Chapter
X

By the next day Nora had resorted to hiding. She peeped through the barely open door in her cipher garden, looking for her father and Percivale Flegge. Arthur shoved aside her skirts and stuck his face to the crack as well.

“They’re gone, mistress,” he said.

Nora shut the door. “Help me pull the bench over here. It should hold if someone tries to open the door.”

Heaving and grunting, the two managed to haul the bench to the door. They collapsed on it and gulped in air.

“I vow that awful Flegge must have set spies upon me,” Nora said, “for he accused me of deceiving him with Lord Montfort. Lord Montfort indeed.”

“But mistress, you said Lord Montfort was the bravest, most handsome man in the kingdom.”

She shook a finger in Arthur’s face. “You’re never to repeat that. May your tongue rot if you do.”

Arthur stuck out his tongue and tried to look at it until his eyes crossed.

Sinking back against the door, Nora struggled not to wallow in despair. The day before she had saved Christian de Rivers’s life, and after Bonner had left them, she’d hoped Christian would finally look at her with admiration and love. Instead, he’d pulled her into an alcove while Inigo Culpepper was being lifted onto a litter and kissed her, delving his tongue into her mouth and rubbing his hands all over her body.

Then the Queen had sent Mistress Clarencieaux. The old woman had marched up while Nora and Christian were thus engaged and whacked Christian on the head with her fan. As he jumped and rubbed his head, Mistress Clarencieaux had snatched Nora from him. Spouting threats against his manhood, she had dragged Nora away, and Nora hadn’t seen him since.

This morning her father had arrived early to inform her that the ceremony of betrothal and the signing of the contracts would take place at once. She was to dress richly and come to the Queen’s chapel. Nora had dressed and gone to the chapel, but upon seeing Percivale Flegge, her antipathy had risen to choke her. She’d fled, and now here she was, hiding.

“What am I going to do?”

“Hide until he goes away,” Arthur said. He had given up trying to see his tongue and was drawing a picture of a bow in the dirt with a stick.

“But there are too many people in the palace looking for me.”

Arthur dropped his stick and looked at her with eager relish. “We should steal out of the palace and hide at that inn where we saw the Robin Hood play.” Holding his cap in place, Arthur jumped up to stand on the bench. “We can do it, mistress.”

“But for how long? No, I must stop hiding now, before my father finds me for himself.”

They both cringed as someone bellowed her name. It was Flegge, and he was on the opposite side of the northern garden wall. The bellowing stopped abruptly, and Nora and Arthur exchanged curious glances. Arthur got up and trotted over to the fig tree near the wall. Nora followed, watching him climb up into the branches and disappear behind a curtain of leaves.

She waited, but the boy didn’t return. He was silent and still for so long, she finally tucked her skirts into her girdle and climbed up after him. Arthur was lying along a branch with his head sticking out over the garden wall, his gaze transfixed on something below. She clambored to a perch beside him and looked down.

Flegge was standing on a shrub-lined path, slowly turning in place and looking in all directions. He shouted Nora’s name again, and both she and Arthur winced. Flegge would have the Queen’s guard on him if he didn’t stop making so much noise, Nora thought. His voice rose an octave to become the screech of a dying chicken, then was cut off. Nora’s eyes widened as she watched the man hold his breath until his face was swollen and raw-meat red. At last he let out a long howl of frustration that rivaled the roar of a baited bear. As he howled he pounded his thighs over and over again with his fists.

Nora and Arthur put their arms around each other, too surprised to move. The spectacle continued as the man flounced to his knees and smote the dirt as if it were a mortal enemy. Face dripping sweat, mouth wet with spittle, he collapsed on his back in exhaustion, only to beat the defenseless earth with his heels and his fists.

Nora inched back on the branch, pulling Arthur with her. Together they climbed down while listening to the subsiding tantrum of Percivale Flegge. By the time they reached the ground, the man had resorted to obscenities periodically emphasized with more pounding. Nora and Arthur fled to the bench, covering their ears with their hands. After a while, they uncovered their ears. Hearing Flegge tramp off in another direction, they settled on the lawn beneath the fig tree.

“I don’t like that man,” Arthur said.

“I don’t either.”

Nora twisted a lock of her hair in her fingers, winding and unwinding the curl in an effort to keep from screaming. She didn’t want to frighten Arthur, but if he hadn’t been frightened by that scene at the wall, he was braver than she.

“Arthur, it seems as if we’re going to have to keep hiding.”

“Good.”

“I can’t marry that animal.”

“No, we don’t like him, and he might beat us instead of the ground.”

“He might.” She shivered. “He must be possessed by the Devil, but Father will make me marry him.”

“And then we couldn’t marry Lord Montfort.”

“What?”

Nora looked at Arthur, but the boy was intent on his own thoughts, solemnly tearing hunks of grass from the lawn.

“But if we hide and find Lord Montfort,” the boy went on, “he’ll marry us and protect us from Sir Percivale.”

Nora couldn’t help smiling. “ ‘We’?”

Arthur nodded. “We have to marry Lord Montfort. He likes us, so we should marry him instead.”

“Yes, I suppose we should.”

Christian de Rivers’s plans to kill Percivale Flegge had been thwarted by his heretical guests. Their ship had arrived, and he was put to the trouble of escorting them to it. All that day he busied himself with preparations, summoning his disreputable band for escort and conceiving of a plan to get the old men out of his father’s house and to the docks.

To Christian’s annoyance, it began to rain as he and his father entered their private chapel that night. They were holding a special service in thanksgiving for Christian being found innocent of heresy by the Queen. Several clergymen had already entered the chapel, and the Mass began as soon as Christian and his father were seated.

At the end of the service, the household departed, leaving the two noblemen behind. The Earl’s chaplain—a successful thief Dominby day—retired, and Christian left his pew to join four Franciscan brothers who hovered in a shadowed corner of the chapel.

“It’s time,” Christian said. “Follow me.”

Three of the brothers followed him, while the fourth, Edward Hext, stood guard.

The Earl was already standing behind the altar. As Christian and the others joined him, he threw back the Turkish carpet to expose gray flagstones. With his dagger he pried one of the stones loose, revealing an iron ring. He pulled the ring and a door lifted, giving access to a set of stairs. Christian herded the three brothers down the staircase, and the Earl and Hext followed. The chaplain reappeared with a taper, which he handed to the Earl before closing the trapdoor again.

“Damp and cold down here,” one of the brothers said.

“And dark,” another said. “I’m tired of the dark. We should go back.”

“God’s toes,” Christian said. “How you can be so brave on paper and such puking cowards about a short walk to the docks is a mystery.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched in amusement. “I do hope the rain dampens your temper, Chris. Take this habit, and here are the beads and the cross.”

Christian fought his way into the dark grey-brown wool. His head popped through the neck of the gown, and his father dragged the skirt down until it covered Christian’s riding boots.

“Cecil would hie off to France at this moment,” Christian muttered. “My knaves say the house isn’t being watched, but Cecil would know who at court set Bonner upon me. It could have been de Ateca, or Hampton, or that angelic idiot Pole.”

“It matters not,” Sebastian said as he donned his own habit. “The Queen thinks you the savior of London’s runagates. Now, do I look like a friar?”

“As much as I look like a bishop.”

“That doesn’t bode well for our disguise, my headstrong.”

Christian bent and rummaged through the basket from which they’d taken the robes. “That’s why I brought padding.” He thrust a pillow and twine at his father. “Tie this around me, and I’ll look as fat and useless as any brother in Christendom.”

Their disguising complete, Christian led his party through the tunnel to its exit just outside the wall that surrounded the earl’s residence. Simon Spry awaited them there, rain-drenched, with a donkey and cart. It was just after ten, and though they had only a short walk to the river and then downstream to the docks, they would follow the Thames upstream. Once far enough out of the city, which would take them a good two hours, they would take a boat to the docks as though they had just arrived from the country.

With his father’s help, Christian bundled the three heretics into the cart. Sebastian sat with them, his head towering above the other three. Christian wiped raindrops from his chin and motioned for Spry and Hext to follow him down the muddy lane that paralleled the river.

His close brush with death the day before must have affected him more than he’d thought, for he imagined that every snort of the donkey, every snap of a twig heralded an attack. His boots slithered on the packed earth made slick by the rainfall. The moon wasn’t out, and a cloying mist surrounded them, making his chest tighten. In the darkness, the creaking of the cart and the grunts of the donkey seemed loud enough to hurt his ears.

In spite of his agitation, the trip was made safely and quickly. They transferred from donkey cart to small launch, then alighted from the launch at the docks when it was still dark. Christian helped the gouty Archibald Dymoke onto land. The earl and the other two men followed. Spry and Hext remained with the boat, for only a short distance remained to be traveled.

This was the segment of the trip Christian hated the most. He was almost rid of them, these fanatic bumblers, and he itched to thrust them in the direction of their Dutch ship and be away with his father. Instead, he set his jaw and preceded the other four down an alley that would lead to their destination.

Hand on his concealed sword, Christian slipped ahead to inspect the intersection of another alley. He clung to the rotten wood of a shed at the corner. All was clear, but the cross-alley dead-ended to the left, and that made him wary. Looking back over his shoulder, he found himself alone.

His father and the heretics were several yards back. The Earl was yanking on the habit of one of the old men, but the heretic was well planted. Christian sped back toward them, stopping halfway when he heard Dymoke whine.

“I can’t bear it anymore, to be enshrouded in the trappings of heresy. I must rid myself of the raiment of evil.”

Christian almost picked up a rock and threw it at Dymoke’s head. “You slug-witted fools,” he whispered fiercely at the men, “cease this braying and follow me now, for by God’s wrath I won’t stay to be made gallows meat.”

Without waiting to see if the heretics followed, Christian flew back down the alley to the shed. Sliding his body along the wet planks that made up one side of the shed, he put one hand around the corner to feel his way. It skimmed over mold growing on the wood, and he could smell rot and dead fish. The heretics had shut their mouths, and he strained to catch any sound. He heard nothing but the fall of rain.

Glancing back, he saw his father shooing the heretics into motion. Christian’s gaze darted about the intersection, touching rain-slick cobbles, shadows, and roof line. He stepped out into the open, shot looks in all directions, then whipped across the empty space to cling to the building on the opposite corner. Behind him he saw his father help one of the heretics, who had slipped in a puddle of water.

Christian pushed away from his hiding place, intending to go back and help. As he moved, he heard the sound of a blade sliding out of a sheath. He turned in the direction of the sound, ripping open his habit and drawing his own weapon. Hampered by the pillow at his stomach, he barely got the sword drawn before they were upon him.

He had no time to do more than shout a warning to his father. Three armed men who wore no livery or badge came at Christian at once, and he knew he had to kill one quickly or they would surround him.

It seemed as if a spell had been cast to slow the world down, for he was able to block a sword, jam his foot into the paunch of the second attacker, and duck the slicing blow of the third. Jumping backward, he heard sounds of battle behind him and knew that his father was under attack as well.

Christian swung his sword like a battle-ax, cutting an arc around his body, and his assailants scattered long enough for him to glimpse his father parrying the blows of two swordsmen. Dymoke and his fellows offered no help. In his hands and knees, Dymoke was crawling away from the Earl. Another heretic sat in a puddle and howled while the third cowered with his back to a wall.

“Dymoke, you worm, fight!” Christian shouted.

He ducked a sword that came at his neck, then rolled on his back and onto his feet again. As he rolled, the pillow at his waist pulled free. He threw it at one of his attackers and headed for his father, but another was there to block his way.

Bending and twisting, stabbing and slashing, he felt his strength begin to ebb as precious moments slipped by. To his horror, he caught sight of another man heading for his father. The distraction was enough. The tip of a blade jabbed his thigh, and Christian sank to one knee. He drew his dagger from his belt, but before he could throw it, he was forced to parry a storm of blows from all three men.

Blood trickled from the cut on his leg and down into his boot. He slipped as he was forced away from Sebastian under the onslaught of the three men, and as he slipped, a knife darted out to slice at his chest. It came away with his blood on it, but the knife-wielder paid for his daring with his life. Christian feinted to the left, threw his body to the right, and hurled his dagger at the man as the enemy prepared to knife him again.

The price of that victory was high, for an attacker slipped under Christian’s dagger arm. Christian felt the sting of sliced flesh at his side and hurled himself backward. No longer able to move quickly, he stumbled, his sword wobbling. The two remaining attackers closed in, their own swords raised. Christian fastened both hands on the hilt of his weapon, not daring to look for his father again.

The slowness spell took him once more, though, and he couldn’t seem to lift his blade quickly enough. He watched two sword points fly at his chest, slicing the air as they would slice his gut. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees. In the same moment, a whistle cut through the sounds of battle, a whistle that had haunted Christian’s dreams since he was eight.

The sword points still came at him. Christian lifted his blade. It struck one weapon. The other was free, and it continued on its path. Christian watched it aim for his heart, only to be chopped aside by another, larger blade.

“Kit, love, you must save your fights for me,” Jack Midnight said with a laugh.

Christian shot to his feet, sword held in front of his body with two hands, and waited for Midnight to attack. He couldn’t believe his senses when Midnight whistled again, and two ruffians pounced on Christian’s assailants. Gathering his wits, Christian shoved Midnight aside. He spotted his father still fending off his two attackers and launched into a wobbly run.

As he ran, his wounded leg threatened to buckle under him, slowing him at the moment he most needed his speed. He fought to keep his bad leg beneath his body. His chest heaved with the effort to stay exhaustion and shock. And all the while he watched the Earl turn to counter a blow, leaving his back exposed to a man he’d battered to the ground. Christian screamed.

“Father, behind you!”

Sebastian twisted as he parried, but his foot caught on the heretic who still groveled in the mud puddle. The assailant on the ground lurched up and jabbed, sinking a knife into Sebastian’s back.

“No!” Christian hurled himself the last few feet that separated him from his father.

He landed on all fours between his fallen father and the two murderers. Raising his sword, he lashed at the men while covering Sebastian’s body with his own. The assailants ran at him, sensing Christian’s weakness, but before they could reach their prey, there was a whizzing sound and two muffled thuds. The murderers’ bodies jerked and halted. Christian watched them fall on their faces, arrows protruding from their backs.

He had no time to reason out Jack Midnight’s actions. He lifted himself off his father. The Earl lay on his stomach, a knife sticking out of his left shoulder. When Christian saw the position of the knife, he stopped breathing. Midnight joined him, but Christian paid no heed to him and drew the blade from Sebastian’s body.

“I need cloth,” he said.

Jack Midnight ripped a habit from one of the cowering heretics and handed it to Christian. With shaking hands, Christian bound the wound. As he did so, Hext barreled into the alley, sword drawn. He lowered it as he approached Christian.

“Outnumbered,” he said.

Not glancing up from his father, Christian shook his head. “Nay, Midnight has played the rescuer this time. I have to get him home at once, but he can’t be jostled.”

Midnight helped Christian turn the Earl over on his back.

“God’s ass,” Midnight said. “This is your father. I help no murdering blue bloods.”

Midnight stood. “Come with me, Kit.”

Christian pulled Sebastian’s cloak around his body. “You’ll have to kill me.”

“And me,” Hext said.

“The watch will be here soon,” Midnight said to Christian. “And you’re too weak to fight me.”

“There’s no time for this idiocy. I must get him home.”

The highwayman glanced at the Earl. “He’s going to die, Kit.”

Midnight hit the ground under the full force of Christian’s body. Christian straddled his tormentor, fists tangled in Midnight’s cloak.

“He’s not going to die, and if you don’t help me I’ll kill Blade.”

“Now, Kit, I followed you all this way because I thought you were moving Blade out of my reach.”

“I swear it. I’ll break his pretty neck with my own hands and I’ll …” Christian’s head felt heavy of a sudden, and he blinked at Midnight.

Midnight shoved his hands aside and caught him before he sank to the ground.

“I’ll kill Blade,” Christian said, his words as blurry as his vision.

“I believe you, Kit.” Midnight helped him to his feet and signaled to his men.

“Don’t touch me,” Christian said.

“If I don’t hold you up, how will you get to the river, love?”

“Promise,” Christian said. He clutched at the neck of Midnight’s shirt. “Promise you’ll get him home safely. You can do what you want with me.”

“Ah, love, I’ve waited years to hear you say that, and now you’re too diced for me to do anything but patch you up.”

Christian wasn’t listening, for Hext and Midnight’s men were lifting his father gently and heading for the riverbank. He took a step to follow, but his wounded leg buckled under him. He heard Midnight chuckle, and he was lifted. Midnight dragged one of his arms around his shoulder, and Christian was forced to allow his enemy to half-carry him in the wake of his father’s bearers.

“I’ll remember your promise,” Midnight said. “And if your father lives, you’ll owe me a double debt. It’s a fine night, my treasure. A fine night for killing … and for promises.”

Nora waited all day for the uproar over her disappearance to subside, but the royal guards and servants didn’t stop searching the palace until well after dark. She and Arthur hid in the fig tree. While the royal household was at the evening meal, they slipped out of the palace in stolen servants’ cloaks.

Never having been in the streets of London unescorted, Nora was fearful and agitated as they crept their way to Arthur’s Robin Hood inn. They took a room and tried to rest, but with the first appearance of light, Nora was up. After much worry, she sent a note to one of the palace cooks who helped her with her orphaned animals, giving them over into his care. She and Arthur downed a quick meal, then hurried to the river, where they took a boat to the Earl of Vasterne’s landing. She marched past the guards at the gate, so intent on gaining sanctuary that she had no time to allow them to question her. The steward who answered her knock nearly soiled his beautiful Montfort livery, so great was his shock at seeing her. Addled herself, Nora scurried in while the man gaped at her.

Something was wrong. She knew it the moment she got inside. Serving men and women were rushing up and down the main staircase with linens and jugs of water. Guards were positioned about the house, and Nora saw almost twenty of the Earl’s men-at-arms gathered in the hall. The whole household was up and dressed.

The steward recovered enough to send one of the Earl’s lieutenants to her as she stood at the foot of the staircase, Arthur’s hand clasped in her own.

“My lady, is something wrong?” the young man asked, but he didn’t wait for her to answer. “You must allow me to escort you back to the palace, for the Earl can’t see you. He is ill.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He was attacked by thieves last night, my lady. Lord Montfort as well. My lady!”

Nora was already racing up the stairs with Arthur in tow. That nuisance of a lieutenant plucked at her cloak, but she slapped his hand away and ran. It wasn’t difficult to decide which was the Earl’s chamber. It had to be the one with the gaggle of physicians hovering outside. She pushed two of them aside and thrust through a half-open doorway.

She collided with the solid Edward Hext.

“My lady,” Hext said as he grasped her arm.

“Let me past. Let go.”

She was in an antechamber. Beyond was the door to the Earl’s bedchamber, but Hext wouldn’t release her. Arthur and the lieutenant scrambled into the room, halting when they saw her and Hext.

“My lady,” Hext said, “the Earl is grievously wounded, and you must leave.”

She shook her head. “Lord Montfort.”

“There isn’t time, my lady. I’m trying to convince Lord Montfort to see a physician. He’s been with the Earl since they returned home after the attack, and he won’t leave his father’s side. I fear for his life as well if his wounds aren’t seen to.”

“I can help,” Nora said. She saw the disbelief on Hext’s face. “I can.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I saved him from the Queen, didn’t I?”

Hext chewed his lip but finally stepped aside. While the lieutenant protested, Nora walked into the Earl’s bedchamber. The windows were still shrouded against the night’s cold. She smelled beeswax candles, the sweet scent of rosewood furniture, and spices. Across the expanse of the room she saw a bed hung with the Earl’s colors and standard. On it lay the Earl covered in white linens, and sitting on the bed beside his father was Christian.

Christian’s back was to her. Neither man moved, and Nora thought they resembled a tableau on one of the marble sepulchers in her family’s burial vault at home. The Earl was almost as white as one of the vaults. And though Christian’s hand covered his father’s, she detected no movement in it.

As if approaching an altar, her dread growing with each step, she crossed the room to them. She crept to the side of the bed on which Christian perched, and when she was an arm’s length away she noticed the wide bandage fastened around his upper thigh. Dark with old blood, it was moist, and new trails of bright red trickled down his leg. He rested on his right hip, keeping the injured leg stretched out and braced on the floor. His left arm hugged his body unnaturally, and Nora was sure it was damaged also.

She moved into the light shed by the candles on a table beside the bed, but Christian showed no sign that he knew she was there. His gaze remained fixed on the Earl. Nora took another step, gaining a better view of the desecration of Christian’s body. His doublet had been sliced diagonally from right shoulder to left hip and hung in two bloody halves. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder to reveal a neat cut that began at the join of arm and torso.

His face was untouched, yet ravaged. And it was his face that most frightened Nora. Drained of emotion, it was like the face of one of those figures clockmakers mounted on their more costly creations. The Queen had one on which a knight, fashioned in silver, knelt before his sword as if it were a cross. Silver, cold, and unreal.

He was so unmoving she was afraid to speak. She hesitated, wishing her own breathing weren’t so loud, wishing she had the courage to say something. Then she remembered the first time she’d seen Christian with his father. At the sight of the Earl he had transformed from a viper into a submissive angel. This man who tormented and toyed with murderers called Sebastian “sire,” as a nobleman addresses his king.

Nora held her breath and put out a hand. She touched the bleeding arm with one finger.

“Get out,” Christian said, “before I kill you.”