The guardsman had ranged far ahead of them. Henry could see his blue uniform. He pressed on. The countess kept pace with him, despite being hampered by having to clutch large folds of silk and petticoats.
Henry kept watch outside the windows, but could see nothing; no sign of a black ship. He decided Kate had made this up, though he could not fathom her motive. The long row of windows was coming to an end. The queen’s office was not far, down a hall and to the left.
Henry glanced back to see Cecile start to slow. She pressed her hand to her side. Corsets were not made for strenuous athletics.
“Go on!” she said to him. “I will catch up!”
Henry started to turn his head. He saw a flash of blue-green light outside the window. A bright green beam lanced through the night.
Henry reached out his hand, grabbed hold of Cecile, and pulled her into the hallway, as far from the windows as he could manage. He shoved her to the floor and dove on top of her.
The blast seemed to blow apart his world.
Glass shattered. Walls shook. He heard wood rending and a horrendous crash. Debris rained down around him, pelting him, hitting him on the head and the back and his legs. He had closed his eyes, but he could still see the bright green light, even through his eyelids. He remembered that terrible light. The last time he had seen it, the beam had destroyed his house.
He scrambled to his feet the moment the shaking stopped. Plaster was still falling all around him. Dust was rising, smoke began to drift down the hall. He looked behind and saw the gallery floor covered with splinters of broken glass that would have torn them to shreds if they had been standing there.
The countess lay on the floor, covered in plaster and dust, but apparently unharmed. She coughed and pushed herself up on her hands and knees.
“I am all right, Henry!” She choked on the smoke and coughed, motioning with her hand. “Go to the queen! Run!”
Henry ran through the dust and broken paintings and smashed furniture. He coughed in the smoke, rubbed grit from his eyes, spit dirt from his mouth, and still he kept running. Trying to outpace despair.
He was brought to a halt by a gigantic wooden beam that had split apart and crashed through the ceiling. The guardsman lay beneath it in a pool of blood. The beam had fallen on top of him, crushing him. He was still outside the office, or what was left of it.
Henry tried to call, but his mouth was dry and gritty. He moistened his mouth, spitting out the dirt.
“Your Majesty!” He broke off, coughing.
The floor gave a shudder like a living thing in pain. The danger had not ended with the blast. The contramagic was still at work, eating away every magical construct in the vicinity of the blast and spreading beyond. It would devour every construct in the stone walls, gnaw at the mortar between the stones. The magic would grow weaker and eventually stop, but this part of the palace might well collapse before that happened.
Henry shouted again for the queen. No response.
The hall that he knew so well was now unrecognizable; reduced to mounds of rubble, twisted iron, and smoke. He came to a door clogged with wreckage. He kicked aside debris and entered.
He could feel cold air on his face and realized it was blowing through a gigantic hole in the wall. The room was dark, lit only by an eerie white light. Henry couldn’t place the strange light for a moment, then he realized the magical glow came from the broken chunks of stone that had once formed the palace wall. Their magic was already starting to dim, as the contramagic ate it away.
He looked on a scene of utter destruction. The heavy timbers in the ceiling had cracked and fallen. The bookshelves that lined the walls had been knocked down; the floor was knee-deep in leather and vellum.
The furniture had been pulverized. Chairs were reduced to sticks of wood with bits of stuffing poking out. The chimney had toppled, filling the grate with bricks that smothered the fire. A few flames still flickered. Smoke drifted out, blown away by the wind.
“Your Majesty!” Henry called desperately, his voice ravaged by grit and smoke and fear.
He had only to look at the destruction to know she would not answer.
The queen kept her desk in front of the window, for she liked to be able to look out at the garden, at the trees and the flowers. She enjoyed watching the snow fall and her dogs playing in the yard. She ordered the grooms to walk her horses beneath the window so she could admire them.
He could not see the desk for the rubble that covered it.
Henry crawled and pushed and kicked and shoved his way through the debris. He hoped, prayed, that the queen had not been in her office. He told himself she was asleep in her bed. He made himself believe and he more than half expected to hear Mary come storming down the hall, bellowing in outrage and demanding to know who the devil had blown up her palace.
Henry at last reached the avalanche of debris. He smelled the stench of blood and looked down at his feet. The carpet was covered with blood, black in the eerie white light. His throat clogged, his tongue felt thick, and there was a horrid taste in his mouth. He dropped to his hands and knees, desperately hurling aside broken chunks of stone. He uncovered a small, crumpled body.
The monkey, little Jo-Jo, lay dead, covered in blood that was not all his own. He had his tiny paw wrapped around a hand; all that was visible of another body buried beneath the twisted beams, shattered glass, and broken stone.
Henry touched the upturned palm and felt the wrist. The flesh was cold, the pulse stilled. He knew Mary’s hand as well as he knew his own, but he continued to hope—until he saw the signet ring on her thumb. He could not count the number of times he had watched Her Majesty press that ring into the hot wax, stamping her decrees with the royal seal.
Henry gripped the queen’s hand and doubled over in wrenching grief.
“My lord…” Cecile called to him from the hall.
“Don’t come in here!” Henry warned, his voice rasping. “It’s not safe!”
“Her Majesty…”
“Dead,” said Henry.
“God give her ease,” said Cecile. Her voice tightened. “Was she … is there anyone else…?”
“Meaning is Thomas Stanford here?” Henry asked harshly. He swallowed, then said, “I do not think so. The queen died alone.”
He shuddered and the palace shuddered with him, as though sharing his grief.
“My lord, the ceiling might give way!” Cecile told him. “We must go.”
“I will not leave Her Majesty,” said Henry.
“You can do nothing—” Cecile began.
She stopped speaking and stared out past the shattered stones into the night, listening. Henry heard and raised his head. The crackling sounds carried clearly on the night air.
“That was gunfire!” Cecile said.
A cannon boomed and then another.
“The palace is under attack! My lord, you must come away!”
Henry shook his head and held fast to the queen. Cecile ventured into the room, following the path Henry had cleared through the ruin. Her hair straggled down over her shoulders. Her face was covered in dust and plaster. Blood trickled down her arms.
“Henry, listen to me!” she said, her words sharp and cold. “You know as well as I do that anyone associated with the royal family is now in danger and your wife is the queen’s niece! The Faithful could be in your house this very moment!”
Henry looked up at her.
“The dead have no more need of you, my lord,” Cecile said. “Your duty is to the living.”
Henry bowed his head and bade good-bye to the woman he had served and loved for so many years. He drew the signet ring from the queen’s thumb and closed his fist over it, pressed the queen’s cold hand to his lips, as he had done so many times before, and then stood up. He and Cecile made their way back through the wreckage.
“We will take my coach,” Cecile said.
“I have my own carriage,” said Henry harshly.
“And how far do you think you w
ill get through the palace grounds before the soldiers stop you?” Cecile asked.
They reached the hall and heard cries and shouts and the rattle of gunfire, sounding closer.
“My coach is parked in front of the palace,” said Cecile, frowning. “We must avoid the front entrance. The Faithful could have troops there already.”
“How do you know you won’t be arrested?” Henry asked.
“I am known to them,” said Cecile simply. “They will allow me to pass.”
Henry rounded on her. “You are known to them! They have killed my queen! Damn it, how the devil can I trust you?”
“Rebellion is contagious, like the plague,” Cecile said. “I swear to you I knew nothing about this plot. I serve a king. I would never sanction the murder of a king and neither would Prince Thomas. He wanted peace for Freya and so did Queen Mary. She knew she was dying and she feared the chaos that would follow. That was why she agreed to grant him an audience.”
Henry remembered the queen’s words: her last words, their final meeting.
We have made our decision regarding our heir. Our attorneys have drawn up the relevant paperwork so that all is legal …
You have served us well and faithfully for many years. We could not have asked for a more loyal and devoted servant … I ask you as a friend, Henry. Be the same devoted servant to your new monarch.
He carried the letter naming the heir with him, forgotten, in an inner pocket. He was aware of it now. It seemed to burn his flesh. He had no doubt what he would read when he opened it.
“This way, my lady,” said Henry. “I know a secret passage that will take us to the coach.”
FIFTY-NINE
Two guards had taken Kate into custody on Sir Henry’s orders.
“I need a word with the prisoner,” Cecile said in her cool, imperious tone. “Sir Henry sent me.”
“Of course, my lady,” said one of the guards.
They did not move, but remained near Kate, one on either side.
Cecile bent near and spoke in Kate’s ear. Kate was acutely conscious of Cecile’s elegant clothes and faint fragrance of spring, contrasting with her own torn shirt, filthy slops, and rumpled curls.
“Thomas is somewhere in this palace and he is danger. I dare not search for him, for I am being watched. Find him and warn him. Look first in the Rose Room.”
Kate had to know something first. “My lady, is Thomas involved in this plot?”
“He is not,” said Cecile. “But Sir Henry will never believe that. I must go now. Godspeed!”
Cecile squeezed her hand and departed, leaving Kate to stare after her in astonishment. The countess seemed to take it for granted that Kate knew Thomas, when she had been so careful never to mention his name to either the countess or Sophia.
Cecile also appeared to take it for granted that Kate could escape her guards and then find Thomas, who was in the Rose Room, wherever that was.
And all the while the black ship was sailing nearer and nearer, coming to blow up the palace.
“Bloody hell,” Kate muttered.
The guards marched over to a wall and made her stand facing it, toes up against the decorative wainscott, like a naughty child told to stand in a corner. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Cecile gathering up her skirts and running after Sir Henry.
The rotunda was the scene of confusion, as guards shoved heavy furniture across the ornate doors to barricade the main entrance and rifleman smashed glass out of the windows and took up positions, ready to defend the palace. Courtiers had heard the commotion and came running to the rotunda to find out what was going on.
The clock had chimed eleven times ages ago—or so it seemed to Kate—and nothing had happened. Perhaps she had done more damage than she had thought and the ship had crashed. Perhaps she had been wrong about the target. Perhaps the green beam weapon hadn’t worked.
She felt the blast at the same time she heard it, a dull, rumbling roar that rolled down the halls and sent tremors through the building. Paintings fell from the walls and statues toppled over; people gasped, cried out, or froze in shock. Frightened and confused, they looked at one another for answers.
Someone shouted that it was a bomb, and that set off a panic. Some ran toward the doors, but the soldiers had barricaded those and were instantly caught up in a swirling knot of screaming confusion. Some ran up the stairs, colliding with people running down from upper levels.
Kate jammed her elbow into the ribs of one of her guards, dodged around the other, and made a dash for the stairs. Her guards cried for someone to stop her, but their shouts were lost in the tumult. She climbed the stairs as fast as she could, bumping into people, stumbling, and falling. She pushed herself back to her feet and finally made it to the mezzanine. Kate looked down to see her guards angrily thrusting people aside, trying to reach her.
The countess had told her to look for Thomas in the Rose Room, but there must be hundreds of rooms in this palace and she had no idea where to even start searching.
She would have to ask someone, but now her main task was to avoid being caught. The guards were pursuing her gamely, though they were now bogged down by a torrent of bodies. She ran down the first hall she found, avoiding people when she could, shoving them aside when she couldn’t. People stared at her and called out to her, but no one tried to stop her.
She paused to catch her breath and look behind her and there were the damned guards, still doggedly chasing her. She reached the end of the hall, where she saw a tower with a narrow staircase that spiraled up and down.
Kate did not know where the stairs led, but anywhere was better than where she was. She started to go down, then realized that the guards might assume she would go down because that was easier, so she ran up instead. She climbed two flights, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and her legs burning with the effort. She quit climbing, pulled open a door and ran through it.
Clapping the door shut behind her, she fell back against it and gulped in air.
She heard the guards running up the stairs and she stopped breathing, afraid they might hear her. The guards paused at her door, but then continued on, going up the next flight. Kate sucked in a few gasping breaths, then looked around.
She was standing in a long, wide gallery with a vaulted ceiling made of panes of glass. Looking up, she could see the stars. The gallery was dark except for the starlight and appeared to be deserted.
Kate held her breath, listening, but she could not hear any voices, or footsteps. No lights shone. At a time when the entire palace had been roused by the explosion, the silence here was odd, foreboding.
Kate was frustrated. She had no idea where she was, much less how to find the Rose Room. She had hoped to ask a servant, but this hall appeared to be unoccupied. Any moment the guards would realize they had lost her, retrace their steps, and come looking for her. She hurried down the hall, trying door handles, hoping to find someone, anyone, to ask.
Most of the doors were locked, but she finally came across one that wasn’t and opened it. The room was dark. The chandeliers were wrapped in white cloth, and white cloths covered the furniture. The carpets had been taken up and stashed in a corner, and the floor was covered in dust.
Kate shut the door and continued down the hall and tried another. This room was shrouded in the same cloths and the same dust. The entire floor must be closed up, sealed off.
She stopped to ponder what to do. She no longer worried about the guards. They must have given up the search by now. Her only concern was to save Thomas before Sir Henry found him. Sir Henry had said he would place Thomas under arrest, but if the assassination attempt had succeeded and the queen was dead, Thomas would face a far more terrible fate.
Just as she was thinking that, she heard the crackle of gunfire. The sound was distant, coming from outside the palace, but she still shuddered.
Kate looked up through the skylight, into the night, and was startled to see the Naofa, her sails black against the frosty stars. The ship
was sailing away from the palace, bound on its second mission, whatever that was. She had never been able to find out.
Kate shivered. The ship was a long way off. They could not possibly see her, yet she had to resist a temptation to run into a room and hide.
She looked around, desperate and frustrated. The palace was four stories tall with three wings, hundreds of rooms, dozens of hallways, passageways, and stairs. She could search for days and not find the Rose Room. At this point, she was beginning to wonder if there was anyone left to ask.
She continued down the long, empty gallery. She might have been in the Deep Breath: the same cold, the same emptiness, the same drowning silence.
Just as she began to feel a little panicked that she might never find her way out, she saw a glimmer of light far ahead. She increased her pace, and saw the light grow brighter. The ghostly hall was coming to an end at last, intersecting with another hall that ran at right angles, forming the shape of a T.
Kate could now hear men’s voices, and she slowed to listen. They were talking in even, measured tones, not yammering in panic. She could not make out what they were saying, for their voices were low, but she could distinguish one voice speaking with authority, as though giving orders.
She had come all this way only to run into the palace guard.
They could have been sent by Sir Henry to search for Thomas or they might even be looking for her. She flattened herself against a door in the darkened hall, near the intersection, and watched and listened, trying to understand what the guardsmen were saying.
She could hear brisk footfalls coming down the well-lighted hall and a voice call out “Colonel Smythe!” and the sound of a man running down the hall to catch up.
Kate recognized the name. Franklin had spoken of a Colonel Smythe and so had Thomas. He was the commander of this Army of Royal Retribution and if he and his soldiers were in the palace, then Thomas must be safe.
Kate sighed in relief, then felt guilty for being relieved. These men were responsible for the queen’s death. She had Cecile’s assurance that Thomas was not involved and Kate hoped that was true. Still, his own army would see to it that he was protected.
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