Alys struggled to find her voice. “Murderers!”
“Oh, no. What we do is no crime.” Avery’s jaw was set.
“You sin against God. You plan to kill Queen Elizabeth. And who knows how many others?”
He prodded at her with the toe of his boot. “It is no sin to destroy the daughter of so unnatural a mother as Anne Boleyn. Our Lord upholds justice—it is unjust of a usurper queen to steal the freedom of a legitimate one.”
“That does not give you leave to slay the innocent.”
Kirlham snorted. “Pah! I am tired of this complaining. Dispatch her now, Richard, and come away. Once you have set the trap.”
Bending his head, Kirlham disappeared through the little door.
What trap? For whom?
Too miserable to move, too exhausted from her struggles to take breath and scream, Alys watched Avery’s movements, trying to understand his intent. He was bundling papers and cloths together in the center of the room. Then he breached what must be a small keg of gunpowder. He spread the explosive liberally about the room, piling it thickly around the papers. This done, he stood and looked about him, hands on hips.
He was going to destroy all remaining evidence by blowing up the room, setting fire to the house and very likely destroying everything. Surely Kate could not have condoned this? She must have been forced to agree—she’d never sacrifice her only home. Perhaps she’d been pressured from the very beginning, by her husband, or by his friends after his death.
Alys was given no further time to speculate. Avery’s eyes, glittering with cruelty, were focused on her. Very deliberately, he took his knife from its sheath and cut away a length of twisted gold cord from a tapestry. He wrapped it around both fists, snapping it tight between them. Was this to be her end then, to have the life choked out of her? Her hands flew protectively to her throat. For Kit’s sake, as well as her own, she would fight Avery to her last breath.
He threw himself down, pressing her back with his weight, the cord stretched painfully across her throat. She kicked and struggled, gouging at his body, yanking on his hair, biting his hands, anything she could think of.
She was no match for him. As her strength began to fail, the pressure at her neck grew greater, and her lungs cried out for air. Half-conscious, she heard a loud thud coming from the direction of Kate’s chamber, followed by a splintering noise.
Avery, intent on his murderous task, seemed oblivious. Through the blood and panic pumping in her ears, Alys heard the splintering sound again, louder still. This was followed by a crash, and the next instant, an axe sailed through the air and buried itself in the planking a yard from her head.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Kit burst into the room and saw Avery on top of Alys, he tore him off her. No sooner had the man found his feet, than Kit drew back his fist and dealt him a blow that knocked him to the floor.
“Death is too good for you, you despicable worm. I’ll tear you apart, piece by piece, and feed you to your hounds. Not to my own, lest your vile flesh stick in their craws.”
He stood over his fallen foe, the blood roaring so loud in his ears, he was barely aware of the other men charging into the room in his wake. Someone brushed past him and headed through the small doorway opposite, while others threw water onto the gunpowder scattered about the room.
A swift glance having satisfied him Alys was safe, Kit dragged Avery to his feet and gave him another cuff to the jaw that sent him staggering across the room. “Running away so soon, spawn of Satan?” he spat. “Come back here, and I’ll give you your due.”
“Kit, he has a knife!” Alys croaked out a warning, but Kit had seen the movement, and twisted Avery’s wrist until he dropped the weapon. With a kick, Kit sent it scudding across the floor.
Avery yowled with the fury of a madman. Kit bared his teeth at his adversary—he must show no weakness, despite being injured and weary. Avery knew he was fighting for his life, and like a rat in a trap, would battle on until his last gasp.
Sucking in a few deep breaths, Avery appeared to take control of himself. “Shall we settle this like gentlemen?” he inquired, inclining his head towards a sword lying close to the narrow doorway.
“How could we do that, when there is only one gentleman present?” Kit needed their fight ended quickly, so he could attend to Alys.
Avery hissed at the insult and made a lunge for his blade. Without betraying a flicker of concern, Kit called out, “A weapon, someone, that I may spit this pig.” His eyes never left his adversary’s as one of Walsingham’s men thrust a sword into his grip. He made Avery a sarcastic bow.
With a blade in his hand, Kit felt lighter, more alert, and tense in every muscle. At court, he was renowned for his skill at swordsmanship—every move he made was calculated, and swift, and his concentration could not be broken. Avery, he soon discovered, was a bit of a clod-hopper, swinging his blade wildly, and trying to use weight and force rather than speed and agility.
Avery made a feint which he parried instantly, pushing the man’s blade upwards so he could strike under his arm. The traitor reeled backwards, a dribble of blood flowing through the cut in his doublet.
“You fight well for a gardener,” he sneered, before resuming his attack with renewed fury.
Kit held his temper in check. Slowly, patiently, he wore his enemy down until the man was dizzy and panting—but still, Avery stood up to him.
“I have tasted your whore,
