occasional outings, and his eager bolt caught the man off guard, so that he barely had time to veer his own horse out of our way. Yet as I took flight down the road, I knew he would take up our pursuit, and I lifted my weight off the saddle to facilitate Cinnabar’s stride. “Faster, my friend,” I said in his flattened ear. “My life depends on it.”
As indeed it did. The men had spoken in Spanish; they must be in Renard’s employ and had no doubt been tracking me the entire time, waiting for the moment to seize what I had taken. I’d let my guard down, let myself get overly distracted by my suspicions of Scarcliff. I hadn’t considered that Renard would have me followed.
The striking of hooves on the road behind me grew louder. I looked over my shoulder. Both men were gaining on me; the one I had backhanded was ahead, slighter of build than his companion, his dark cloak billowing like outstretched wings, the half-moon in the sky above capturing random glints of metal on his person, including the unsheathed sword he gripped in one gloved hand while he steered his horse with the other.
I strained to see ahead. I couldn’t be too far away. A few more leagues at best and the torch-lit sprawl of Whitehall would appear before me. There would be sentries, courtiers, and officials; it wasn’t that late. No Spaniard would dare harm me in view of the palace. Renard had chosen this moment because of the late hour, this lone stretch of road. He knew that with Peregrine’s death, he could not afford to rouse the queen’s suspicions. It had to appear as if I’d fallen prey to an unfortunate but all too common accident, waylaid and murdered outside the palace while I went about the task he had assigned-
All of a sudden, Cinnabar balked and swerved, throwing me sideways. Yanking on the reins, my right foot tangling in my twisted stirrup, I tried to steady him, but he had plunged off the road and was running toward the open fields of St. James. As hard as I pulled at his reins I couldn’t get him to stop, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw why.
The Spaniard was at our heels. As the moonlight caught a streak of dark wet on Cinnabar’s hindquarters, I saw the wound that the tip of his sword had made.
Rage filled me. I wanted to stop and fight, but Cinnabar, maddened by the stinging pain and urgency emanating from me, galloped faster than before, so that it felt as though we were about to take wing. I kept looking back over my shoulder to gauge the distance between me and the Spaniard. It was widening, despite his frenzied heel-kicks into his own horse. I looked ahead. A copse of trees neared. Past it, flickering light indicated the palace of St. James. If I could only get past that copse, I might be able to-
My body lifted completely off my saddle as Cinnabar jumped, skirting a fallen bough. Then a low-lying branch hit me full in the face.
I tumbled onto stony ground, my skull ringing from the impact. My teeth cut into my lip, hard enough that I tasted blood. Looking up in a daze, I saw the Spaniard heel his mount, spraying up clods of frozen turf. He leapt off his saddle, his sword at the ready, his companion riding up close behind.
Struggling to my feet, my head pounding from the fall and the last, lingering effects of my ill-advised bout at the alehouse, I met his approach with my own sword brandished.
* * *
The Spaniard held up a hand to detain his companion. He was a narrow silhouette in head-to-toe black, not tall, though his lack of physical stature offered no comfort. He regarded me impassively from behind a full black face mask, as if he had all the time in the world, before he assumed his stance. This was a man of experience, with no fear of failure. He lunged at me with blinding speed, his sword arcing. As I parried his thrust, the impact of our blades shuddering through my arm and into my very bowels, I understood he wanted to play with me. As he assailed me, his polished moves forcing me backward, step by clumsy step, into the weaker position of defense, I realized just how bad my situation was. Setting aside that just hours before I’d grappled with Dudley and one of my eyes was now a swollen slit, I had only a few painstaking months of practice in the controlled environment of Hatfield’s gallery to rely upon. I was an amateur; I didn’t stand a chance against someone this highly trained.
I was sweating within minutes, breathing hard and fast as he attacked with almost nonchalant precision. Staggering over brittle twigs, stones, and broken branches littering the field, evading his swipes as he pushed me toward the deeper pocket of darkness under the trees, I began to consider that I might die tonight. If he hadn’t delivered the fatal blow by now, it certainly wasn’t because he couldn’t. He was playing with me, biding his time and pushing me to my limits, until I either made a mistake that opened me to his killing thrust or surrendered voluntarily, in acknowledgment of his superiority. Either way, the outcome was bleak. The question was, did I want to die on my feet or on my knees?
Everything faded to insignificance. The knowledge that I still had the one thing that could save Elizabeth, and my fury that once again my own life was deemed forfeit by callous design, compelled me to fight as I had never fought before, even as my arm grew numb and my chest burned from deflecting his relentless assault. Only once did I catch him by surprise, nicking his sleeve with my sword tip.
His teeth gleamed as he smiled. Then he came at me with all his vigor, shedding any pretense of consideration for a savage display of professionalism. Before I knew it, the shocking smack of his blade on my wrist sent a flame of agony shooting up my arm, and my sword went flying as I desperately dodged his move to slice off my hand.
Panting like a winded foal, I scrambled to retrieve my sword. He leapt in front of me. I started to reach for the poniard stashed in my boot when I felt the tip of his sword at my throat, so close it pierced the matted wool of my scarf and bit into my flesh. I looked to where Cinnabar stood, quivering, his nostrils flared and reins dangling. I hoped that they wouldn’t hurt or take him, that he’d be canny enough to elude them and find his own way back to the palace. His riderless arrival would alert the stable hands. They’d inform their betters; at some point word would reach Rochester, who’d dispatch a party to look for me. With any luck, I’d be buried with Peregrine-if anything of me was left to be found.
At this thought, a gust of laughter exploded from me, surprising me with its force, considering how winded I felt. What a way to end my not-so-illustrious career as a spy, skewered by an anonymous assassin after a visit to my former master in the Tower! Here lies Brendan Prescott, also known as the inept and short-lived Daniel Beecham.
“Don’t move,” said his companion in broken English as he marched to me and twisted my hands behind my back. He wrapped a cord about my wrists, binding them. Then he began to search me. The tube hidden inside my doublet revealed itself within seconds under his probing hands; it was futile to even try to stop him as he tore off one of my sleeves and wormed the tube out.
He waved it aloft.
I braced myself, but the swordsman did not move, his stare intent, boring into me as he waved his companion back to his horse. He was clearly in charge; though the other man grumbled, he did as he was told. For what felt like an eternity, we faced each other, motionless. Then he took a step closer. I let out an unwilling gasp as he trailed his sword down my torso, slowly, until he poised it on my codpiece. Though I couldn’t see it under the mask I knew he was smiling. He made a gesture with his other hand, ordering me to kneel. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I shook my head.
“No,” I managed to whisper. “Not like this…”
He pushed on his blade. Fearing he’d emasculate me and leave me here to bleed to death, I dropped to my knees. He raised his sword. He’s going to decapitate me, I thought in a burst of blinding terror. I was going to die like Anne Boleyn, by a foreigner’s sword-
I closed my eyes. Urine leaked down my thigh. I felt a thud on the ground near me.
When I dared to look, I saw my sword lying a short distance away. The swordsman had turned away and was striding to his horse, his cloak swirling about him. After he leapt onto his saddle, he paused to look across the field at me. I was still kneeling, my hands behind my back, the sword a tantalizing glimmer, within reach.
With a kick of his heels, he galloped off with his companion.
Chapter Sixteen
