Page 12 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

“I promised to teach you outside, at my regular spot, not to give lessons to all and sundry in a bawdy house.”

“I am not all and sundry. I am Annie. We could pay you in ale. They would never notice if a bit goes astray.”

“It is not about payment.”

“What then? Are we not good enough for you?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then it is settled,” Moll said. “Every Wednesday we can meet here––”

“I cannot keep coming to a brothel.”

Moll interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is only the cellar of the tavern, and no one need know you are here. Tis warm and dry and private. We are not hostage to the weather.”

“There is that,” Lucinda conceded.

“So you will do it?” Annie’s eyes glowed as she clasped her hands together as if saying a prayer. With the full force of her gaze upon Lucinda, it was easy to see how a man would be butter in her hands.

“If I must,” Lucinda sighed, feigning more reluctance than she felt. The idea of training her own small band of female fencers was more appealing than she would ever admit. Her students might comprise a cutpurse and a prostitute, not exactly a salubrious clientele, but if ever two women needed to know how to defend themselves, Moll and Annie certainly did. Besides the Thames would run dry before her father would change his mind and agree to her fighting men once again. Hence, while her head was full of arguments against the endeavor, listing all the things that could potentially go wrong, her heart was secretly delighted.

“The same rules apply,” she insisted. “Anything I teach you must be used for the purpose of defending yourself and not for some criminal intent.”

“Hand on my heart and swear,” Annie said. Moll reluctantly followed her lead.

“And you must not tell anyone what we are doing.”

“We would never tell. Keeping secrets is what we do best,” Annie confirmed with a lift of one eyebrow and a knowing smile.

Carefully Lucinda strapped the swords to the outside of her thigh, putting her dress on over her breeches and folding the fabric over the bulges of the hilts. As she followed Moll back up the stairs, the swords kept bumping the edge of each stone step setting Annie into a fit of giggling and her curls and breasts bouncing, thwarting any hope of a quiet unobtrusive exit. Although the rain had ceased during their time in the cellar, it still looked dark and gloomy outside. The tavern was awash with bodies and noise, crammed with theatre goers escaping the rain, the smell of tobacco smoke, ale and damp wool thickening the air. Lucinda calculated the distance from the top of the stairwell to the exit. There were only a few yards where she could be sighted, and there was no other way out onto the street without cutting all the way through the packed tavern, so lowering her head and securing the swords at her thigh she bade her farewells.

“Until next week,” she said, striding purposefully for the door. As she reached to pull the handle, a man’s hand reached over the top of her.

“Allow me, tis a most heavy door.” For a moment she froze before dropping her hand and giving a small bob of her head by way of assent. The voice was disturbingly familiar. Out of the corner of her eye she took a quick peek. No. Surely not. Had he recognized her, or was he merely being chivalrous? She did not dare speak but kept looking ahead. She must not turn back. He must not see her face.

Then with perfectly timed ill-timing, Annie waved and called out to her before she had time to make her escape. “Travel safe, Lucinda. There’s all sorts of unsavory characters around here.”

“Lucinda? The voice behind her rose in a question turning her blood into frost. Courtesy of a childhood spent in the company of fencers, she had gleaned knowledge of an oath or two. At least two such oaths, and very possibly three, escaped in a soft hiss under her breath. A hand on her shoulder spun her around and once again her eyes slammed into a tall and handsome Scotsman with a remarkable talent for finding her in a compromising position at the absolute worst possible time. Curse the man yet again. Curse his sea-green eyes that bore right into her and made her fidget and squirm. “Whatever are you doing here?” he said.

“I might ask the same question of you, Master McCrae?” she shot back.

“Ladies first, I insist.”

Her mind worked furiously, trawling for an adequate cover story as she stepped out onto the street. It had to be water-tight, not merely plausible. In the end all she could think to say was an insipid-sounding response. “I came to meet a friend?”

“A friend? Here? Interesting friends you must have.”

“About some business.”

“Business?”

“Yes, business, and must you repeat everything I say?”

“What manner of business brings a respectable young woman to the Cardinal’s Cap?” At least he thought of her as respectable. While she gathered her wits a group of apprentices weaved toward them, the toll of an afternoon’s drinking evident in their clumsy gait. While attempting the challenging task of following his fellows through the door one of them stumbled against McCrae.

“Wish I had the coin to afford one like yours,” he slurred, in a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt at a whisper, while his eyes proceeded to undress Lucinda. McCrae’s hand flew to his sword. Lucinda pleaded with her eyes for him to desist although she was cringing inside while the lad’s friends wisely pulled him through the door.

“How dare he? The insolent pup!”

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