by Lily Blake
Bash turned his head, noticing the crowd coming toward them. Some of the other villagers had seen what was happening. Bash knew that it was over. Even if he could control this one man, he wouldn’t be able to talk down five… or ten.
“Come make your demands,” the man yelled, gesturing toward them. He turned, letting his grip on Pascal loosen. “I have one of the children, and now this noble—”
Bash didn’t think. He pulled his dagger back and aimed, throwing it through the window. It hit the man squarely in the chest, just to the left of his sternum. The man wheezed. He staggered backward, then fell to the ground, blood spilling from the wound.
“Now!” Bash yelled to Pascal, who was still standing there, frozen. The other villagers ran toward him. One had already reached the man on the ground. He bent over him, examining the wound.
“Quick!” Bash yelled, pointing at the tree. “Go now! Run!”
Pascal scrambled away from the villagers and ran to the tree. He climbed faster than before, his footing sure as he moved from one branch to the next. He didn’t struggle. When he got closer to the wall, he swung his leg up and over, straddling the branch. He was only a few feet away from the top.
Bash threw the rope up to him. The boy worked quickly, tying it around the thick branch. His eyes met Bash’s, and Bash nodded. “Yes! Now!” he called. “I’ll get you when you come down.”
Pascal took a breath, then gripped the rope and swung down over the other side of the wall, his grip sliding as he tried to hang on. The villagers were already gathered at the base of the tree. One climbed a few branches, hoping to grab his feet.
Bash held out his arm, and as Pascal swung past he stopped the rope, sending the boy rolling across the lawn. As soon as Pascal was safe Bash grabbed the rope, pulling it back, the knot sliding a few more inches toward the end of the branch, just out of the villagers’ reach.
“Murderer!” one of the villagers yelled. The man pressed his face into the stone window. “You killed him!”
Bash helped Pascal to his feet. More townspeople were at the wall now, some throwing rocks they’d found outside the gates. A few flew past Bash’s side, some past his head, just missing him.
“You won’t get away with this!” a woman yelled. “You’re heartless, you know that?”
Bash picked Pascal up in his arms and ran. As he did he glanced at the guard on the parapet. The archer had his arm drawn back. He let the first arrow fly. It was wide, not in danger of hitting anyone in the crowd, but it was enough to stop them from coming at the wall. The man loosed two more arrows, and the crowd quickly dispersed, the villagers heading away from them and back to the front of the palace.
Bash ran up the lawn in the other direction until he was certain they were safe. He let out a long breath, settling Pascal on the ground. “Are you hurt?” He checked the boy’s neck to make sure the man hadn’t broken the skin. He scanned his bare legs, which were scraped and dirty, but otherwise fine.
Pascal just shook his head. His face was covered with sweat. He looked up at Bash, his brown eyes filled with tears, then threw his arms around Bash’s waist.
“You’re safe,” Bash said, hugging him back. He pulled the boy close, pushing his wet hair off his forehead, trying to comfort him. “It’s all right, Pascal. I’m here. You’re with me now.”
The boy only cried harder. He gripped Bash’s shirt in his hands, holding on. Bash took a breath, feeling his eyes well. He could still see Pascal’s face as the man put the blade to his neck. How frightened he was, his whole body rigid with fear. Bash hadn’t realized just how much the boy meant to him until he saw him there, like that… until he realized he might lose him.
“It was so scary,” Pascal said as he drew back and wiped his hand across his nose, leaving a streak of dirt. “His hand was against my throat. I could barely breathe. He was going to kill me.”
“But he didn’t. I would never let that happen—never. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore,” Bash said as he combed back Pascal’s hair. It was the truth. As long as Pascal was here, inside the palace walls, Bash would make sure he was safe.
Pascal let out a long breath. “I want to go back inside,” he said, glancing up at the palace.
“Me too,” Bash said. He brushed the dirt off Pascal’s shirt, then wiped his cheek with his hand. “Besides, I think a bath is definitely in order.”
“Not necessary,” Pascal said with great authority. He shook his head, but Bash just laughed.
“I think it might be necessary… but afterward, we can get you a treat from the kitchens.”
“Cake?” Pascal asked, a smile curling his lips.
“I’ll see what we can do.” The thought of a bath and cake sounded pretty good to him as well. Now that it was over, he could feel the effects of the long hours of searching and the struggle by the wall. His arm hurt from where it had caught the rope. He couldn’t think straight, he was so tired. He wanted to get back to Kenna, to show her it was all right… he was all right.
Bash wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder, leading him up the great lawn, back toward the palace courtyard. As they approached the entrance, two of the guards stepped forward, blocking their way.
“I’m sorry, sir,” one said. It was the same pair of guards, Bash noticed, who had tried to prevent him from leaving in the first place. “We can’t let you in.”
“Why not?” Bash demanded. But then he noticed they were looking past him, down at Pascal. They each took a step back.
“He was with the villagers,” the other guard said. “He was exposed. And now…” he said, pointing to Bash’s hand on Pascal’s shoulder, “you probably have been as well.”
Bash glanced behind him, staring at the crowd outside the palace gates. They had dispersed a bit, but Bash could only imagine what would happen if he went back there—the hated noble who had murdered one of them.
“But where are we to go?” he asked. “Surely you’re not going to force us off the grounds.”
“The queen gave her orders,” the other guard said, looking warily from Pascal to Bash. “Anyone attempting to get into the palace should be killed.”
Bash shook his head. “But I never went beyond the palace walls,” he said. “And even if I did, you can’t prove that we’re infected. This doesn’t make sense.”
“You didn’t, but that one did.” The other guard pointed to Pascal. He leaned in, whispering something to the other guard. Bash couldn’t quite make out the words. Bash pulled the boy closer, feeling his heart speed up. He’d saved him from the mob, only to bring him here, to more danger?
“Please,” Bash said, moving in front of Pascal. “There has to be a way. Lock us both in the dungeons. I’ll stay with the boy there. We’ll stay for as long as we need to so we can prove we weren’t infected, that we don’t have the plague.”
The first guard raised his eyebrows. “And if you’re wrong? If you were infected?”
“Then we’ll know that soon enough, won’t we?” Bash said, his voice grim. He knew it was a risk—he might not have the plague yet, but if Pascal had been infected it was only a matter of time. Still… he wasn’t about to send the boy off on his own, locked away in the dark. He couldn’t. Not after everything that he’d already been through.
The guard nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Come with us. But keep your distance. Don’t try anything or we’ll have to draw our weapons.”
“I won’t,” Bash promised. He gave Pascal a smile, hoping that it didn’t reveal his uncertainty. As they walked inside, Bash turned back, looking to the balcony above. Kenna stood there, leaning over the railing, her face a mixture of hope and confusion.
Bash raised his hand to her in a wave, trying to alert her that they were all right. He wanted to call out that Pascal wasn’t injured, just scared. He wanted to tell her he’d see her in just a few days. He wanted to tell her he loved her.
But the guards were already heading into the servants’ wing, gesturing for them to follow. “Come along
,” one yelled. “We don’t have all day.”
Bash glanced up one last time before slipping inside, then the door slammed shut behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Please… it has to be here,” Mary murmured under her breath. She spread her arms out, running her hands along the stone wall. There had to be an exit somewhere. A door that opened back into the palace corridors. She’d been searching for hours, still holding out hope that she was getting close to finding her way.
She had awoken on the cold stone floor after hours of fitful, restless sleep. Catherine had found her in her dreams. This time it was she, not Henry, who had followed Mary through the palace gardens, two guards in tow. They wound through the maze of hedges, until the three of them finally cornered Mary, the men drawing their bows. Fire at her, Catherine had ordered, her voice cold. Now. The last thing Mary saw was the arrows flying at her throat.
Only this time was different. This time, when she’d awoken, it was not in her warm bed, with Greer sleeping beside her. She was in another nightmare. The ground was cold and wet. Her hip was badly bruised, her limbs scraped from the fall down the stairs. She was still alone, utterly lost beneath the palace.
Mary dragged her hand along the wall, turning the corner into another corridor. This one was different, though. The sun pierced through a few gaps in the stones, illuminating the tiny dust particles floating in the air. After winding through the tunnels, following staircases down, then back up, she’d finally found one of the palace’s outside walls. She leaned in, peering through the crack where the stones met. She could see out, all the way to the pond beyond the palace.
Mary spread her arms out again, pushing at the wall, trying to find the hidden latch that might open an outside door. She could feel her determination growing. She thought of all the other trials she had been through during her time at court, how she’d escaped Catherine’s poisoning plot, how she’d outsmarted the men who’d held her and her ladies captive in the great room. There’d been so many times when there had been no solution, no way out—until she’d found one.
You always do your best when you’re backed into a corner, one of the nuns at the convent had once told her. She had said it with a mix of exasperation and pride. Mary could no longer remember the exact details, but she was pretty sure the lesson had been in rhetoric, and she’d had to defend her argument. She’d been casting about, slowly moving toward her point, until it became apparent her opponent would win. That had been enough to focus her thoughts. Her competitive instinct kicked in. She’d won the argument within minutes, because not winning suddenly didn’t feel like an option.
She would find a way to the outside—she had to. She couldn’t spend another day locked inside the tunnels, waiting for someone to find her. Her throat was dry. She was hungry, the pain in her stomach worse than before. She wouldn’t walk in another circle, wouldn’t go blindly down another corridor. She’d gotten much too turned around to put any hope in finding a way back inside the palace walls. But changing the plan—looking for a door out instead of in—that had more promise.
She walked barefoot over the cold, damp stones, having lost her slippers in the fall down the stairs. Her feet were cut and bleeding, her ankles swollen from so little rest. She traced her fingers over the wall, feeling every gap in the stone, looking for an exit.…
She was no good to anyone here. She tried not to think about it, about what was happening beyond the palace gates. The people who’d crowded the front entrance. Their demands for food and supplies. Francis. Bash had promised to get her letter out by messenger, but he and Kenna had been so distracted looking for Pascal—the little boy had somehow escaped. She imagined the letter was still there, tucked in his pocket, with no chance of being sent.
She brushed her hair away from her face, knowing what it meant. Francis didn’t understand everything she was thinking and feeling here, now, without him. She never got to tell him that she was sorry, that she wished she hadn’t lied. Was he out there with Lola? Had he found her in time? Had she made it through the birth? Was she all right?
Mary tried to push the dark thoughts from her mind, but they kept returning. What if he’d been recognized in some village somewhere? He could’ve been stranded in some house as the plague spread, the sick and dying everywhere he turned.… What if he was already dead?
Then there were the other possibilities, each of them too much to bear. Francis might still be furious with her. He was out there alone, feeling betrayed, feeling lost. He had left in the same way he had right before Paris, right before he encountered Lola in the first place. That night of passion had meant something to both of them… she could tell. Though she’d never say it out loud (she couldn’t, she wouldn’t), she’d seen the way Francis’s eyes sometimes drifted to Lola during dinner. He’d smile at her as he passed in the halls. And though Mary had decided long ago she wouldn’t let jealousy consume her, she couldn’t help but wonder about that night.… She hated it, but sometimes she’d see them there, together.…
Francis holding Lola as they went to sleep. Francis kissing her, pushing her dark curls away from her face the same way he did with Mary. Had they thought about her even once that night? Had they wondered at all about what she would think or feel? Yes, she was with Bash then, but she’d only done that to keep Francis safe. She’d told him about the prophecy of his death, and whether he believed it or not, she had been under pressure. His mother… her friends… they all worried her union with Francis would cause his demise.
It was torture, knowing they had been together. She would never speak of it out loud, but it would always be there between her and Francis, always be right beneath the surface of things. What had been said that night between them? How much had he confessed? Had he betrayed her confidences? Had Lola?
Suddenly she turned a corner and noticed a thin strip of sunlight that was pouring through a crack in the wall up ahead. She rushed to it and ran her fingers over the stones, looking for a latch—anything she could use to pull the door in. There was nothing. She could feel another gap farther along the wall and saw the light streaming through it, broken in places by a hinge.
Mary took a breath and pressed her shoulder against the stone, leaning into it. The door shifted open an inch. She pushed harder, this time with everything she had, moving it another inch, then another. She was so close… she was almost there.…
Mary threw her weight against the door, and it finally gave, swinging open all the way. She slipped, stumbled, and landed on her hands and knees in the grass. She pushed herself to stand, squinting against the sunlight. It was so bright it was blinding.
She took a deep breath, taking the cool, crisp air into her lungs. She had never imagined that something so simple could bring her so much happiness. She could hear the wind rustling through the trees. Rich, fragrant smells drifted up from the garden—roses, lilacs, and apple blossoms.
She looked down and almost laughed, the sight was so frightening. Her white nightdress was torn, the skirt stained with blood. Her bare feet were scratched up, as were her arms and shoulders—the gash on her right elbow throbbed. She tried to run her hands through her hair, only to have them get caught in the thick tangle of curls. No one would think she was a noble, let alone the Queen of France. She could only imagine what Catherine would say.
Mary brushed the dirt off her hands and started walking along the palace wall, searching for a way back inside. But the twisting tunnels had led her to a side of the grounds she didn’t know very well. She was pretty sure the main garden was near the south wing… but she knew there were several, including two near the east wing. She looked up at the stone façade. All the balconies were empty. The windows were closed, the shutters blocking out the morning light.
She walked faster, circling the palace. She’d have to approach from another side. As she went twenty yards, then twenty more, she heard the sounds of the villagers outside, just beyond the high perimeter wall. Things were becoming more familiar. She recognized t
he fountains to her right. There was a courtyard she’d picnicked in once, back when Aylee was still alive.
As she moved closer, toward the front gate, she kept her eyes on the palace walls. Two balconies, both their doors closed. Another row of shuttered windows. Then she spotted it—the stone ledge above some rosebushes. It was no more than a foot wide. It twisted around the palace turret, high up to the top floors.
Twenty feet above, it wound past a large half-moon window. The ledge was no more than two feet away. Both panes were open, the curtains rippling in the morning breeze.
Mary hurried over to the ledge, which was a little higher than her chest. She pushed herself up, swinging her leg onto it, and began the treacherous climb. She tried not to look at the ground. It seemed even farther away than she imagined it would be, the stone courtyard getting smaller with each step. She reached back, grabbing the turret wall, a dizzy, spinning feeling taking over.
One step, then another. She took long, deep breaths, moving up the winding ledge. When she was nearly fifteen feet high, she turned around, facing the stone façade so she didn’t have to look at the ground. She glanced up at the open window that was her way back inside. It was just another two yards. Just a little farther. She moved carefully, her toes gripping the stone ledge.
“Stop! You there!”
Mary turned back and saw that two guards had rounded the corner and were looking up at her, their faces twisted in anger. She was about to say something to them, when she noticed they were both holding crossbows, their arms drawn back. The arrows were pointing directly at her.
“Listen to me,” she started, her voice faint and cracked. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours. “Wait…”
“It’s one of the villagers!” a guard yelled, calling to the archers on the palace roof. “She’s trying to get into the palace. She’ll infect us all.”
“I’m not—please listen!” Mary yelled, louder this time. She began to panic when she realized the guard who had spoken was drawing his arm back further, about to release his arrow. But the man beside him… she recognized him. It was James, the guard with the freckles, the one who had brought her down to the crypt. Surely he knew who she was. Surely he wasn’t going to let this happen.
