by Barbara Kyle
The girl whirled around on Mosse. “You knew!” she said with quiet fury. “You knew it all along!”
Mosse smirked. Of course he had known.
“Where are they taking him in London?” she demanded. “Which prison?”
Mosse shrugged. “Don’t know that. But I could find out.” He stuffed the full purse inside his grease-stained doublet and sauntered closer to her. She backed away toward the table. Mosse smiled. “And I would find out,” he said, “if you’ll come again tomorrow.” He reached out and touched her breast.
She jerked back and banged against the table. She reached behind her and grasped a chain that lay on it. She swung it wildly at Mosse. But Mosse saw it coming and stepped back and she missed him. He laughed. She moved toward him, the aggressor now. He stepped back further, closer to Carlos. His grin had faded. “Set that down, hussy,” he commanded, “or you’ll find yourself tossed in up above with all the other whores.”
The girl swung the chain at him again, aiming at his face. Again, Mosse lurched back and she missed him. But Mosse had taken one step too many. His heel touched Thornleigh’s discarded chains. Feeling this obstacle, he twisted, and his other foot got tangled in the chain. He lost his balance. With arms windmilling in an effort to keep upright, he turned and fell onto his backside. The back of his head banged Carlos’s raised knee.
In a sudden, savage motion, Carlos lifted his arm and whipped his own chain around Mosse’s neck. Mosse gasped and clutched at the stranglehold. His heels slid in the mud. He swiped behind his head at Carlos’s arm, and his nails clawed channels in the back of Carlos’s hand, drawing blood. Carlos wrenched the chain in a vicious twist. Mosse’s neck snapped. In a final convulsion his foot jerked out, kicking the keys away. Then he lay still.
Carlos looked up at the girl. She was gaping at the dead jailer’s head twisted askew. She looked at Carlos in shock and backed away to the table. Her legs seemed to give way. She slipped down to the ground and sat there, panting. She and Carlos stared at one another across the murky room.
Carlos uncoiled his chain from Mosse’s neck, letting the body slump to the floor, and then he lunged for the key ring. But Mosse, in his death throe, had kicked it beyond his reach. Carlos tried to stretch for it with his foot. But it was still too far away. He looked back at the girl. “Get me the keys,” he said.
She flinched at his harsh voice. She was struggling to her feet. Once up, she held herself steady by the edge of the table, eyeing both Carlos and the dead jailer with revulsion. Carlos saw that he had terrified her with his brutal act. With his wild appearance too—the gash scabbing his eyebrow, the ten days’ beard, the dirt, the blood on the back of his hand. And with his desperate need. “Unlock me,” he said. “You are the only one who can.”
She hesitated. Then she shook her head vehemently. She began stiffly walking toward the stairs. As she passed Carlos she pulled her cloak tightly around her as if to avoid contamination. In a moment she would be gone—his last chance to escape the gallows. “Stop!” he said. She flinched in fright and hurried on. She started up the stairs.
“You owe me!” he called. “I saved your father’s life!”
She stopped.
“Last night,” Carlos went on quickly, “someone tried to murder him. Asesinato. I saw.”
She turned. “What?”
“I was near. The assassin, he used special words to get your father’s trust. I heard. Then, later, I saw him attack. I called to your father to warn him. There was a fight. Your father was knocked down, and I … I fought off the assassin. Others fought, too. When it was over, the jailer put your father and me here.”
The girl blinked. “An assassin?” she asked skeptically. She looked around. “Where is he now?”
“Gone. I think … let out by his … patrón … leader?”
“You mean, his employer?”
“Yes. Set free. That is what I think.”
The girl appeared to consider the story. She looked hard at Carlos. “What were the words he used?”
“What?”
“You said the assassin used special words. What were they?”
Carlos hesitated. But he had come this far. And the girl was his last chance.
He said the words. “Speedwell blue.”
Her mouth fell open. Carlos knew he had struck cleanly.
“Did my father make an answer?”
“He said, ‘Speedwell true.'”
The girl felt for the stair under her and sat as if stunned.
Carlos wondered if he had miscalculated after all. But the only course now was to plow on. “So your father is in much danger. Someone wants him dead. I do not know who.”
“I do,” the girl whispered in dismay. “The Grenvilles.” Then, even more quietly, “My God, if they know those passwords … they know everything.” She stood. There was determination in her face. “I must save him,” she said. Carlos cursed himself. He had inadvertently prodded her to action. She was going to leave. But in the next moment the expression on her face was that of a frightened child. “But what …” she said in desperation, “what am I to do?”
Carlos saw her helplessness. And, suddenly, he saw his way out. A way to stay alive, to get back his freedom, and more—London and the Blue Boar Tavern at Candlemas. He saw it all clearly. Find Thornleigh. Kill him. Collect the reward. Get out of England.
“Listen to me,” he said. “The sheriff will soon be after you.”
“The sheriff? Good God, why?”
“About this,” he said, jerking his chin toward the dead jailer. “People saw you come in. People will see you go. If I am left chained here, who will they think did this? And you cannot go on the main road to follow your father. If you do, the sheriff will come after you and stop you. You must take other roads. That will be slow. The guards will have Thorn-leigh in prison in London before you reach the city. But you do not know which one. And what will you do when you get there—a lady, all alone, with no protección?”
He waited, allowing the hopelessness of her situation to sink in. Her stricken face told him she understood. He said, “You want to find your father and rescue him, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a whisper.
“Then you need help.” With his foot he prodded Mosse’s body and added pointedly, “Expert help.” He leveled his gaze on the girl. “I am a soldier.”
He reached inside Mosse’s jerkin and pulled out the purse. By its feel he judged it held no more than ten pounds. He tossed it to the girl, a show of his trustworthiness, then kicked Mosse’s body so that it rolled once and lay face down in the mud. “And you are lucky,” he said with a half smile. He rested one boot on the dead man’s shoulder as if on a trophy. “Because today, I am for hire.”
12
The Road to Londo
Martin St. Leger ran through the snow-packed precincts of Rochester Castle and on toward the town’s busy western gate. A horse-drawn wagon clattered across his way and suddenly halted, forcing Martin to such an abrupt stop in the slushy mud that he almost slipped. A cart following the wagon rattled to a halt too, the carter jerking his horse sideways to avoid a collision.
“Let me by!” Martin called up to the wagoner. “I bring a message for Sir Thomas Wyatt!” He had to shout above the din of voices all around, including a lieutenant barking drill orders at a company of soldiers.
The wagoner called down to Martin, “Can’t budge, sir. Not till the farrier’s dray ahead moves on.”
Martin, panting steam into the cold morning air, impatiently surveyed the commotion in the shadow of the castle’s towers. The inside approach to the gate swarmed with wagons, horses, mule-drawn carts and men-at-arms. Lieutenants called orders at men on ladders propped against the town wall and at others laboring on top of the wall, where hammers clanged and saws rasped. Martin found the sight of Wyatt’s army at work richly satisfying despite the delay it meant—despite, even, his puzzlement over Wyatt’s orders for such extensive strengthening of Rochester’
s fortifications. Why bother, he wondered, when any hour now they’d be marching out to join the Duke of Suffolk’s army coming down from the north, and then march on together to London? Yet what a fine start they had made here! Their army of close to three thousand had marched into Rochester two days ago to cheering citizens, gushing wine casks, and hearty fare laid on at the castle, which had quickly become their headquarters. True, the mayor had fled to London. But the rest of the townspeople had welcomed them as if they were liberators. And so we are, Martin thought with a surge of energy as he squeezed past the wagon. As Wyatt promised, we’ll liberate all of England!
He pushed past a knot of men hauling lumber, and bumped shoulders with a tall old soldier. The man’s weather-cured face reminded Martin of Isabel’s father, who spent so much time on his ships. Martin chuckled as he hurried on. Cautious old Master Thornleigh, he thought; he wouldn’t dream of taking action against the Queen, but he and Isabel’s brother Adam, and her mother too, would be the first to thank those who were doing so. The thought of the gratitude of Isabel’s parents—and of Isabel’s pride in him—warmed Martin and spurred him on.
He spotted Wyatt. He was standing on top of the wall by the gate, directing the placement of a wide-mouthed mortar to overlook the Strood bridge. Martin jogged toward the wall.
“Sir Thomas!” he shouted up.
Wyatt turned, wiping gun oil from his hands on a rag.
Martin grinned and called, “News!”
* * *
A hundred and ten miles northeast of Rochester, the Duke of Suffolk was shivering uncontrollably, though the sun was rising almost in his face. He had just spent his second night huddled in the huge hollow tree near Astley church. His feet were numb. His teeth chattered. The strengthening sun exposed his hiding place as mercilessly as a bailiff’s torch. And the yapping dogs were getting closer.
How had everything gone so sickeningly wrong? Only days before, he and his sons and the men of his household had ridden into Bradgate, the very heart of his lands. They had roused up the town, and it seemed that every man there had jubilantly agreed to march south to join Wyatt and fight the coming Spaniards. But when the Duke and his sons rode out to alert more of the countryside, few were riding with them.
The Duke had ridden to the gates of Leicester—Protestant Leicester, where all within should have been his friends. But though the Duke had ridden around its walls, Leicester’s gates were shut to him.
Word came that Coventry would welcome him. He galloped on to Coventry. But Coventry was shut. And its mayor proclaimed the Duke a traitor.
The Duke had ridden back with his entourage to his own house at Astley. No help came from Bradgate. No help came from anywhere. And when a messenger galloped in with news that Bishop Gardiner in London had sent forty horsemen to arrest the Duke, the only thought at Astley became flight. The Duke’s sons ran through the house snatching the servants’ clothes as disguises. They divided up the cash, horses, weapons. And then they scattered.
The Duke had thrown himself on the mercy of his gamekeeper, who had hidden him in this hollow tree a longbow-shot from the church. The Duke had waited, shivering under the naked boughs, eating snow, despairing over all that had gone wrong.
The dogs’ barking became louder. He grasped his trembling knees to his chest and squirmed as far back as possible into the tree-cave’s shadows. He held his breath to stop its tell-tale steam. His gamekeeper had betrayed him. The dogs were closing in.
Martin hurried up a ladder against Rochester’s wall and came beside Sir Thomas Wyatt.
“Good news, I hope, St. Leger,” Wyatt said, tossing aside his oily rag. “I could use it today.”
“Aye,” Martin grinned. “Sir Henry Isley’s messenger from Sevenoaks just rode in. The fellow was famished, so I set him at table and came across myself. Sir, the word is that Lord Abergavenny and Sheriff Southwell cannot raise above four hundred men between them for the Queen in this county. And the ones they do raise desert as soon as they have the chance.”
“That’s good,” Wyatt said quietly. “Is that all?”
“No, sir.” Martin beamed. “The messenger also reports that Sir Henry Isley has mustered over six hundred men for us. They’ll be marching today to join us here. It’s just as we said, sir. Englishmen will flock to us to keep the Spaniards at bay.”
Wyatt frowned. “Only six hundred?”
“Only? Why, that’s just from around Sevenoaks! Sir Henry’s brother in Tonbridge will be bringing more. With them, and the thousands Sir James Crofts is bringing from Wales, plus the Duke of Suffolk’s army coming from the north—why, we’ll be unstoppable!”
Wyatt said nothing. Frowning, he looked out over the snow-rutted stone bridge beyond Rochester’s town wall. Behind them, men continued to pull up ropes hoisting baskets of shot.
Martin looked out at the bridge, too, to hide his disappointment. He had hoped that the good news would jolt Sir Thomas into action. They must march out! Why was he delaying? It was not that Martin doubted the commander’s expertise. Wyatt, he knew, had spent seven years fighting in France for King Henry and then for young King Edward, serving with distinction at the siege of Landrecies and in the capture of Boulogne as lieutenant of a strategic harbor fortress. Martin acknowledged that he himself had none of Wyatt’s military experience. But he wished Wyatt had more zeal. Could it be that he had lost the stomach for this fight?
Wyatt suddenly turned to him. “Where’s that blasted girl of yours? She should have come by now with news from Ambassador de Noailles.”
Martin did not appreciate Wyatt’s tone. “Isabel will come, sir,” he said stiffly.
“She’d better. And soon. I must know the details of our French support.”
“You can count on Isabel.”
Wyatt looked at him skeptically, and then, again, stared out over the sluggish river and the snowy bridge. From the bridge, the road led up Spitell Hill to the Thames port of Gravesend five miles to the north, then on to London thirty miles westward.
Martin could hold back no longer. “Sir, why do we not march on London?”
“With only this?” Wyatt said, jerking his chin toward the men laboring below the wall.
“These men are ready and eager. We should head out now and have Isley come after us. Then we can converge on London with the others. Hit the city before the Queen can even muster.”
“Good God, St. Leger, are you blind? Converge on London with what?”
“Why, with the Duke’s army coming from Leicestershire. And Crofts’s coming from Wales.”
“And where are these phantom armies? Tell me that!” He stared belligerently at Martin’s blank face. “That’s right, man. You’ve got it now. No one is coming from the north, nor from Wales.”
“But—”
“Yes, yes, those men were with us in the planning. But Courtenay’s blabbing forced us to begin this enterprise too soon, and now …” He threw up his hands. “Crofts seems to have vanished. As for Suffolk …” He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine what’s happened to the Duke.”
Martin felt panic knife his bowels. “And our support in London?”
“That, thank God, is sure. London is for us.”
Martin’s panic subsided. The other news was a terrible blow, but not fatal. London was what mattered. If London opened to them as Rochester had, and if they could take the Tower and stand firm, then the Queen was lost. Martin was no commander, but he knew this to be true. Because this fight was a contest of wills—the will of all patriotic Englishmen against the will of a half-Spanish Queen. Turning, he caught sight, at the inside base of the gate, of his brother Robert holding communion services for about two dozen men standing in the dirty snow. Martin had forgotten it was Sunday. He had a sudden, thrilling vision of himself and Isabel standing before Robert in a church, pledging their marriage vows while her mother and father and brother looked on, all smiles. He remembered standing as witness when Robert and his Meg had taken their vows. Martin felt a rush of
happiness. Robert had the will. Isabel had the will. And the three thousand men who had rushed to follow Wyatt here had the will. “Sir Thomas,” he said with feeling, “if London is ours, we cannot lose.”
Wyatt looked at him. “You really believe we can do it? With just this force?”
“Isley is coming, that’s sure. And men keep joining us. And, damn it, our cause is right!”
Wyatt looked out at the bridge for several moments in silence. “St. Leger,” he said with the sudden, brusque voice of command, “I’m sending you now to stop Isley.”
He beckoned to a young clerk further along the wall, and the clerk hurried toward him, opening his portable escritoire on the run.
Martin had blanched. “Stop him, sir?”
“From marching immediately to join us. There are several manors around Sevenoaks with good armories. Sidney’s at Penshurst, for one. Tell Isley we need all the weapons he can get—bows, swords, pikes, pistols—anything.” Wyatt was scribbling the order on the escritoire. “No destruction of property, and no looting of anything else. Tell Isley I forbid it. But we must have more arms before we head for London. Stay with Isley and help him.”
Martin nodded eagerly. Though this meant more delay, at least Wyatt was preparing for action.
Wyatt handed Martin the order. “Go now. And hurry.”
Martin was hurrying back toward the castle’s lower ward for his horse when he heard his brother’s voice, breathless, at his back. “Slow down, Martin. I’m not the sportsman you are these days.”
“Can’t stop, Robert,” Martin said, striding on. “I’m off to Sevenoaks with urgent orders from Sir Thomas.”
“I’ll come and help you.”
“I don’t need you.”
“I’ll come anyway.” Robert reached Martin’s side and affectionately cuffed the back of Martin’s head. “Without me,” he said, “you might get lost.”
