Chapter
IX

Christian let stillness surround him. He’d learned to do so after months of suffering under the hand of Jack Midnight. It must serve him now, for he could smell the bloodlust exuding from Bonner. It wafted toward him with the man’s peculiar odor as he was escorted after the Queen and her attendants into the state chamber. Christ’s wounds, why had Nora spoken for him? He could take care of himself, but fear for her was disturbing the calm he needed to survive.

The Queen lowered herself into her canopied chair of state. Her ladies were dismissed, and Bonner positioned himself beside her. Christian breathed in the fresh scent of Nora as he dropped to his knees beside the girl. She took a step closer to him and, using her skirt as a shield, caught his arm, giving it a squeeze. Beshrew her, he thought. She couldn’t stand up to her father, so what was she doing defying the Queen? “Get you gone,” he whispered harshly. “Now.”

She ignored him. Christian’s fists doubled in frustration, and the guards, who stood behind him, clamped their hands on his shoulders and touched their sword hilts in warning. Lowering his eyes, he concealed his anger behind his lashes and stared at the carpet.

The Queen began speaking, droning on about her desire to restore England to the Catholic faith. Her eyes burned with a fire brighter than the ones that seared heretics. Christian knew he had little time to gather his wits. He was suspected, as he’d often imagined he would be. Only he’d never considered he might also endanger an innocent whose very presence scoured every emotion but lust from his soul.

Drawing in a long breath, he stuffed his worry about Nora into a corner of his mind, summoned all the skills of deception he possessed, and raised wide-open eyes to the pair who judged him. The Queen was still engaged in her tirade, but Bonner was staring at him. Across the ten paces that separated them, Christian could feel the man’s desire for blood. It rushed at him in ravening waves. Bonner rubbed his chin and his upper lip. His bulk seemed to strain toward Christian as their eyes met, but the Queen finished speaking.

“Because of the love we bear you and your father,” she said to Christian, “we do you the honor of informing you of the accusations against you.” She nodded to Bonner.

The bishop folded his hands together over his protruding stomach. “Christian Richard Villard de Rivers, Lord Montfort, you are charged with heresy.”

As he wrinkled his brow, Christian heard Nora’s small “No!” and he cast a glance of angelic bewilderment at the Queen.

“Please, Your Majesty, I don’t understand. Was I not shown the true faith years ago by your own priests?”

Mary bent toward him. “Our own sister was schooled in a like manner, but we are not fooled by her cozening and mouthing of blandishments and false piety. Are we, Bonner?”

“Nay, Your Majesty. If it please Your Grace, give Lord Montfort into my keeping, and I will persuade him to confess his heresy.” Bonner could contain himself no longer. While the Queen appeared to consider his request, he waddled over to Christian. Bending with difficulty over the bulge between his neck and his feet, he stuck his face in Christian’s. “Bethink you to fool the Queen’s majesty with your wiles? Think you your pretty face will save you from God’s judgment? I tell you it will not be. Only a full confession and repentance can save you now.”

Christian drew back from the man’s foul breath and shook his head. It was all he could do to maintain his facade of innocence and bemusement, for he wanted to sink his fingers into the flab around Bonner’s neck and choke him until his weasel’s eyes popped. He didn’t, though. Instead, he continued to shake his head from side to side and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You’re famed for your brilliance, de Rivers,” Bonner said. “Belabor us not with lies.” The bishop straightened and put a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “Mayhap you need reminding of the punishment for heresy. I’m sure Her Majesty would see to it that you witnessed a burning. Sometimes the wood is green and doesn’t burn all at once, or the gunpowder doesn’t explode as it’s meant to in order to spare the heretic pain.” Bonner’s hand kneaded Christian’s shoulder. “And when that happens, the torso is burned away while the sinner is still conscious.”

Christian could feel the blood drain from his face. At his side, he saw Nora’s body begin to tremble. He couldn’t comfort her. It took all his strength of will not to throw that fat hand off his body and pounce on Bonner. Grinding his teeth together, he girded himself to endure Bonner’s pawing.

“I saw one man,” Bonner went on, “still moving his lips even though his throat had been burned away. At the last, he had no mouth, and all he could do was wave the stumps that were left of his arms until the skin on them charred and burst.”

As Bonner grinned at him, Christian shrank away from the leering face and prying fingers. He spoke so that only Bonner heard him. “You’re mad.”

“Enough,” the Queen said. “You’ve made Nora cry, Bishop.”

Bonner lifted his hand from Christian’s shoulder and bowed to the Queen. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I but seek to convince this corrupt boy of the foulness of his sins by showing him the severity of the punishment he faces. Give me a week with him, Your Majesty, and I will return him to you obedient and free of heresy, or begging to die.”

“Bonner!” Mary’s voice whipped through the room, causing everyone to start. “Control your tongue.”

The bishop again begged the Queen’s pardon.

While Bonner’s attention was elsewhere, Christian glanced at Nora. She was biting her lip, trying not to sob. She looked at him, and he winked at her. Startled, she quit weeping. All the while, Christian was slowly moving his hand to the neck of his doublet. Unlooping a jeweled button, he lifted his other hand and tugged at the lacing of his shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the white silk and caught on a gold chain. Drawing it forth, he wrapped his hand around the object suspended from it.

Suffusing his voice with unhappy confusion, he begged the Queen for permission to speak. Mary scowled at him, but at a pleading look from Nora, granted his request.

“Please, Your Majesty, I don’t understand. How have I committed this terrible sin?” Christian searched Mary’s face as if seeking salvation from it, all the while exuding wounded innocence. Once Mary was looking into his eyes, he held them for a long moment before glancing down as if in shame. He spoke quietly. “Your Majesty knows that I was cast into sin as a boy.”

“And you’ve corrupted others now that you’ve grown,” Bonner said.

Christian kept his eyes downcast. His shoulders drooped in submission. He almost smirked when the Queen lashed out at Bonner for interrupting. Mary ordered Christian to continue.

“I’ve never spoken of this to anyone, Your Majesty, because of my shame. I—I fought my father when he tried to reclaim me. For over two years, until the day Father brought me to court to be presented to the great King Harry.”

Mary nodded. “Father often told the story of you being dragged into his presence as furious as a cornered alley cat.”

“My father threw me at the King’s feet. It wasn’t until I beheld the King’s face that I realized I was in the presence of majesty, and I was afraid.”

Mary bobbed her head. “Everyone felt it. My father was chosen by God for greatness.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was afraid, but the King laughed that giant’s laugh of his and tapped me on the head with his walking stick.” Christian paused, for everyone was looking at him, waiting. “And then …” Queen Mary scooted forward in her chair to hear him better. “And then …” Bonner’s eyes bore into Christian’s. “And then the King ordered me to play the lute and sing for him, and said if I wasn’t obedient, he’d throw me in the Tower and hang me. So I sang.”

“What did you sing?” Nora asked, then covered her mouth with her hand.

“Yes,” the Queen said. “What did you sing?”

Christian’s mouth twitched, then he began to sing.

He’d done it, Christian thought as he finished the song. He’d nudged the Queen’s mood from suspicion into reverie. Like breeze-tossed ribbons on a maypole, her moods flapped, sailed, and jerked according to some hidden derangement Christian could not understand but had learned to influence.

The Queen’s deep bark of laughter brought smiles to Christian’s and Nora’s faces.

An imitation of a smile distorted Bonner’s lips. “Your wit is blazoned throughout the kingdom, Lord Montfort, but not all your fabled intellect can reason out of this. You consort daily with heretics.”

It took the schooling of a runagate to keep Christian’s smile in place. The Queen’s merriment vanished, and he beheld the fires of Smithfield in her gaze. Bonner knew, Christian was certain, about Dymoke and the cellar.

Raising a sausage of a finger, the bishop pointed at Christian. “You consort with heretics.”

“I do not,” Christian said.

“I have one in gaol to prove that you do.”

“One?”

“A foul doxy called Three-Tooth Poll. Why, the woman can’t even tell what a Mass is, or whether or not the sacramental wine turns to Christ’s blood.”

Christian tightened his hand over the object it held. “You have Poll?” Of all the possibilities for disaster, he’d not thought once of this one.

“And a scrawny cutpurse who refuses to acknowledge the Pope.”

“Inigo Culpepper.” Christian could barely hear his own voice, so faint was it.

“Heretics.”

“Oh, Your Majesty, no,” Nora said. She had been so quiet, they all looked at her as if one of the tapestries had spoken.

Christian tried to glare her into silence, but she wasn’t looking at him.

“Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty.” Nora rushed to the Queen and threw herself at Mary’s feet. “The good bishop is mistaken.”

“I know heresy when I hear it!” Bonner roared.

“Of course, my lord.” Nora’s voice quavered, yet she persisted. “But Lord Montfort consorts with these knaves and thieves apurpose, Your Majesty.”

“Nora, what could excuse habiting with the Devil’s minions?” Mary asked.

“Why, to save them from the heresy he is accused of adopting, Your Majesty.”

Christian raised his eyes to the ceiling. They were never going to believe that piece of fabrication. Not unless he helped Nora with her lies. Why did she have to screw up her courage and risk her life now, when she’d be better off playing the mouse? Confident in her newfound mendacity, she busily dressed up her tale.

“For months he has been leading them toward the true religion, Your Majesty. How often have I heard you lament that our well-born lead their baser charges astray from the true religion? Lord Montfort has taken your lamentations to heart. He seeks to spread the truth among those who need it most.”

“Nonsense,” Bonner said. “This fair report is nothing but a veil he spreads in front of virtuous eyes. He spends his time swilling and carousing. He wallows and cavorts with sinners because he, too, is a sinner. Look upon the face of his sin, Your Majesty.”

Bonner signaled to a guard at the door, and the door was thrown open. A man was hurled into the chamber to land on his stomach beside Christian. Whirling toward the man, Christian turned him over. It was Inigo. Eyes swollen shut and bloodied, lips distorted and cut, he coughed blood. Christian held his friend while the battered body spasmed. When Inigo was quiet, Christian raised his eyes to Bonner’s and silently promised the bishop death.

Bonner smiled.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Nora said, “this is one of the creatures Lord Montfort was teaching.” She was still kneeling beside the Queen, and her face was white. “Inigo Culpepper.”

“How do you know this?” the Queen asked.

“Lord Montfort asked me to recommend a priest who could help him, Your Majesty, and—and he asked me to help him pick out rosary beads to give to Inigo.”

“Falseness again,” Bonner said. “A thief teaching a thief. The boy hasn’t the virtue to instruct.”

Christian removed his cloak and covered Inigo with it. Standing, he confronted Bonner. “You’re right, my lord bishop, but I don’t rely on my soiled virtue. I rely upon this.”

Catching hold of the gold chain at his neck, Christian pulled it over his head. A heavy gold cross set with diamonds hung from the chain. He turned the cross over, laid it flat on his palm, and held it out to the Queen. Etched on its surface was an inscription. To Christian. Henry R.

Mary rose, slowly, her gaze fixed to the cross. She reached out to touch the inscription, and a single tear leaked from one eye.

“He gave it to me a few months after I sang for him,” Christian said. “To show me that God rewarded his servants better than the devil, he said. Now I am trying to save my thieves’ souls by teaching them of the true church. They’re a hard lot, Your Majesty, and I couldn’t convince them until one day I showed them King Harry’s gift. I’ll admit at first they were lured by the gold and diamonds, but at least they’re listening to me.”

He held his breath while the Queen studied the cross. She muttered something about her father and God; then, covering his hand with hers, she closed his fingers around the cross.

“I believe you,” she said.

Inclining his head to one side, Christian smiled at the Queen.

“Such an angel’s smile, my lord,” she said, “when we know for ourselves that your nature leans more toward that of an imp.” She took the chain from Christian and replaced it around his neck, then rested her hand on the top of his head. “God has spoken to you through our father and through Mistress Becket, we trow. Hie you hence, and take our Nora and your ruffian with you. We have had enough of misunderstandings for one day.” Mary held up a finger. “But mark you, we like not this cavorting with a betrothed maid. Decorum, my lord, practice decorum.”

With this last warning, Mary retired to her bedchamber. Christian lifted Inigo onto his shoulder, and Nora led him to the royal antechamber. The bishop followed them spewing apologies for the misunderstanding until the door to the Queen’s chamber shut. He let Nora pass out of the antechamber but lifted his arm to bar Christian’s way.

“De Ateca said you were as supple of mind as you are of body,” the bishop said.

“What has the conde to do with me?”

“Naught, Christian de Rivers. But mark you. You’re tainted with corruption and heresy, lie you ever so well to our good Queen. If I were you, I would study to become a martyr, for if ever there was a soul that needed purging by fire, it is yours.”

“A pox on you, Bonner. And God protect me from men who dare set themselves in His place as judges.”

Christian strode into the antechamber, and not until he heard Nora call for a stretcher and serving men did he allow himself to believe he wasn’t going to one of Bloody Bonner’s cells. He blinked rapidly and stared at Nora’s back as she spoke to a royal guard. She had saved him. Not that he couldn’t have saved himself. But she had risked her own life for his. The idea brought on odd feelings—anger, incredulity, and a desire to assuage his fears and rage with her body.

“I’m going mad,” he said.

Turning his thoughts from the vexing Nora, he looked down at the senseless Inigo. Someone had constructed this monstrous trap and handed it to Bonner. He didn’t think the man clever enough to have thought of it alone. And his little mouse turned dragon had sprung the trap before it gobbled him up.

How curious, he mused. She was jealous, and she defended him at her own peril. And he wanted her. Still. Ever. Marry, it was a curious thing, this lust that would not ebb, his fascination with this mouse-dragon. He left Inigo to join Nora. The guard saluted and vanished as Christian leaned down to murmur in her ear.

“ ‘Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?’ ”

The Bald Pelican nestled in the odorous stews of South London, disreputable, hospitable, and notorious. This night, patrons of the ordinary abandoned their ale, cards, and dice to duck beneath tables and behind chairs at the sound of a lion’s roar coming from the landing above. Bawd, cutpurse, angler, and vagabond gambler all cowered, for Kit was back, and in one of his rages.

A pottery beaker sailed out of one of the three upstairs doorways and smashed against the edge of a gaming table. A leather case followed it, hitting the floor. Knives and scalpels burst from the case, and two gamblers pounced on them, beginning a fight of their own over who was going to purloin the leach’s instruments. A frightened cry set the two scurrying for cover, though. An angry Mars in a cambric shirt, hose, and boots appeared on the landing, holding what looked to be a ferret in a tradesman’s gown and cap.

“Puling worms’ meat!” the tall figure shouted. He grasped the neck of the ferret’s gown in both hands and shoved the wriggling and shrieking creature over the banister, dangling him above the floor of the ordinary.

The leach’s arms and legs flailed, and the patrons were treated to the sight of hairy white flesh, most of it blotched with dirt.

“Pandering excrement!”

The man holding the leach braced his legs far apart, banged his victim’s head against the banister, and dropped him. The leach fell on a hapless pot boy. The boy yelped as the man hit his shoulders, then dodged out from beneath the missile. The leach landed bottom first and fell prone, groaning and whimpering. At a nearby table, Edward Hext sank his teeth into a meat pie and ignored the sufferer.

Marvelous Mag, proprietress of the Bald Pelican and tutor to many an aspiring London thief, sauntered out from the kitchen, hands on her hips. Blowing a blond sweat-drenched curl from her face, she shouted up at the man still standing on the landing.

“You asked for a leach, my beauty, and now you’ve broken him.”

The man in white cambric scowled down at Mag. “You gave me a mountebank. He prodded Inigo’s cuts with dirty fingers and tried to bleed him.”

“As I said, Kit, he’s a proper leach.”

“I don’t care. I’ve seen men die from unclean wounds and loss of blood. May God rot his testicles.” Kit fingered the hilt of his dagger.

“Now, now, beauty,” Mag said as she mounted the stairs. “I’ll get rid of the leach for you. No need to kill him just because you’re mad at someone else.”

She reached Kit and touched his arm. He darted away from her and propped himself on the banister.

“They should be here by now,” he said.

“Patience. It takes time to get someone out of gaol. Don’t you worry. Poll’s spent many a night there.”

Kit whipped away from Mag, stalking back into the room where Inigo lay. “I’m not worried about Poll. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck raising that grimy whelp of hers. Get me fresh water and more cloths, and send up a joint of mutton and wine for me. Soup for Inigo.”

Mag cursed and stomped after Kit. He was standing at a table in the bedchamber, and she planted herself opposite him. He took a cloth from the table and held it in both hands, testing the strength of the weave.

“You’ve had my house in a tempest for hours now,” Mag said.

He smiled nastily at her over the cloth.

Undaunted, Mag inspected his body from head to foot. “You need a good toss in the bed to drain all that choler.”

The smile remained as Kit jerked at the cloth, ripping it in half. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You left my school too soon to learn everything, beauty.”

“You taught me enough.” He ripped another cloth in half, and another.

From the open doorway came a giggle. Two of Mag’s girls, Annie and Gertrude, scurried in bearing trays of food.

“Food, Kit,” said Annie.

“Wine, Kit,” said Gertrude.

Kit paid them no heed. He gathered his cloths and carried them to the bed where Inigo lay sleeping. With fresh water and the cloths, he finished cleaning his friend’s wounds and bound those that needed it. As he was tying the last bandage, a woman’s hand pulled his fingers from the cloth and finished it for him. Other hands drew him from the bed.

“He’s sleeping,” Gertrude said.

“You can’t do anything else,” Annie said.

Mag left Inigo’s side to approach Kit, who was trying to avoid Gertrude and Annie. He retreated toward a side door. They followed.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he said.

Mag closed in on him from the front while Gertrude and Annie came at him from the sides.

“I know you, beauty,” Mag said. “You’re in a rage, and no one will be safe until you’ve rid yourself of it.”

“Bring the leach back in here,” he said. “I’ll skewer him to improve my humor.”

Mag shook her head and stopped close to Kit. “You need exercise.”

“Killing is great exercise. Don’t touch me.”

Running her nails up his thighs, Mag chuckled. “Too late.”

Annie slipped her hands inside Kit’s shirt. “Too late.”

“Much too late,” said Gertrude as she planted her mouth on his.

Kit jerked his head away. “I don’t think so,” he said, and shoved backward, pushing open the door behind him.

Mag gave a joyous whoop, lunging after him. Kit stumbled under her weight and found himself propelled back into the chamber. His legs hit something, and he fell. He landed on a bed big enough to hold five, which was fortunate, because at that moment it acquired four occupants.

Kit disappeared beneath skirts and bosoms.

He pawed at masses of brown and blond hair as fingers plucked at the lacings of his hose and codpiece. Both came loose, and his flesh sprang free. Mag grasped him in both hands and stroked him once with practiced ease. Kit swore again and tried to pull his hips away, but Mag stroked him again, rapidly. He sank back under Gertrude’s weight as she sat on his chest. Annie caught his arms and held them over his head while she kissed him.

Between his legs, Mag bent her head. “You’re surrounded, my beauty.” She kissed him. “Give.” Kit arched his back, trying to buck all three of them off, but Mag kissed him again. “Give, beauty.”

Kit cursed at her, and Mag chuckled as his thighs relaxed and his hips began to thrust.

“That’s it, beauty. Show us just how killing mad you are.”

This time it was Gertrude and Annie who came sailing out onto the landing to the enjoyment of the patrons of the Bald Pelican. Mag was climbing the stairs with a pot of ale in her hands when Annie screamed and burst through the bedchamber door. Gertrude squawked as she bounced out of the chamber under the encouragement of a booted foot.

Kit lunged after her, his torn shirt revealing sweat-drenched and tense biceps and a heaving chest. “No more, you jades. I told you to keep your hands out of my codpiece.”

Annie stuck out her tongue at him. Gertrude did, too, while the crowd below hooted and whistled. Mag grinned at Kit, who turned away from her to reenter the chamber. She smacked him on the buttocks. Rounding on her, Kit stalked her with an eye on the ale jar. Mag held up one hand, giggling all the while.

“Now beauty, don’t spoil your good temper after all the work we did on it. Be a sweet boy.”

“ ’S blood, was I not sweet enough? This will teach me to venture forth without a goodly escort.” Stomping back into Inigo’s chamber, he snapped at Mag, “I’m locking the door.”

The portal crashed shut to lend emphasis to his words, and the ruffians below groaned in disappointment that their entertainment was over. They were wrong, for as Kit closed the bedchamber door, the one leading to the street burst open, and a whirlwind in a green velvet cloak launched itself into the tavern. Those playing at dice and cards scrambled to protect their money from the flying cloak.

Two men clambered in after the youth, who darted between a serving woman and a pot boy. Shoving those two at his pursuers, he leaped to the bar and ran lightly down its length, hurling epithets at the two men as he went.

“Trugging house spawn. May your cocks rot. I’ll use your balls for chair cushions.” A silver dagger appeared in the youth’s hand, then vanished.

One of the pursuers wasn’t quick enough, and he yelped. Looking down, he found the dagger pinning his doublet to the wall at a point uncomfortably near his groin. Everyone had been laughing at the sight of two grown men chasing after a youth. Now the room went still, except for the impaled man, who was wriggling in an attempt to free himself, and then, to the last pot boy, everyone ducked underneath the nearest piece of furniture. All but Hext, who had planted himself in front of the fireplace in a high-backed chair and had been napping.

He opened one eye. “Everyone get up. He’s just a cub.”

“A cub,” the impaled man wailed. “He’s near took my leg off.”

The youth laughed, stooped from his perch on the bar, and filched a dagger from the belt of a patron. “Next time it will be your cock, Simon Spry.” The boy dodged the grasping hands of the dagger’s owner and ran down the bar toward the back of the ordinary.

As he neared the end of the bar, he stopped abruptly, for a man had vaulted over the landing above the bar and landed in front of him. He glared at the man, holding his dagger at ready.

“You sent them after me like two bewhiskered wet nurses,” Blade said.

Kit gave him a cool glance. “Come and meet our hostess, my fruit sucket.”

Blade tossed the dagger from one hand to the other while slowly shaking his head. In the middle of a toss, Kit dropped to his haunches. One leg shot out and swept Blade’s feet out from under him. Blade crashed to the bar, furious and red-faced, as Kit easily caught the falling dagger and stood back up without ever losing his balance.

“God rot your soul,” Blade said to him.

“I love you as well.” Kit held out his hand. When Blade refused to take it, he chuckled and sat down beside his ward on the bar. Casually, he got rid of the dagger by burying its tip in a slice of bread on a table on the other side of the room. Blade’s face froze. He stared at the dagger, then jerked his attention back to Kit when the older man began to sing into his ear.

“Mag will have my head if we disturb her house any more tonight,” Kit added. “Shall we retire?”

Hopping off the bar, he once more offered his hand. Blade jumped off on his own power, and Kit sighed as if wounded.

“By my troth, comfit,” he said, “I begin to think I have spoiled some escape plan of yours by sending old Spry to look after you.”

Blade threw his cloak over one shoulder. “I gave my word, damn you. You said going among the nobility might prod my memory. Well, it hasn’t.”

Kit swiped a cup from a passing pot boy and thrust it at Blade. “De Ateca’s company has spoiled your disposition. Come.”

In the sickchamber, Kit pointed to a stool and waited for Blade to sit. Standing over the youth, he folded his arms over his chest.

“What have you learned?”

“That de Ateca isn’t a fool,” Blade said. “He spent the whole time complimenting me, entertaining me, and encouraging my anger toward you. And I preened and pranced as you instructed, but he doesn’t trust me.” Blade snatched off his cap and tossed it on a sideboard. “It would help if I knew what you want.”

Kit left Blade to straighten the sheets that covered Inigo. “I don’t trust you yet either, so you’ll have to labor in ignorance. He asked you to attend the hunt tomorrow, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and my stomach roils at the idea of spending a whole day in the company of Spaniards. This treatment isn’t going to work. I haven’t remembered anything, no matter how many bows I make or pretty speeches I hear.” Blade got up and sent Kit a disgusted look. Turning his back, Blade headed for the door.

“My lord,” Kit said softly.

“Yes?” Blade stopped as he said the word, then pivoted slowly to face Kit. His jaw worked, and he lifted his fingers to his temple. “Did you hear?”

“I took a chance and was rewarded. Don’t look so frightened. Father is writing to all the families he knows who don’t like court. Don’t you see? If your people had been seekers of power, or greedy, or close to the royal family, we would have heard of a missing boy.”

Blade took a few hesitant steps back into the room. “You don’t fool me. You’re after Jack Midnight, and you think I’ll help you if you winnow your way into my affections by giving me back my memory.”

“Clever Blade. Spiteful, vexatious, and bloodthirsty, but clever. Leave off your hostility for the night and join me in a drink.” Kit gestured around the room. “After all, we’re in our accustomed burrow, you and I. So cry truce, and we’ll do some drinking and wenching. It won’t improve our tempers, but it will pass the time. For tomorrow I must to court again.”

“To see Nora Becket.”

“Aye, to see Nora Becket, and mayhap to kill a certain jackanapes with a mad laugh and the humors of a fiend.”