Page 46 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

Ferguson was mid-bite of a pancake when he motioned her over. Treating her like his sheepdog yet again. “Mistress Evans, you are a fine cook, among your other talents.”

“My grandmother has taught me well.”

She also taught her how the discreet addition of a little Senna into a drink could have a dramatically explosive effect upon the bowels, though she did not tell Ferguson of that particular skill, saving it in her armory to trial at some future time.

“Does this new fellow know what he is doing?” Ferguson complained, coming to the real crux of what bothered him.

“I believe he is very handy with a blade,” Lucinda replied, her impassive face belying the irony of this statement when Moll’s best-honed blade skill was cutting purses. “I cannot manage on my own and provide the level of service you require so he has kindly agreed to help on a temporary basis.”

According to Moll, Grandma Jones was held up at the innkeeper’s house as Lucinda had suspected, his wife’s labor proving to be both long and arduous. For her own sake, as much as the sake of the laboring mother, Lucinda hoped the baby would arrive safely and soon. The academy was filling rapidly, with a mix of mostly English and Scottish swordsmen with a few Spanish accents to be heard as well, and soon they would be rushing to and fro like swallows pushed and pulled by competing currents and demands. Corvacho, the man Robert McCrae had put in his place a few days prior, was among the fencers waiting for the long piste. She could feel his eyes upon her from the other side of the room.

She asked Moll to deal with Corvacho and the Spaniards, thus avoiding any further unpleasantness. Any fears she had about putting Moll straight to work were quickly dispelled. Moll was a natural performer and was already doing a splendid job of entertaining the fencers, dropping a bawdy comment here, sharing a jest there, flashing her incongruously perfect teeth as she danced the thin line between hilarity and offense. The way she worked the crowd was as masterful and energetic as a Will Kemp jig. Hence Lucinda was not run completely ragged but was kept busy enough to dispel the memories of last night for a time.

Mercifully the crowds had begun to thin when one of the Scottish fencers handed her a sword to put away. He was not a fencer she had seen before. As she passed him a cloth, he slipped a scrap of parchment into her hand, looking ahead, concentrating on mopping his brow, with no indication that anything else had occurred. Collecting some empty jugs as an excuse to go to the larder, she slipped the note under her sleeve, retrieving it once she was alone in their living quarters. It was short and to the point.

The Star and the Ram. With alacrity. CC

She stuffed the note back up her sleeve, refilling the ale jugs while she puzzled over what it meant. CC. Colin Cavendish? The Star and Ram was an inn on Fleet Street only a few blocks away favored by young men from the nearby Inns of Court. With alacrity! He might be a Lord, but he would have to wait until she was finished her chores and was able to slip away. As she turned to go back to the training area she saw Father’s tonic still sitting on the shelf. She scurried out to remind him to come and take it, but the man who had passed her the note blocked her way and whispered one word from the corner of his mouth. “Alacrity.”

“I will need to inform my assistant.”

“Tis already done,” he said, eye-pointing to the door, making it perfectly clear she must make haste for The Star and Ram. She tried to get her father’s attention, but the insistent man was blocking her view of the room, so reluctantly she left via the courtyard and took the lane that led directly to Fleet Street. She knew the inn from the outside but had never been inside before. This had better be worth her while.

Weaving her way through the bustle of Fleet Street, she was just twenty yards shy of the inn when she came to a short laneway that led to some stables at the rear. A sudden movement caught her eye, priming her senses, setting her eyes scanning and her muscles tensing. A strange man approached from behind her and raised his arm. Instantly she reacted. In a blur of movement she delivered a vicious elbow jab to his gut, grabbed his arm, dropped her shoulder and twisted. His arm went this way, his body went that, followed by a loud pop as shoulder and socket parted ways. He let out a scream, which was savage on the ears and grating on the sensibilities, before crumpling defenseless to the floor.

“Shrewish bitch, Cavendish sent me to fetch you,” he hissed as she bent over him to check the damage she had caused before people came running at the sound of his scream.

“You shouldn’t have jumped me,” she hissed back just as the first group of onlookers gathered around. “Oh dear! Oh my!” she cried out for all to hear, hoping no one had witnessed exactly what had happened, or if they did, would doubt the veracity of what they had seen. “This man has tripped on a cobble and badly hurt his arm.” Thus far no one had disputed her version of events, so she continued to fabricate. “The Star and Ram! Help me take him inside. My uncle is a physician and has a meeting there. We should catch him before he leaves. He will know what to do.”

Men can never ignore the cries of a damsel in distress, especially one who conveniently instructs them on what to do. Hence the injured lackey was duly assisted by two burly and helpful men to the inn while Lucinda continued in the role of solicitous bystander, the very model of care and concern.

“Your uncle, the physician. I know him. He is drinking upstairs,” the man said, playing along with her story, in between screwing up his face in pain and scowling in her general direction. “Tis a narrow staircase,” he told his helpers, thus whittling the extra bodies accompanying him down to one. Lucinda followed behind until they reached a thick bolted door. “Four slow knocks,” the man whispered, being unable to execute the task himself given that his good arm was occupied in the task of supporting the unhinged shoulder. She gave the required raps, and the door opened a crack, a pair of blue eyes peering through the gap.

“Uncle. We need your assistance for an injured man,” she said.

The blue eyes moved beyond her to her would-be fetcher. There was a whispered conversation behind the door then a voice she recognized as belonging to Cavendish was raised in reply. “Let him in with the girl but no one else.”

She turned to the helpful bystander and gave him her most sincere and heartfelt thanks, waiting until he was well down the stairs before entering the room.

“He has dislocated his shoulder,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, though her heart, should anyone care to feel it beating, would give lie to her exterior calm.

“I did not dislocate it; this shrew of a woman did!”

“And I shall fix it for you. Tis not hard to do.”

Cavendish looked at her with one raised eyebrow while the owner of the blue eyes helped the man to a chair. “You did this?”

“Well he jumped me. What else was I to do? There has been a spate of attacks upon women as you well know. I do not intend to be one of them. Lie him on his back on the table. Dislocated shoulders occur from time to time among the fencers. My grandmother has taught me what to do.”

“I have seen it done on the battlefield,” blue eyes said going to take hold of the man’s arm.

“Not like that!” Lucinda shrieked. “If you try and push it back in at that angle you can permanently damage the arm.”

“Very well then,” he stood back. “Be it on your head. He is one of the King’s favored groomsmen.” Perhaps she had been a bit hasty. Yes, her grandmother had taught her what to do, but she had only watched and never done it herself.

“I need a cloak to wrap around his trunk, before we lie him down.” Blue eyes looked at Cavendish who nodded his permission to use the cloak draped over a chair. “When I ask, you must use the cloak to pull his body in the opposite direction to the way I pull. Like this,” she demonstrated, before turning her attention back to the wounded man. “Now I must take your arm. I will be gentle, but it will hurt until we slide the joint back in.”

He did not look exactly delighted with her proposal but grudgingly allowed her to take his arm by the wrist and move it away from his body at an angle of thirty degrees. Next, she lifted her leg and put her foot in his armpit to stabilize his trunk. “Pull with the cloak now, nice and steady.” As blue eyes pulled, she placed some traction on the shoulder and thankfully, almost magically, the shoulder slipped back into place.

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