Chantress (26 page)

“You have no notion why I have come to you?” he said.

“None at all, my dear Scargrave.” Sir Barnaby spoke with admirable coolness, his hand steady on his cane.

Scargrave’s spurs grated on the floor. “Not one word of my news has reached you?”

I clutched at the railing, certain of one thing only: I must get safe away.

Before I could move, however, one of the men beneath my balcony—one of Scargrave’s escort—mumbled something about ravens’ eggs.

“Hush, Giles!” his companion said.

Was it the same Giles I had overheard in Scargrave’s library? The would-be Chantress-hunter? I leaned over the railing, hoping to hear more—and my foot slipped on something small and hard and round. Marbles? Nuts? Whatever they were, they made a terrible rattle as they rolled and dropped to the floor below.

“What’s that?” Scargrave shot around, scanning the room. To
my horror, his gaze ran along the gallery—and stopped at me. “Up there! Look! Something is shimmering.”

I ducked down below the railing and made for the opposite gallery door. Below me, the Great Hall was in utter confusion.

“A ghost,” one of Scargrave’s men moaned.

“A devil,” said another.

“A Chantress!” Scargrave bellowed. “After her!”

As I ran through the doorway, an arrow thunked into the wood beside me.

I pelted down the hall, making for the hanging staircase, only to be confronted by a detachment of Scargrave’s men rushing up toward me.

“The first man to capture her wins ten thousand guineas!” their captain shouted behind them. “Be bold! And take her alive, if you can, so that we can give her to the ravens.”

“I see something,” a man cried. “There, at the top of the stairs!”

Another arrow whistled in the air.

I ran so fast that my ruby slapped hard against my chest. Because I knew the house better than they did, I stayed one step ahead, but my overtaxed lungs were no longer breathing properly, and the concealment spell was ebbing. My left hand had become plainly visible, and my shadow could be seen on the floor. I had no chance of reaching the cellars now. Instead, I raced for the nearest shelter on offer: the secret passageway by the sitting room.

I had only reached the screen in front of it when my pursuers entered the room.

“Listen,” one of them called out. “Is that singing?”

“She’s behind us,” another advised. “Go back.”

“No, she’s here. I’m sure she’s here.”

Although I was hidden by the screen, they were so close to me that I dared not push on the panel of the passageway. Indeed, I dared not move in any way.

And then, as I waited there, rabbit-still, I heard a far-off cry.

“What’s that?” said one of the men.

A door opened, and another man reported, “The hunt’s been called off. They’ve found her!”

Oh no, they haven’t
, I thought.

But the man was very sure of himself. “They need us below. Quick!”

They left the room at a fast pace.

Afraid that it was a trap, and that they might be lying in wait for me, I stayed silent behind the screen. But as I waited, I felt the house become still around me. Finally, I swung my stiff, ghostly limbs into action and peered out. No one was there.

“Hurrah!” The cry came through a cracked-open window.

Masking myself in the draperies to keep out of view, I peeped at the scene below. The courtyard was full of soldiers, with more arriving by the second. At Scargrave’s orders, they were herding three prisoners onto a cart.

Gagged and bound as these captives were, I did not recognize them instantly. But when I did, my stomach twisted. My godmother, Penebrygg, and Nat—Scargrave had them all.

Under my shocked gaze, the pandemonium of soldiers resolved into a marching formation. A ring of men surrounded the cart.

“To the Tower!” they bellowed. “To the Shadowgrims!”

As the soldiers stepped smartly, the cart jerked forward, knocking Lady Helaine, Penebrygg, and Nat to its floor.

I reached for my ruby and bit back a cry. How could I save them?

Follow them to the Tower,
a resolute voice inside me said.
And then use your magic to rescue them.

But what if that meant claiming the grimoire?

Don’t think about that now.

Just go.

The cart rolled out the gate, guarded by soldiers.

Yes, I would go.

First, however, I must sing. The invisibility song-spell had ebbed so much that I could see not only my hands and feet but the
outline of my skirts and bodice. Altering my appearance would cost me time, but there was no other choice.

Retreating to the secret passage, I sang myself out of sight again. This time I drew on every bit of intensity and self-control I could muster, determined to weave the strongest possible magic. But as the last note left me, and I went toward the door again, it clicked open. Someone had come for me. One of Scargrave’s soldiers? One of his spies?

I turned to run for the opposite door. Behind me, a cane tapped.

“Miss Marlowe!” The softest of whispers, but I knew the voice. No soldier, this, but a friend.

I spun around. “Sir Barnaby?”

“The very same,” he said in the darkness. “I was in Lady Gadding’s room and heard you singing—faintly, my dear, only faintly—and I guessed where you must be.”

“How did Scargrave find them?” I murmured.

“I gather they were in the banqueting house. The servants say your godmother ran out the door into the garden, which I find hardly credible—”

I did not. I could only imagine how much my flight had angered and upset her. If Nat and Penebrygg had approached her the wrong way, she might have done almost anything.

“—but I wasn’t there to see it myself, or I’d have been taken prisoner too,” Sir Barnaby continued. “Scargrave has posted his soldiers about the house, but so far I have managed to elude them. And now that I have found you, I shall keep you safe, never fear. Come with me—”

“I’m going to the Tower,” I said.

“The Tower?” I could hear his dismay. “My dear Miss Marlowe, you cannot possibly. Not now, not when Scargrave is on the alert as never before. You could not hope to reach the grimoire safely.”

“But I have to save our friends.”

“No, Miss Marlowe. You do not.” He was emphatic. “Believe me when I say this: The only thing you must do is save yourself.”

I was silent. Was he really telling me to abandon these people who meant so much to me?

“They would agree with me,” he said. “All three of them. They have always known Scargrave would kill them if he could. What would destroy them—destroy all of us—would be if you, too, were killed. It would be the end of all our hopes, of everything we’ve worked for.”

“I can’t simply walk away—”

“That is
precisely
what you must do. Only I am afraid it won’t be so easy as that. I have sent messengers to our IC members. Most will escape the city immediately, taking your guardian with them, I should add—”

Thank goodness for that. It would be easier to act, knowing that Norrie was being looked after.

“—but a few of us will remain here to defend you. There are a few London boltholes, known only to myself, where we have a decent chance of hiding you. What would be better still would be if we could get you out of the city entirely. Now that you have this trick of turning invisible, I think it may be possible. For now, however, I am going to conduct you through one of our tunnels to . . .”

I missed the rest of what he was saying. I was moving out of earshot, as swiftly and silently as I could.

“Miss Marlowe?” A furious whisper. “Are you there?”

I had reached the door. The peephole showed no one outside.

“Miss Marlowe!” Sir Barnaby was coming after me, but his stick and the darkness slowed him down.

Before he could reach me, I slipped out of the secret passage, my mind concentrated on the task ahead: invading the Tower.

† † †

By the time I reached the courtyard, Scargrave and his prisoners were gone.

Despite my best efforts, I could not quite catch up with them. The soldiers marched down the main streets, but I had to pick my way carefully, taking the quieter alleys where I was less likely to bump into anyone.

As I reached the Tower drawbridge, I saw the cart roll under the gatehouse arch, soldiers stationed on every side. I sprinted across the drawbridge but not fast enough. The Tower gates clanged shut before me.

Afraid my slight shimmer would give me away, I pressed against the gatehouse wall. What was I to do now?

Luck was with me. Already another company of men, this time mounted on horseback, was approaching the Tower. I slipped in behind them as they passed through the gate, hoping that an almost-invisible Chantress wouldn’t spook the horses. A few
moments later, the gate slammed shut behind me, almost catching my skirts.

But I was in.

I followed the company through yet another guarded gate, but they outstripped me, and so I took shelter against a wall and surveyed the Tower Green. The Tower’s special guardians, the Warders, were everywhere, as were Scargrave’s soldiers, many of them the Ravens’ Own.

Hastily I called to mind the Tower maps that Nat had made for me. Ahead of me was the centerpiece of the entire place, the massive White Tower for which the palace itself was named. And up its staircase, three prisoners were being carried: Nat, Penebrygg, and my godmother.

As the door shut behind them, I stared up at the Tower. Stark and uncompromising, it had been built over five hundred years ago, and reinforced by a score of kings and queens since. It had never succumbed to attack, Nat had told me. And no wonder, for its implacable stone walls soared nearly one hundred feet high—a fact that had been overwhelming enough when I first heard it from Nat, but that seemed immeasurably more so as I stood at their foot, wondering how to get in.

For it was into the White Tower I must go. Deep in its dungeons lay the Feeding Room, where my friends would be sent to await the Shadowgrims. And not far away lay Scargrave’s Chamber, where the grimoire itself was bound to the very foundation on which the Tower was built.

Not that I wanted to claim the grimoire. Anything but that.
But I would have to enter the White Tower if I were to learn what other possibilities of rescue existed.

A bell chimed, marking the time. Sunset was barely three hours away. Above me, the Tower flags—black ravens against red—snapped in the wind, as if the Shadowgrims themselves were beating their wings in triumph.

I could not let that happen.

I pushed away from the wall and headed toward the White Tower as fast as I dared.

† † †

To my surprise, getting into the Tower proved easy enough. I merely had to follow on the heels of a company of men with the King himself at their center. The guards were so busy bowing and saluting his jeweled magnificence that they did not notice the slight shimmer well behind him.

Once I was inside the Tower, however, my troubles began in earnest. Warders were everywhere, rushing about three and four abreast, their halberds and swords at the ready, and I had to flatten myself to breaking point to slip by them.

Three false starts and five near-collisions later, I finally reached the staircase I was headed for, the only one in the Tower that led down to the dungeons. A Warder stood by it but not—I saw thankfully—in front of it.

As I gauged how best to sidestep him, a weedy page scampered down the stairs and out past me.

“Make way, make wa-a-y!”

Behind him, a company of men poured out of the staircase. Ten men, a dozen? I did not wait to count them but retreated into a gap in the corner, underneath a rack of helmets.

“Make way for the King and the Lord Protector!”

Scargrave was here in the White Tower?

My heart clattered as he entered the room, his voice heavy with irritation and anxiety. “Your Majesty, you should not be here. Please leave at once.”

And Henry, apprehensive but determined: “A King must be allowed to attend his own Councils, my lord.”

“Not so.” Scargrave did not hesitate to contradict him. “Not if his very life is in danger. And in danger you most certainly are, my Sovereign. Until it has been reported to me that the prisoners are locked away in the Feeding Room, you will best serve your kingdom by remaining safe in your own rooms, with your guards . . .”

His attention was on Henry; everyone else’s attention was on him. I crept past them and took to the stairs.

I have to save them.

Moving swiftly and softly, I raced down the winding steps, breathing hard. When the steps opened out onto a dim passageway, I stopped short. I had gotten away. But where was I now?

Heavy iron gates rose before me, blocking the way forward to the Feeding Room and Scargrave’s Chamber. I could sing them open but only at the cost of revealing that I was there. Better to wait for someone else to pass through them, especially since I could hear footsteps coming.

I stepped back against the wall, then froze. I could see the haziest suggestion of fingertips on my left hand.

Perhaps I should retreat. But no, more people were coming down the winding staircase; I could not go back now.

I shoved my hand into my right sleeve and concentrated on sustaining the magic I had left. A few not-quite-translucent fingertips were not a disaster, not if I could keep the rest of the magic together until I could reach my friends and get them out.
Please come quickly,
I begged the footsteps.

And they did. A dozen Warders running down the hall, keys at the ready. When they unlocked the gate, I ducked through before anyone else did. I took off down the hall . . .

. . . and careened straight into a room that heaved with Warders. Reeling back, I watched them brandish their pikes and halberds in the half light of torches. At the center of the writhing, shouting melee, a high, scratchy scream was cut short.

My throat went cold. The scream had sounded uncannily like Lady Helaine.

Backing into the shadows, I searched for her figure, but I could not see it in the tumult. What I saw instead was a colossal black door yawning wide on the far side of the room, with a raven carved into the stone above it. Beyond it lay another set of doors, squat and square, that opened like a grave into darkness. I recognized it from Nat’s sketches: It was the entrance to the Feeding Room.