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Although she had only been standing in the sun for a few minutes she was already sweating, and poor Moll was a lather. When she pulled the door closed the lock had engaged to her great relief. Whatever Corvacho might suspect about her sudden appearance he could prove nothing.
Corvacho unlocked his door and pushed it open keeping his hand upon the knob. “Ladies first,” he said planting himself between her and Moll. As soon as she stepped through the door, he quickly pushed her inside and slammed it shut in Moll’s face, locking it behind him while at the same time unsheathing his rapier with his other hand. “Now I believe we have some unfinished business,” he said backing her up to the bed. “Sit and do not move.”
He did not turn away but kept his eyes upon her and the tip of his blade pointing toward her chest. He grabbed the chair from beneath the desk and wedged it under the door handle, depositing the door key on the shelf next to the books. Moll, in the meantime, was raising an unholy racket banging at the door. The jaunty happy music played incongruously in the background. By the sound of it Moll was shoulder charging the door, but it was solid oak and unlikely to yield.
Any panic she felt was quelled by years of training. She focused on options and scenarios, judging distances and angles, using her side vision to sweep the room for possible weapons. Her short dagger against his rapier gave him a huge advantage and chances were the rapier was not his only weapon.
Corvacho leered at her, his eyes narrow and glinting. His gaze darted to his bookcase as if he was already mentally adding to his collection. It was then, to her horror, she spotted some strands of red hair sticking out from one of the books, hanging over the edge and spilling down the shelf. It was only for a brief moment that her eyes had registered the anomaly, but Corvacho had noticed and put his hand up to the stray locks of hair. “Very pretty, isn’t it? A brighter shade of red than yours. I remember it well.” Slowly, deliberately he wound the hair around his finger while his coal black eyes bored into hers.
“Lift up your skirt.”
“No.”
“Lift it up or I will rip it open.” He raised the tip of his rapier up and down.
“No.”
“You have seen what I can do with a rapier.”
“You have seen what I can do with a whip.”
“Last chance. Lift your skirt, Anglese puta. I do not see any whip around here. All I see is a puta who deserves what is coming.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a dagger, the smile on his face a grotesque distortion.
“MOLLLLLL! HELP!” she screamed.
“Stupid bitch,” he scowled. Moll kicked and banged so hard at the door it diverted his attention for a brief moment, just long enough for her to pull the dagger from her calf strap and reach under the bed to grab the coil of rope. Snatching it up she wrapped it twice around her hand. Short knife in the left, rope in the right, she swirled the rope to form a whirring loop above her head. Her arm raised like this was an open invitation, leaving her chest exposed to attack, but it would make him think she did not know the basics of fighting.
He advanced on her slowly, grinning with the certainty that he possessed all the advantage. Strength, skill, reach, and weaponry, a skilled swordsman against a mere female. Corvacho was trained to fight like a man, but she had no intention of fighting like a man. As Corvacho edged forward, she edged to the side, coming closer to the bookshelf where his trophies were housed. She would not fight like a man. She would fight like a woman and strike the one thing that he valued the most. She increased the speed with which she circled the rope, so it made a whooshing sound as it cut through the air. Come on, come on, a little bit closer.
“Moll!” she cried out again. Moll responded by kicking at the door with the force of a demon and as Corvacho briefly glanced backward, Lucinda took her chance. She flicked the rope across her body and whipped it along the bookshelf sending the books flying. Corvacho’s face suffused with rage as the contents spilled open and his precious trophies were laid to waste upon the floor. With another flick of her wrist she whipped the rope in the opposite direction to slash his unprotected wrist and send his rapier clattering. As he bent to retrieve it Lucinda threw her dagger at his back, barely registering the thud as the blade struck home. Corvacho’s howl was so loud it drowned out all other sound, but it did not stop him from coming at her like a wounded bear. He dived at her, her dagger sticking out of his shoulder, swapping his own long dagger to his other hand. She rolled out of the way snatching the feather cover from his bed, flicking it in front of her as if fighting with a cloak and dagger, except she no longer had a dagger, only a length of rope and a feather bedcover to fight off a madman with a blade in his hand.
She ran for the door and kicked the chair out of the way. Corvacho lunged at her again slashing at her with his double-edged dagger, sending a cloud of feathers flying through the air. She caught the free end of the rope in her hand to form a long loop. Must get the dagger out of the way. Must not let him get close.
They circled in the confines of the small room until the fireplace was at her back, the gleam of lust in his eyes now a blazing hatred. If she drew him out now, she would have a better chance. She twirled the feather bed cover until it covered her left hand to form some padding then she faked a flick of the rope which sent him rushing straight at her. She stepped a little to the right, grabbed for his dagger with her padded left hand and deflected it upward while Corvacho continued his forward momentum and hurtled head-long into the fireplace to land with a sickening crack.
The hammering at the door grew louder, and another voice joined in with Moll’s yelling and cursing. “Lucinda!”
“Robbie!”
She scrambled to her feet and rushed for the door, picking up the key where it had fallen from the shelf. Fingers shaking she fumbled with the key. At last she had the door unlocked, and Moll and McCrae fell into the room.
McCrae rushed straight to Lucinda and took her into his arms. “Thank God, you are safe. Mo Chride. Are you hurt?”
“I am unharmed as far as I can tell.”
“Christ’s blood,” Moll cursed. “It looks like you have been slaughtering chickens in here.”
Sticky red streaks crisscrossed the floor, and blood spattered feathers were strewn in every corner of the room. Moll gently prised the rope from Lucinda’s hands and cautiously approached the still figure of Corvacho.
”Is he dead?” Lucinda asked.
“Still breathing, mores the pity.” Moll began to tie the rope around Corvacho’s feet, trussing him up like a roasting fowl while McCrae rocked Lucinda in his arms, clucking and fussing and repeating in her ear, “Thank the lord, praise to god, you are safe“. When he finally released her from his tight embrace, her body shuddered at the sudden loss of warmth. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“Please. Not now. Save your scolding for later. We need to pull the knife out and bind up the wound. If he dies now, we will never see him hang.”
