At the Queen's Summons (22 page)

Her triumph at court would mean nothing if Aidan was gone. If she lost him, there would be nothing left of her heart to share with a family even if she were to find them.

Pippa spied the first guard. Reeking of ale, he loitered in a circle of torchlight, whistling between his teeth. She edged closer. He stopped whistling and sniffed the air like a hound on the scent.

Damn. She should have ditched the cloak.

Before she could move, he blinked blearily at her. “You there!” he said. “What—”

“Evening, sir!” Before he could reply, she clasped his hand in both of hers and twisted. Bless the troupe of tumblers she had traveled with through Lincolnshire. They'd taught her how, with the proper momentum, she could land a large man flat on his back.

The guard's ale-sour breath left him in a rush. She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Just keep silent and all will be well.”

He wheezed as she secured a gag around his mouth and tied his hands to a gatepost. She roundly cursed Aidan O Donoghue. For his sake, she was putting her only chance in jeopardy. Still, in her heart she knew that all she truly wanted was for him to survive.

To that end, she thought of Mort and Dove, her accomplices waiting at the Galley Key. If indeed they were. She had surrendered a gold crown and promised two more if they were still there, acting as lookouts, when she and Aidan arrived.

She intended to see him off, wish him godspeed and then return to her new life at court.

So why did she feel so empty when she thought of going on without him?

The question did not matter. She could not let it matter. The guard growled something through the rags she had
stuffed in his mouth. She snatched his shortsword from its sheath. “I'm afraid I'll be needing this,” she whispered. “Your trousers as well.”

He made a garbled sound of protest. She ignored him, slicing away the buttons that held his canions in place. They fell down around his ankles. With trembling hands she pulled them on, tied the drawstring snug, then plucked his coat from a peg on the door. Finally, she left him tied in the dark and went to take his post at Bloody Tower archway.

The long scarlet coat and huge bonnet engulfed her, but she would have to hope no one noticed. Swinging his candle lantern, the chief warder went from gate to gate, followed by a sergeant and three other guardsmen. She stood stiffly at attention, the way she had observed while formulating her plan.

“Halt!” she said in a deep voice. “Who comes there?”

“The keys,” replied the warder.

Pippa could not remember what came next. “Keys? Whose keys?”

“Queen Elizabeth's keys.” He delivered the reply in a bored voice.

“Advance the keys. All's well.” She held out her hand, praying it would not tremble.

The warder hesitated. “Are you falling ill, Stokes?”

“Mayhap, sir.” She scratched her throat.

When the keys were passed to her, she neatly substituted those she had pilfered from the pantler at Whitehall. After the ceremony, she marched off to the guardroom with the others. At the door, she stopped.

“Problem, Stokes?” someone asked.

She tugged down the brim of her hat. “I have to take a piss.”

Her fellow guard took down a torch from a wall sconce. “You seem strange tonight, Stokes.”

She snatched the torch from him. “Nay, what is strange is making prisoners of innocent men.” With that, she tossed the torch onto the thatched roof and fled, praying for a miracle as the guards screamed in fear and rage.

She raced to Beauchamp Tower, bounded up the winding stairs and unlocked Aidan's cell.

“Don't think for a minute,” she said to the darkened room, “that I have forgotten your promise about the pig.”

He made one of those Celtic exclamations she so dearly loved, and then he hauled her in his arms, squeezing her so deliciously hard that the breath left her. He whispered something heartfelt and Gaelic.

“And what does that mean?” she asked tartly.

“It means you are a shining little miracle.”

“Also an idiot,” she said, pretending his words meant nothing. “A brainsick idiot.”

 

Mortlock and Dove surprised her. Like a pair of watchdogs they stood at the Galley Key, waiting patiently; it had taken Pippa and Aidan most of the night to steal out of the Tower and make their way to the riverside. The flaming thatch on the guardroom had provided enough of a diversion to get them out onto Petty Wales Street, but they had narrowly escaped a party of guards by hiding in an abandoned well. Though she would never admit it, she had loved every minute of the adventure.

“So you showed up after all,” Dove said. “Did you bring the rest of our pay?”

“You'll have it after I see that you've done as you promised,” Pippa said.

Both Mort and Dove subjected Aidan to a long inspection. “So who's the toff, anyway? He's the same one what saved you from the pillory, eh?”

“And that's all you need to know.” She was getting
nervous. These two had never been trustworthy, and she did not like the way they were eyeing the fine needlework of Aidan's shirt and the quality of his leather boots. He looked weary, his cheeks hollowed by his fast. While they had hidden in the well she had made him eat a loaf of bread she'd brought with her, but it would be days before he regained his strength.

“Did you get the boat?” she asked Mort and Dove.

Mortlock's eyes narrowed. “What's your hurry?”

Aidan took a step toward him. Despite his lack of food and sleep, he towered like a mountain over Mortlock. “I believe,” Aidan said softly, “the lady asked you a question.”

Mort's crooked nose twitched, a sign of fear Pippa recognized. “A lady, are we now?” he asked, his tone derisive even as he edged away from Aidan.

“Ooh!” said Dove, fluttering a make-believe fan.

She touched Aidan's sleeve. “Ignore them. They have always been obnoxious.”

“Ob-nox-shus,” Dove said, trying the word.

She tried not to let her irritation show, tried not to let her gaze stray to the middle of the broad river, where the Venetian galley lay at anchor, waiting. “A pity you failed to accomplish the simple task of securing a boat. I'll have to find a ferryman—”

“It's here.” Mort jerked his thumb upriver. “In the boathouse yonder.”

She paid them. They bit the coins and bobbed their heads but did not leave. “Look,” she said, “I've nothing more to spare.” She shrugged out of the voluminous guardsman's jacket and dropped it on the ground. “We're off, then,” she said, and started toward the boathouse.

Muttering, Mort and Dove slunk off into the shadows. At the watersteps of the rickety structure, she turned to face Aidan. “You understand what you must do.”

“Take the lighterboat to the Venetian galley.” He pointed to the shadowy hulk at anchor in the deepest part of the river. A hint of dawn colored the smoky sky.

“The contessa assured me you'll have diplomatic sanctuary there. Once you're aboard, the English can't touch you.” She could barely speak past the lump in her throat. “It is so hard to say goodbye.”

He caught her against him. “I know, my sweet. If I live a thousand years, I should never forget you.”

Weeping, she lifted her face and waited for his kiss. His lips brushed hers and then their mouths clung, breath and tears and hearts mingling until she almost cried out with the pain of it.

She broke away and stepped back. “Even though I do not love you,” she whispered, “I shall miss you as I miss the sun in winter.”

“Pippa—”

“Seize them!” shouted a voice from the gloom. “Seize the fugitives.”

She glanced back at the Galley Key, and her heart plunged to her knees. In the blink of an eye, she realized her mistake. Mort and Dove were supposed to keep an eye out. Instead they'd taken the money and run.

Straight to the Tower guards.

Her curse echoed across the river. The pounding of footsteps came from the black maw of an alleyway in front of them.

“It appears your friends found a higher bidder,” Aidan said in a disgusted voice. “Now what do we do?”

She grabbed his hand. “Run!”

Her stolen, overlarge boots made running clumsy. She stumbled along the quay, then clutched Aidan's arm while she shook off the boots and left them behind.

She was glad for the predawn darkness, for it con
cealed her smile of pure pleasure. There was little that she missed about her former life on the streets, but every now and then a good chase was exhilarating.

Few people—certainly not the night bellmen or Tower guards—knew the rabbit warren maze of London streets as well as Pippa did. She prayed Mort and Dove had not offered their services as guides. “Just stay hard by,” she said to Aidan, ducking her head beneath a brick archway to enter the underworld of the East End.

It was gratifying to be running for her life with a man like Aidan. He was swift and strong despite his fast, and he didn't ask stupid questions. If they stayed ahead of their pursuers and kept to the shadows, they should have no trouble eluding the guards.

She ducked down a cramped alley, tearing off her baldric as she ran and tossing the belt into a sewage conduit. At the end of the alley, they emerged into a small market square awakening to the business day. The spire of St. Dunstan-in-the-East loomed against the lightening sky. Even at this early hour, traders had arrived with rickety carts and hastily set up booths. A deafening roar of music, laughter, and general hubbub filled the air.

“Ah, this is splendid,” said Aidan. “We've come to the one place where they'll be sure to spy us.”

“Ye of little faith,” she scolded. “We'll just go back the way we came.”

The moment she spoke, excited shouts issued from the alley. The soldiers had found the baldric.

A nasty thorn of worry pricked at Pippa. They needed to hide. She shoved her elbow at a side doorway of St. Dunstan's. It swung open to reveal a set of dank, sagging stairs.

“What do you hope to accomplish by trapping us in a spire?” Aidan demanded.

“Trust me,” she replied. “They won't look here.” The stairs groaned ominously beneath their weight. The smell of rot hung thick in the air. At a high landing, a platform gave access to the large, heavy bell on one end and a low opening in the stone spire on the other.

They burst outside and found themselves on a wall walk surrounding the steeple. The surface was perilously slanted. A low murmur burbled from a dovecote in one corner.

Across another corner, someone had pegged a few articles of clothing out to dry.

“Ah, luck,” said Aidan, plucking down a plain jerkin. He pulled it over his shirt. The garment fit taut across his chest, so he left the lacings open. Just for a moment, Pippa stared at his chest and all thought fled.

He cracked a smile. “There's something for you here, too.” He took down a threadbare brown skirt and held it out for her. She yanked the skirt on over her breeches and used a square of linen to tie over her hair.

“How do I look?”

“Like an angel. Any moment now, I expect you to sprout wings.”

“Very funny.”

He grazed her cheek with his knuckles. “I was not trying to be funny. I—”

“There they are!” exclaimed a voice far below. Four armed men ducked into the stairwell.

“I wish you'd been right about the wings,” she said.

He did not answer, but untied one end of the clothesline and made a loop in the rope.

Bumps and thuds and curses sounded hollowly in the old stairwell.

“Hang on to me,” Aidan said. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Falling from a church roof in the arms of the O Donoghue Mór, she decided, was as good a way as any to die. She latched her arms around his strong neck, reveling for a moment in the firmness of his flesh. Thank God he had not starved himself to death after all.

Brandishing pikes and long-handled axes, the soldiers emerged from the stairwell and stormed across the roof. Three sharp prongs from a pikestaff drove toward them. Aidan turned to shield her body with his own. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against his chest.

He took one step backward, then swung out in a wide arc. They dropped so fast, her stomach seemed to rise to her throat. The rope sang as it paid out, hissing across the eaves of the building.

They stopped with jarring abruptness and swung helplessly, bumping against the wall of the church tower.

“Now what, Your Loftiness?” she asked in a voice that was little more than a squeak of fright. She clung to him harder, winding her legs around his waist and locking her ankles. He mumbled something in Gaelic, and she peered at his face. Dear God, he was dizzy with weakness from fasting.

“I wonder how far it is to the street,” he said.