Page 2 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

“What manner of promise?” she said warily.

“Only that we continue our conversation some other time?”

“I am afraid my father forbids too much familiarity. I am not supposed to––”

“Touch?” he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“Talk too much,” she said with a glare.

“Lucinda!” As if on cue, her father’s voice beckoned.

“After you,” McCrae said. “From the way you carried out that sword drill, I fear it is not safe to have you at my back.” She shot another glare his way. Would the man ever let her hear the end of this? From the grin on his face, probably not, for it was a grin which left her in no doubt, he had more than conversation in mind.

As Lucinda made her way across the crowded fencing school, she felt many eyes upon her, even some, which by rights, should be concentrating on the sword coming their way. An army of suitors? More like an army of oglers. What she would give to go back to her girlhood, when she dressed as a boy and fought among them as an equal judged on her sword skills rather than the swish of her skirt. Most of the old hands, the regular patrons, were accustomed to the presence of a woman in a fencing school and treated her with as much interest as the stonework of the old refectory walls. It was the newcomers who did most of the staring, especially the new influx of Scottish swordsmen, with their bragging and their broadswords, and their lilt that was easy to listen to but difficult to understand. Her father beckoned from across the room using his head, his one good arm being occupied with a back sword while his half-arm, amputated below the elbow, was anchored at his side.

“A rubbing cloth for myself and my scholar. We have worked up a mighty sweat.”

“Yes, Father.” She dutifully fetched the cloths, passing them to the men with her eyes lowered.

“A word,” her father said, in a stern tone. She followed him to the alcove where McCrae had caught her red-handed.

“What were you doing out here all that time?”

Of all Lucinda’s vast and many faults, lying was not one of them. “Master McCrae was showing me his broadsword. It has an unusual basket hilt he is most proud of.”

“Do you have any notion who he is?”

“One of the many Scots who now patronize the academy and save us from ruin.”

“He is also the nephew of Lord Colin Cavendish, a man of great influence in King James’ inner circle, so you must be very careful what you say to him.”

“It would have been useful to know this earlier,” she said keeping her hands behind her back as if to hide the guilty members of her body.

“Lucinda?” her father said sharply. “What did you say to him?”

“Not a great deal. I merely complimented him on his sword. It is a beautifully balanced weapon.”

“And how, pray tell, did you know that?”

“Arr...I might have picked his sword up briefly.” She turned her head away. Confession was one thing; eye contact quite another. No wonder the Catholics hid in darkened cells to spill their sins.

“Lucinda?” Her father growled. “There is more. I know that look.”

“I might have tested the sword a little.”

“Tested?”

“A small sword drill.”

“Did McCrae witness this...this testing?”

“I suspect so.” Her father groaned and put his stump to his head.

“It was only a basic broadsword drill.”

“So he knows you can fence?”

“No need to fret. It has all been dealt with. I explained that growing up in a fencing school breeds a certain familiarity with weapons which he seemed to accept as a reasonable fact.” Her father took her by the shoulders and for a moment she thought he might shake them. They rarely disagreed over anything; however, this one sore point festered between them like an un-lanced boil.

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