by Shea,Lisa
Between the numerous stops and long, drawn out mornings, it was many days later when they pulled into the King’s Arms Inn near the center of London. Jack had sent a messenger ahead and the entire Inn had been cleared for the party. It was within walking distance of Westminster Abbey, where the meetings were to take place.
Once they settled into their rooms at the inn, Father Berram sent word to the Abbey of their arrival. Trusted guards were sent over at once, and the inn became, in essence if not in fact, a fortified garrison. Jack appreciated the help, but even so he walked the perimeter several times that day, testing the windows, watching the people who were nearby.
Father Berram went up to bed shortly after dinner, and Peter nodded to Jack before climbing the stairs after him. Jack watched the pair ascend the ancient wooden stairs, then turned his gaze back to the inn’s main room. Several round wooden tables were scattered beneath a post-and-beam ceiling, with a fire crackling in a large, stone fireplace to one side. The windows along the street side were all mullioned, and the burgundy curtains drawn tightly.
John had been sitting with the priest, and now came over to join Jack at his corner table. He brought his pewter mug with him, setting it down onto the worn table with a soft clink. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past few weeks. He took a sip of his ale, then looked up to meet Jack’s eyes. “You miss her, do you not?” he commented quietly.
Jack blinked in surprise. Thoughts of Catherine had snuck into every corner of his life, and he had just been wondering how she was doing. He had not realized it was that obvious to others. “Yes,” he admitted to his younger friend. “I do miss her greatly.”
John nodded and took another sip. “I miss Walter and Michael. Not a moment goes by that I do not wonder why they died, or what I could have done differently to prevent it. Maybe if I were a lighter sleeper, or maybe if I had talked with them more so they trusted me with their secrets.”
Jack said nothing, simply looking at John with compassion. They had been over this ground numerous times during their ride.
John took another pull and went on morosely. “We still cannot find any link between Michael and the Bowyers, and nobody else we have spoken with has talked about any non-Bowyer killed in these mysterious manners. The only deaths were on that one night.”
He looked down into his ale. “It seems that Michael killed himself – but why? Was he riddled with guilt over Walter’s death? Was he part of the cause?”
He sighed wearily. “It seems likely that Michael knew of the plans to wipe out the Bowyers. Every other Bowyer was slain on that one, same evening. Catherine was the only one who survived, and she barely did so. Maybe Michael felt guilty at the thought of having to face her?”
John took a sip, absently wiping the foam from his lip. His monologue continued unabated. “Does this all have to do with Prince John? Raymond’s plans? Father Berram and that book?”
Jack let him talk, let him work through his mix of emotions. John wasn’t looking for answers; there were none to find with what they knew. They had talked about each point for hours during their travels, gone over every small hint of meaning. Their only hope lay in meeting up with other people who had been involved with the Bowyers and try to find a common thread, or perhaps news of any repercussions.
When John finally wore down into silence, Jack reached over and put his own hand over John’s. “We will find out who has done this,” he promised quietly. “We will bring them to justice. I am sure in a few days, with other eyes and ears providing information, this will all make much more sense.”
John finished down the rest of his ale, then stood. Jack went with him up to their room, nodding to Peter as they entered. He sat alongside Peter on the wooden bench as John climbed into the low bed.
Jack shook his head, looking between the two men. Michael’s suicide had hit the pair hard. Jack wished he knew what turmoil had driven the lad to that decision.
Jack sighed and patted Peter on the shoulder before climbing into his own bed. He needed to get a few hours of sleep before his own watch came up.
* * *
Jack was in good spirits the next morning as the group ate breakfast by the low fire. The food was delicious - an assortment of spiced sausages, numerous varieties of cheese, and fresh bread. The weather outside was sunny and warm, although they kept the curtains pulled for security reasons. Every time the front door opened, he looked over with hope, waiting for Catherine’s smiling face to appear there. Each time, it was a messenger from another arriving dignitary, letting them know which inn he was staying at and relaying information. Jack chided himself to be patient. She was not due for another day, yet, and there was still much to be done.
Once the morning meal was complete, Jack left the two in Peter’s capable hands and walked over to Westminster Abbey. The building was stunningly designed, with arched windows, famous shrines, and numerous examples of fine metalwork within.
Jack looked past these details to the ones involving security. He knew that he was being overcautious - the Abbey had been guarded for years against numerous threats and their security men were some of the finest in the land. Still, he liked to be familiar with the layout for his own needs. He walked through the building throughout the day, learning where the exits were, where the dead end corners lay.
He focused primarily on the Chapter House, a round meeting room with a mosaic floor and high stained-glass windows surrounding it. The windows’ sills lay just above his head, and with the colorful scenery depicted on them, there was no chance of any outsider being able to look in on the proceedings.
He had left word at the inn for them to send a messenger the moment Catherine arrived, but as the day drew on, none came for him. He had a brief meal with the soldiers at the Abbey, then renewed his investigations.
When the sunset streaked the sky with red and orange, he made his way through the cobblestone streets to the quiet inn. As always, he kept a sharp eye out for anyone lingering nearby who looked out of place or overly watchful. A ‘no vacancy’ sign hung beneath the main inn’s symbol, swaying slightly in the gentle wind. All seemed clear, and he walked in with a light step, scanning the room for Catherine. She was not there, and Peter shook his head no when their eyes met.
“I am sorry, Jack. She has not yet arrived,” apologized Peter as Jack came to join him at a table by the curtained windows. “We have had someone watching for her all day. It is still a day early, though. I am sure she will be here tomorrow, as promised.”
A barmaid brought over a pair of mugs and a plate of cheese, which they picked at as they talked. Peter glanced occasionally over at the larger table where John and Priest Berram sat with some friends, talking in relaxed voices. “They are all eager for the meeting to begin,” added Peter with a nod toward the group. “Perhaps once we have all the pieces in place, the whole picture will make more sense.”
Jack looked over at the talking men, doubt and hope mingling in his mind. “You would have thought that if there were pieces to assemble, that we would have at least one,” he pondered. “With all of the times we have gone over the deaths, nothing stands out. We were right there when both Walter and Michael were slain. Nothing in either case seems to be helpful.
Dinner was brought over - a roast duck with vegetables. The room grew louder as the men talked, ate, and relaxed. Peter kept a steady eye on his charges while Jack watched the room in general, his eyes straying frequently to the door. The evening wore on. Eventually John stood and helped Father Berram up the stairs to bed. Peter clapped Jack on the shoulder before following along behind the pair.
Jack watched them go, then sat contemplating the room as it fell into quiet, the dancing warmth of the fire throwing flickering shadows across the worn, wooden plank floor. He sat there for several long hours, lost in thought.
Chapter 22
Jack watched from a chair by the window, looking out over the cobblestone street, its edges still lost in pre-dawn shadows. Fresh dew gave the buildings and ro
oftops a soft glimmer.
He sensed Peter’s stretch and spoke without turning. “We will leave as soon as the evening sun touches the horizon,” he stated in a low but clear voice. “A few of the Westminster guards have been helped by Shadow over the years in their travels; we spoke of it yesterday during my tours. They can help us find out where she is.”
Peter nodded in understanding. He sat up in his bed, putting his arms behind his head as he thought. “If she came down from Lord Xavier’s, she would be on the northwest road,” he commented. “We can work our way back to Xavier’s, asking at each village. We should be able to trace where she has gone in a matter of days.” He paused, then glanced down at the two slumbering forms in the beds furthest from the door.
Jack’s eyes followed his. “This inn is a veritable fortress, and the Cathedral guards have assumed all responsibility for the care of its inhabitants. They let no one in or out who is not one of this conclave. At this point, we could do no better. I am sure they can postpone the meeting for a few days.”
Jack went through the normal routines of the day - washing in the basin on the dresser, eating the fried eggs for breakfast, talking to the soldiers as they changed shift, walking patrols in the streets around the inn. The day crawled on, minute by minute. No word came of Catherine. Jack knew, somehow, that she would not appear today. Something had happened to her, and every second that crawled by meant that her situation was even more dire. His patience was sorely tested as the sun, ever so slowly, crept lower and lower in the sky.
Peter readied the horses and brought them over to stand in front of the inn as evening’s shadows stretched across the alleyways. Three guards in black livery came with him, ready with their own steeds. Jack made the final arrangements with the guards who were handling the inn, and gave farewells to John and Father Berram.
John nodded to Jack. “Good luck,” he offered, standing at the doorway of the inn. Father Berram nodded his prayers, his shaking hand resting on John’s shoulder. Jack had his eyes focused down the length of the street, watching the sun. It passed through a layer of clouds, turning them a rich orange color, then ever so slowly, it rested against the far-off hills.
He mounted smoothly, and the other men followed suit. Jack looked down to John. “We will be back soon,” he promised. Then he turned to ride north out of the city.
They galloped at a fast clip to clear the city limits, then slowed in order to keep a watch on the side of the road. Every few miles they stopped at an inn to ask about Catherine and to make it known they were looking for her. No one had seen or heard of her travels, and they pressed onward.
They rode until they had covered about ten miles; by then the shadows at the side of the road had become thick and impenetrable. Jack reluctantly reined in. If they continued, and she were lying hurt at the side of the road, they could easily pass her by. The group set up camp in a small clearing. Jack forced himself to get some rest, to be fresh for the morning’s ride.
Morning arrived thick with swirling fog, and frustration billowed in Jack’s soul. When they set in motion again, he held the group to a gentle trot, all eyes attentively scanning the road’s side for any sign of horse or rider. They passed a priest walking in their direction, but he had no news to share of their quarry.
Jack pressed grimly onward, resolute to check every mile between here and Lord Xavier’s. He was torn between haste in wanting to get to Catherine, and a need to go slowly in case her body lay just over the edge of a tumbled-down wall or behind a pile of boulders.
A thundering came from the foggy road ahead; Jack motioned to the others, and the group pulled to one side to let the rider pass. A tan horse came at a gallop through the mist, a young, brown-haired man astride. He slowed to a canter to pass the group, his eyes scanning them as he went. When he spotted the dark blue medallion on Jack’s chest, he pulled hard at his reins, wheeling his horse into a skidding stop.
“Catherine is in trouble,” he called out without preamble, catching his breath and wiping the dust from his eyes. “They are under siege in the town of Wilstead. I was sent to find you.”
Jack’s heart thundered in his chest. “Lead on!”
The boy took another deep breath, then urged his horse into a hard canter and streamed back the way he had come. Jack and the others followed in hot pursuit.
Jack calculated quickly in his mind as they rode. That trip would be at least fifty miles. They could get there just after nightfall - maybe - if none of their horses foundered.
In a few miles they rode through a tiny hamlet. Jack saw a small group of men lingering on the outskirts, and lowered his hand to the hilt of his sword. If bandits thought they were going to take them on, he was in no mood to stop for an idle chat.
To his surprise, the group fell in beside them without a word and rode along, apparently joining the party. At the next village, another four men silently joined in. The men were not soldiers, but appeared quite able and were well armed. Jack realized with grim pleasure that Catherine’s support in this region was strong indeed. These men seemed ready to lay their lives on the line. He only hoped that it would not be necessary.
The miles passed beneath the horses, rolling by as meadow and forest, village and farmyard. An hour passed, then two. As the sun passed the midday mark, Jack reluctantly waved the men to a stop as they came into the next small village, pulling up around a large, well maintained tavern to give their worn out horses a short break. He begrudged every moment not spent moving along the road, but knew it would be folly to drive the beasts to exhaustion.
Peter was off his horse the moment they drew in, running through the tavern’s main door to fetch help and food. A flurry of activity ensued as boys washed down the horses, servants prepared ale and roast duck and the men stretched, making their way inside. The tavern’s main room quickly filled up, but it was a somber group that drank and ate amongst the wooden tables and beams. Only a few quiet conversations murmured between groups of friends.
Jack glanced around once he was sure all was settled, looking for the messenger who had begun them on their way. He saw the boy sitting at a table in a quiet corner with Peter and moved over to join them. Peter pushed a mug of ale in his direction as he sat on the sturdy chair, and Jack gratefully drank it down.
Peter nodded at the slender lad. “Jack, meet Nicholas,” he introduced. The boy put out his hand, and Jack clasped it in thanks.
“We owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to find us,” offered Jack quietly.
Nicholas shook his head at once. “There is no way I could even begin to repay Catherine for what she has done,” he insisted with fervor. “If it was not for her, my dearest fiancée -”
He swallowed and looked down into his drink, his face going pale. After a long moment, he looked up again at Jack. “Catherine nearly died to save my Zoe. I promise you I will gladly risk my life in return.”
Jack glanced at Peter, his eyes sharpening with interest. “What happened?”
Nicholas’s eyes widened in surprise. “She did not tell you? But you are her intended! Surely she had to explain the injuries to you when -”
He cut off, nodding. “If she did not, it was out of loyalty to my Zoe. However, you deserve to know to what lengths she went to for us.”
He took a long drink of his ale. “Catherine had been visiting the villages on and off for as long as I can remember. She wore a disguise at times, but we knew well enough who she was. In recent years, she made a point to talk with the parents of any teen girls, asking them to keep a special eye on the lasses. She asked for word to be sent to her if any girl went missing, no matter how innocent it seemed. She said she would much rather go on a wild goose hunt than risk a girl’s safety.”
Nicholas glanced with shame at Jack. “Zoe and I thought she was being overzealous, and laughed about it, the times we snuck off together.”
He took another swallow of his ale. “Then, not long ago, Zoe went off to visit a friend for the afternoon and never came bac
k. Her parents thought she was with me; I thought she was at home. It was very late that evening before we realized she was gone. The moment it was clear she really was missing, I did not hesitate. I sent word to all of the nearby villages, letting them know that Catherine was needed. We started a search for Zoe, to no avail. By dawn Catherine had arrived; she was exhausted from a recent long ride but she did not hesitate in joining the hunt.”
Peter looked up at Jack. “That must have been just after she distracted Conrad’s men from your trail.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “It seems to fit.” He turned to look at Nicholas. “What happened then?”
Nicholas’ eyes grew unfocused as he thought back over the events. “It was a long, harrowing day. Catherine was able to pick up the trail where others had lost it, and we followed it through the forest, across several streams and rocky ravines. Zoe had met up with two others, it appeared, and she went with them willingly. I could not understand it.”
Jack looked over at Peter, his eyes morose. “They were skilled at their craft, apparently,” he murmured quietly.
Nicholas nodded. “It seems so. It was past dark before we heard voices up ahead. Catherine made us stop before we came within sight, and made us swear to wait there for her. We would have argued, but she convinced us that she would do better with stealth than having us all move in together. Then she was gone. It was a long half hour, but we waited, not moving, not making a sound.” He took in a long, deep breath. “Then suddenly Zoe was there with us, bruised, her wrists red from ropes, wrapped in Catherine’s cloak. She said that Catherine had told us all to flee back to the village, to get Zoe to safety.”
Jack held Nicholas’s eyes with his own. “What did you do?”
The boy’s eyes flashed with pride. “Zoe absolutely refused to leave. We could hear the swordplay by now, and knew there was trouble. If there was any way we could help – even slightly – we would do it. We crept slowly to the edge of the clearing. Then, suddenly, everything went quiet. We moved in more quickly - and we saw …”
