Page 67 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

DeGuerra made a point of making a beeline for her and apologizing. “Signorina Evans, if I had known you were betrothed…”

“I am not betrothed. It is a fantasy on his part. There is no courtship. There is nothing between us.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” DeGuerra said with his most devastating smile.

“You quote Master Shakespeare, I believe. I saw his Hamlet a few years ago.”

“Alas I was not that fortunate. I have a copy of the folio which I have often read. Master Shakespeare has a great insight into the follies and foibles of man. Do you go often to the theatre?”

“Rarely, I am afraid. When I have gone, I have enjoyed it very much.” This talk of Shakespeare’s folio set off an acute twinge of memory. The sonnet Robbie had written about her, tugged at some wounded part of her. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted McCrae hovering just out of range. He must still be following DeGuerra. She looked up at the handsome Spaniard, even giving her eyes a come-hither bat.

“Then perhaps I could accompany you to a performance at The Globe?” DeGuerra said. “Naturally your Grandmother is invited too, as a chaperone. Two beautiful and accomplished English ladies. My compatriots will be quite the green with envy.”

So would every other woman at The Globe if she arrived with Signor DeGuerra. A frisson of something passed between them. It seemed he too was aware of McCrae’s presence and thus goaded to flirt with her all the more.

“I am sure something can be arranged, and my grandmother would be delighted. She works so hard and has little time for pleasure.”

DeGuerra raised his voice just a little. Enough to confirm what she already thought he was up to. “All work and no pleasure is a very sad state of affairs.”

“Ah,” Lucinda said, “the piste is clear. Who do you plan to train with first?”

McCrae had sidled closer wearing the same grim set to his mouth she had seen before. Perhaps she could make his face even darker.

“Signor Corvacho is my first sparring partner I believe. If you have time, I would love for you to stay and observe. I know you have a keen appreciation of swordplay,” DeGuerra said.

Lucinda joined in the sport and raised her voice a notch louder. “Oh yes. I enjoy nothing better than applauding a well-aimed thrust. It would be a pleasure.” It was hard to keep a straight face, especially when he gave a conspiratorial twitch of one eyebrow, casting his eyes briefly in McCrae’s direction then back to meet her gaze.

“Thank you for your kind assistance. I must join my compatriots now.” He took up her hand and graced it with a kiss, a kiss that sent arrows of heat shooting up her arm and daggers of rancor hurtling from Robert McCrae.

Having announced her intention to stay and watch she put herself in a position where she could closely observe the fencers. McCrae had the sense not to approach her, or he would have felt the renowned sharpness of her tongue. He did however position himself where he could stare right at her as she surveyed the action on the piste. It was left to Moll to ensure the weapons and equipment were laid out in the way the Spanish demanded. Corvacho peeled off his gloves and handed them to Moll, along with his purse and the scabbard for his rapier. Moll carefully laid them in a pile to one side, along with all the other fencers’ discarded bits and pieces. As she did so, Moll deliberately caught her eye. Lucinda was close enough to see what Moll must also have noticed. Once the gloves were off, Corvacho’s hand was clearly visible and the sight of it landed like a kick to her chest. The top corner of his smallest right finger was missing, exactly as Lizzie described. She looked away from his hand. McCrae’s eyes bored into her, constantly shifting their focus from DeGuerra to her. You are looking at the wrong man she wanted to shout at him. Or was he? So much conflicting information and so little proof. She could not tell McCrae about the finger. He would be furious if he knew what she had done. There was only one thing left for her to do. Keep investigating, keep asking questions, and always keep searching for the truth. Her friends deserved nothing less.

Corvacho and DeGuerra finished their bout and were replaced on the piste by another pair of Spanish fencers who were clearly not as skilled as their predecessors. Very soon the gathered onlookers drifted away. McCrae was not in sight, having slunk off to sulk somewhere, so she smiled at Signor DeGuerra but kept herself busy and out of the way. The usual shouts and cajoling, the bawdy comments and teasing that comprised the general hubbub of a fencing academy resumed. It was always noisy and sweaty and charged with barely controlled aggression. It did not take much to stir it up into a hornet’s nest, when at the moment all she craved was some semblance of order and calm. There was much to think about and much to plan.

Later Moll cornered her when they were refilling ale jugs out in the living quarters. The amount of ale that fencers demolished in a day would put many taverns to shame.

“You saw it, didn’t you,” Moll hissed. “This proves it was him.”

“It is not enough. I should not be telling you this, but the music the villain hummed was only performed at a masque at Hampton court. Only three Spaniards were there, and Corvacho was not one of them, so he is not our man.”

“I know it is him,” Moll insisted, pouring ale with so much force it splashed down the front of Lucinda’s dress.

“You do not know that?” Lucinda said patting at her dress with a cloth.

“Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you? Or heard what he calls you behind your back?”

“What are you talking about?” Lucinda said, the cloth in her hand suspended in the air.

“I am talking about the lust and contempt on Corvacho’s face when he looks your way. He calls you a puta.”

“Which means?”

“Whore, in their tongue. I have spent enough time around the docks to know how to curse in many languages. He also elaborates and calls you the English prick-teasing whore. The finger only confirms what I feel in my gut and see with my own eyes. Trust me. I know it is him.”

The English prick-teasing whore. Lucinda had once seen a man drown a cat by holding its head in a bucket of water. If it tried to mewl or hiss the water filled its lungs. All it could do was blindly kick out with its legs. That image came to her now, but it was fear that stole her breath and rendered her as helpless as the drowning cat. Her chest tightened so much it was harder and harder to breathe. She rushed out into the courtyard sucking in great gulps of air in a vain effort to recover her breath. This was foolish. She must take a hold of herself. Get back control of her breath. She rested her hands on her knees taking slow breaths until the panic eased. The best thing to do was to pretend nothing had happened, nothing had changed. Go back into the training room and carry on.

“You have gone very white,” Moll said when she found her in the courtyard. “Here, have a drink.” Lucinda gratefully took the ale. A few deep gulps and she felt her old self again, courage resurging with the same painful tingle that besets a limb that has been crushed for too long.

“Do you think that man Corvacho could have me in his sights? I know, I know. I am being overly alarmed. I am letting my imagination take me on a merry dance.”

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