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)

 

Parker 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.

“How did you get past the locked door?” Croke stepped closer, and looked past him, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

“I got in through an open window. This place is not secure, although the assassin has gone for the moment.”

“Someone cried out, in the street.” Kilburne struggled to sit even higher, then gave up the fight and slumped back.

One of the guards looked out of a parted curtain, trying to see the road, but Parker motioned him back.

“My page and some boys who work for me are out there, watching the street for us.” He opened the door a little way, and stepped out, closing it behind him.

He came back in almost immediately, with Harry on his heels.

“Someone got Will. He’s been knocked down. He’s breathing, but we can’t wake him.” Harry’s gaze flicked around the room, noting Croke, his eyes going wide at the sight of Kilburne’s blood-soaked doublet.

“When?” Parker tried to control his surprise, and an icy hand stroked its fingers down Susanna’s spine.

“Right now.”

“Then there are more than one of them. Peter Jack and I watched the shooter row off down the Thames. There’s no way he’s had time to double back and knock out Will.”

“What do we do?” Croke looked at Parker.

“How many servants serve here?”

“About twenty in all.” Croke spoke automatically, then went still. “You think one of them . . .”

“I think it would be foolish to take the chance they are all trustworthy, and give a traitor an opportunity to get to Fitzroy. We need to get him out of this house.”

It was only because she knew him so well that she saw the tension in him as he spoke of taking the prince out into the city.

“But guarding him in the open will be almost impossible.” Kilburne’s voice was getting weaker.

“Better to keep moving, to places they don’t know. They’ve most likely been studying Durham House for days. It will be safer on the outside.”

“I know where we can take him.” Kilburne shifted uncomfortably from his place on the floor. They all turned their attention to him. “The Tower.”

“Why not Bridewell?” Croke asked, “or Greenwich?”

Parker shook his head. “Whoever is behind this is at Bridewell, most likely, and with the King not in residence, Greenwich will not have the security we need to protect the prince.”

The Tower. It was the last place she wanted to return to. Jean had still been there when they’d left, although she was sure the assassin had long since made his escape. It was hardly an excuse she could use with Kilburne, anyway.

Wolsey might still be there, and some of Kilburne’s guards were in his control. It was not much, but she voiced it. “Wolsey is at the Tower.”

Kilburne coughed. Breathed deep. “Wolsey is the prince’s godfather. Whatever your feelings are of him personally, he would never harm Fitzroy.”

Susanna nodded. Exchanged a quick look with Parker. She could see the same frustration in his eyes. To keep the prince safe, they would have to return to the one place she was not.