In Defense of the Queen (23 page)

Parker had given them word the moment they had left the Tower. He wanted eyes on the house. If Jean was to be believed, Fitzroy was in immediate danger.

Susanna was their only way in to get the boy, or Parker would have made sure she was somewhere safe.

“Will we tell Kilburne what is happening?” Susanna twisted her head back to speak to him, her cheek brushing against his throat.

He had missed her so much these last few days, but this close contact, the warmth and life in her, made his hands shake on the reins.

“He’ll want to know how we know. We can hardly say we learned it from the assassin who killed his man.”

“You could say your sources heard it on the street.” She pressed back against him, as intent on physical contact as he.

“The danger in telling him is he will try to interfere. We are going to spirit the King’s son from his protected home. And I don’t want to take you back to the Tower. Both those things will not inspire trust in us.”

“Could we not guard Fitzroy at Durham?”

Parker shook his head. “For all we know, the assassin has insinuated himself inside. Or has a helper within. And we have no control, and no authority, in Durham House. It is best to get Fitzroy out.”

“We’ll only be in trouble until we get Fitzroy to his father.” She leant forward to balance herself as they moved over uneven ground.

“Yes.” Parker conceded the point, but his tone was dry. “If his father has decided to return from his hunt.”

* * *

They were late, and Susanna let Kilburne stumble over the apologies. Croke did not try to hide his annoyance.

“He cannot miss his lessons, and his hour with the bow is almost up.”

“I think you will find the King would prefer his portrait finished, lessons or no.” Parker crossed his arms over his chest, and Susanna noticed Croke take a step back.

“Who are you . . . one moment, aren’t you the Keeper of the Palace of Westminster?”

“John Parker, at your service, Master Croke.”

“What are you doing here?” Croke blinked at him, looking between the three of them with surprise.

“I am Mistress Horenbout’s betrothed.” He said no more than that, and Croke blinked again, as if not sure what that signified.

“Sir, the sooner I have my hour of work, the sooner you will have your pupil back at his lessons.” Susanna smiled at Croke, and he rubbed his forehead.

“Certainly.” He breathed out a pained sigh. “Certainly.” He gestured to the stairs. “He is in the garden practising.”

Parker tensed beside her, and Susanna knew he was thinking how exposed Fitzroy would be in the garden. She gave a curtsey to Croke. “Let us go down to him.”

To her dismay, Croke followed them down the stairs and out into the garden, perhaps determined to give them no more than an hour.

As they stepped out onto the lawn, Susanna was aware of Parker scanning the trees along the walls. The chances of an assassin choosing the very moment they arrived to make his move seemed unlikely. And yet, there were only a few days to go before the seventh, and what better chance for a quick kill and a quicker get away than from the river-side wall.

Croke passed them all, and made his way to Fitzroy, but Parker slowed to a stop, turned full circle, noting every part of the garden.

There were too many places to hide here. The assassin would not even need the help of an insider if he was good enough with a crossbow or bow. She could see too many deep shadows, and the thought of someone crouched amongst the branches, bow raised, made her fight a shiver. The skin on her neck pricked uncomfortably, and her whole body went tense, as if anticipating a bolt.

“What is it?” Kilburne had glanced at Parker, and stopped as well, his eyes narrow. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, yet.” Parker turned to him, and she could see him come to a decision. “Kilburne, I’ve had word someone means the little prince ill. The King plans to officially usher him into the Order of the Garter in a few days, and I hear there are plans to give him a number of titles and holdings a few days after that. The King will be all but declaring Fitzroy his heir.”

Kilburne said nothing, but like Parker, he began looking for anything out of place in the garden.

Parker faced towards Fitzroy. “The way I hear it, a sum was offered for the boy’s death, and most certainly someone would have decided the money is worth the risk.”

“You don’t know who?” Kilburne was looking at him, that gleam of steel she’d seen in him before coming through.

“If I did, I would not be standing here, putting Susanna in danger of a crossbow bolt, along with Fitzroy.”

Parker began walking toward the little boy, who was aiming at the target once more. She followed, and Kilburne was forced to trot after them.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I do not think it safe to leave him here. Too much chance someone has paid a servant for access. This plan was hatched at least a few days ago, plenty of time for someone to have set the scene.”

“We cannot simply take the child away without permission.” Kilburne stopped again, his eyes wide.

“Perhaps you can’t, but I will.” Parker reached Croke, tapped his shoulder. “I have no time to be subtle. Your charge is in danger from an assassin, immediate danger. I need to take him away to safety.”

She had expected Croke to be confused, but instead he cocked his head to the side, and she could see why he was considered an excellent tutor for the King’s son. Intelligence gleamed from his eyes.

“So that is really why you are here. I’ve heard before you are sometimes the sharp end of the King’s sword.” He looked Parker up and down. “Danger from whom?”

“I have word of an assassination planned by someone high in the nobility. Someone who does not want to see the King raise his bastard son to the throne.”

At his bluntness, Croke reeled back, but he recovered almost immediately. “I had wondered,” he said softly, “how the King’s plans would be taken by some.”

“It is safe to say, not well.”

Susanna reached out and touched Croke’s sleeve. “I think we should get his lordship inside, at the least.” She looked at the trees again. “It feels too open here.”

“What is it?” Fitzroy had noticed them, and come over, his eyes on Parker, curious, and she could see, a little awestruck.

“We need to go within.” Croke slipped a hand on his charge’s shoulder, and began drawing him towards the house, but Fitzroy balked.

“No. I want a few more turns. I nearly hit the bull’s eye, last time. I want to get it before I go in today.”

Croke shook his head, and Fitzroy wrenched himself from out of his grasp.

At that moment, Susanna heard the high whistle of a bolt. It flew between Croke and the prince, and buried itself in the ground just beyond where they stood.

They both turned and looked at it dumbly.

Susanna lunged forward, grabbing up Fitzroy and spinning around, looking for a place to take cover. Perhaps their sudden arrival had forced the assasin’s hand. Whoever lurked deep in the shadows must have realized the secret was out and there would be few or no other chances for a kill.

“To the house.” Parker shouted, his sword raised.

The two guards who had been helping Fitzroy with his practice had their own swords raised, and so did Kilburne.

But against a crossbow, they were all helpless.

She ran, holding Fitzroy against her, so her body covered him completely from view.

He clung to her, his bow and arrow still in his grasp, his breathing fast and too shallow.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Parker moving backward toward her, still facing the way the bolt had come, but trying to act as a shield.

As she turned, she caught a glimpse of Kilburne doing the same. Stepping sideways to block them from the line of fire, his arms wide.

The whistle of a second bolt ripped the air from between the leaves of a huge oak in the corner of the garden and Kilburne cried out, his shout a scream of agony.

The shallow stairs up to the house were ahead. She wanted to turn, to run to Kilburne’s aid. But she was holding Fitzroy close, his heart beating quick as a hare against her, and she forced her focus straight ahead, closed her ears to Kilburne and kept running.

Chapter Thirty-one

They look on the desire of the bloodshed, even of beasts, as a mark of a mind that is already corrupted with cruelty, or that at least, by too frequent returns of so brutal a pleasure, must degenerate into it.

Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

P
arker angled himself between the shooter and Susanna for agonizing seconds, until she was through the door. As the wooden barrier slammed shut he ran to Kilburne, and saw the bolt had gone through his side.

He needed to get Maggie to see to this. Kilburne’s chances of surviving a doctor were low.

“Take cover.” Kilburne’s eyes were over-bright, and his face was far too pale.

“He was after Fitzroy, and Fitzroy is safely inside. Come my friend . . .” Parker bent to lift him. As he did, a third bolt flew over his head, and slashed through the large bush behind him in a rattle of branches.

Parker lifted his head, his eyes on the trees. The guards had started to creep toward the assassin with the first bolt, but since Kilburne had been hit, they had dropped to the ground behind the hay bale that Fitzroy used as a target.

“Looks like he wants you as much as he wants Fitzroy.” Kilburne coughed up the words.

Parker stood without answering, calling to the guards. “Get the captain inside. Carefully and gently.”

Then he ran as fast as he could toward the oak tree where he thought the shooter perched.

Kilburne was right. The second bolt could just as easily have been meant for Parker, with Kilburne’s timing unlucky. He had stepped into Parker’s path just seconds before he was hit. And the third bolt had definitely been meant for him.

He was running out of time, every second he took to get to the tree was another second the assassin had to reload, and sweat dampened his hairline as he lengthened his stride.

Chasing a crossbowman down was either a bold move, or a foolish one. Depending on how fast you could run.

Parker heard someone swear, just ahead in the branches, and a bolt dropped to the ground.

He’d unnerved the man, running straight for him. He had expected people to duck and take cover, and now he was rattled.

Parker reached the tree, and leapt for a branch, grabbing hold and using it to scrabble up the trunk.

The shooter gave a strangled cry, and by the time Parker’d reached the thick, sturdy branch the man had been using, he had scrambled along it to where it overhung the wall.

As the shooter dropped down, he looked back, and Parker caught a glimpse of his face, strong, sharp, panicked.

Parker got to his feet and ran, balancing along the branch in a half-crouch, and swung down after him.

But the shooter had thrown himself into a boat, was already moving downstream, his oars slapping the water in his haste to get away.

There was no handy boat for Parker to give chase, and he bent, hands on knees, gasping for breath, watching the boat get further and further away.

Slowly, he became aware of someone standing just to the right of him, in the deep shadow of the wall. He turned his head, his knife already in his hand, and then relaxed again.

“When did you get here?”

Peter Jack stepped into the dappled light coming through the trees. “Just as he was rowing away.”

Parker grunted in acknowledgement.

“Do you want to know who he is?” There was an edge of glee to Peter Jack’s words.

Parker spun to face him, his head cocked to one side. He waited.

Peter Jack grinned. “That was Jules. The other French double agent working for de Praet. The one who has been hiding the flute player from Ghent.”

Parker looked toward the water again, to where Jules and his boat were disappearing around the bend in the river. “Of course.” He slipped his knife back into place. “The bastard who shot the bolt through my window.”

* * *

There was a cry from outside, on The Strand, and Susanna held Fitzroy even tighter to her.

He flinched at the sound, clinging to her in the narrow hallway at the front of the house where they crouched out of sight. For a moment he allowed himself the comfort of a normal child, and then straightened, pulling himself free, still clutching his bow and arrow as if he had no need of protection.

Croke had been pacing the floor, but he went still when they heard the cry.

The guards moved toward the front door, swords ready, and Susanna noticed even Kilburne, weak though he was, lifted a little from where they’d lain him on the floor, and fumbled for his weapon.

“What is it?” Parker stepped through from a room at the back, and the guards turned, white-faced, until they realized who it was.

Susanna blinked away tears at the sight of him. Her last glimpse had been of him running straight for the shooter. She lifted a trembling hand to him, and he took it.