Mr. Sloan considered her suggestion and found it acceptable.
“One more thing, Miss Amelia,” he said. “You need to warn His Lordship that a man called Trubgek has taken over Coreg’s criminal enterprises. He and Colonel Smythe plan to use the money from weapons sales, smuggling, piracy, and so forth to fund the cause of Prince Tom.”
“Trubgek!” Amelia repeated, her expression darkening. “Kate had a run-in with him. He is a dangerous man, Mr. Sloan.”
“So Captain Kate has led me to believe, Miss Amelia. I will be on my guard.” Mr. Sloan picked up his tricorn and rose to take his leave. “I am extremely grateful to you, Miss Amelia. You are the answer to a prayer. I say that quite literally.”
“I have been called many things, Mr. Sloan, but never that,” Amelia replied with a laugh. “Now that I know Kate is safe and well, I will immediately make arrangements for my return to Freya.”
She extended her hand to him. He shook hands with her and she pressed his warmly. “Good luck, Mr. Sloan. You may rely upon me.”
“I know that I can, Miss Amelia,” said Mr. Sloan.
Amelia gathered up her reticule and umbrella, took a book from the shelf, and departed. He heard her calling out to Gert as she left that she had located the book she wanted to borrow.
Mr. Sloan waited a few moments, then left the tavern through the back entrance. He had committed himself. Up until now, he could have backed out. He was not concerned at all about physical danger. He was far more concerned about the danger to his spiritual beliefs, which had been profoundly shaken by the knowledge that he and Smythe were more alike than he cared to admit.
Mr. Sloan was revolted by the cold-blooded murders Smythe had committed and yet he had to confess that in this regard, his own hands were far from clean. Sir Henry had never had any compunction about removing people he believed represented a danger to his beloved nation, and Mr. Sloan had shared in that belief. This was war, and men died in war, whether they fell on the field of battle or were smothered in their sleep.
What troubled Mr. Sloan was the possibility that Smythe believed the same. He was a patriot who had committed these murders to advance the cause of his prince. Listening to Smythe recite the same passages from scripture that Mr. Sloan loved and knew by heart, he was plagued by doubt.
Is my own soul as black as Smythe’s? Mr. Sloan wondered unhappily.
He reflected that part of the reason he was undertaking this dangerous mission was to find out.
FOURTEEN
Sir Henry Wallace put on his tricorn and was about to accept his greatcoat from the footman, only to turn around to find his wife, his beloved Lady Ann, holding it for him.
Henry slipped his arms into the coat and then gave his wife a kiss.
“I am going to the palace to meet with the queen,” he said, as she buttoned his coat for him. “Do you have any message for her?”
“Only give her my love and tell her she has been in my thoughts. What with all this rioting in the streets, I worry about her safety,” said Ann. “I worry about your safety, too, Henry. I wish you would hire a bodyguard. I know you cannot find anyone you trust as much as Mr. Sloan, but you should not be traveling about the city alone.”
“Every man I have interviewed is a poltroon,” said Henry. He placed his hand on his wife’s hand and smiled at her. “I must say it pains me to hear my own wife lament that I cannot take care of myself.”
“You have no care for your own safety and I fear your son is just like you,” said Ann. “He wandered off yesterday and Nurse was frantic. The coachman, Baxter, found him in the stall with the carriage horses. Poor Baxter was white as a ghost when he told me. He tried to impress upon your son that he could have been kicked or trampled. Little Hal was not the least afraid, however, and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.”
“My brave boy!” said Henry. Seeing Ann frown, he added hurriedly, “Don’t worry, my dear. I shall most certainly speak to him, impress upon him the danger.”
“And your own danger?” Ann asked.
“I expect Mr. Sloan back any day now, so do not fret,” said Henry in soothing tones. “And now, my dear, I must dash. You know how much your aunt is annoyed by those who keep her waiting.”
He hurried out to the carriage, where he asked the coachman, Baxter, for a full account of the adventures of young Master Henry, now age three.
“You should have seen your lad, m’lord,” said Baxter. “He was standin’ in the stall, stroking Fred’s nose and feeding him an apple. Gave me such a turn, m’lord, it’s a wonder I have recovered. Fred is an ornery beast, as you know, m’lord. He laid up the stable boy for a week with a kick that busted his ribs and he’ll nip me if he gets the chance. But with your lad, Fred stood there like a lamb. Master Henry looks at me, bold as brass, and says, ‘Baxter, I should like to take Fred for a gallop.’ A gallop!”
Baxter roared with laughter, then took his place on the box and shouted to the irascible Fred and his partner. The carriage rolled down the street.
Leaning back in the seat, Henry took a moment to bask in paternal pride. He would need to tell Hal, of course, that he should not go into the horse stalls, that horses could be dangerous. Yet he could not help but be proud of his son’s fearlessness.
Henry’s contentment did not last long, however. His wife, Ann, his son, and his baby daughter were among the few joys remaining in his life.
His beloved country, Freya, was in serious trouble and he had no way to save her. The near disastrous war with the Bottom Dwellers had left Freya on the brink of financial ruin. Henry’s recommendation that Her Majesty invite Travian dragons to live in Freya and pay for the opportunity had filled the coffers, but had ended in disaster when their leader, Lady Odila, was murdered. Crown Prince Jonathan had died in an accident, his little son had died in an epidemic, leaving the succession in turmoil.
As the carriage left his quiet, upper-class residential neighborhood and entered the city proper, he had only to look out the window to see evidence of unrest among the populace: broken windows, stores looted and burned. He drew the curtain to shut out the dismal view.
He would never give up. He would fight for Freya with his last ounce of strength, give her the last drop of his blood. But he began to fear that the battle was hopeless. His country was headed for civil war and he could not stop it.
Queen Mary was yet another problem. Henry loved and honored her. She held him in esteem, as well she might, for Henry had placed her upon the throne. But the queen had always been a stubborn woman, often acting on impulse and then riding roughshod over the consequences. She would listen to his advice and occasionally accept it, but when once she had planted her flag and taken a stand, no amount of arguing or attempts to reason with her would cause her to retreat. The seven continents of Aeronne would shift position before she did.
The queen had unexpectedly summoned him to the palace for an urgent meeting this morning and Henry was deeply concerned. He feared she was going to tell him to announce that she had decided to make her sister, Elinor, her heir. Such a move would only plunge the country into more turmoil. Elinor had married a Rosian and moved to Rosia, which caused the Freyan people to view her as a traitor—and Henry agreed. If she named Elinor, Haever might well go up in flames. Henry had thus far kept the queen from making such a disastrous move, but he feared she was determined.
When the noise and tumult of the city began to recede, Henry drew back the curtain. The carriage had entered the park surrounding Covington Palace, a peaceful view he always enjoyed.
He took comfort in the sight of the palace with its arched windows and imposing battlements and crenulations. Unlike the ostentatious and ill-fated Sunset Palace of Rosia that for many years had magically floated among the clouds, Covington Palace was stolid and substantial; proud to stand on firm ground, proud to represent and defend the nation.
The park was open to the public. People were permitted to stand along the wrought-iron fence hoping to catch a
glimpse of the queen strolling in her garden. Mary had sometimes been known to come to the fence to hand out sugar buns to the children.
The carriage had traveled about a half mile from the palace gates, rolling along a tree-lined avenue. Henry was absorbed in his thoughts and he did not notice anything was wrong until he heard shouts and curses and saw men rushing his carriage.
“That’s him! Wallace!” one yelled.
The men grabbed the horses and dragged them to a halt. One man jumped onto the box and dragged Baxter from his seat and hurled him to the ground. He was attacked by several others, kicking and beating him.
Henry was not carrying his pistol. No one came armed into the presence of the queen. He kept a rifle and several loaded pistols in a secret compartment beneath the seat. If he opened that compartment, he would have access to the weapons, but so would the mob.
These thoughts passed in a split second. At the sight of Baxter lying bloodied on the cobblestones, Henry yanked open the carriage door and leaped out, bellowing for help. He seized hold of the horsewhip from its stand at the front of the carriage and began slashing at the men nearest him. His unexpected attack was so startling and so vicious that several of the mob took to their heels.
Others surged forward, fists clenched. Someone grabbed Henry from behind. He drove his elbow into the man’s gut and he released his hold. A fist came out of nowhere, grazing his jaw. Henry jabbed the butt end of the horsewhip into the face and then two more leaped on him and started to wrestle him to the ground. Henry fought desperately to stay upright, knowing that once he was down he was finished.
He was saved by the sound of rifle fire and a stentorian command for the crowd to disperse. Members of the Royal Guard had opened the palace gates and were riding to the rescue. At the sight of armed resistance, the mob melted away, disappearing among the groves of trees and neatly trimmed hedge rows.
Henry hurried to check on Baxter. The coachman was battered and bloodied, but he had regained his feet and was roundly swearing and shaking his fist, which Henry took for a good sign.
The captain of the guard galloped up and reined his horse to a halt. He dismounted and hurried over to Henry.
“Are you all right, my lord?”
“I appear to be,” said Henry. “My coachman has been injured, however. Please convey him to the palace.”
Baxter didn’t want to leave, but Henry persuaded him to have his wounds attended. Several guardsmen were trying to calm the excited horses, but Fred continued to lash out with his hooves, forcing the guardsmen to keep their distance. A few ruffians lay on the ground, groaning in pain. Fred had apparently managed to strike a few blows of his own.
“This lot picked the wrong carriage to attack,” stated the captain. “Does Your Lordship require assistance?”
Henry regarded the distance he still had to cover. A good mile or more lay between the palace gates and the palace.
“A horse, if you please, Captain,” said Henry. “I have an urgent meeting with Her Majesty.”
“Take mine, my lord,” said the captain.
Henry mounted the horse. He looked about and could see people standing in the shadows. Their faces were impassive, expressionless. They had not taken part in the attack, but neither had they come to his rescue.
He rode on toward the palace. He made a mental note to have the family coat of arms, now proudly emblazoned on the doors of the carriage, painted over.
* * *
Henry was well known in the palace, where he had his own small office. He waved away questions from the startled staff, who had yet to hear of the attack, and went to his office to survey the damage. He took off his greatcoat, which was missing buttons and had a torn sleeve. His silk stockings were in tatters, there was a bruise on his jaw, and he was bleeding from a cut on the side of his face.
He kept a change of clothing in the office, and he considered washing up and changing before he went to his meeting with the queen. He was already late, however, and he decided that it might be good for the queen to see for herself the mood of the people.
He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief and then walked through the palace’s famous Long Gallery, adorned with priceless paintings, porcelain, and statuary. He passed the Council Room where the queen met with her Privy Council, and headed to the queen’s office, which was in the west tower. He encountered Farley, the Lord Chamberlain, coming from a meeting with the queen.
Farley regarded Henry in shocked dismay. “My lord! I just heard of the attack! Most distressful.”
Henry agreed it was distressful. The Lord Chamberlain accompanied him into the Wait Room, which was across the hall from the office, and said he would inform Her Majesty.
The Wait Room was furnished with comfortable chairs. Henry longed to sit down, but he was starting to grow stiff and sore and he feared if he did, he might not get back up.
Fortunately, Her Majesty did not keep him waiting long. The Lord Chamberlain returned to say that he could go inside.
“Jo-Jo is with her, my lord,” Farley added in an undertone.
Henry grimaced. “Thank you for the warning.”
He entered the office. The room was spacious, light, and airy. Arched windows overlooked the park and the stables. Queen Mary had only to walk to the window to look out to see her horses taking their exercise.
This morning, the queen was at her desk, feeding grapes to her pet monkey, Jo-Jo, a gift from the former governor of Wellinsport in the Aligoes, who had been removed from office for corruption. Henry disliked Jo-Jo almost as much as he had disliked the governor.
Jo-Jo apparently felt the same about Henry, for at the sight of him, the monkey scrambled off the desk and ran back to its wooden stand, where it began to jump up and down and gibber at him.
Mary often insisted on conducting business with the monkey present, adding its shrill commentary and occasionally throwing grapes at him. Henry was never certain whether the queen kept the monkey by her side because she was fond of it or because she knew Henry wasn’t.
He was therefore surprised and gratified when Mary rang the bell and ordered the servant to take Jo-Jo back to its cage in the conservatory. The office was blessedly quiet after its departure.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Henry,” Mary stated, eyeing him with disfavor. “You look as though you just stepped out of the boxing ring.”
The queen was in her sixties. She had been athletic all her life, known for breeding griffins and fond of racing her horses in steeplechases and riding to the hunt. She was energetic, and restless, and had no use for reading or fancy work or gossip. She took pride in speaking her mind, leaving it to diplomats to be diplomatic. She was of medium height, solidly built, with shrewd eyes, and gray hair that she wore haphazardly pinned up in a bun.
“I heard your carriage was attacked,” Mary continued. “I’m glad to see you are in one piece.”
Henry bowed. “I would have changed clothes, Your Majesty, but I did not want to keep you waiting.”
Mary wagged her finger at him. “Stuff and nonsense, Henry. We know your ways. You exhibit your bumps and bruises so that we will feel sorry for you and you can talk us around to your point of view. Help yourself to some brandy. We will have one ourselves.”
As Henry went to pour the brandy, he wondered what was amiss. The queen never took strong drink in the morning. Henry carried the snifters, handed one to the queen, and then accepted her offer to sit down.
Mary fixed her forthright gaze on him.
“Tell us what happened. Old Farley was in such a dither we could make neither heads nor tails of what he was saying.”
Henry recounted the attack, sticking to the facts without embellishment, as she liked.
The queen listened; she was a good listener. “We are sorry this happened, Henry. We will see to it that coachman of yours is well looked after.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Henry. “I would suggest you warn future visitors to the palace to come by way of the no
rth gate. I will stop by the constabulary when I leave and ask them to increase their patrols in the park.”
Mary nodded and sat in silence. She seemed abstracted, staring at the brandy that she did not drink.
“Your Majesty sent for me,” Henry prodded. “How can I be of service?”
“You can’t, Henry,” said the queen. “No one can.”
She reverted to the personal, dropping the royal “we.” “I called you here to tell you that I am dying. I met with the Royal Physician yesterday. He says that there is nothing more to be done for me.”
Henry watched his world grow dark. He had his own agents in the palace, for it was his business to know the queen’s business, and he had received a report that the queen had met with her physician. She had not been feeling well of late, but he had not supposed the news would be this dire.
Mary took a healthy drink of brandy, made a face, and muttered, “Doctor’s orders.”
Henry knew the Royal Physician personally, for he had attended Lady Ann when she had given birth. Henry trusted the man implicitly, but he still said, “You should seek other opinions, ma’am—”
“Waste of time, Henry, and I have not much time to waste. The sawbones says six months, but the truth is he doesn’t know. I could keel over tomorrow. Seems I am dying of the same thing that killed my father—tumor in my gut.”
Henry had known Mary for years. They had been through a great deal together, starting with his fight to place her on the throne. He was deeply moved and for long moments could not speak.
“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” he said at last, clearing his throat.
The queen regarded him with a fond smile.
“I know you are, Henry,” she said. “That is why I wanted to tell you first. No one else knows.”
“And no one must know, ma’am!” said Henry emphatically.
The nation of Freya was already teetering on the brink of disaster. Word that the queen was dying—and that she was dying without an heir—would push it over the edge.
Mary nodded. “I have impressed upon the Royal Physician that he is sworn to secrecy. He has assured me he will respect my wishes completely.”
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