“Don’t worry. I’ve taken steps to neutralize our dear lieutenant when we need to get her out of our hair.”
“Did you roofie her morning coffee? Please tell me she’s blissfully unconscious, and drooling on her pillow.”
“No. That’s reserved for the banquet.” He pauses. “Hey, turn to your left and watch the guys looking at the hull of that small merchant ship. I want to see what they’re doing.”
“You mean the one with the buxom woman as the figurehead?”
“That’s the one.”
“I always thought you might be a boob man.”
If it’s possible to hear someone blushing, I’m certain Nico’s complexion is screaming bright red. “Jesus, just... get eyes on the bow of the ship, please?”
Swinging to my left, I set my gaze on four men, sitting on crude plank swings lowered over the railing. They inspect the apex of the bow just above the keel line. “Got it?”
“Yep. Zooming in now. Thanks.”
“Are you going to leave me hanging like those guys dangling from the ship?” I ask, trying not to let my eyes wander away while he’s recording.
“Hanging?”
“What’d you do to Becca?”
A gust of wind blows more sea spray in my face. The chill seeps through every inch of my navy blue wool cloak from my shoulders to my ankles, and makes me yearn for a balaclava instead of this silly, stylish felt hat that might melt down around my ears before I can get out of the weather. With a cloak edge in each fist, I close my arms over my chest, hoping that gathering the fabric close to my body will provide a more insulation against the cold.
“I filtered our broadcast transmissions, both audio and visual, so we are the only ones who sees what she sees. Nothing she records is getting to the Benefactors back home unless I clear it first. I reconfigured the relay circuits in the main transmitters. I can turn the filters on and off at will.”
“Won’t the Benefactors catch on when they don’t see transmissions?”
“Not if I’m careful how, and when, I use this newfound power. They won’t suspect it’s anything more than bugs in brand-new software.” He pauses. “Hey, check the harbor. It’s a few minutes after ten o’clock. The ship should come into view any minute.”
On cue, a dark blot has appeared on the horizon, and grows larger by the moment. “Looks like a ship out there. Is it the king?”
“Must be. According to the dock master’s ledgers, the next merchant ship doesn’t arrive until close to noon. Get ready. Things will move pretty fast from here on.”
Twenty minutes later, the ship passes the Rysbank Tower on the right side of the bay, and maneuvers into one of the jetties on the far end of the dock near the tall, fortified city wall. Deck hands and dock workers swarm the ship, securing the lines and unloading trunks and crates and barrels from the cargo holds.
It takes half an hour before anyone recognizable disembarks and makes their way down the pier.
“It’s them,” I say, striding toward my next observation point, the corner of a nearby building, which gives me a perfect angle for watching the weary travelers navigate toward their transports to the Exchequer, their lodgings during their stay.
Even after dozens of Sim Lab training interactions with realistic, lifelike human reproductions, watching Lady Anne Boleyn—recently elevated to Her Grace, the Marquise of Pembroke—stroll down the pier makes my stomach churn.
Stay calm. Focus.
“The historical holograms don’t lie,” I say. “She’s not a great beauty, but she has some X-factor qualities going on.”
Even with her wide mouth, hooked nose, and the noticeable oatmeal pie-looking wart on the side of her face, praises that history has lavished on Lady Anne Boleyn are not without merit. More noticeable than her trim, stylish figure and smallish breasts is her regal bearing: she carries herself like she knows she’s supposed to be at the top of the royal food chain. Her eyes brim with confidence and the promise that she could seduce the whole of France if necessary.
A closer inspection of the female entourage trailing behind her—including Henry’s first Boleyn mistress, Anne’s sister, Mary—I’m left with very little concrete evidence why this king would choose her over the dozens of beautiful women who surround him.
King Henry is tall, broad-shouldered, and good-looking. He is not, yet, the bloated behemoth his later portraits depict. If Lady Anne’s magnetism is the biggest weapon in her enchantment arsenal, the king’s position and power are his brand of aphrodisiac.
“Remember, Fagin said stick as close as you can, but don’t engage,” Nico says. “We’re in surveillance mode.”
“That’s because Fagin’s worried I might snap Lady Anne like a twig if she’s not around to stop me.”
There’s an awkward pause, and I can almost see Nico’s brow, furrowed in confusion, as he clears his throat. “Why the hell would she think that? We’re thieves, not assassins.”
Merde. “My family has never been fond of the English,” I say, trying to cover the gaffe with a thick layer of nonchalant understatement. “Never mind. It’s...complicated.”
As the royal couple climb into their coach, I untie my mare from the hitching post where I left her. The palfrey is small enough that I don’t require a boost to mount her, but riding side-saddle is literally a pain in the ass. Negotiating this side-saddle contraption in a costume that feels like it weighs more than I do should earn me a medal of some sort. As I settle into the stiff leather of the seat, the whale bones sewn into the stays poke me in the ribs.
Merde.
It’s a damn good thing my horse—a chestnut-colored filly called M’lady—is gentle. I stroke her neck and nudge her forward.
My discomfort aside, the journey back to the inn is uneventful. Calais is English territory, for the moment, and the streets are filled with townspeople going about their business. As we pass through the Lantern Gate, the principal entrance to the town, there are no crowds lining the street to welcome
