“The Countess de Marjolaine,” Henry said hurriedly by way of introduction.
Jacobs was eyeing the countess uncertainly, perhaps unsure of the proper etiquette for receiving her. The House Servant’s Directory did not cover such situations as the household fleeing arrest and imprisonment.
“Where is my family?” Henry demanded.
“Lady Ann and the children are with Mr. Sloan in the library, my lord. He deemed it the safest place in the house, due to the magical protection.”
“The rest of the servants?” Henry asked.
“Her Ladyship sent them away,” said the butler. “I took it upon myself to wait for your arrival, my lord. Baxter has returned with the carriage. He said to tell you he would wait in the alley around back.”
“You have done well, Jacobs,” said Henry, as he hurried toward the library. “Shut this door and lock it. The warding magic won’t stop the soldiers, but it will slow them down. Do you have some safe refuge?”
“I do, my lord. I am friends with Sir Reginald’s butler. His Lordship is out of town. I will be safe there.”
“Then off you go, Jacobs,” said Henry. “Thank you!”
“I will take your pistol, Jacobs,” Cecile said.
Jacobs handed over the pistol, then departed, heading for the servants’ entrance in the back.
Cecile tucked the pistol into the waist of her skirt, then pulled her cloak over it.
“One can generally judge people by the loyalty of their staff. You must be a good master, Henry,” she remarked.
“I cannot take the credit. It is all Lady Ann’s doing,” said Henry.
They arrived at the library and found the door closed.
“Don’t touch the handle!” Henry warned Cecile.
Mr. Sloan would have activated the magical warding constructs that would give anyone trying to force the door an extremely nasty shock. Henry raised his voice.
“Mr. Sloan!” he called. “The soldiers are down the block. We do not have a moment to lose!”
The handle glowed blue; the magic was bright as Mr. Sloan disarmed it.
“Safe now, my lord,” Mr. Sloan called.
Henry flung open the door. Ann was inside the room, holding their baby daughter in her arms. Young Hal was standing protectively at his mother’s side, trying very hard to look brave.
“Oh, Henry!” Ann gasped when she saw his disheveled state. “Are you all right? What has happened?”
Before speaking, Henry gathered his family in his arms and held them close.
“No time for explanations, my love,” he said, brisk and businesslike. “The Countess de Marjolaine has kindly offered to convey you and the children to Everux. You will be safe there. Her Ladyship’s coach is waiting around back.”
“The Countess de Marjolaine?” Ann repeated, staring wide-eyed at her husband’s most implacable foe, now standing in her library.
“Lady Ann, I am only too glad to be able to offer my help,” said Cecile. “Are you ready? Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“Mr. Sloan warned us we should be prepared to travel,” Ann replied. “The children are warmly dressed. I have my jewels and the family documents.”
Ann gave Henry a conscious look as she said this and he realized that the “family documents” must be important papers Mr. Sloan considered too valuable to be discovered.
“I will take you and the children to my coach, Lady Ann,” Cecile offered. She reached out to Hal. “Master Henry, would you be so kind as to serve as my escort?”
Hal glanced at his father, who nodded. “Go with your mother and the countess, son.”
Hal’s lower lip trembled, but he made a little bow and took the countess’s hand.
“I will show you the way, my lady,” he said gallantly.
Cecile gave Henry a reassuring smile. Ann paused long enough to give him a kiss. “My aunt? Is she safe?”
“You must go, my love,” said Henry.
Ann paled. She tightened her lips, gave him a trembling smile, and hurried past him and out the library door. Henry could hear his son saying to Cecile in a confidential tone, “Mummy doesn’t know it, but I sneak out the servants’ door when I don’t want Nurse to find me.”
Henry smiled, touched by his son’s confession, and had to take a moment to swallow the choking sensation in his throat. He had no idea if or when he would ever see them again.
Mr. Sloan was on his feet. He appeared extremely weak and his bandage was stained with fresh blood. He did have some color in his face, however, although Henry guessed the flush had come from the brandy decanter.
“My lord, I am gratified to see you safe,” said Mr. Sloan.
“Not safe as yet, Mr. Sloan. Soldiers are in the street,” said Henry. “They could be here any moment.”
“I anticipated as much, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Everything is in order. We have only to shut the door and the magic will activate.”
“Very good, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “If you will wait a moment, I have one task I must attend to first.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out the queen’s letter. She had written on the front in her firm, untidy hand: To Be Opened on the Event of My Death.
He broke the seal. The document was brief.
I, Queen Mary Elizabeth Ann Chessington, hereby appoint His Royal Highness Crown Prince Thomas James Stanford my heir to the throne in accordance with the Palace Law on Succession.
The letter was dated, signed, and sealed with the royal signet ring; the same ring Henry had removed from her cold, still hand. He folded the document and thrust it inside his coat.
“We can go now, Mr. Sloan.”
They left the study. Henry closed the door behind them. Mr. Sloan passed his hand over the door handle, activating the magic. He was about to do the same for the door itself when he grimaced and stifled a groan. Sweat covered his forehead.
“You should accompany your family, my lord.”
“I have done without your services for far too long, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose you again. Finish the crafting, then give me your arm.”
Mr. Sloan demurred, but Henry was adamant. He put his arm around Mr. Sloan and the two men hurried down the hallway. Behind them, they could hear sizzling and crackling sounds and screams coming from the front of the house. Some poor devil must have tried to open the front door.
“Queen Mary is dead, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.
“I am truly sorry, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Her Majesty was a good queen and a great lady.”
“She was, Mr. Sloan. She was,” said Henry.
Mr. Sloan hesitated, then asked, “Is there news of your brother, Sir Richard…?”
“I cannot think about him now, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.
“I understand, my lord.”
They exited the house. The coach was parked in the kitchen garden. The wyverns were kneading their claws into the herb beds and the smell of crushed rosemary scented the air. He saw Baxter sitting atop the box of his own carriage in the alleyway and waved to let him know he had seen him.
The countess was standing by the door to her coach, holding the pistol.
“Your wife and children are safely inside, my lord. Mr. Sloan, there is room for you, as well.”
“Guard my family, Franklin,” Henry said, assisting him to climb into the coach.
“With my life, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.
The coachman, Cousaille, indicated he was ready to depart. He had one hand on the brass helm and was holding a rifle in the other.
Ann leaned out the coach window to grip Henry by the hand. “I know you must stay behind, my love. For my sake, take care of yourself.”
Henry kissed her hand, too emotional to speak. She withdrew back into the coach and shut the window. Henry rested his hand on the side of the coach, loath to let her and his children go, knowing he had no choice.
“I will take care of your family,” Cecile promised. She handed hi
m the pistol.
“I have not words enough to thank you, my lady,” said Henry.
Cecile gripped his arm tightly. “You can do something for me in return. Thomas Stanford is a good and brave young man. If what I fear has come to pass, he will need your help, Henry. Do not abandon him.”
He did not answer, but thought of the letter he carried. Cecile climbed inside the coach and shut the door. Henry gave the signal. Cousaille roared a command to the wyverns and sent the magic flooding through the lift tanks. The coach rose from the ground and flew off, using the treetops as cover.
Most of the soldiers were inside the house, ransacking it, but some must have seen the coach depart, for Henry heard shouts, and someone fired at it. The coach was armored with magical constructs, and bullets would have no effect, but he did not stir until he was certain it was safely away.
He then had to consider his own danger. The soldiers would probably think he had escaped inside the coach, but he took no chances. He ducked down, making himself as small as possible, in case anyone came around to the back to search for him, and ran to his carriage.
Baxter was sitting on the box, armed with a rifle.
“I have fresh horses, my lord,” he said.
“Good work, Baxter,” said Henry. “I’ll take the rifle and sit up top with you.”
He climbed onto the box and settled himself, then looked back at his house in time to see and hear the explosion. A portion of the wall in the vicinity of the library glowed bright blue and began to crumble. Baxter slapped the reins and the horses broke into a gallop.
“Where are we bound, my lord?” Baxter asked.
Henry had been thinking about where to go, what to do next. He had sent Amelia to warn Alan and Randolph that their country was in peril and he trusted his two friends were now on their way to the Naval Yard to defend their ships.
He thought of Simon and he glanced skyward. He could see Welkinstead peacefully drifting among the stars. Simon would be absorbed in his work, as usual, with no idea of the death and destruction taking place on the ground. Henry touched the letter secreted in his pocket. If ever he needed Simon’s advice, he needed it now.
“I need a griffin. I must reach Welkinstead,” said Henry.
“The Naval Club, my lord?” Baxter asked. The Naval Club kept griffins for the use of their members, and Henry had on occasion used their beasts. But he could not do that now.
“The Naval Club is one of the first places the soldiers would attack. The officers are probably fighting for their lives.”
“Then we will make for the Regent’s Arms, sir,” said Baxter. “It’s not far and they have a griffin hostelry there.”
As the carriage reached the end of the alley, Henry looked back over his shoulder. The blue glow still lit the night. The soldiers would be attempting to salvage papers from his library, but they would have little luck. Mr. Sloan’s magic would have obliterated his papers and books, reducing them to cinders and ashes. The library itself would now be a pile of rubble.
Henry turned back with a sigh.
“I saw the de Marjolaine coat of arms on the coach. Her Ladyship and the little ones will be safe, my lord,” said Baxter, trying to reassure him. “Where does Her Ladyship does her yacht?”
“Hampton Yard,” Henry replied. “The countess docks there when she is in Haever.”
Hampton Yard was an exclusive, private docking facility that catered to a noble and wealthy clientele. King Ullr kept his yacht there when he traveled, as did King Renaud of Rosia. The yard was well guarded, as Henry had reason to know, for he had once sent his agents to try to break into Ullr’s yacht and the guards had driven them off.
“The soldiers will be far more interested in warships than a few elegant yachts,” Henry added. “They are probably now fighting to seize the Naval Yard.”
“A bad business, my lord,” Baxter said. “Mr. Sloan explained some of it to me while we were waiting.”
Henry did not reply. He was mentally with his family inside the coach. Cecile and Ann would already be friends, and Cecile would gently break the news about the queen. Ann would be deeply grieved, for she loved her aunt. She would be worried about him, but she had royal blood in her veins and would put her country first. He was proud that she had not wept over him and pleaded with him to stay.
“My Mouse,” he said to himself, and he remembered that it was Queen Mary who had given Ann her nickname.
“She’s a mousey little thing,” Mary had said to him. “But she will make you a good wife, Henry.”
Henry put his hand to his eyes and let the tears trickle through his fingers.
* * *
The Regent’s Arms was ablaze with lights and awash in rumor. All the guests were awake, either running around in their nightclothes, demanding to know what was going on, or shouting for their carriages.
Baxter pulled into the yard.
“There, my lord!” he said, indicating a hired griffin saddled and ready to fly. “Made to order.”
A gentleman was standing beside the beast, berating the stable hand, claiming the man had not properly secured his luggage. Henry climbed down, giving final instructions.
“Drive to the house in Staffordshire, Baxter. If the soldiers are there, let it be known that I have fled the country. You should be safe. Keep the carriage hidden. If possible, my friends and I will meet you there.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Baxter. “Godspeed!”
He drove out of the yard and Henry hurried to the gentleman who had settled the issue of his luggage and was preparing to mount the griffin.
“Excuse me, sir, but I am in haste and I require this beast far more urgently that you do.” Henry drew out his pocketbook. “I will pay you any amount you require as recompense for the inconvenience.”
The man eyed Henry with contempt, for which Henry couldn’t really blame him. He was filthy and disheveled and must look like a vagrant.
“Go to the devil,” the man said, and put his foot in the stirrup.
Henry was in no mood to argue. He seized hold of the man by the collar, flung him to the ground, and aimed a pistol at his head.
“I will take the griffin and your helmet, as well, sir,” Henry told him.
When the man swore at him, Henry cocked the pistol.
“I really do not want to put a bullet in you or the helmet, sir, but I will if I must.”
The man yanked off the helmet and threw it at Henry with a snarl. Henry picked up the helm, put it on, then removed the man’s luggage and tossed it in the muck. He mounted the griffin, who was glaring at him.
“I’m extremely sorry for the row,” Henry said to the beast by way of apology. “I don’t have time to explain, but you might want to depart these stables and not return. Otherwise you could find yourself conscripted into a rebel army.”
The griffin must have been listening to the rumors, for after some consideration, it appeared to agree with Henry’s assessment. Henry strapped himself into the saddle, just as the innkeeper came running outside in response to the commotion.
“I will be keeping the griffin,” Henry called to him, and he tossed his pocketbook to the man.
As the griffin flew off, Henry saw the innkeeper pick up the pocketbook, open it and smile in satisfaction. He then tried to placate the other guest, who was sitting in the muck, shaking his fist at Henry and shouting imprecations.
The griffin shifted its head to seek instructions.
“The floating house,” said Henry. “Welkinstead. Are you familiar with it?”
The griffin nodded and they took to the air. Henry located the house; the odd-looking combination of turrets and steeples, chimneys and towers, made a strange-looking blot against the stars.
The griffin suddenly opened its beak and gave a screeching caw, startling Henry, who wondered what was wrong. The beast was staring off to the east. Henry raised the visor on the helm to follow the griffin’s gaze, and saw another blot on the starlight: a black ship.
Th
e griffin gnashed its beak. Griffins had served in the war against the Bottom Dwellers and had no love for them.
Henry gripped the reins and watched the progress of the ship, wondering where it was bound. Following the ship’s trajectory with his eyes, he stiffened.
The black ship was sailing straight for Welkinstead.
Henry could not believe it. Why would this Colonel Smythe target Simon Yates? As far as most people knew, Simon was nothing more than the eccentric owner of a flying house. Only a few knew that Simon was, as Henry termed him, Freya’s “secret weapon.” Simon’s unique ability to read, remember, gather, and sift through mounds of seemingly irrelevant and insignificant details was invaluable to the nation.
And, as such, he was a threat.
But how had Smythe found out? Simon’s role in Freya’s intelligence network was a closely held state secret. Only the queen and a handful of others knew his value to the country.
A handful of others … including Richard Wallace.
A leading member of the House of Nobles, Richard was one of the few who knew that Simon worked for the crown. And as a member of the Faithful, he must have shared that information with Smythe.
“You have a great deal to answer for, Brother,” said Henry grimly to the dark night. “By God, if you are responsible for killing Simon, I will dance at your hanging!”
The black ship was sailing straight toward the floating house, but it was moving slowly, seeming to crawl through the mists. Kate had disabled one of the airscrews and that had reduced the ship’s speed, plus it was flying a little off kilter. Its green beam weapon had long range, however. The ship would not need to be close to the house to open fire on it.
Welkinstead was made of magic, as the saying went. The duchess had been a renowned crafter, as well as architect, artist, musician, scientist, and God knew what else. Magic imbued the walls and kept the towers standing and the house floating. The green beam with its contramagic could utterly obliterate it.
Henry leaned forward over the griffin’s neck and shouted so that the beast could hear him.
“That black ship is bound for Welkinstead! We need to get there ahead of it!”
Griffins generally flew at a moderate pace, so as not to create discomfort for their riders, but the beasts were powerful fliers, capable of bursts of speed. Henry could feel the griffin gathering itself, feel the strong muscles bunching together. The griffin dropped its wings, then raised them, spread them, and began to soar.
Privateer Page 62
