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With great gusto Moll proceeded to regale the other Sisters with a blow-by-blow description of Lucinda’s whip-cracking performance, putting two hot-blooded Spaniards in their place. She did not mention Corvacho by name, but she did mention that one of the Spaniards then had the hide to accuse her of stealing his purse.
“Did you perhaps take it? Lizzie asked, directing her question at Moll.
“I am not that foolish to shit in my own nest,” Moll said with great indignation. “Turns out, after Lu kicked the Spaniards out, another swordsman took the purse home by mistake…though I did think it best to make myself scarce for a while.”
Lying should not be an admirable quality, but Moll’s version of the truth managed to satisfy all without compromising the promises that Lucinda had made. Perhaps truth was better viewed as a malleable metal like gold or silver, rather than a rigid and unyielding iron or steel.
“I should like to learn to crack a whip,” Maud said, the look on her face almost wistful. She had changed her hair, threading her light brown braids like crossed ropes at the back of her head instead of coiled in bunches at the top. With the change of style she no longer looked like a rabbit, though perhaps that was also due to the increased confidence in her posture and bearing.
“Me too,” Annie vigorously agreed, causing all her assets to jiggle up and down. “I have a few regulars who are partial to a little bit of rough play.”
“Not for much longer,” Lizzie said. “Go on, tell them. If you don’t, I will.” Annie suddenly became quite coy. Looking at her toes and even blushing. Since Annie was not forthcoming Lizzie continued on her behalf. “She has caught the eye of a very wealthy and important patron who is setting her up in her own house.”
“Nothing is certain or fixed,” Annie insisted. “All I can say is he likes to be the only trout in the fishpond, which suits me well, but I am not ready to close the gates to all-comers until I have my hands on the keys.”
“I have some news too,” Rosalind ventured shyly. “My uncle has arranged for me to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne.”
“The Queen? What lives at Westminster Palace?” Rosalind nodded while Maud clutched at her heart in disbelief. “Well I never. You will still be able to come for lessons?”
“I expect so,” Rosalind said, although her face suggested otherwise. How little a woman was able to control her own life, even more so for a woman of high birth whose fate was determined and decided by men, fathers, brothers, uncles and husbands, even lovers if they were so inclined.
Moll’s foot tapped against the barrel while the rest of the room fell to a hush as they contemplated the imminent specter of change. Just as they were at risk of descending into a trough of maudlin, Maud linked arms with Rosalind and Lizzie, dragging them onto their feet. A blacksmith’s daughter, a Scottish noblewoman and a former servant and plague worker, three vastly different women, brought together by way of being victims. Adversity can make strange bed fellows. It can also draw out hidden strengths. With her chin jutting defiantly upward, Maud loudly declared.
“No matter what happens in the future we will always be Sisters of the Sword. No one can ever take that away.” Lucinda glanced up at the old familiar sign. She had looked at it thousands of times before.
NO SUSPECT PERSONS (MURDERERS DRUNKARDS QUARRELERS)
The usual band of trouble causers, and for the first time she noticed WOMEN was not on the list. She had spent all her life desperate to be a swordsman, yet standing arm-in-arm with her own small band of female fencers, she no longer held any desire to fight as a man.
With all her heart she wanted to fight as a woman.
With women.
For women.
For as long as she had the strength to lift a sword.
“Shall we get back to fighting?” she said, a suggestion that was met with unanimous approval.
“First might you show us how you used the whip?” Maud pleaded.
How could she refuse? With a smile at her lips she fetched her whip from off its shelf where it was coiled like a dormant snake. Shaking it to life with a flick of her wrist, she raised it above her head. There were squeals of delight from the Sisters as the first crack reverberated through the room. So often a woman’s power was either negligible or invisible, wielded by compliance and persuasion, instead of any authority or force. She cracked the whip again, waiting until the echo finished. Like the power unleashed at the tip of a long leather whip, perhaps one day women’s voices would be heard.
She was back in the room above the Inn facing Cavendish again.
Her nemesis.
The powerful hand at her throat in all her worst dreams.
“Congratulations,” he said leaving her to stand while he scratched at a document with his quill. “You have succeeded in lasting a whole month without pulling someone’s shoulder out of joint, cracking a whip at them, or stabbing someone in the back. Some kind of record of restrained behavior for you I believe.”
“I am always prepared to defend myself when necessary,” she said, biting down on her resentment.
“Fire and independence are attractive qualities in a mistress, but if you ever wish to be a wife, docility would be a better quality to cultivate.”
“I have no desire for a husband.”
“Excellent. I shall convey that information to my nephew. Since returning from his travels he has been most tedious in his campaign to convince me you are wifely material.”
