steps backward. Corvacho and DeGuerra were still intent on killing each other so she executed a series of rapid cracks of the whip, landing them close enough to their grappling bodies to make them pause and lift up their heads. “Break it up,” she ordered, “or I shall use this on you both!” In case they did not heed her point, Moll followed it up by tossing the jugs of ale on each man’s face. As they spluttered and cursed at the sudden deluge, Moll cracked an ale jug over the back of Corvacho’s head, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off DeGuerra. Lucinda swooped in and planted a foot on De Guerra’s chest, all the while cracking her whip from side to side to keep Corvacho, or anyone else for that matter, from daring to approach.
Corvacho must have a hard head indeed for Moll’s blow did not knock him out, only stunning him momentarily. Moll handed him over to a few of his fellow Spanish fencers.
“Take his things and get him out of here,” Lucinda said, backing up her order with another crack of her whip. “Heed the rules gentlemen. They are written loud and clear.” She pointed to the sign that hung prominently by the entrance to the training room.
NO SUSPECT PERSONS. (MURDERERS THIEVES DRUNKARDS QUARRELERS).
“I expect better of gentleman and visitors to our land than to find them brawling like drunkards in a tavern.”
Moll retrieved the bundle of Corvacho’s belongings and handed them to his friends. Lucinda lifted her foot off DeGuerra’s chest, who had remained pinned under her boot, a sheepish grin plastered on his face, blood seeping from one nostril. He gingerly sat up and wiped the blood with the back of his hand while she coiled the whip and held it fast in her fingers, ready to be used in an instant if the need arose again. “Once you are cleaned up you must also leave. My father will convey a message as to whether you will be permitted to train here again, though I would not count on it. I have never seen such disgraceful behavior.”
The room had gone unnaturally quiet while she barked her instructions, as if no one could quite believe what they had witnessed or heard. Now suddenly the room burst into a cacophony of noise, murmurings, guffaws, and curses of amazement.
All of which seemed to be about her.
The woman with the whip.
Phrases jumped at her in random snippets and snatches.
“Like she was driving a herd of bullocks…”
“Well I’ve heard of a tongue lashing from a woman but never…”
