by Neal Roberts
The jesters appear shaken by the bloody wound. One of them hands Marie a fresh cloth, and she presses it against the wound. “Hold this in place without pressing too hard,” she tells Noah, placing his hand over the cloth.
“Cast off!” shouts Arthur as Salazar, who’s been standing by, unties the rope and shoves the ferry away from the dock.
Before Arthur can extricate a maneuvering pole from its sheath, the ferry drifts a few yards downstream, bringing them to a point barely six feet from the riverside they just left.
There, at the edge of the water, stands Gelly Meyrick, in stark relief against the fog behind him, grass-stained, weatherbeaten, and bleeding from scratches on his face and legs. He stands still as a death mask, and there’s murder in his eyes.
Jonathan sees him immediately, draws out a pistol, cocks it, and aims it at his face. Arthur, who has finally mastered one of the guide poles, lodges it against the current, holding the ferry still to avoid jostling Jonathan in case he has to shoot.
Meyrick neither flinches nor shows any sign of emotion, but merely looks Jonathan straight in the eye. He speaks in a growling whisper.
“You lamed me mount,” says Meyrick, as though it’s the lowest accusation that can be leveled at another human being.
“Yes, I did. Didn’t I?” Jonathan smiles cruelly, even though it was Noah who fired the pistol. “And you killed my old man, and wounded my master. Why don’t you wade in and finish the job, you filth? Come on, you coward! You pig’s offal! You bridge troll! You stinking sack of manure!” He reaches into his vest pocket, draws out a scroll with an embossed red seal at its base, holds it up to view, and lets it unfurl before Meyrick’s fixed gaze.
“I’ve got a royal writ of safe passage here. I’ve got a pistol. All I need is a pretext! Come on, you lump of vomit! You putrid oaf! Take one step. Just one. Give me a reason. Come on!” Jonathan is growling now, his eyes red with rage, his face contorted in hatred.
While Noah’s ability to gauge time is adversely affected by his pain, it seems to him that they remain in this position for about a half minute before Arthur finally takes matters into his own hands and gently shoves the ferry away from the bank.
Neither Jonathan nor Meyrick moves a muscle. Slowly, Meyrick disappears into the fog, and the ferry carries them backward toward the opposite bank. When they’re safely clear of Meyrick, Arthur kneels beside Noah, but addresses Marie.
“How bad is it?”
“It’s not deep at all, but the wound is long, so it’s very painful. He’ll have to avoid tugging on it too much.” She turns to Noah, who’s no longer overcome with pain. “Keep your left arm at your side, and you’ll be all right, until we get you to a physician, although how we’ll find one in this blasted countryside, I’ve no idea.”
Noah forces himself to smile, which he can manage only wanly. “Won’t need one. I’ll be all right.” He turns to Jonathan, and forces a more convincing smile. “Jonathan, I didn’t know you had the writ of safe passage.”
Jonathan plops down forlornly on the deck with the pistol in one hand and the paper in the other.
“I don’t,” he replies. Quizzical glances are exchanged in total silence.
“Then, what is that?” Noah asks, pointing to the paper. “Whose seal is on there?”
“Master Treasurer’s. It’s an overdue rent bill from Gray’s Inn.”
Noah gingerly sits up in surprise. Marie lets go a nervous laugh.
“And the pistol?” says Noah. “Is it loaded with ball? With shot?”
“Neither,” replies Jonathan. “Just powder … like yours.”
Arden and Salazar gape at each other in silence.
“Just so I understand,” says Arden. “You held Gelly Meyrick at bay with an overdue rent bill and a popgun?”
Noah laughs quietly, in defiance of his wound’s painful protest.
Although Jonathan cannot join in the general mirth, he nods with a smirk. “I suppose I did.”
As they drift across the river, Noah watches Jonathan intently. He has seen homicidal rage only a few times before, but he’s quite sure he saw it in Jonathan’s eyes just now. Pistol or no, he has no doubt that, if Meyrick had taken a single step forward, Jonathan would not have relented until either he or Meyrick was dead.
It wasn’t the pistol that had held Meyrick at bay. And it certainly wasn’t the “writ.” It was the absolute certainty in Jonathan’s eyes that he was going to kill Meyrick.
Chapter 28
NOAH SITS ON the cold, hard ground in the dark, leaning against the trunk of a great oak, so fatigued that he’s drifted off waiting for Arthur’s return. Someone gently shakes his shoulder. His head jerks, and his eyes open.
It’s Arthur. “All right. I’ve checked the barn. It’s vacant, and looks it. There’s a fireplace in it, some wood — ”
“No fires,” mumbles Noah. “No light, no chimney smoke.”
Arthur sounds exasperated. “All right, but it’s plenty cold in there. I hope you brought some warm clothes and blankets.”
Noah blinks several times to clear his vision, and extends his right arm. “Give me a hand — oooof!” The combined pain of his wounded torso and his stiff back mercilessly remind him of the pounding they took earlier this evening. Although Marie has tied two garments together into a makeshift girdle that goes around his torso and thoroughly stanches his bleeding, it’s far less effective in reducing pain.
Arthur helps him to his feet. “Best news is: The cook left a lot of food for us near the back door of the kitchen. Cold meats, potatoes, bread, beer, and so on. I even grabbed a bottle of whiskey to clean up your wound. It’s all in these four sacks. Come on. Let’s go inside.”
The others stir from their uncomfortable resting places. Jonathan wipes his eyes. He takes the bags from Arthur, ties them into two makeshift saddlebags, and suspends them across his horse’s back.
In bedraggled single file, they stumble across the rutted field. Still, conditions might have been worse on this last leg of their journey. They remain dry, and it’s not as dark as it might have been. The sky is mostly cloudless, and the moon nearly full. Although the moonlight silhouettes them for any prying eyes, nothing can be done to avoid that. Besides, if any hostile eyes are near enough to see them, they’ll inevitably be taken, as they’re in no condition to flee.
The rough-hewn barn door creaks open in the pale moonlight. Upon entering, each traveler feels saddened in his own way that his long-promised respite from violent pursuit is nothing more than this cold and weathered old structure. Jonathan mournfully closes the door behind them.
They wait while Marie cleans Noah’s wound. Although it stings badly, Noah clenches his teeth, refusing to complain or make any sound as she works and then reaffixes the girdle.
Marie takes out the bowls of food and beer, spreads the bags out as a rough tablecloth on a plank floor near the fireplace, and places the bowls atop the cloth. They begin eating and drinking in silence, but slowly their spirits rise.
Arthur and Andres concentrate on the beer. At one point, they smile broadly at each other, apparently sharing some memory of earlier in the day. Finally, Andres can hold his laughter no longer, and sprays beer out his mouth.
“Salazar!” says Arthur, in his best impersonation of a censorious schoolmaster. “You are a pig! There is a lady present! And we are eating!” Salazar just smiles.
Marie smiles at Noah in the moonlight.
“Care to share the jest, boys?” she asks.
Jonathan shifts uneasily. “Oh, no. I think I know what this is going to be.”
“Well,” begins Arthur, “Jonathan handed us his potion this morning, and told us how much to slip to Essex’s horses by Guildhall. When Essex’s men looked away, Andres put the measured amount in their feed bags. He also loosened the saddles.”
Jonathan’s brow furrows. “Why did you do that?”
Arthur ignores the question. “We knew that the stuff would put the horses to sleep, eventually. But what Jonathan failed t
o tell us was that it would also make the horses … ” he seeks the perfect word, “gassy.”
Noah looks at Jonathan incredulously. “You gave them laudanum and laxatives?”
Jonathan nods. “I asked Doctor Lopez months ago how to measure the appropriate amounts. I estimated the weight of an average horse, and had these two administer a nonlethal amount. Loosening the saddles was their idea.”
Arthur resumes. “While we were waiting for the two of you to emerge from Guildhall, we kept an eye on the horses. One of Essex’s men climbed onto his horse, which immediately sat down! You’ve never seen a horseman so shocked, as he slid off the rear of the horse into the street, saddle and all. Then, another horse sat down. The rider, who had not yet mounted, watched in horror as his saddle slid right off onto the ground.
“Then the most brutish of the three horsemen saw what was happening, and got up on his mount. By this time, he suspected that someone had been tampering with the horses, but he had no way of knowing what they’d done, or who’d done it. So, he just sat there imperiously on his steed, guiding it around the square, when suddenly … ”
Andres’s laughter intensifies, his breath now coming in short gasps, which draws an admonishing look from Arthur.
“So,” resumes Arthur, “there was this horseman looking around suspiciously, when suddenly his mount let out the loudest and longest fart in the history of horse farts, which is all well documented, I assure you. And then, the horse did his … business, and — Andres, please!”
Noah can barely contain his own laughter, though his side aches. “What did he do?”
“The horse sat down … and the saddle came loose.”
“Oh, gads!” says Marie, her eyes shut tight. “Please. No more!”
Jonathan is red-faced. “I was only trying to incapacitate their horses.”
Andres sits up, and barks: “Well, you managed that, all right!”
Jonathan cocks his head. “The last rider. Was that — ?”
Arthur nods. “Meyrick.”
“Oh!” says Jonathan. “So that’s what he meant when he said I lamed his mount. Hah!” He claps his hands. “Good!”
Arthur fetches blankets from the farmhouse to keep them warm without building a telltale fire, although in fact it never gets much colder in the barn than it was when they first entered.
Noah awakens only once in the night, to find Marie kissing his cheek, which helps him escape a horrid dream of being chased by an ogre with a sword. He opens his eyes and gazes into hers. “I love you,” he whispers. She smiles skeptically, and kisses him.
On the edge of a dream, he hears her whisper, “Do you?”
At dawn, Noah is rudely awakened by a pounding on the door, and sits up like a shot. Although neither his back nor his flesh wound is quite right, to his relief, they’re already much better than the previous evening.
“Open up, in the name of the Queen!” comes an unfamiliar, very commanding voice. The others sit up in alarm.
Jonathan, who has evidently been awake for a while, comes over to Noah and whispers excitedly. “We’re surrounded. They’re at both doors. I could see them through the window in the hayloft.”
“What livery are they in?” asks Noah.
“ER badges all over. The motto is Semper Eadem.”
“That’s something of a relief. ‘Ever the Same.’ That means they’re the Queen’s men. Let’s just hope the livery is genuine.” His brow furrows. “But how could Gardner have found us in this barn?”
Jonathan shrugs. “Neither Stephen nor the Bennetts knew precisely where we’d be.”
Marie scowls. “Stephen would never betray anyone!” she says. “Gardner could easily have deduced it once he learned where Arthur’s family farm was located.”
Noah scowls. “No one’s said anything about betrayal. The information could have been wrested from him.”
Jonathan nods nervously. “They could be Essex’s men!”
“Doesn’t matter,” replies Noah. “Draw no weapons. We’re letting them in. If they’re Essex’s men, I’ll try to surrender alone.” He turns to the others. “Do you hear me? No violence. No attempt at escape.”
The others nod reluctantly. Noah rises with some effort, draws a deep breath that causes his side to twinge, and swings open the door.
“Are you Noah Ames?” asks a tall dark man in Queen’s livery.
“I am!” says Noah with bravado, adopting his fearless courtroom voice. “And who might you be?”
“I am Francis of the Tower Guard,” he pronounces sternly.
“It is good to meet you, Francis of the Tower Guard!” replies Noah in stentorian tones.
The guard seems surprised to be greeted as a friend. Evidently, such things rarely happen to guards of the Tower of London.
A gruff voice comes from behind Francis.
“Let me by, Frank! We’ve no time to waste.” To Noah’s great relief, the grizzled Yeoman Gardner appears, and bows perfunctorily. This is the first time Noah has ever seen him away from his post outside the Tower. “Mornin’, Master Ames. Glad we’ve got you now. There’s some strange folk about, from over east, if you take my meanin’.” Noah nods. He can only be referring to Essex’s men.
“Francis,” says Gardner. “I’ve some business with Master Ames and Master Hawking. Give these other fine people some food, and keep them here.” He draws Francis aside. “Guests, not prisoners. Got it? And get their horses fed and watered.” Francis nods.
Gardner points to Noah’s shirt, which is matted with dried blood. “Looks like you run into a sharp branch, suh. You need help with that right away?”
“No, thank you, Yeoman Gardner,” says Noah, pointing with his chin toward Marie. “It’s been ably tended by our esteemed surgeon in residence.”
Gardner glances at Marie, who nods in return. He takes a quick look around the wound, and closes Noah’s shirt. “Better job than the Yeomans’ surgeon woulda done.” He tips his hat to Marie, and mutters beneath his breath. “But then, I’ll warrant she wasn’t drunk when she done it.”
“Your business is with me, too?” asks Jonathan. In answer, Gardner takes him by the arm and escorts him out of the door. There are Tower guards everywhere. So much for secrecy.
The fog has lifted, but the leaves still drip with the heavy dew of early morning, and the ground is wet. A covered carriage awaits them. Noah and Jonathan get in, followed by Gardner, who shuts the door behind.
“Where are we going?” asks Noah.
Gardner takes out Noah’s note of the previous night, and reads aloud from it. “My correspondent here says ‘the parish church at Stanton Saint John.’”
“That’s my note, but why go there now?” asks Noah. “You’ve already found us.”
Gardner smiles smugly.
They ride for about twenty minutes, coming to a halt on a hilltop with a wide vista. A small steeple peeks out of the treetops partway down the hill, signifying the location of a chapel. Gardner steps out of the carriage, carrying a large leather pouch. He puts his finger to his lips, and beckons them to follow silently. Through a small woods, he descends toward the chapel. After a while, he stops and signals them to crouch.
“You see that little chapel through the woods?” he asks quietly.
“Yes. Is that the parish church where we were to meet?” asks Jonathan.
Gardner nods. Jonathan spies something through the trees, and whistles softly.
“What do you see?” Gardner asks, though he obviously knows.
“Gelly Meyrick, holding — ” Jonathan squints, “a … crossbow?” He looks to Gardner for confirmation.
Gardner nods. “Meyrick has orders to bring Master Ames to the earl, but he’s got no orders about you, Master Hawking. So, now you know who that crossbow is for.”
Noah interrupts, pressing his arm against his wound, which seems to relieve the pain caused by all this jostling. “How would Meyrick know our rendezvous point?”
“Your note passed through several se
ts of hands before it reached Her Majesty, sir. They’re not all to be trusted … obviously.”
“Meyrick is a scoundrel!” says Jonathan, gritting his teeth.
“Aye. He’s that, sir. Fortunately, I brought another friend of yours with me.” Gardner opens the leather pouch, and withdraws a shiny, well-oiled crossbow. He cocks it deftly, hands it to Jonathan, and points out its sighting mechanism. “You just look through this notch here, and line it up with the metal blade. Y’see?” He mimes pulling the release lever, and makes a clicking sound with his tongue.
Jonathan nods. “Yes, but — ”
“We’ll be waitin’ for you up at the coach. See y’in a few minutes, sir — unless you’d like me to assist?”
Jonathan shakes his head, looking dubiously at the crossbow in his hand, and sits on a large boulder still wet with dew. Gardner and Noah return to the carriage.
“Why would you do that?” Noah asks as soon as they reach the carriage.
Gardner smirks. “Same reason I do everythin’, suh. Orders.”
Noah is at a loss. “But who would give such an order?”
“That I may not say. But, tell me, suh. You think you’re the only one who needs to know a man’s character?”
“But what could such a thing tell about Hawking’s character?”
Just then, Jonathan reappears, climbing out of the woods carrying the crossbow, still cocked. It has plainly not been used. He hands it back to Gardner, who bows curtly. Jonathan nods in return, and steps back into the carriage alone, staring pensively out the opposite window.
Gardner leads Noah out of Jonathan’s earshot. As he uncocks the crossbow and puts it back in its leather case, he raises an eyebrow: “Who said anythin’ about his character, suh?” he asks.
“You mean … this is about my character?” asks Noah.
“Well, sir, you watched me hand that young man a crossbow and encourage him to kill a man, and you never said a word.”
Now Noah is chagrined. “But I just assumed — ”
Gardner laughs chestily. “Just jokin’, suh. It was about Master Hawking’s character. And don’t worry. He did the right thing.”
