Opening the cottage door, Brand looked left and right, but thankfully there was no one nearby. They had probably already tarried too long and the weather had improved, the mist lifting slightly, and weak rays of sunshine attempting to burst through the morning gloom. Taking Carey’s clammy hand in his, they made their way along a narrow gravel path behind the smithy and toward the adjacent street.
“Where will we go, Brand?” she asked in a hushed tone, her face starkly pale. “The coast?”
“Yes, that is what I am thinking. London is out of the question, so the next best option would be Portsmouth. Ships come and go from there all the time, if we are discreet and careful we should be able to gain passage aboard some sort of vessel to France.”
“For good?”
“No, sweet,” he said, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles. “Just a temporary exile, I’m sure.” Well, at least he hoped it would be temporary. Thousands of Protestants had fled England to wait for better times, they could easily do the same. The queen would have to make an announcement eventually, either abdicate to Elizabeth, or perhaps even nominate a distant Catholic relation like Mary, Queen of Scots or the Plantagenet Cardinal Reginald Pole as her heir. All they had to do was stay alive and uncaptured till then.
Carey pulled her cloak hood up over her head.
“I’m g-glad we had a hearty breakfast. And that mead. It will make the journey to Portsmouth more bearable.”
Just for a moment, he halted, cupped her cheek and kissed her fiercely.
“My brave darling. Once we get my horse, we’ll be fine. The saddlebags still have the canvas sheets and pegs in them to make another tent, plus our friend the innkeeper promised to pack food for us.”
“Let us hurry, then. I do not wish to stay in Guildford a minute longer.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way back to the inn. More and more people were in their gardens now, seeing to animals, beating carpets and airing sheets while the weather held, and he didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing something damning.
Scrambling again over the sty, they crossed the inn’s back garden and moved toward the stables. As though he’d been watching out for them, the innkeeper dashed out the door with a cloth-wrapped parcel.
“Here, to tide ye over. Your horse is ready for a gallop, I hope. My eldest told me he has seen soldiers in the town square, for the love of God, take the south road and do not stop for anyone.”
“Thank you,” said Carey, smiling warmly at the man. “We’ll not forget your kindness.”
Brand sprinted into the darkened stables, blinking and rubbing his eyes to adjust them to the poor light. Shoving the food parcel into a saddlebag, he swiftly checked his mount’s hooves, flanks, and bridle, but the inn’s stable boy had done a thorough job. Relieved, he clicked his tongue, firmly leading the horse back out into the yard.
And froze.
The innkeeper lay inert near the steps to his kitchen, a trickle of blood sliding down his temple. Carey dangled limply a foot off the ground in a scarlet-clad soldier’s brutal grasp, a huge hand clamped over her mouth, while five other soldiers stood in a semi circle, blocking the only way to freedom.
“As I live and breathe, Sir Brandon FitzAlan,” said the man who held Carey. “Haven’t you had us all on a wild goose chase? But it is time to return to London now. There are noble folk who wish to speak to you urgently.”
Brand’s fists clenched. “Put her down.”
“Here, now. That’s not a very civil tone!”
“Immediately.”
The soldier spat sideways. “Or what?”
“Or I will kill you. Slowly.”
“Ha! The woman would be dead afore you got close. Be a shame, really. Since we saw the drawing of her, we been looking forward to spreading the thighs of such a plump and pretty handful. All of us,” the man finished with a gruesome, gap-toothed smile as he palmed one of Carey’s breasts and squeezed hard.
Black fury like he’d never known took over, and Brand flew at him. Wrenching Carey out of his filthy grasp, he wrestled the man to the ground and slammed a closed fist over and over into his face, then made him squeal as he stabbed a short dagger deep into his side.
Unfortunately that was all he managed, as all bar one of the other soldiers leapt into the fray and dragged him off their fallen friend, the other attempting to grab Carey and secure her flailing fists behind her back.
“Enough,” snapped an older man, probably their captain, shooting a disgusted look at them all. “His Grace of Norfolk’s orders on behalf of the queen’s majesty were clear. Sir Brandon and Mistress Linwood are to be taken back to London and examined thoroughly by the council for the grievous crimes they have committed. A cart is at the ready, we need to leave at once, not tarry here indulging in lewd talk or blood sports.”
Brand struggled violently in the soldiers’ grasp, rage still surging through his body, but they held firm.
“We have committed no crimes,” he growled. “Whatever the charges the damned council have decreed, they are false and you all know it.”
The captain shrugged, his face expressionless. “Orders are orders. I’d prefer the cooperation of yourself and the woman, but should you choose to remain defiant, I will be forced to take certain measures to ensure your obedience.”
“No!” screamed Carey. “He has done nothing wrong. It is me they want. Let him go.”
“Unfortunately, mistress, Norfolk requires you both, so the pair of you will be traveling to London this day. Whether hale
