Geoffrey Condit (11 page)

    Outside the Gate, under the flare of its torches, eight horsemen swarmed after them, surrounding the cart.  Each wore the Stafford Knot.  Razor sharp swords sang from scabbards in the skilled hands of oak hard men willing to fight and chance death in the play of steel.  Three swords and two short bows sprouted from the cart.

    “Keep down, Catharine,” Peter commanded.  “Edward.  Richard.  Down.”

    “We can fight, Peter,”  Edward piped up.

    “The roll of cloth in the bottom of the cart,”  Peter said, parrying a shinning sword aimed at his heart.  “Two blowpipes and some darts.  Give one to Catharine.  Use them with care.”

    The cries of wounded men filled the air.  The ring of steel on steel.   Slashing horses hooves, their great dark bodies jockeying for position.  Bright steel connected in the touch light.  Peter glanced around.  Caxton’s men were nowhere in sight. 

    A man’s scarlet hand frantically clutched the arrow in his throat and toppled from the saddle.  Another man grabbed at his chest and slumped over his horse who cantered out of the torch light.  Peter grinned.  Evening the odds.  Two bright blades aimed from above.  Peter swung his sword.  The jolts from the ringing steel, ran fire into his healing shoulder.  A horse screamed and plunged.  Hooves kicked the air when a steel dart found the its neck.  He heard the sickening crunch of hooves meeting human flesh.  His sword jerked out of his hand.  The sting of steel entered his chest, and he fell back and pulled free.

    “Peter!”  Catharine shouted.  He grabbed the sword she handed up and flashed a smile.  The cart lurched forward, Will frantically whipping the frightened horse.  Peter lost his balance, falling out of the cart amid shifting horses hooves.

    “He’s mine.”  On foot, Breckenridge loomed over Peter.  “I owe the bastard.”

    Jumping to his feet, Peter beat Breckenridge into retreat.  He gasped.  Fire ran through his legs and shoulder as partly healing muscles ripped open.  The sword felt leaden in his hand.  Cold stone of the Lion’s Gate wall met his back.  He dragged a steadying breath.  I’m a dead man.  More torches flared to light.  New shadows danced off the walls.

    “Peter!”  Catharine’s terrified shout rang through the night, and the cart staggered on into the darkness.

    “I’m going to kill you, Lord Trobridge, and then I’m going to spend the night with your woman.”  Breckenridge laughed too loud, bringing raunchy catcalls from his companions.  Torch light formed a rough ring, glinting off drawn swords and daggers.

    He knew he was no match for this strong young man, not wounded as he was.  Fatigue crept through him, weakening  his ability to focus. Where on earth was Caxton?  Peter studied the flush confident man facing him, and knew he had but one chance.

    “Ha!” Peter’s voice, caustic and bawdy, carried into the night.  “You idiots should have seen your fearless friend at the Black Swan three weeks ago.  Or maybe he neglected to tell you how I punished him.  He cuts to the left, and get sloppy with emotion.  Did he show his hand?  The child’s an amateur.”

    Breckenridge growled and exploded into action, attacking with a fury that made Peter falter.  Breckenridge’s blade sliced into his shoulder.  Peter’s hand shook visibly.  The men around him laughed.  Breckenridge sneered.  “Who’s the amateur, my lord?”  Angry contempt curled his lips.

    For ten minutes Peter protected himself, turning aside every attack.  He sensed a rising frustration in the other man.

    “What’s the matter, Breckenridge?”  The jeer from his companions registered on the uncertain face.  “The man’s bleeding  to death from half  a dozen wounds, and you can’t touch him.”  A short barking laugh.  “Maybe ’is lordship is right.”

    “We’ll see.”  When Breckenridge pressed his attack, Peter reached under his guard, slicing him across his chest.  Bright blood blossomed in a diagonal line on his white shirt.

    Peter laughed.  “Fool.  What idiot did you have for a sword master?”  He felt his hand weaken on his sword. Next attack belonged to Breckenridge.   I can’t let it happen.

    “Allen Carnahan.  I told ...  ”

    Peter laughed again, louder.  “A swaggering bully hired to terrorize.  But not competent enough to teach you what you need to stay alive.”  He forced a burst of energy.  In a blur of steel, Breckenridge’s dagger flew from numbed fingers.  Peter withdrew.  Buying time.

    “Why did you break off?”  Breckenridge kept his sword pointed at Peter.

    “Take a moment to make peace with your God.  In the next exchange I’m going to kill you.”  Where is Caxton?  This can’t go on.

    “In your condition, my lord?”  Breckenridge shook his head.  “I think not.  You’re mine.”  He pressed his attack again.

    But Pete drove him back to the edge of the circle.  Breckenridge feinted to the right.  Peter felt his boot catch on a rock.  He went down on his back. Triumph rose in the man’s face.  He raised his sword in a two hand grip for the final blow.  But Peter lunged forward, impaling Breckenridge in the stomach.  Disbelief took the man’s face.  His sword slipped from his fingers, and he sat down abruptly, holding his belly.  Three soldiers headed for Peter, swords ready.

    “Hold!”  A new voice, used to instant obedience, broke the night.  The men halted.  A silent body of armed horsemen waded in, swords drawn, pikes ready.  The blue and murry livery of York shown in the torch light.  “The killing is over.”  Sir James Caxton sat on his horse, dominating, unchallenged.

    Peter, leaning against the tower wall, bloody sword still in his hand, stiffened.  An armed man in the livery of Buckingham, forced his horse next to Caxton.  Sir James turned, giving a curt nod of his head.  “Carnahan,” he said.  “Seems there was a duel of sorts.  One of your men is dying.  Belly wound.  Best see to him.” 

    The cart trundled up with Catharine and his men.  Hugh helped Peter to get into the cart.  Catharine laid a hand on his back.  He felt its warmth, and drew a stabilizing breath.

    Carnahan dismounted, face immobile, and crossed the bloody grass.  He knelt and cradled the dying man.  When he turned, his features were ugly with grief.  Tears ran freely down his cheeks and he gave a choked roar.  “Who did this thing?”

    “I did.”  Peter straightened, blood staining his shirt and jerkin red.

    “Trevor!  You killed a child, my child.”   Carnahan’s broken voice rose to a snarl.

    “He was a dangerous man,” Peter said.  “Taught to ruin other people’s lives.  Castor Breckenridge was your creation.  You’re as responsible for his death as I am.”

    Breckenridge coughed and clutched Carnahan’s shirt.  Blood slipped from his mouth, dripped down his chin.  Carnahan leaned him gently against the tower wall, and knelt beside him.  He drew his sword, and holding the blade, hilt toward his son, said, “I swear by the living Christ I will avenge your death.  You came to me in love and leave me in pain.  I will give this pain to your killer, if it is the last thing I do on this earth.”

    In his blood, Breckenridge smiled.  His eyelids closed, and he slumped.  Tears sprang into Peter’s eyes, and his fingernails bit into his palm.

    Carnahan turned to Peter and sheathed his sword.  “We’ll meet again.  You’ve killed my joy.  Killed my son.  In the future I’ll return  the pain you have given me.”  He picked up Breckenridge, tender as the father he was, and walked through the Lion’s Gate into the Tower of London. His men followed.

    Caxton dismounted.  “Watch your back, Peter.  Carnahan keeps his promises.  I can’t touch the man.”  He smiled.  “But the princes are safe.  They will, this very night, leave for Sheriff Hutton Castle under strong escort.  The Lord Constable will be informed in the morning.  He’s in residence at Lambeth Palace south of the city.  A stroke of luck, otherwise the Tower would be swarming with his men.”

    “At least the princes are safe,”  Peter said wearily.

    “The King owes the House of Trevor.  He’ll be informed by courier.  But you’ve made a great enemy in Buckingham.”

    “What will the King do about Buckingham?”

    “Without formal proof, very little.  Expect the duke to vigorously deny the charges, and go after you anyway he can.  I don’t know how to protect you.”   Caxton fingered his dagger hilt.

    “I expected as much.”  Peter grimaced.  The pain of his wounds, coupled with his fatigue, created an overwhelming need for sleep.  He blinked, fighting to stay awake.

    “May I speak to you alone, Peter?”  Caxton helped him from the cart, and walked him limping away from the others.  “Are you aware your new bride visited Lady Stanley at her manor house a week ago.  Regular contact between them might be unwise, considering the Lord Constable’s increasing interest in your affairs.”

    God’s Blood!  Another manor house.  She never told me that.  Lying.  When is this going to end?  Blocking his anger and exasperation, he said, “You’re right.  She mentioned seeing Harry Barristar, the man I rescued from the runaway horse, and Carnahan during the ride.”

    Caxton’s hard face grimaced.  “What you may not know is Barrister is a lawyer attached to Buckingham’s household.  Buckingham likes to keep his hands clean.  Both men were at Lady Stanley’s manor the day she intercepted Catharine ... ”

    “Intercepted?”  Peter breathed deep, trying to concentrate, stunned at the implications.  This is a mature thought out plot, not a casual meeting.  “You mean we’re being watched so closely by Lady Stanley that she deliberately rode out to intercept Catharine?”

    Caxton nodded.  “She’s up to something, Peter.  And she’s a viper.  Your Catharine is a political innocent.  She could be the instrument of your ruin.”

    Armed outriders carrying torches lit the dark streets for Peter, Catharine, and their men.  They rode to the Trevor Great House with an armed escort of Caxton’s retainers.  Catharine turned to a silent Peter. “Your wounds must be painful.  Would a litter help?”

    “No, Catharine.  I’ve been in worse shape.  The chest wound is minor.  But my right shoulder is open again.”  He remembered her hands tracing his scars.  What do I do about her?  This concern for me is real.  Two lines of thoughts collided in his mind.  An emotional bond was growing between them.  But, her fierce commitment to her Lancaster upbringing, the harsh tragedy of her childhood, warred inside.  Parties wanting to destroy both of them would find it easy to manipulate her.  He smiled warily.  I’m walking a loose tightrope, and there is a strong wind swirling.

    Later, in their high bed, he watched Catharine at her dressing table brushing her dark hair into a shinning dark red mass over her white shoulders.  He wanted to hold her.  He felt the stirrings of passion, but his mind turned and his body shut down.  Oh, tread carefully.  He knew what he must say, and loathed the words. “Remember when you told me of meeting Barristar and Carnahan on your ride?”

    “Yes?”  Her brush hesitated in mid stroke.

    “Why didn’t you tell me you saw them at Lady Stanley’s manor?”

    “I saw them on the ride.”  Her half-hearted words faltered.

    “Look at me.”  She hesitated.  “I said look at me!”  His voice like a whip, forced her to meet his gaze.  He opened his fist, and saw her flinch.  Peter pushed himself backwards on the bed, pain from his wounds making him gasp.  He dropped his face into his hands, steadying the pain, then he looked up.  “I’d never touch you in violence.”

    Catharine, face white, climbed up onto the bed next to him.  “I didn’t know what to do.  Lady Stanley was just there.”

    “But you didn’t tell me what really happened.”  He grimaced.  How could she be so innocent?  And so crude concealing the truth?  “Catharine, Lady Stanley is dangerous.  There is nothing she will not do, nor any person she will not sacrifice to see her son on the Throne.”

    “I don’t believe you,”  Catharine said, voice indignant.  “She was kindness herself.  She understood.”

    “Understood?”  He snorted. Her innocence again.  “That woman would pretend to understand the Devil himself if she thought it would further her interests.”

    “You don’t trust anyone.”  Her voice rose.  “That is your trouble.”

    “Look,” he said patiently,  “Carnahan and Barrister are the duke’s agents.  And they weren’t at Lady Stanley’s on a revel.  This knowledge is important.  The duke maybe plotting to overthrow the King.”

    “Perhaps Barristar and Carnahan were spying on Lady Stanley,”  she said face serious.  “Have you considered that?”

    Peter closed his eyes and opened them in exasperation.  “No I haven’t.  Because it is not logical.”

    “But it is.”  The passion in her voice surprised him.  “Buckingham is the Lord Constable.  He wants to know all plots against the King,” she said.  “He would know where to look, and what better place than Lady Stanley’s.   He’d send his agents there.”

    “Mother of God.”  Peter began to laugh.  “I can’t argue with your logic, Catharine.   What I’m trying to say, without much luck, is that you must tell me these things.  Our position is precarious.  We must be circumspect to keep the duke at bay.  So, may I count on your help?”

    She sat on their great bed in her clinging nightdress, grey eyes intent, red lips over white teeth, breathing deep from her emotions.  “Yes.  But you’re angry with me.”

    Peter laughed.  She squirmed, face crimson.