“That explosion…” Sir Richard sank into his chair, pale and unsteady, supporting himself with his hands. “Oh, God, Smythe! What have you done? Queen Mary was an anointed monarch! You assured us she would not be harmed!”
Smythe regarded him with cool pity. “Claim ignorance if it eases your conscience, my lord, but you and the other members of the Faithful knew we could not achieve victory unless we took swift and decisive action. Lex Talionis. Day of Retribution. The Faithful devised the name. What did you gentlemen think it meant?”
“Not murder!” Richard cried. He turned to Thomas with outstretched hands, begging for understanding. “The queen was to be arrested, sir, removed to Offdom Tower. I swear before God I did not know—”
“You knew, my lord,” Smythe remarked caustically. “You were the one who alerted me that the prince was about to upset our plans by coming here in secret. You were the one who shared the time of the meeting, so that we would know where to find the queen and when.”
Richard swallowed and moistened his lips. “I feared for your safety, Your Highness. I tried to warn you that Masterson was working for my brother. You would not listen to reason…”
“Phillip Masterson was not the one who betrayed me,” said Thomas. “He did not betray his queen!”
Richard lowered his eyes and sank, trembling, into the chair. He put his hand over his eyes. “I did not know…” he repeated.
Thomas stared at the wretched man and started to turn away. Then he realized, sick with horror, that this is what he always did. He turned away.
He had not comitted the crime, but he was still responsible. His was the sin of omission, if not commission. He had been in that army camp, seen the troop carriers. He had heard his mother talk of the violent overthrow of the queen. He had turned away, averted his face, looked somewhere else; anywhere else except at the truth.
The accident of his birth. Thomas wished to God he had never been born.
“I must apologize for detaining Your Highness,” Smythe continued gravely. “I needed you to be inside the palace in order to establish your claim to the throne, but I had to ensure your safety.”
“What you mean is that you had to keep me from dying alongside the queen,” said Thomas harshly.
“I did what was necessary to secure your crown, sir,” said Smythe. “The queen’s half brothers, Hugh and Jeffrey, and her sister, Elinor, have been taken into custody. The other members of the royal family of House Chessington are being apprehended as we speak.”
He glanced at Richard. “Including your brother, Henry Wallace, and his lady wife.”
Richard shuddered as though he had been struck a blow.
Smythe continued. “Armies loyal to Your Highness are now marching on the port cities of Whithaven, East Aulkin, and Fort Upton.”
“They are not my armies!” Thomas cried. He drew the ring the queen had given him off his finger and threw it to the floor. “You might as well arrest me, too, Colonel, for I want no part of this bloody insurrection. I renounce the throne.”
Smythe gave a grave nod. He bent down, picked up the ring. “I anticipated Your Highness would be reluctant.” He gestured to one of the guardsmen. “Bring the duke.”
The man opened the door and called, “Bring Masterson.”
Two soldiers entered. They carried Phillip between them, dragging him by his arms. The soldiers flung him facefirst to the floor. One of them shoved him with his boot, rolled him over so that he lay on his back. His face was battered and bloody.
He groaned. His eyelids fluttered. He tried to talk, choked and retched. Thomas knelt beside him.
“I am here, Pip,” he said. He looked up at Smythe. “He needs a physician!”
“Masterson will be fine. The laudanum will soon wear off,” said Smythe. “Probably sooner than he would like.”
“Why are you doing this, Smythe?” Thomas demanded. He rose to his feet and turned to face him. “What do you want from me?”
“Ah, now we get to the nub of the matter. When I undertook this command at the behest of your mother and the Faithful, I believed I was doing God’s work. We would remove a profligate, corrupt family from the throne and restore Freya to her rightful position as a power in the world. I believed in you, Your Highness, and in your cause,” said Smythe. “And then I came to know you.
“You are a man of honor and strong principles. I have been told these are excellent qualities in a king.” Smythe shrugged. “Sadly, you are also a fool who doesn’t have the wit to know what to do with the power God has given you.
“I do know what to do with power, Your Highness. I have plans for Freya and her people,” Smythe went on. “For years, I watched a feeble queen and her lackwit councilors such as Sir Richard beggar my country and grovel before godless infidels such as King Renaud. I could no longer stand idly by and watch my country sink into the stew of corruption.
“But then, I thought, who will pay heed to me and my ideas?” Smythe asked. “Who am I? A man of low birth. A common soldier, as your lady mother delights in reminding me. The meanest beggar on the street would pay no heed to me. Your Highness speaks and kings jump to do your bidding.”
“I see what you are planning and I would sooner dance with the devil,” Thomas said with contempt. “You might as well put a bullet in my head now, Smythe, for I will not be a party to this deranged scheme of yours.”
“I will not harm you, sir,” Smythe replied. “You are the true and rightful king. I need you and I hope you will eventually realize that you need me. We will make a good team. But in case you don’t come to your senses, I am holding the duke as surety for your good behavior, as well as your mother and father, who are now prisoners in Bheldem. They will remain safe, so long as you do what you are bidden. Your first test will come with the dawn.”
“You are mad!” said Thomas.
Smythe nodded in understanding. “I can see why you would think that. But consider this, sir. My armies control one of the most powerful nations in the world. That is not the work of a madman. That is the work of a man whom God has chosen to rule.”
The sound of gunfire coming from outside laid emphasis to Smythe’s words. The palace guard would resist, but Thomas doubted they could hold out long against an army of Guundaran mercenaries; the same army that had been “out on manuevers” when he had gone to the fort to review the troops.
I was a fool, Thomas thought in bitter self-recrimination. And now men are paying for my folly with their lives.
Smythe drew close to Thomas. “You have no choice, sir. If you try to publicly denounce me, I will say truthfully that the death of the queen was done in your name. You ordered the armies to march, to arrest those who oppose you. And who will say differently? Not one of my men. They are loyal to me.”
“I will denounce you,” cried Richard, livid with anger. “The Faithful will denounce you!”
Smythe drew his pistol, cocked it, aimed, and fired.
Richard fell back into his chair with a cry, and gazed in disbelief at a hole in the brocade. Blood began to flow. He clasped his hand over his arm and the blood welled out from between his fingers.
Thomas heard the faint sound of barking through the open door. The barking was quickly stifled.
“There was no need for that!” Thomas cried angrily raising his voice hoping Smythe had not heard the dog.
“I have no patience for fools,” said Smythe as he thrust the pistol back into his belt.
Thomas went to Sir Richard’s side and drew aside the bloody fabric. The bullet was lodged in the man’s upper arm. Richard groaned in pain.
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, clasping Thomas’s hand. “He is right. I was a fool.”
“And so was I, my lord,” said Thomas quietly. “I trusted this man.” He cast Smythe a grim look. “I want no more bloodshed. What would you have me do?”
“A wise decision, sir,” said Smythe. “In the morning, when Haever is firmly under my control, you will appear before the people. You will ex
press your grief at the queen’s death at the hands of the Rosians—”
“The Rosians?” Thomas repeated, aghast. “You will start a war!”
“Such is my intent,” said Smythe. “That reminds me. Corporal Jennings, have the men found Princess Sophia?”
“No, sir,” said Jennings. “She was last seen on this floor. She could not have gone far. I could conduct a search, go room by room.”
“Do so,” said Smythe. “Take the sergeant with you.”
“What do you want with Her Highness?” Thomas demanded, as the two men departed. He could guess, now, the identity of the barking dog and knew Sophia must be close by.
“The princess is a witch, sir, and must not be allowed anywhere near Your Highness,” Smythe replied. “I have proof, for she used her foul magicks to attack several of my men.”
“You cannot be serious. Sophia is not a witch,” Thomas protested, incredulous. “She is a savant, unusually gifted in the art of crafting.”
“So the corrupt priests have led the populace to believe, sir,” Smythe said gravely. “The truth is that these so-called savants have obtained their skills by pledging their souls to the Evil One. We will find Your Highness a more suitable wife.”
Smythe continued talking, saying something about the ring of King James and laying claim to the throne, assuring the people that their nation was blessed by God.
Thomas was no longer listening. He remembered looking over the balcony to the pavement so far below. He could not go through with this. Death would be preferable. All he had to do was turn and run …
“One of you, shut those doors,” Smythe ordered. “His Highness finds the sound of gunfire distressing.”
He walked over to Thomas and rested his hand almost gently on his shoulder. “Make up your mind and this trial will be easier for you. You will be king, Your Highness, for as long as I say you will be king.”
* * *
Kate and Sophia sat on the balcony in the darkness, their hands clasped as they listened to the conversation coming from the Yellow Drawing Room. They could not hear everything, but they had heard enough.
Kate grieved for Thomas and feared for him. She remembered Dalgren, and how, crushed by shame and dishonor, he had sunk to the ground when the dragons had pronounced his sentence,.
“Corporal Jennings, have the men found Princess Sophia?”
The reply was muffled, but Kate and Sophia both heard clearly the words “search room by room.”
“Jennings mustn’t find us here!” Kate said urgently, jumping to her feet. “He knows me. Smythe will know we were eavesdropping!. We have to leave. Quickly, before the search gets organized!”
She flung open the balcony doors. Sophia picked up Bandit and hurried after her. The room was dark, but their eyes had already adjusted to the darkness and they hastened toward the door doing their best to avoid bumping into the furniture.
“But Corporal Jennings, there’s nothing’s here,” said a voice right outside the door. “This is a wall.”
“We are meant to think this is a wall, Sergeant. But it isn’t. It’s an illusion spell. Remember, the princess is a witch.”
“A witch?” Sophia gasped, shocked.
“No time! Hide!” Kate whispered frantically.
Sophia crouched down behind a sofa, holding Bandit in her arms, her hand clamped on his jaws. Kate ducked behind a curtain. The room was dark. She hoped Jennings would just open the door, give a cursory glance around, and, seeing nothing, he would shut the door and move on.
Kate parted the curtain a fraction and peeked out to see the door open.
Jennings and the soldier entered, both carrying bull’s-eye lanterns. They walked a short distance into the room and sent their lights flashing about.
“Close the door, Sergeant,” Jennings ordered. “And light one of those lamps.”
Kate bit her lip. She was near the fireplace. There would be a fireplace poker, if only she could lay her hands on it.
As the sergeant turned and started to light a lamp, Jennings drew his pistol and savagely struck the man on the back of his skull. The sergeant dropped to the floor. Jennings stepped over the body, shut the door, and then turned around.
“I know you are in here, Your Highness,” he said. “Only a savant could cast such a spell.”
Sophia slowly straightened up from behind the couch. Bandit wriggled in her arms and started to growl. Kate walked out from behind the curtain and went over to stand protectively near Sophia. She cast a longing glance at the fireplace, but had to give up the idea of grabbing the poker. Jennings was still holding the pistol.
Jennings gave a start of surprise on seeing Kate, but he had no time for questions. He turned to Sophia.
“I am glad I found you, ma’am. We must hurry. We don’t have much time.”
Sophia faced him with defiance. “I don’t know what you mean. What are you going to do with us?”
“I am going to take you to a place of safety, ma’am,” Jennings said. He thrust the pistol into his belt and held out his hand to her. “I am an agent for the Countess de Marjolaine.”
SIXTY-TWO
The countess’s wyverns were well trained and exceptionally fast, but they were not fast enough for Henry. He was seated on the box, beside the coachman, to provide the man with directions to his house. He watched the city flow beneath them, a swirling river of fear. Mobs filled the streets, firing off pistols, breaking into stores, looting and burning, spreading chaos and terror.
Soldiers of the Army of Retribution were in the streets, as well, seizing control of government buildings, rounding up opponents. Henry looked down on the Foreign Office as the coach flew over it to see soldiers entering the building.
When he and the countess were leaving the palace, the guard had come to their aid, holding off the foes until Henry and Cecile could safely enter the coach. Henry had seen the enemy massing outside the gates. The palace guard were outnumbered. The palace would not stand long.
He thought of his wife and children, alone in the house, with only the servants and the wounded Mr. Sloan standing between them and the soldiers who had orders to seize those related to the queen and her supporters. Lady Ann was the queen’s niece. He was … had been … the queen’s trusted spymaster. The soldiers were being led by a man who had committed murder before now and would not hesitate to kill again. Henry was a prey to such agony he could scarcely refrain from leaping from the coach and running to his home on foot.
“Are we close, my lord?” the coachman asked. “I need to know when to start my descent.”
Henry tried to determine their location. He stared down at the streets below him, but they were only streets. He had no sense of where he was; only that he was not where he desperately needed to be.
Then he saw beacon lights shining from a church steeple, serving as a warning to flying vehicles and griffin riders that they should not approach.
Henry gripped the coachman by the arm. “The church is only a few miles from my house. Follow this street. You can start your descent now.”
The coachman ran his hand over the small brass helm that controlled the lift tanks and shouted an order to the wyverns. The coach began to descend.
“My lord, look there!” The coachman pointed with his whip.
A troop wagon drawn by four horses was turning onto the street where Henry lived. The wagon was filled with soldiers and he knew with sickening certainty they were bound for his house.
“Do not fear, my lord,” said the coachman, a big, burly man named Cousailles. “You will find two rifles located beneath the seat. A brace of pistols, as well.”
“Are they loaded?” Henry asked, reaching down.
“Yes, my lord,” said Cousailles. “I always go armed when I drive Her Ladyship.”
“Knowing Her Ladyship, I will wager you’ve had occasion to use them,” said Henry with a faint smile.
“That I have, my lord,” said the coachman. “I’m a crack shot, if I do say so myself. I wa
s a soldier in the Royal Fusiliers. This coach is armored in magic, as well. Her Ladyship and I will see to it that no harm comes to you and yours.”
Henry found the man’s cheerful confidence comforting. The coach left the troop wagon some distance behind and he lost sight of them in the darkness. He was close now. He could see his house in the light of the street lamps. The windows were dark and for a moment his heart constricted in fear.
Then he reminded himself that Mr. Sloan was with his family, and with his unfailing good sense, he would have foreseen the danger and ordered the servants to douse the lights, draw the curtains, bolt the doors, and shutter the windows.
The coach made a smooth descent. The wyverns landed on the lawn, nearly touching the door stoop, coming as close to the house as the coachman dared. The beasts sensed the tension and started to act up, biting at each other’s heads. The coachman sent a flicker of magic through the harnesses, giving them a mild jolt, and the wyverns settled down.
“Drive around back,” Henry instructed, jumping from the box. “I will meet you there.”
Cecile opened the door and climbed from the coach.
“You should remain inside, my lady,” Henry said curtly.
“Nonsense,” she replied coolly. “You may need my help. We must be quick. The soldiers have seen us.”
Henry glanced down the street. The wagon carrying the soldiers was yet some distance away, but it had increased its speed. Cousailles drove the coach around the house to the rear, plying the whip. The wyverns lumbered over the grass, trampling shrubs and flower beds. Henry ran to the front door and was about to hammer on it when it swung open.
The butler, Jacobs, stood in the entrance, armed with a pistol.
“Thank God you are safe, my lord!” he exclaimed.
Henry bounded inside, shoving past Jacobs, who was staring in amazement at Cecile. Her face was smeared with grime and blood. And though she had taken time while in the carriage to braid her hair to be out of the way, it was covered in dust and dirt, a mockery of wig powder. Yet she entered the house as coolly and serenely as she would if she were arriving for dinner and an evening of cards.
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