by Kristy Tate
***
Petra closed the cottage door and leaned against it, breathless. “You were brilliant!”
Anne took off her hat, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “So were you!”
“Hush,” Petra said, listening for something other than the lowing cow and singing birds. She thought she heard snapping twigs and heavy footsteps.
“Quick!” Anne said, who must have heard also. She pushed Petra into her room. “Change your clothes!”
But Petra had never dressed in the Countess’ clothes without Mary. “What about you?” she whispered.
Anne threw on an apron over her pants and opened her shirt to unwind the cloths. Moments later someone pounded on the door.
Petra disappeared into the bedroom before she heard the door screech open.
“Rohan!” Anne shouted.
Petra, halfway out of her breeches, called, “Welcome Sir Rohan!” She pulled on the pants.
By the time she’d buttoned her shirt, Anne and Rohan were at the table, clearly plotting. They looked up when she entered, and stopped talking.
Rohan stared, fighting a smile.
“What?” she asked even as she realized her buttons were cattywampus.
Rohan cleared his throat. “I do not think Emory would approve of your involvement, although he may appreciate your revealing attire.”
Revealing attire? She wore a pair of pants four sizes too big and a man’s cotton shirt. “I don’t care what Emory thinks,” she lied, cinching the belt of the breeches. “I’m not going to be left out. If it weren’t for me and Anne’s trusty hammer, you’d be growing mold in the town jail.”
Rohan grinned. “I thought you’d say something like that.” He cocked his head. “Have you any other tricks?”
A wave of realization hit her. “Plenty, but I’ll only share them if you promise we can help.”
“Help with what?”
“Don’t toy with us, Friar Rohan,” Anne shook a finger at him. “Tell us immediately where is Master Emory.”
Rohan looked at his toes.
“Has he been captured by Chambers and the Earl?” Anne demanded.
Rohan gave a small shake of his head.
“He’s there; isn’t he?” Petra guessed. “He’s at Hampton Court.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, her mind spinning.
Rohan tightened his lips and then spoke slowly, as if unsure of how much to reveal. “Chambers plan begins tonight. Emory is expecting me without a harem.”
His implication was clear, but Petra wasn’t buying it. She looked at Anne and back at Rohan. “You can’t ditch us.”
“Yes. You can’t leave us in a ditch or in a cottage, for that matter.” Anne nodded emphatically. “We are no harem.” She took off her apron and showed Rohan her brother’s baggy shirt.
“You too, Anne?” Rohan said in mock despair.
“Don’t try to leave us,” Petra said. “We will just follow.”
Wind whistled through the trees, and rain splattered against the shuttered window. Cold seeped through the cracks of the door.
“T’will prove a wild night,” Rohan said.
“The storm will be vicious,” Anne agreed, but Petra didn’t think that that was what Rohan had meant. Anne secured the shutters as rain began to fall
The damp barnyard smell seeped in, giving Petra an idea. “I want to try something,” she said.
Anne and Rohan gave her curious looks.
“It might not work, but if it did…I need sugar, no? Well then, honey crystals?”
When Anne nodded, Petra studied the tapestries. “And dye, preferably orange and red.” Then she went to the window and looked at the barn. “And whiskey. And cow pies.”
Petra dumped the contents of her purse on the table and picked up Zoe’s Girl Scout gadget. “And this.”
The gadget had a pocket knife, spoon, compass and a tiny pair of scissors, but most importantly, a lighter. Petra flicked it, and a small blue flame shot up.
Rohan and Anne gasped.
“Just wait.” Petra sent a silent prayer of gratitude to Bill Nye the Science Guy and Mr. Manning, best chemistry teacher ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hampton Court Palace sits on 59 acres. King Henry VIII had a court of over one thousand. At the palace he could feed and house them all and still have room for friends. Did King Henry have friends?
—Petra’s notes
“It’s enormous,” Petra breathed, catching sight of Hampton Court. The size of the palace overwhelmed her. “This is never going to work.”
Rohan pulled the wagon beneath a thicket of alders as rain streamed through the dark leaves Petra prayed they were sheltered, if not from weather, then from sight. The horse nickered and shook his mane and the harness tinkled, a small sound blending in with the night noises, barely audible above the rain drip-dropping around them. Rohan swung out of the wagon and then held out a hand to help Anne.
“Have faith,” Anne whispered to her as she jumped out of the wagon and then tugged her hat over her ears.
“Happy up,” Rohan said to Petra as he held a hand to her. “We don’t need to ignite the entire palace, only where Chambers is sleeping.”
Petra looked at the massive palace. “This place looks like it has hundreds of rooms.”
“Thousands, actually,” Rohan said casually.
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed.
“Don’t you see?” Petra said, waving her arms at the palace. “This is hopeless. It can’t work.”
“My dear, heaven is on our side.” Rohan sounded as if he’d talked to heaven and personally orchestrated the lightning storm.
Petra rolled her eyes and hunkered beneath the cape, but clothes provided little protection from the weather. How many years until the invention of plastic? No one had an umbrella or even a poncho. No Nyquil or Sudafed. Any of them could catch pneumonia. Or a million other life threatening diseases.
In the coach house, Petra saw Garret’s carriage. Her heart twisted with worry. How could Anne marry someone she barely knew? Did she trust him? Did he sympathize with Chambers? Petra nodded at the carriage. “He won’t be happy to see you here, Anne” Petra said, pulling her hood so that it covered more of her face.
Anne frowned at the familiar coach. “Emory won’t be happy to see you here either. Although,” she said with glistening eyes, “it is a very good plan.”
Shifting her feet, Petra decided she wouldn’t think about Emory. All of her concentration needed to be focused on right here, right now. She contemplated the palace. The windows were shaded, but occasionally she saw silhouettes and shadows moving past like fleeting pantomimes.
Straightening her shoulders, Petra took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”
Anne grabbed one hand, and Petra reached for Rohan with the other so they formed a chain. Petra squeezed Anne’s hand and Anne sent her a squeeze in return.
Lightning flashed and lit upon a lone figure running through the courtyard.
“Well done,” Rohan breathed. “Well done.”
The man had a cape over his head and it flapped around him. He sprinted to the wagon and stopped short. Emory. Disbelief flickered across his face as his gaze traveled from Petra’s boots, up her thighs and rested on Anne’s father’s baggy shirt.
Rohan held up his hands like a cop stopping traffic. “Before you say a word,” he said to Emory, “Lady Petra, blow your fire.” He handed her the flask of whiskey.
She looked at him questioning and then, after a glimpse at Emory’s livid face, she pulled the gadget from her purse, took a mouthful of whiskey, ignited the lighter and spit the whisky. Flames shot five feet into the air.
Rohan looked proud, Emory shocked.
“Just one of many tricks!” Rohan crowed.
“It’s actually Mr. Manning’s trick,” Petra told them, remembering the afternoon in the parking lot when the students had taken turns blowing fire. They’d used corn starch, but whiskey worked even better.
When the blood returned to Emory’s face, he said to Rohan, “Despite her parlor trick, she cannot stay.”
Rohan flexed his jaw. “She must.”
Rain, like tears, trickled down Emory’s face. He groaned and flicked his gaze between Petra and Anne. “They have no place here.”
“Oh, like this is your place?” Petra took a step forward and brushed the rain from her eyes.
“You, I have no doubt, will prove a distraction.” It could have been a compliment, but it wasn’t. Emory stood in front of her and lowered his voice. “I cannot worry about your safety.”
“Then don’t.” Petra studied Hampton Court. Moments ago she’d been sure the plan would fail, but with Emory’s disapproval egging her on, she itched to set the place on fire. Sort of.
“Did you find Chambers?” Rohan asked Emory.
Emory pointed to a window on the ground floor of the east side. “Unfortunately, the king and his men have left the residence.”
Rohan, looked at his boots, his face pained. “We waited in vain.”
Emory nodded. “The opportunity to expose the Earl, for the time being, has passed.”
“The Earl?” Anne asked, her voice rising an octave.
“The kegs?” Rohan asked.
“In the cellar.” Emory spoke confidently. “There’s only one guard.”
Rohan nodded and reached to the floor of the wagon and then tossed a coil of rope and a strip of cloth to Emory.
“Are those for the guard?” Petra grimaced.
Emory considered his weapons, a smile glinting in his eye, “They are for you, should you refuse to stay in the wagon.”
“I’m not staying in the wagon.” She laughed and folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t do this without me.”
Rain dripped off Emory’s nose. “We can, and we will.”
“I bet you can’t do this,” Petra flicked the gadget and a small flame flickered.
“And you don’t have this,” Anne held up her vial of sleeping potion.
“They have proven to be exceptionally resourceful,” Rohan said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Emory’s shoulder. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps even heaven-sent.”
Emory shot Petra a harsh look. “I do not see—” he began.
Rohan laughed. “You will see, you will hear, and you will smell.” He gave Anne the whiskey, dye and the basket of cow pies. Anne gave him the vial.
“God speed, my friends,” Rohan said, placing his hands on the small of their backs and giving each of them a push forward.
***
When Emory tried to follow, a crack of thunder drowned out Rohan’s words. Petra knew they weren’t words that Emory wanted to hear. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Emory and Rohan argue as she hurried after Anne.
Sloshing through mud, they crept to one side of the massive hall. Wind pulled at their clothes and spat rain in their faces, but it also masked the sound of their footsteps. Over the noisy storm, she heard her thundering heart.
What was she doing here? When she’d first arrived in 1610 she’d had misgivings about being alone in the dark outdoors. But now, it was after midnight, and she held the makings of a bomb in her hands. A bomb! This wasn’t a shoot-em up movie or an episode of CSI where-ever. This bizarre situation was real and she knew the consequences were serious.
Behind her, Anne trembled as they crept alongside the palace. The downstairs rooms had shuttered windows; Petra watched the shadows, hoping to see Chambers’ tall frame.
Anne pointed at the doors of a root cellar and a faint glow radiating up the steps. Within a moment Petra heard rustling, a grunt, and then a muffled cry of pain and panic. Who panicked? Was it Rohan or the guard? Anne flashed her a worried look.
Squaring her shoulders against the unknown, Anne set up the explosives. Petra couldn’t think why someone would prowl the grounds at midnight in the rain, but still she prayed they wouldn’t be caught.
“This plan has holes big enough for a truck to drive through,” she said to Anne.
Anne looked up, rain dribbling off her hat. “What is a truck?”
Petra bit back a nervous laugh. If someone had told her a few days ago that she’d be hanging around a palace at midnight in a thunder storm trying to save the King James Bible, she’d have thought they were certifiable. If she ever told anyone that she’d spent an evening setting off smoke bombs in 1614, they would have her committed. Justifiably so. Yet here she was, feeling like her heart would explode, if nothing else. She nervously fingered the powder horn.
Lightning, thunder, the smoke bomb, fire blown outside Chambers’ window. Simple really, Petra thought. Easy peas.
***
Emory crept down the palace halls, mind and heart racing. Candles cast a warm, flickering light down the corridor. He counted doors even as his mind turned with questions. Who was Petra Baron and why had she come? Why did everything about her seem foreign yet familiar? In just days the girl seemed to have affected all she met. How had she persuaded Anne to dress as a boy and storm Hampton Court? What if Young Falstaff learned of the escapade? What was Anne thinking? She wasn’t a weak character, easily manipulated or influenced.
And Rohan? What had possessed him to go along with a plan involving maids? Granted, removing Chambers seemed easier than removing nine powder kegs, and with Chambers gone they could empty the kegs at their leisure, one bucket at a time. That made sense.
Petra and Anne did not. Until five minutes ago he would have sworn she and Petra would have rather clawed out each other’s eyes than hold hands in the rain.
So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he nearly tripped over a sleeping hound. Stumbling, he caught himself and hid in darkened doorway a black mastiff twitched his tail and repositioned his head on his paws. The dog looked capable of clamping down on a man’s head and tearing it from its neck. In fact, beside the dog lay the jawbone of a cow. The dog looked nearly big enough to have killed the cow and eaten all but the largest bones and the few teeth.
Emory leaned against the door as the dog stirred. Only then did he realize he’d lost count of the doors.
***
Petra shook from nerves and cold. She flexed her fingers to keep them warm. The plan depended on thunder. Who depended on thunder? Thunder, like lightning, just happened. It came and went. It wasn’t summoned. This is a very silly and wet plan, she thought, brushing her sodden hair away from her face.
Anne shivered and tried to keep her hood up over her brown curls. How long would they have to sit in the storm, waiting on something that might not come? Petra curled her hands into balls and blew.
Anne twitched, frowning. “I wish Lord Garret were not here.” Her whisper sounded small and uncertain.
“This place is massive,” Petra said. “Hopefully, we can distract Chambers and get rid of the powder kegs without anyone, especially Garret, knowing what’s up.”
“What’s up?” Anne murmured. “Moon, stars, owls…”
“Anne,” Petra said, “what if he does find out you’re here?”
“Perchance he would not recognize me.”
“But what if he did? What if he called off your wedding?” Nosy much? Petra added, “I know it’s none of my business…”
“I have known Lord Garret since birth.”
“But a few days ago, it seemed like you didn’t even like him.”
Anne pushed back her hood, exposing her face. “I thought…I thought he was like Chambers, partially responsible for my brother’s death, but as I spend more time with him, I see he is extremely sweet, generous, good-intentioned. True, he’s impetuous and impulsive; our hasty engagement reflects that well.”
Anne sighed. “I am completely devoted to the efforts of bringing an English bible to the people. If I did not love Garret, chances are that I would marry him anyway. I can accomplish more good as a countess than as an artisan. That I happen to find Lord Garret charming, witty and appealing is my good fortune.”
Petra sniffed and wondered
how charming or witty he would be if he could see them now, prowling around the palace and firing up smoke bombs.
Lightning lit the garden; Petra’s nerves tingled. Now. She had to light the bomb to coordinate with the thunder. Petra took a mouthful of whiskey and then snapped the lighter over the makeshift fuse of whiskey soaked linen. Nothing. She struck the lighter again. Whiskey burned in her mouth, stung the back of her throat. In the rain, the tiny flame wavered and then winked away. Ready to burst with frustration and impatience, she struck the lighter again. Orange and yellow methane fueled smoke curled from the cow pie.
Chambers flung open his window at the very moment Petra spit whiskey and blew a flame of fire. Gasping, Chambers stumbled back. Petra tossed the smoke bomb through the window and through a cloud of orange and red haze, she and Anne watched Chambers trip over a chair.
The entire plan depended on Chambers believing that the powder kegs had been set off. He had to run out the door and into Emory, not out the window and into them. Petra held her breath waiting and watching for his next move.
***
Thunder shook the palace. Smoke billowed out of the door he leaned against. From its other side came cursing and scrambling. The dog twitched in his sleep. Emory grabbed the jawbone, heavy and slimy in his hand. Its few remaining teeth pointed up. “I’ll borrow this,” he whispered to the snoring dog. Mallet in one hand and jawbone in the other, Emory braced himself. The door latch clicked.
Chambers burst out of the smoke-filled room, eyes terror-filled and hair wild. Emory whacked him over the head. The jawbone connected with a sickening crack. Cow teeth flew. Before Chambers crumpled to the floor Emory caught him underneath the arms and dragged his deadweight into the reeking room. The mastiff rose to his legs, shook himself and howled about the theft of his bone. Emory kicked the door closed in the poor dog’s face.
Smoke billowed from the cow pie, filling the room with an orange, and red-colored barnyard stench. Keeping hold of Chambers and trying not to gag, Emory dropped the bone and maneuvered Chambers to a chair. Outside the door, he heard footsteps and the mastiff’s frantic barking.
