Vespers Rising

by Gordon Korman

  “Ah, the ring, yes,” Williams said. “And you have the written request, do you?”

  “Erm, yes, of course,” Madeleine said. She reached inside the shirt for her pouch. For the darts.

  Williams was backing away. Suddenly he shouted, “Holworthy! Wigglesworth! Stoughton! Hargrove!”

  Change of plans. Madeleine charged forward, sending Williams sprawling into the hall. To her left, an older man in a plaid nightgown and tasseled sleeping cap appeared in a doorway. “Guard!” he shouted. “We have an impostor in the palace!”

  Madeleine raced the other way, ducking to the left down another long, straight section of the hallway. At the end of it was a square of dull amber light. The sun was beginning to rise. Soon the entire palace would be awake.

  The hallway ended in a T, and men were approaching from either side. She wheeled around. The old man was padding toward her, followed by a gaggle of butlers and scullery maids brandishing wire whisks and serving spoons. There was nowhere to go.

  Except one.

  She leaned back, pushed open the window, and jumped.

  Goat manure, though no one’s favorite substance, had the benefit of being soft. As Madeleine sprang to her feet, she wondered just how many more charms of King Henry’s court she would discover.

  She had landed at the edge of the royal garden. Above her, the palace rang with commotion. She raced toward a barn. Ducking around a corner, she nearly fell into a large barrel.

  Rainwater.

  She continued her course into the barrel, feetfirst. The water’s color clouded fast, and when she jumped out she felt a bit more pleasant, and less fragrant. By now she could hear people running across the farm toward her. She headed toward the open barn door.

  An ox-drawn cart emerged, laden with hay bales. The ox driver was gazing curiously toward the commotion, away from Madeleine. She dove onto the cart, nestling herself between bales.

  The cart’s wheels creaked loudly beneath her as they moved. She peered out from the hay. In the distance, the sun struggled over the horizon, casting the grounds in a silvery predawn glow. One by one, darkened palace windows were flickering with light. A small arched door flew open, and someone rushed out, dressed in a servant’s black cloak. She squinted, trying to recognize the face before the figure rushed away toward the livery stable.

  Hargrove. Heading in the wrong direction.

  The cart was slowing now. From behind her, she heard the breathless voice of a guard grilling the driver. She didn’t hear the questions exactly, but she heard the driver’s annoyed reply: “Wha’ kind of palace is it where ye can’t keep track of yer own governesses? You skitter about after ’er, mate. I gots me work to do.”

  Thank you, she thought, staying still as the cart trundled to who-knew-where. She was too afraid to poke her head up, but she finally did when the cart eventually came to a stop.

  She recognized the destination. The jousting field. A few yards to the right was a large wooden shed where the knights prepared for practices. It was quiet now, and inside there was sure to be another change of clothes — dry and hayless.

  As the driver began discussing the weather with someone, Madeleine slipped off the cart and into the shed. Hay stuck to every inch of her. A sleeping stable boy opened his eyes briefly and went back to sleep. In the morning light, Madeleine saw suits of metal armor, chain mail, pads, boots, helmets, full-body undergarments, saddles, stirrups, curry combs, tack of all sorts, swords, lances, maces, and weapons she couldn’t name. But she was most interested in the undergarments, some of which looked boy size. Quickly she changed into one, a black fabric suit that fit perfectly. It felt good to be dressed in something clean.

  Tethered to a pole at one end of the shed were two flea-bitten horses, suited up and ready for the day’s jousting. They gazed lazily at her, then went back to chewing a meager scattering of hay.

  “’Ungry, mates?” came the driver’s voice, just outside the door. “’Igh quality ’ay, comin’ yer way — and dry’s a bone!”

  Madeleine panicked. No one in the kingdom would fail to recognize a young woman in men’s garments.

  “Saints alive, ain’t they feedin’ yer nothin’ but crickets and mice?” the driver said as he entered, letting a bale of hay slip from each shoulder before the grateful horses. Outside, the king’s men were jabbering on about the missing governess.

  “ ’Ear that? Missing lassie! Meself, I don’t blame ’er. That Master Winthrop is worse than a stubborn nag — no offense.” He slipped the horses a couple of sugar cubes before exiting. “’Ere, put some fat on yer spindly bones.”

  Madeleine watched it all through the slits of a helmet. She hadn’t imagined how heavy a helmet and a suit of chain mail could be. Or how hot. Or what a perfect hiding place it was.

  By the time the voices began to recede, she felt like she was roasting. Through the slits in the helmet she could see the stable boy stirring. She would have to gain his trust. She lifted one leg and stepped forward. The chain mail clanked heavily. “Please,” she said, her voice sounding dull and muffled through the helmet, “wake up.”

  The boy’s eyes flickered open and he sprang to his feet. “I’m — I’m sorry,” he cried out. “I worked through the night, I did. Only been sleepin’ a moment or two —”

  Before Madeleine could reply, a deep voice thundered from the open door. “Good morrow, McGarrigle! Are we ready?”

  “Er … almost, my lord,” the boy replied.

  Madeleine turned. Ducking through the door was an older man, holding a riding crop. Glancing at Madeleine, he grinned. “Well, I’ll be a two-headed buzzard — ’tisn’t often that a jousting partner arrives this early. Fearless fellow, eh? Let me know when ye’re in yer tournament armor, and we can begin straight away. Make sure this man has a fine mount, McGarrigle!”

  Madeleine could feel her chain mail clatter as she shook. “Mount?” she said in her deepest voice to McGarrigle. “As in … mount?”

  “It won’t be so bad,” the boy said, approaching her with a heavy set of metal armor, “as long as ye’re protected wiff these.”

  It took about twenty minutes for Madeleine to climb into the armor, with the boy’s help. It felt as if she were wearing a small building. “I’m supposed to move in this?” she asked.

  “It’s the least ’eavy suit we ’ave.” The boy, who was examining the teeth of the two horses, took the reins of one and brought it closer. “This old nag may stay on its feet for a few moments at least,” he said. “Good luck jousting wiff the old fellow.”

  “But —” Madeleine said.

  “Step on this,” McGarrigle said, pushing her onto a wooden platform, which he raised with a massive winch.

  Madeleine felt herself rising in jolts of motion until her knees were the height of the horse’s back. With a swift move, McGarrigle slid her leg off the platform and out over the horse. She landed on the horse’s back with a thud, causing its knees to buckle.

  “Sorry, I has to do this wiff all his partners,” McGarrigle said, adding with a rueful sigh, “but never the same feller twice, if ye know what I mean.”

  Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face. “Let me down!” she protested. But McGarrigle thrust into her hand a lance that felt as heavy as a tree, and her shoulder was nearly wrenched out of its socket.

  “We’ll share a cup afterward,” the boy said, “if yer head’s still attached.”

  “Wait — this is a m-m-mistake!” Madeleine stammered, lifting her visor.

  “You bet yer sweet buzzard it is,” the boy said, giving the horse a good, hard kick.

  Madeleine’s visor slammed shut as the horse galloped into the sunlight. She fought to stay upright, to keep her lance from drooping to the ground.

  The field was long and dusty, with a few rows of empty seats on either side. At the far end, her opponent sat tall atop a black steed whose leg muscles bulged and glistened. “Ah, grand!” he shouted, clutching his helmet to his side. “It’s not often the Spanish a
mbassador arrives early for a joust. I was expecting not to see you at all!”

  Spanish ambassador?

  Madeleine recognized the voice before she could see him through the slits of her visor. It was King Henry.

  In his armor, he appeared to be the size of two men. He handled his own lance as if it were a willow wisp. With a grin, he raised the visor of his helmet. “I have received word of your … disapproval of my desire to annul my marriage. You know my position, and you know my right as king. Yet still you protest. Perhaps we shall decide this matter on the field?”

  Madeleine tried to think of something to say, but it was enough just to keep upright. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a distant fancy carriage approaching — probably the real ambassador.

  “I take your silence as an agreement!” the king bellowed, lowering the visor. His horse dipped its head twice, impatiently striking the ground with its hooves. As steam puffed from its nostrils, it looked more bull than horse.

  “Readyyyyyy!” King Henry called out, raising his lance high.

  I’m dead, Madeleine thought.

  If he even so much as swung that lance, its wind alone would knock her over. She had to get away. Now.

  “About f-f-ace!” she said to the horse, flailing with her boots. “Into the barn, please. It’s time for some tasty hay! Haaaaaaay!”

  The horse took off like a shot, toward King Henry. The king seemed surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting her to go just yet. “Cheating does not work in England,” he hissed.

  He kicked his horse. The steed dug in hard, sending up storm clouds of dirt. The king’s eyes blazed through the visor as he slowly lowered the lance.

  It was pointed at Madeleine’s heart.

  No time to think. She lifted her lance, too, but it was far too heavy. Even if she could strike him, the torque alone would pull her off the horse.

  King Henry was forty yards away … twenty …

  Madeleine’s shoulder was falling. The tip of the lance was nearly to the ground. And her horse was headed directly at King Henry instead of to his side.

  “Blast it, what are you doing?” he cried.

  Remember, smartest always beats strongest.

  Olivia’s words were like a trumpet call. Madeleine ungritted her teeth and let out a scream.

  The tip of her lance dug into the soil. It bent into a taut C. She felt her body lifting out of the saddle. She pulled back on her boots, releasing them from the stirrup. Freeing her from the horse.

  The weight of her suit almost broke the lance, but instead she vaulted high into the air.

  From below her came a bloodthirsty yell. She felt the whoosh of King Henry’s lance as it passed beneath her feet and over the top of her horse’s saddle. Her lance twanged as it grazed the royal steed’s flank. She held tight. As the pole retracted and straightened, for a moment Madeleine was suspended in the air.

  Her horse faltered below her, confused. Then it began picking up speed. Eyeing its saddle, Madeleine pushed against the lance and released her grip. She plummeted downward, hoping to time her trajectory right. Hoping that the laws of physics she had learned from Xenophilus — angles of momentum, vectors and velocity — would save her life.

  With a loud whomp, she landed heavily on its back. The horse let out a baffled whinny. Its legs nearly gave out, but fear took charge and it dug in harder.

  “In the name of — come back here, you coward!” shouted King Henry from behind her.

  The horse was heading at full tilt toward the palace’s stone gate. Four feet thick, it had been opened to let out an ornate, gilded black carriage. Now the gate was rising, and the guards stared at her in dismay. “What the devil are you doin’?” one of them screamed, running into her pathway. “Ye’ll get yerself killt!”

  The horse was frothing now. It whinnied again, picking up speed. At the last second, the guard leaped out of the way.

  Her eyes on the retreating carriage, Madeleine held tight as the horse squeezed through the gap.

  “There, Father! That’ll be the tree!” Master Winthrop said, pointing through the window of the royal carriage.

  “Are ye sure, son?” his father said. “It looks like every other tree in the forest.”

  “The knothole. It’s in the right place. The two branches like the arms of a dancer!” Winthrop barely waited for the carriage to stop before he leaped out.

  Luke Cahill grabbed a torch as his son raced to the knothole. Although it was morning, the thick tree cover made the forest dark. Luke had given clear instructions. They were to reach in to that hole together. He could not risk the clumsiness of an eleven-year-old’s fingers destroying anything fragile. If the girl had hidden something crucial — his father’s full list of ingredients, perhaps …

  Or was it their father’s? His and the girl’s? All night, in his dreams, he had seen Madeleine’s face — her features transforming into Olivia’s and then Gideon’s. Her mannerisms were so like Jane’s, her voice nearly identical to Katherine’s. What if she were his sister? How could he countenance her death?

  “Father, come!” Luke was snapped back into reality by the voice of his son. His only real family.

  You sentimental fool, he scolded himself, walking toward the tree, you must not be swayed by a face. The world is full of traps.

  Winthrop waited by the knothole, his hands clasped together, dancing from foot to foot with excitement. “May I look? May I at least look?”

  Luke lit the torch. Ignoring the boy’s request, Luke walked past him and peered into the knothole. He adjusted the torch, but even at full light, all he could see was a gray lump at the bottom.

  He reached in carefully, hoping it was not a dead animal — or, worse, a live one with sharp teeth.

  His fingers closed around a limp, shapeless mass. He grasped as much as he could, lifted the thing out, and spread it onto the forest floor.

  Gray pants. A gray shirt. Gray socks stuffed into rough, black leather shoes. A gray woolen face mask. Disgusted, Luke reached back in but extracted nothing more than wood chips, acorns, and a handful of agitated ants.

  “Those were her clothes!” Master Winthrop said. “She was wearing these when she robbed the marketplace!”

  Luke’s mind reviewed the layout of the market. The fruits, vegetables, meats on the south end — and the cobblers, tinkers, and clothing merchants to the north. “She had stolen a change of clothes …” he said. “She needed something presentable for the interview. She changed her outfit here.”

  Winthrop giggled. “She took off all her clothes outdoors?”

  “She was hiding only clothing!” Luke said, kicking the garments in frustration.

  “Can you let her go, then, Father?” Winthrop said. “She really is lovely. And … well, have you thought of taking a new wife? The king likes to do that, you know—”

  Enough. Luke glared at the boy, and he shrank back.

  Behind him sounded the clattering of hooves, swift-moving and strong. Luke glanced up to see trees moving near a blind corner behind his son.

  “Winthrop!” he shouted, yanking his son off the road with one hand.

  As they both dove away, a team of colossal horses thundered by. Luke sheltered his son with his body as soil and branches rained over them. He heard his own driver shouting in shock, followed by the shriek of horses and the crack of splitting wood.

  It was over in an instant, but not before Luke had a chance to see the receding carriage.

  Its color was black and deep purple, with a gilded V painted on its side like a bolt of lightning. Through the oval of the rear window, Luke spotted a shock of black hair with a streak of silver.

  Vesper.

  Luke felt his blood rise. Nineteen years had only sharpened his rage at the murderer of his father.

  “What was that?” Master Winthrop asked.

  Luke’s own carriage lay in splinters at the other side of the road, the horses bolting into the woods and the driver wandering dazedly.

  “
It is the man who made me what I am,” Luke said between gritted teeth. He grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck. “Follow me!”

  Damien Vesper hated the countryside. Too much fresh air led to high spirits. And high spirits made people into idiots.

  The smell of fear calmed his soul. And right now it wafted toward him full strength from the seat opposite his.

  “I — believe that was Lord Cahill’s carriage,” said the valet Hargrove.

  Vesper had never seen a man sweat so much. It was downright unseemly in a grown man. “The late Lord Cahill, I would imagine,” Vesper replied. “Alas, drivers these days … so reckless! I will have to speak to mine.”

  He smiled agreeably, but the man remained stone-faced. How dreary. Years ago, the help could carry on real conversations — not just sit like lumps, expecting to be entertained!

  Just as well, he thought. This one has outlived his usefulness.

  “You did good work, Hargrove,” he said, holding out his hand. “Took the training quickly, used uncanny powers of observation. I am impressed at how you were able to recognize the ring. I will have it now.”

  “Of course, Your Lordship, but you promised five hundred pounds in advance.” Hargrove’s sweat was dripping from his nose, which struck Vesper as inconsiderate. Especially from one who expected rewards.

  “I said I would advance you five hundred pounds,” Vesper replied. “Which sum would be payable upon receipt of the ring!”

  “I — I have seen an inscription on it,” Hargrove blurted out. “And for another few pounds, I can tell you what I think it means—”

  “Inscription?” This was getting interesting. In recent years, Vesper had heard of a secret ring. But he had never connected this ring to Gideon Cahill.

  It had taken him nearly two decades to track down Olivia. He’d intended to force out the secrets to Gideon’s serum but failed again. How delightful to discover there was a daughter. When he’d seen her hiding at the funeral, everything just … fit.