Blood Between Queens (41 page)

He pushed his face as close as he could to the windowpane to make sure. His breath on the cold glass came back at him like smoke. Even in the fog he was sure—it was his daughter! He watched in horror as she ran with the three men, crossing the stable yard, and vanished inside the house.

He twisted around, groping for support, but there was only the cold stone wall. He pressed his back against it, wanting its coldness to steady him. The fuse in the cellar tunnel would soon reach the gunpowder under the house.
But she is in the house!

Heart banging painfully, he faced the horrifying fact: To save Justine, he had two choices. Run down to the cellar and snuff out the burning fuse. Or run across the courtyard to the house and shout a warning for everyone to get out.

If he warned them he would give himself away. They would capture him. He would hang.

He had to stop the fuses. Then flee.

But that meant Elizabeth would live. He would never get back what was his—his lands, his property, his
life
. Never rise to become a peer of England, a nobleman. He would slink back to France in penniless exile again, condemned to insignificance and poverty for the rest of his days.

The decision shook him with an icy jolt. A third choice.

He could let the fuses burn.

Shaky, his back against the wall, he slid down it. He dropped forward onto his knees. He felt with frigid fingers for the thin chain around his neck and lifted the crucifix from inside his shirt.
Justine
. . .

He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
My darling Justine
. . .

He was clutching the crucifix so tightly it dug painfully into his palm. He wanted the pain as he whispered a hoarse prayer into the silence. “Dear Lord . . . take the soul of my dear daughter to your rest.”

 

She ran with Sir Adam and the grooms. In through the back door, along the dim passage past the kitchen. The three men pounded toward the great hall, and Justine stayed on their heels. How much time did they have? Fear sawed her nerves, expecting the blast any moment to rip her head from her body, tear her limbs apart. They had to get Elizabeth out . . . and rouse the sleeping servants . . . it would all take precious time.

She knew Sir Adam was going for Elizabeth. His men would stick with him.
It’s up to me to spread the alarm to the servants’ quarters. And Lord Thornleigh? Perhaps he has not come. Please, God, let it be so.

They reached the closed doors of the hall where four men stood guard. Seeing them come, the guards drew their swords and took stances of grim-faced defense. It flashed over Justine how they must appear, the half-dressed grooms with pitchfork and shears, she in ripped and bloodstained clothes. Adam lowered his sword and raised his free hand in a gesture of peace. “I am Sir Adam Thornleigh, lord of this house, and I must get inside to Her Majesty.”

Justine hurried for the staircase to race up to rouse the servants as Adam went on to the guards, “There is a plot against Her Majesty’s life. The house is undermined and will explode. Open the doors and help me take her to safety.”

The guards’ faces remained stony. “Sir,” one said, “I am authorized to let no one in.”

“I tell you, this is my house.”

“My orders include you.”

Justine froze on the steps. The guards would not let Adam in!

Adam raised his sword. “Stand aside. I will enter.”

The guards stood firm.

Adam charged the leader. Swords clanged. The two grooms lunged for two other guards, jabbing with pitchfork and shears. The fourth guard came at Adam with his sword. Adam fought off the two, hacking at their blades.

Justine watched, her heart in her throat. By attacking, Adam had drawn the guards a few paces away from the doors. If she could skirt the fray, she might get in.

Down the stairs she ran. The grim-faced guards hacked and slashed at their opponents. The grooms, though brave, were no match, and Walter fell with a cry, blood gushing from his side. His attacker turned on Adam. Adam spun to fend off the man, then lunged to keep fighting the other two. But the three of them were backing him away under earsplitting clashes of steel. Justine reached the doors and flung them open.

“Your Majesty!”

Queen Elizabeth stood at the far end of the hall, too far away to have heard the fighting. She stood with Lord Herries at the hearth, and both their startled faces turned to Justine as she ran toward them. She heard a guard pound in after her, so close to her she heard the air whistle over his raised sword. “Your Majesty!” she cried, “You must flee!”

R
ichard paced. His footsteps sounded hollowly through the long reception hall like echoes of the words running through his head:
Where is Justine?
The new building, she had told him in her note.
Do not fail me,
she had written. Well, here he was in Kilburn’s new wing. Where was she?

Wind moaned at the casements of the tall, unglazed windows, and the canvas tacked over them flogged like sails on a crewless ship. The place was barren in its unfinished state, cold, smelling of musty wet sawdust. Gloomy, too; the only light was the moonlight that flitted in when the canvas flapped, then fled again. There was not a stick of furniture to rest on. Richard didn’t want to rest, he wanted to see Justine and find out what trouble she was in. Nevertheless, the ride to Chelsea on the frost-hard roads had jarred his bones, and he felt it keenly in this cold place.
Old bones,
he thought. Years ago he could have ridden all day and enjoyed the exercise, the sights, the fresh air. Now the only thing good about being on horseback was that it took the weight off his painful left foot. Pacing, he favored the right.

His boots scuffed through the sawdust.
Where
is
the girl?

A sound made him halt. A bat skimmed past his head. Silvered by moonlight, it shot by him, swift as a blink.

He looked toward the shadowy main doors. They led to the courtyard, and across it stood the manor house. Should he go over there to find Justine? When she left his house so abruptly days ago she obviously had come here to Adam’s. That had hurt Richard, her leaving without a word. But he soon had realized that she had cause. He had railed at her fiercely for being disloyal to Elizabeth, had been furious at her wrongheaded attempt to get copies of the casket letters for Mary. But after all, she had failed, and no harm was done, and he knew she had acted for reasons that she
thought
were loyal. Besides, she had paid for it later, God knew, coming upon the body of poor Joan, at which point the girl’s secret, so carefully kept from Will, had spilled out, and Will had cruelly spurned her, the young fool. Richard heaved a sigh. He had longed to put right the feud’s past miseries with the happy union of these two young people, but it was not to be. Given Justine’s broken heart, he wasn’t surprised that she had taken refuge here at Adam’s house. She must feel quite alone, and Frances, after all, was her blood kin, both Grenvilles. It gave him an odd shiver.
Blood always wins out.

Well, should he go to the house to look for her? But everyone over there would be abed. And she had specifically told him to come to the new building.

He looked in the opposite direction, up the broad staircase. A long gallery lay up there in the darkness. And rooms just as barren, no doubt. Could she be there?

He started up the steps, worried about her. Why such hole-in-corner secrecy? What kind of trouble was she in? Pregnant? By God, if Will had compromised her he would prod his nephew to the altar at the end of his sword.

The staircase was treacherous, the cold marble filmed with moisture. He reached the top and stopped. The long gallery ahead was a tunnel of darkness. He called out, “Justine?”

Silence. Just his own voice echoing off the bare walls.

This was pointless. She was not here. A prickle of alarm touched him. Perhaps she could not come because her trouble had worsened. She was too ill. Or too frightened. He turned on the step to go back down, get over to the house, wake Frances and get to the bottom of this. The girl might be in real danger somewhere.

From the corner of his eye he caught a light down the long gallery. He stopped and peered into the darkness. It was no more than a faint glow, a band of light at the bottom of a door. He reached the door and opened it. A vast room stretched before him, with a high ceiling and a massive marble hearth at the far end. The room was vacant like everywhere else in the place, but aglow with a dozen or more rushlights in wall sconces. He walked in. The flickering flames revealed boarded-up windows, linen-shrouded chandeliers, flooring that was a parquet pattern of rare woods filmed with sawdust.

“Baron Thornleigh, I think?”

The voice started Richard and he turned. A man stood at the door, closing it. He wore simple black clothes and offered a relaxed smile. One of Adam’s servants?

“Yes, I’m Thornleigh. Who are you?” The fellow wore a sword. No servant, then. He was lean, perhaps forty, with blond hair that fell below his ears.

“My lord.” The man made a courtly bow. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. A moment I have looked forward to with the happiest of expectations.”

His tone grated Richard. Servile yet intimate. “I’m here to meet someone. Have you seen a young lady?”

“Look about you, my lord. Do you see any such?”

He had already seen. The room was empty. “No. So I’ll be on my way.” He took a step toward the door to leave.

“Oh, do look carefully, sir,” the man said, moving in front of the door. “Corners can reveal surprises.”

Richard was irked by the fellow’s unctuous manner, but he turned to look one last time around the room, make sure he hadn’t missed Justine standing quietly in a shadowed corner. Though why she would do such a thing made no real sense.

He heard the man’s sword scrape from its sheath and before he could turn the blade slashed the back of his thigh, gashing fabric, severing muscle. Richard gasped in shock. He staggered around, stunned by the attack. “What the devil!” The man was insane! The searing pain in his thigh made Richard stumble backward. The man was smiling, blade poised to fight like an expert swordsman. Richard groped for his own sword. Pulled it free. Stood as firmly as he could to take on the madman. “Whoever you are, you’ve made a grave mistake.”

“Oh, I think not, my lord. Do forgive me for not introducing myself.” He strolled in a wide circle around Richard, sword at the ready. “Though we have never met, you have heard of me, I dare say. I could tell you my name, but perhaps you might enjoy guessing. Would that amuse you, my lord?”

Richard knew the taunt of an aggressor when he heard it. The only defense was attack. He raised his sword and lunged. The man swiftly and easily blocked the thrust with a clang of steel on steel. Richard staggered back, catching his breath, his gashed right leg weak with pain, his left as feeble as ever. He tottered like a bear wounded by dogs.

“I know it would amuse
me
.” The man made a lightning strike. His blade sliced Richard’s sword wrist. In shock Richard let go the weapon and it clattered to the floor. He lunged and picked it up, his feet slewing like a drunkard’s as he righted himself. Blood streamed from his wrist over his fingers, making them too slippery to keep hold of the sword. He switched it to his left hand. Impossibly awkward. He could not fight effectively with his left even if he were not wounded.

He lurched backward, looking for another way out. Boarded-up windows. Hearth. No other door.

The man followed him at a stroll, his outstretched sword tip making small circles, air-drawing on Richard’s forehead for amusement. “So, shall we begin the guessing game?” He lunged, and his sword tip cut the leather tie that held Richard’s eye patch in place. The patch flew up in the air. “Here is your first clue.
This
is for my father, Anthony Grenville.” His blade sliced off the top of Richard’s ear.

Richard gasped at the pain. Blood gushed, pooling in his ear, streaming down his neck. He cupped the torn ear in shock, his mind tripping over itself to grasp the madman’s meaning. “You’re . . . a Grenville?” His right leg, drenched in blood from his thigh, was so weak he could barely stand. He rocked on his feet.

“Ah, but you must guess my
Christian
name, my lord. Here is another clue.
This
is for my brother John.” His blade whistled with its swiftness, slashing an
X
that ripped through the fabric on Richard’s chest and etched the
X
on his skin.

Richard winced in anguish . . . in impotent fury. The oncoming sword suddenly hacked his sword with a clang of ferocity that numbed his arm. He lost his grip. His weapon went sliding across the floor.

“Still in the dark, your lordship?” The man’s smile had vanished. His face was a sneer. He lifted his free hand to his scalp and tore off his hair. A wig! He hurled it at Richard’s feet, and Richard saw the burned, scarred ridges of flesh that ran from his ear down his neck. His mind reeled.
Christopher Grenville . . . alive?

“
This
is for stealing my house and my land.” His blade speared Richard’s knee.

He howled in agony. He collapsed. Sprawling on his back, he looked toward the closed door . . . the only way out. He hauled himself onto hands and knees, crawling. Every inch was agony. His blood-slick palms slipped on the floor.

“And
this
is for stealing my daughter!”

Steel sliced the small of Richard’s back. He collapsed again. “Justine . . .” The name came out half breath, half pain.

“She hates you, you know. She and I spent time together while she served Mary, and we became as close as father and daughter can be. I told her all about you Thornleighs, the murders you’ve committed. So she hates
you
above all. She lured you here so I could finish you.”

Justine? Impossible
. Lying on his cheek, gasping at the pain, Richard blinked through the blood that ran into his one good eye. Every fiber in him yearned to fight, but he was so gored he had no strength. His left arm, next to Grenville’s foot, was pinned under his own body. He could barely move his right, the wrist still gushing blood. He could not move beyond writhing at the pain. The curse that rose in his throat came out as a moan.

Grenville’s boots moved lazily past his face. The boots stopped. “Now roll over,
my lord
.” He spat the last two words. “Roll over so I can cut out your tongue.” His boot toe prodded Richard’s belly. “I must leave you, you see, and you might scream. But no one will hear you with your tongue rammed down your throat.” He grunted at the effort of trying to flip Richard over with his foot, enjoying the challenge of doing it without using his hands. “No one will even know you’re here. Except Justine, and she would be glad to know you’re dead. Ah, my pretty Justine. She could live had she not become ensnared by you. You will pay for her death, Thornleigh. Pay in hellfire. But first, you must die. How many days do you think it will take you to bleed to death? One? Two? Soon they’ll all be gone, everyone in the house, and those who come afterward will have more on their minds than poking through this uninhabited building. You have a strong constitution, old man, so you might last for days.” Giving up on using his foot, he crouched by Richard’s side. “I really must go. Just the one final task. Your tongue.”

He set down his sword to use both hands to turn him over.

A
boom!
So thunderous it stabbed Richard’s ears, hollowed his chest, lifted his body. The floor shuddered and walls rattled. He gasped for air as he thudded back down on his side, his vision all blackness. Was he at sea? Earsplitting thunder . . . seas pitching him high . . . hurling him back to the deck. Dust rained on him. Dust? Not at sea . . . He writhed, coughing.

The blast had knocked Grenville over. “Aha!” he cried in ecstasy, scrambling onto hands and knees. Coughing, he pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were shining. “Aha!” he crowed again. He raised his arms in jubilation as he stood over Richard. “It is done! It is
done!
”

Richard saw Grenville’s sword on the floor. A jolt of energy coursed through him. Grenville had no weapon! With a surge of fresh strength Richard swung his arm and snatched Grenville’s ankle. Yanked it. Grenville toppled. He thudded on his back.

Richard staggered to his feet and lunged for the sword. Grenville pushed himself up on his elbow, about to leap up. Richard stomped on his forearm. Grenville grunted in pain. He looked up at Richard, fury blazing in his eyes. He started to heave himself up with his other hand. Richard stabbed the sword through his palm, pinning his hand to the wood floor. Grenville screamed, collapsing on his back.

Richard planted his foot on Grenville’s other arm and stood over him, legs wide to hold himself up, his blood dripping onto Grenville’s face. Disoriented by the booming blast, tortured by his wounds, Richard’s strength was ebbing. He did not think he could stand much longer. Was this what dying was? Despair surged over him. He did not want his last act on earth to be murder. He had seen enough of death.

“I only want peace,” he said, his voice a rasp. “For the love of God, Grenville . . .
peace
.”

 

If there was a hell, Justine knew she was stumbling through it. Flames licked the night sky. Broken walls loomed jagged in a fog of dust. In the rubble of stone and splintered wood and glass, bodies lay bleeding and blackened. Coughing, her throat choked with dust and smoke, Justine shuffled past a lump of charred meat that was a torso . . . saw the raw stump of a man’s foot in its shoe . . . an old woman sitting on the ground, her wrinkled mouth an
O,
one hand to her head, the other hand gone, wrist spurting blood.

Justine staggered on, the screams that reached her sounding underwater. Her ears felt packed with mud. The silent flames writhed. The acrid smell of gunpowder almost made her retch.

Tripping over clumps of stone, she clawed at the insect that stung the back of her neck. She drew back her hand and saw bright blood wetting her palm, and felt her neck again. A dart of glass impaled in her skin. She tugged it out, the sting like cat’s teeth. Men ran past her. She followed them. Ahead, the moon! She lurched toward its clean brightness.

She halted when she felt spongy dead grass under her feet. She sucked in fresh air, swaying on her feet. Shivering, she groped the edges of her cloak, ripped and blood-spattered. and tugged it tight around her, trying to think. Men dashed by her, swords raised. One banged her shoulder as he charged past. She turned to look at the hell she had come from. The house . . . the blast had left it a smoldering shell.