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Chapter twenty-one
Redemption
Ifonlytheknife had struck a little lower. That was her first regret. The Lord smite her down for thinking such thoughts, but at least if Corvacho was dead he could do no more harm. Her second regret was putting her friends and family at risk of retribution. If she had known that could happen, she might have done things differently. Perhaps Cavendish was right, and she should have let Corvacho rape her. Then again, Cavendish wasn’t there. He did not see the murderous look in the Spaniard’s eyes. If she didn’t fight back, she would never have left that room alive.
So what to do now? Roll over for Cavendish? Do whatever he said for the rest of her life? Have her spirit flayed and scoured like a tanner with a hide? That might be the path of survival, but it would be a death of another kind. She could leave London and go as far away as possible, but what would happen to her family and friends if she disappeared? She could stay and refuse to cooperate, but with the threat of being arrested for treason hanging over her refusal was a sure path to disaster. Round and round her thoughts chased endlessly like a cat chasing its own tail only to bite itself when it succeeded. In a fit of frustration she kicked off the bed covers. Everything was trying to smother her including the bed.
The bed in question was a huge four poster with curtains all around and the softest mattress topped by a wool quilt and a down-filled coverlet. It was the most comfortable bed she had ever laid upon. Sleep should have been easy with such a combination of comfort and exhaustion, but she could not settle. Her senses were primed to a state of alert, every muscle and every sinew fully tensioned and taut.
If she had her way, she would have laid on top of the bed fully clothed, ready to leave at an instant, but the servant who attended her, insisted on helping her to disrobe down to her undershirt. The evening was mild, but a sudden chill ran down her spine setting off gooseflesh and prompting her to pull the coverlet back up over her shoulders. As she did so she was struck by the strangest of sensations. For no apparent reason it felt as though she was being watched. She shuddered again but dismissed the notion. The room had only one high window to the outside, too high for anyone to see her, and the walls were solid brick. The only sound that penetrated was muted conversation, too soft to make out individual voices or words. With the bed curtains drawn it was completely private. All she could see was the ceiling which was carved into panels and richly painted. Yet still she had the distinct feeling of being watched.
Peering through a gap in the bed curtains she took a few minutes to look around the room, if only to prove herself wrong. Her recent brush with death must have made her unnaturally suspicious. She flopped on her back; her gaze drawn to the ornate ceiling. The center of each timber ceiling panel was decorated with a pattern of painted concentric circles, the smallest circle at each center being painted black. As she stared at the center circle directly above her, a chill realization sent a jolt to her chest.
If you looked very closely at the two panels directly over the bed, the center circles were actually two cleverly disguised holes. One gave a view over the left side of the bed, the other a perfect view over the right.
There was not one spy hole in the room.
There were two.
She rolled on her side, another shudder running through her as she pulled the covers right over her head. She felt sick to her stomach and curled into a tight ball, wondering and fretting over what to do. For a while fear and disgust were chief among her reactions, but soon she was consumed with a burning outrage.
Flinging off the covers she climbed out of bed and stalked around the room checking the ceiling and the walls for any other conceivable place to be viewed from, but there were no other spyholes as far as she could detect. It would seem only the bed was the focus of the hidden observer. What kind of perversion was that? Certainly not one that she would be a part of! She hauled the two top layers from the bed, the thick wool quilt and the fine goose-down cover, and made herself a bed upon the floor. In a fit of pique she grabbed the poker from the fireplace and ripped the bed curtains asunder. She was so incensed, she stood on the bed and with a sudden leap thrust the tip of the poker into one of the spyholes. There was a gasp and a scuffle from above. Serves them right! She kept poking and stabbing, venting all her pent-up anger on the unfortunate paneled ceiling until it had more dents and gouges than a butcher’s cutting block.
Throwing the poker aside when her rage was finally spent, she crawled under the covers of her makeshift bed and blew out the remaining stub of candle. The small high window let in enough moonlight to cast the room into dim shadows, and once her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, she surveyed the scene from her vantage point on the floor. It was quite the scene. The bed curtains were half off, the bed denuded of covers, and the ceiling dented and scarred from her frenzied attack. Surveying her handiwork she burst into giggles burying her head under the covers to stifle the noise, for once started, she simply could not stop. She was laughing so hard her chest convulsed and all the muscles in her stomach and face ached.
It is a very thin border between hilarity and despair, and it does not take much to teeter over the edge. Just as suddenly as the laughter had started, it turned into uncontrollable sobs, sobs of rage, frustration and sheer exhaustion, sobs wrenched up from the depths of her gut. Cavendish might think he owned her. He certainly had the power to crush her but spying on her in bed was an invasion beyond belief. Gradually her sobs subsided as the toll of the day’s exertions took over and she fell into a fitful sleep. Yet even sleep held no refuge or comfort, for she was haunted by nightmares filled with shapeless black figures chasing after her, and a hand too strong and powerful held to her throat.
“Oh Lucinda!” she had barely stepped into the fencing academy when Grandma Jones swooped on her, bustling her out to the courtyard like a bird scooping a failed fledgling back into its nest. Once inside she was crushed into a tight embrace. Whether it was due to the softness of her grandmother’s body or the fierceness of her embrace, Lucinda’s eyes swiftly swelled with unshed tears. Determined as she was to hold herself together, a wall can only take so much of a barrage until bits of mortar break off and tumble down. Suddenly Grandma stepped back, holding her at arm’s length, the better to study her face.
“Moll came straight away to tell us what happened.”
So much for keeping things a secret. “Is she still here?”
Grandma Jones shook her head. “Only stayed long enough to deliver the news. Whatever possessed you to take matters into your own hands? That man could have killed you, or worse!”
“So being raped is worse than being killed?”
Grandma Jones swatted her shoulder with the back of one hand. “Of course not, you know what I mean. This is no time to disrespect your grandmother, young lady. This is a dreadful, serious business. I, of all people, know what women suffer, but the thought of losing you has caused me more suffering than you can imagine!”
At which point she hugged Lucinda all over again, and this time tears flowed freely on both sides. Once they were recovered to the point of wiping faces and blowing noses, Lucinda found the courage to ask questions of her own. “Does Father know?”
Grandma nodded. “He was here when Moll arrived in a great state of agitation.”
“Does he know about the Sisters?” Another nod from Grandma. “He will be out here presently I expect, once he finishes his lesson.”
“Then I shall wait until he is here. I only want to have to say my piece once. Is there something perhaps for me to mix or prepare? I need to keep my hands busy…”
Grandma Jones handed her a mortar and pestle, measured out some herbs and base liquid. “Grind at this all you wish. Tis the ingredients to make a salve for mothers’ raw parts.”
Comfrey, sage, and lavender water, topped with rosemary oil. She ground them all together, releasing the pungent aromas as the stone pestle turned the freshly picked herbs into pulp. It is essential to break the fibers of the plant down to extract the healing properties, a type of destruction being necessary for its best purpose to be revealed.
A short time later there was a tentative knock at the door. Father looked as if he had aged a few years in mere days, adding yet more guilt to the load of responsibility she bore. First, she established exactly how much Moll had revealed before giving her own version of events, modifying the tale in order to ally their concerns yet still impress on them the need for absolute secrecy. She did not mention the arrest warrant. Some worries are best carried alone. A silence fell upon them making the tiny space feel even smaller with no comfortable distance to mull over their own thoughts.
The freshly crushed rosemary dominated with its sharp scent. Rosemary was a tonic for the memory and useful against sepsis, but how to heal a sepsis of the soul? She returned to her grinding, smoothing out the paste until it was ready to be dolloped into an earthenware jar.
Grandma Jones opened the door letting in a blast of cold air and the sound of Master Ferguson’s voice. “If ever London needs a new town crier, he’d be well suited to the part,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I shall leave you two alone now.” Pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders she returned to the training room of the academy, ready for whatever crisis was still to unfold.
This was the first time Lucinda had been alone with Father since the awful day she had found him convulsing. His condition had calmed but not entirely left him. If all of this business brought his seizures back on, she could never forgive herself.
