One Forbidden Knight

by Nicola Davidson

  “Today we will knock on every door in Guildford if we have to. Let us away, then.”

  Taking her arm and tucking it securely in his, Brand led her from the chamber and down the stairs toward the front of the inn. He was just about to push open the door to the large tavern area, when a meaty hand clamped on his arm.

  He pivoted, preparing to grip and twist his assailant’s arm until it broke, until he saw the grim face of the innkeeper.

  “Yes?” said Brand quickly, his heart pounding. “Is there a problem?”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but ye don’t want to be goin’ in there. Out back through the kitchens would be better, I’m thinkin’.”

  Carey gasped, and a fine mist of perspiration dampened his neck.

  “Oh?”

  “Maybe a quarter hour ago, a couple of rough strangers arrived. My good wife says they are askin’ a great many questions about a certain nobleman and a dark-haired doctor’s daughter. Thing is though, they forgot their purses. And that doctor, he were a dab hand with elixirs for a poorly young one. So nobody here seen or heard anythin’.”

  “Bless you, sir,” said Carey fervently.

  “You be careful, mistress. And you, sir. The wife says they got a mean look about them, and she’s met all types.”

  “Will you see to the horses?” said Brand. “Perhaps some more food for us, easily carried?”

  “Aye. Oh, and by the by, the smithy I hear ye be searchin’ for is three streets back and six doors down to the left. I’ll tell yer servants where you’ve gone. Go.”

  Shoving a guinea into the innkeeper’s hand, Brand hurried past the man, pulling Carey through the stifling hot kitchen and down three stone steps to a long, narrow garden. Weaving around a large pig pen, several chicken coops, and neatly-kept rows of tilled soil, he helped her over a wooden sty and onto the muddy street.

  He paused, looking left and right, but they were temporarily alone, most residents of Guildford seemingly unwilling to brave the cold, rain-misted morning just yet. As an added precaution he pulled up the hood of his cloak, and Carey quickly did the same.

  “Come on,” he said tightly, curving an arm around her waist. “This way. We need to find the Blacksmiths before whoever was at the inn does.”

  “What about Lucas? And your men?”

  “No one would dare touch Lucas. And my men were previously mercenaries. They know how to disappear when necessary.”

  Moving fast enough to put distance between them and the inn, but not so their gait would be remarked upon by anyone who happened to glance their way, they followed the innkeeper’s directions to a small but well-kept smithy.

  “Hello?” he called, and eventually a simply-dressed, silver-haired man came out from the back, wiping his hands on a linen cloth.

  “Mornin’, sir. Mistress. You must want a blacksmith right bad, to be wanderin’ round the town at this time and in this weather.”

  “Indeed. We’re very particular. We owe a great debt to a certain young Blacksmith for the service he did us, you see, and we were told by a friend his father could be found here.”

  Agony flashed across the man’s craggy face. “Is that right?”

  Abruptly Carey pushed away from him and ran up to the lean stranger. “Please, sir. This is Sir Brandon FitzAlan, and I am Catherine Linwood. My father was Doctor Arthur Linwood. I need to find the family of Robbie Blacksmith. Several days ago he saved my life, and…well…please, it is so very important, and we have little time left.”

  The old man stared hard at them, as though considering. Finally, he spat over his shoulder and ambled forward. “Robert Blacksmith is my name. You’d best come with me.”

  The cottage behind the smithy was small, but immaculately kept. Brand was forced to bend well forward to get through the low door, but Catherine had no such issue. A quick glance around the room revealed a large black kettle hanging over a roaring fire, another pot with some sort of fragrant stew bubbling away, and a hand-carved table with four chairs around it. Through a doorway to her left she spotted the end of a large bed, several colorful quilts piled high at the end.

  Charmed, she smiled. “What a lovely home.”

  “Thankee. My wife keeps it as it should be. She would come out to greet you, but…she…she…took a draught to help her sleep. The news, you understand.”

  Remembered pain made her shudder.

  “When I received word of my father’s death,” Catherine said softly, “it hurt so badly I didn’t want to get out of bed. I am so sorry for your loss. And to know I was the cause of it…that is unbearable.”

  Robert shook his head. “No. I saw what happened on the street to my boy, and those two will meet the devil firsthand when they pass. But I am glad to see you hale and hearty, Mistress Linwood, for I had grave fears what happened to your father and Robbie would befall you also.”

  “Why?” asked Brand bluntly, his folded arm stance making his shoulders seem positively mountainous.

  The older man hesitated, then gestured to the table. “Take a seat and I’ll tell you a short tale. Perhaps some mead to warm yer bellies?”

  “That would be most kind,” she said, shooting Brand a significant look. “Mead is excellent for these chilly days.”

  Bustling around the room, Robert poured three servings of mead then fetched a short poker. After holding it over the fire, he plunged it into each tankard to heat the liquid, filling the room with the delicious scent of honey and spices.

  They sipped in appreciative silence for a few minutes. Finally, Robert put his tankard down and clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

  “Several weeks ago, a man came into my smithy needin’ help with a thrown horseshoe. He was a pleasant fellow, said he was a doctor, come from London to Guildford to attend the noble folk on the hill. I was surprised, seemed a long way to call a man in winter when the weather and roads are so bad. My wife, Gwen, she’s a maid up at the manor, she hadn’t said anything about an illness requiring that kind of help, just that the ladies were feeling a mite poorly and wanted naught but broth and watered wine.”

  “The ladies are close friends to Her Majesty,” said Catherine slowly. “That is why she asked Papa to travel here.”

  Robert frowned. “I wouldn’t think so. The family were strongly for Edward, then the unfortunate Jane Grey. Been keepin’ to themselves since Mary took the throne, don’t hold with the Catholics, you see.”

  Unease prickled her skin. “Then what happened?”

  “The doctor stopped by several times over the next few weeks. He admired an eating dagger I crafted and asked if he could purchase it. I said that one was spoken for, but I could make him another if he told me what he liked. Very particular he was, too. Took quite some time to finish engraving the letter ‘C’ on the blade. Robbie was a dab hand with wood, he carved the handle with a lily. Then we wrapped it in oiled cloth and took it up to the manor.”

  Brand set his tankard down. “Do you still have the dagger? C is for Catherine here.”

  Robert nodded and hurried from the room. When he returned, he handed her a small, ribbon-tied bundle.

  Unwrapping it with shaking hands, she lifted up the palm-sized dagger, tracing the intricate carving in the blade and wooden handle with a finger.

  Tears rolled down her face.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, so heartsick she could scarcely breathe.

  “He was a good man,” said Robert. “Gwen said they thought very highly of him up on the hill, too. Everyone, not just the nobles. Kind to all he was, no airs and graces. That’s why we were so shocked at what happened that day.”

  “Tell me.”

  “When Robbie and me rounded the corner of the stables on the way to the house, we saw him standing there talking to two burly men in the queen’s colors. Well, not talking, arguing. I thought that right strange, so I pulled my boy behind a gate…oh, Lord…”

  “Go on,” said Brand grimly. “I know it is a terrible thing to recollect, but we need answers if there’
s to be any justice for my friend, for Catherine’s father, for your son.”

  Robert’s hands clenched around his tankard. “They grabbed him. One stepped behind the doctor, securing his arms behind his back and covering his mouth. The other pulled out a knife, and stabbed him four times in the gullet—”

  Clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams, Catherine rocked on the chair as her vision grayed, as icy shudders shook her body. Moments later she was pulled onto Brand’s lap, his arms tight like a suit of armor, her only protection from the world.

  “And?” he said, one hand stroking her hair.

  “So fast it happened,” continued Robert, “then they let him fall to the ground while one of the guards fetched a sheet from a cart. They wrapped his body, put it on the back of the cart, then drove away like the hounds of hell were at their backs.”

  “But why,” Catherine choked out through the boulder currently resting in her throat. “Why did they kill him? What did they argue about?”

  Robert paled, and she braced herself.

  “It were bad,” he said, his voice barely a murmur now, as though afraid the walls had ears. “The doctor didn’t come here to tend noble ladies. He was banished from court because he suspected somethin’ about Queen Mary and had to cool his heels until she forgave him. But Linwood didn’t heed the warning. He wrote letters in his own hand to her other doctors, and they were intercepted. The guards were tauntin’ him about it.”

  “What were the letters about?” said Brand, his acute tension clear in both his words and body. “King Phillip? Perhaps he is not the father of her child? Or the heir itself?”

  “Linwood believed there ain’t no heir, that it is another false pregnancy like the first one.”

  Silence hung like a shroud over the table as the words sunk in, but somehow the sounds of the room seemed much louder than before, the beating of Brand’s heart against her ear, the crackle and spit of the fire, even the bubbling stew.

  “If that is true,” said Brand, and even he had lowered his voice now, “Queen Mary will be humiliated. Far worse this time. Her Spaniard has long sailed, and she is very old for childbearing. She knows it, the court knows it, and you can be damned sure every Protestant both in the country and beyond our shores knows it. This could end her reign.”

  Catherine sucked in a harsh breath. “The country will be torn apart again. The only direct English successor to the throne is…”

  Elizabeth.

  Brand could scarcely breathe.

  Several times in his life he’d felt fear like this, the dark, suffocating kind that slithered and gripped relentlessly and rendered a body near-useless. As a child, hiding in ditches to avoid hurled rocks. As a too-pretty lad, cornered in taverns by noble drunks. As a man, diving into a frigid lake to find his missing wife, and lastly, on his knees next to his mother’s sickbed, ordering her not to die.

  They had to get away from Guildford. Immediately. Not for a moment, not in his wildest imaginings, had he considered that Arthur’s secret could be this explosive. The only way he and Carey stood a chance at survival was to flee to France or perhaps one of the Low Countries. In England they would be hunted down and killed with nary a second glance, along with anyone who gave them aid.

  “We must go, Robert,” he said abruptly, and Carey scrambled from his lap. “Before anyone knows we were here and punishes you or your wife for it.”

  Their host nodded and got to his feet. “Get as far away as possible. These are dark times, Sir Brandon. If someone so close and loyal to the queen’s majesty as the doctor could be murdered, no one else’s life is worth a farthing. For the bloodstained Tudor throne, they’ll do to you and Mistress Catherine what they did to my boy. They’ll do it to anyone.”

  Quickly delving into his cloak pocket, Brand curled two gold sovereigns into his fingers, and when he shook Robert’s hand in farewell, discreetly passed them on. The older man gaped at him, visibly shocked at the hefty sum and about to protest, but he gave a tiny shake of his head. Thanks to the Blacksmith family, Carey lived. Not only that, in the eating dagger she held a reminder of Arthur to cherish.

  Opening the cottage door, Brand looked left and right, but thankfully there was no one nearby. They had probably already tarried too long and the weather had improved, the mist lifting slightly, and weak rays of sunshine attempting to burst through the morning gloom. Taking Carey’s clammy hand in his, they made their way along a narrow gravel path behind the smithy and toward the adjacent street.

  “Where will we go, Brand?” she asked in a hushed tone, her face starkly pale. “The coast?”

  “Yes, that is what I am thinking. London is out of the question, so the next best option would be Portsmouth. Ships come and go from there all the time, if we are discreet and careful we should be able to gain passage aboard some sort of vessel to France.”

  “For good?”

  “No, sweet,” he said, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles. “Just a temporary exile, I’m sure.” Well, at least he hoped it would be temporary. Thousands of Protestants had fled England to wait for better times, they could easily do the same. The queen would have to make an announcement eventually, either abdicate to Elizabeth, or perhaps even nominate a distant Catholic relation like Mary, Queen of Scots or the Plantagenet Cardinal Reginald Pole as her heir. All they had to do was stay alive and uncaptured till then.

  Carey pulled her cloak hood up over her head.

  “I’m g-glad we had a hearty breakfast. And that mead. It will make the journey to Portsmouth more bearable.”

  Just for a moment, he halted, cupped her cheek and kissed her fiercely.

  “My brave darling. Once we get my horse, we’ll be fine. The saddlebags still have the canvas sheets and pegs in them to make another tent, plus our friend the innkeeper promised to pack food for us.”

  “Let us hurry, then. I do not wish to stay in Guildford a minute longer.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way back to the inn. More and more people were in their gardens now, seeing to animals, beating carpets and airing sheets while the weather held, and he didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing something damning.

  Scrambling again over the sty, they crossed the inn’s back garden and moved toward the stables. As though he’d been watching out for them, the innkeeper dashed out the door with a cloth-wrapped parcel.

  “Here, to tide ye over. Your horse is ready for a gallop, I hope. My eldest told me he has seen soldiers in the town square, for the love of God, take the south road and do not stop for anyone.”

  “Thank you,” said Carey, smiling warmly at the man. “We’ll not forget your kindness.”

  Brand sprinted into the darkened stables, blinking and rubbing his eyes to adjust them to the poor light. Shoving the food parcel into a saddlebag, he swiftly checked his mount’s hooves, flanks, and bridle, but the inn’s stable boy had done a thorough job. Relieved, he clicked his tongue, firmly leading the horse back out into the yard.

  And froze.

  The innkeeper lay inert near the steps to his kitchen, a trickle of blood sliding down his temple. Carey dangled limply a foot off the ground in a scarlet-clad soldier’s brutal grasp, a huge hand clamped over her mouth, while five other soldiers stood in a semi circle, blocking the only way to freedom.

  “As I live and breathe, Sir Brandon FitzAlan,” said the man who held Carey. “Haven’t you had us all on a wild goose chase? But it is time to return to London now. There are noble folk who wish to speak to you urgently.”

  Brand’s fists clenched. “Put her down.”

  “Here, now. That’s not a very civil tone!”

  “Immediately.”

  The soldier spat sideways. “Or what?”

  “Or I will kill you. Slowly.”

  “Ha! The woman would be dead afore you got close. Be a shame, really. Since we saw the drawing of her, we been looking forward to spreading the thighs of such a plump and pretty handful. All of us,” the man finished with a gruesome, gap-
toothed smile as he palmed one of Carey’s breasts and squeezed hard.

  Black fury like he’d never known took over, and Brand flew at him. Wrenching Carey out of his filthy grasp, he wrestled the man to the ground and slammed a closed fist over and over into his face, then made him squeal as he stabbed a short dagger deep into his side.

  Unfortunately that was all he managed, as all bar one of the other soldiers leapt into the fray and dragged him off their fallen friend, the other attempting to grab Carey and secure her flailing fists behind her back.

  “Enough,” snapped an older man, probably their captain, shooting a disgusted look at them all. “His Grace of Norfolk’s orders on behalf of the queen’s majesty were clear. Sir Brandon and Mistress Linwood are to be taken back to London and examined thoroughly by the council for the grievous crimes they have committed. A cart is at the ready, we need to leave at once, not tarry here indulging in lewd talk or blood sports.”

  Brand struggled violently in the soldiers’ grasp, rage still surging through his body, but they held firm.

  “We have committed no crimes,” he growled. “Whatever the charges the damned council have decreed, they are false and you all know it.”

  The captain shrugged, his face expressionless. “Orders are orders. I’d prefer the cooperation of yourself and the woman, but should you choose to remain defiant, I will be forced to take certain measures to ensure your obedience.”

  “No!” screamed Carey. “He has done nothing wrong. It is me they want. Let him go.”

  “Unfortunately, mistress, Norfolk requires you both, so the pair of you will be traveling to London this day. Whether hale and hearty or broken is your choice.”

  The polite yet merciless words caused icy chills to dance along Brand’s spine. There were a great many brainless thugs in Mary’s army, but the captain was not one of them. He would follow his orders to the letter, using whatever brutal means of torture necessary.

  And Brandon FitzAlan, like a lovesick fool, had already shown his one true weakness. Carey. Not for a moment could he bear to see his betrothed whipped, in stocks, or worse.