Page 48 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

Chapter thirteen

Unwilling Partners

Outofthefrying pan and into the fire. Or perhaps, in this case, it was the other way round. She came in through the courtyard and the living area again, and the first thing that caught her eye was the tonic she had mixed for Father still sitting by the hearth untouched. A quick circuit of the training area yielded further unwelcome surprises; firstly, no Grandma Jones, and secondly, Moll crouched on the ground in front of Father who was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, while Moll lifted a mug to his lips. She hurried to join them and as she came closer saw his hands trembling as he tried to hold the mug.

“What is happening?” she said quietly, given the many ears listening and even more eyes watching the scene.

“Tis nothing.” Father grizzled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Where have you been?” Moll said.

“Women’s business,” she replied.

“Enough fussing,” Father said, “I am a little light-headed tis all.” To prove his point he pushed up to his feet, the sway of his trunk and continued subtle tremor of his hand giving lie to his pronouncement of good health. “Where is my rapier? I have a lesson to conduct.”

“Come have your tonic first,” Lucinda insisted softly. Then saying loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Must be the oysters you had yesterday. The ones you suspected were bad.” She did not in fact know what he ate yesterday, but whenever the Masters of Defense met together, they consumed large quantities of both ale and oysters, so it was quite reasonable to blame shellfish for his malaise. “Are you feeling a gripe in the guts?”

“Aye. A little.”

“Then best we give your stomach a purge.” The mere mention of purging cleared a space around them. Once alone in their living quarters she vented the full force of her wrath. “You did not take your tonic! Drink this now. You are already pale and twitching.”

“Tis nothing. The oysters as you suggest.”

“I made that up as you well know, but there is nothing false about what I am seeing with my own eyes. If you do not go and rest, the convulsions could take over your whole body. You can try and argue with me, but when Grandma gets home…”

“Very well,” Father said putting his hands up as if to ward off an attacker. “Leave off woman. I relent. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You find someone to fence with my student. A young Scot. Tis his first rapier lesson.”

“Done.”

“Needless to say, I do not mean for you to be his instructor.”

Lucinda gave him a withering look in reply. Once satisfied the tonic was drunk and Father resting quietly in his bed she went in search of Moll.

“My father’s rapier student. Do you know where he is?”

“Over there at the dummy. I set him up practicing his aim.”

“Excellent. You have now been promoted. Could you act as sparring partner for him?”

“Me?”

“He is only a beginner. Remember the lesson I gave you on grip and guard positions? Run through that first so he does not feel short-changed, then do some free fencing to give him a taste for the weapon. I will be on hand with instructions.” Moll’s head was at first inclined in a skeptical tilt, but soon the light of possibility dawned on her face.

“Do you really think I can do it?”

“Of course. You already help the other Sisters.”

“I do, don’t I?” Lucinda steered Moll toward the training area. “While you set up, I will tell him of the change of plans.”

With one fire doused she checked to make sure no others were flaring, since the sound of raised voices was coming from the other side of the room. A small group of Spaniards were loudly complaining that Ferguson’s fencers were encroaching on their piste. The long piste was often hotly contested, being among the best in all of London for rapier training. The Spanish style in particular used mostly a linear direction which needed a lot of length more than width. Whereas broadsword with its wide sweeping arcs and side-stepping around in circles took up a great deal of width. Lucinda placated the Spanish with the offer of refreshments and the promise that presently the longest piste on the opposite side of the room would be free. Her solution appeared to be received favorably, except by one of the Spaniard’s whose surly demeanor she remembered all too well.

Corvacho.

He waited until she was topping up the ale mugs to gripe about Ferguson while looking directly at her and raising his voice, so she was sure to hear.

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