The Tower Grave (30 page)

             
“Yes, My Lord,” said Simon, the larger of the two. “We can do it. I know my shot, and I know the shot of my cousin. We can hit anything from here.”

             
“Very well, then I believe you,” Courtridge replied. “Stay down,” he relayed to the others. “It depends on this shot. When they go down, get there quickly and silently. Move the bodies aside, and then wait. You know what to do from there.”

             
The shadows shifted in assent for a moment, then fell still. Twelve waiting eyes silently flicked between the dark archers and the two guards at the door. The air was tense as they watched with their lives resting in the hands and bows before them.

             
The ever alert soldiers in the armour of the King’s personal guard stood silently, watching the darkness before them. One of their eyes flicked upwards with a breath as a whistle cut the air and they hit the floor with a thud. Silent and still in their quick, anonymous death, the bodies were surrounded only by the hushed patter of soft boots on the cobbles before being dragged away.

             
“What was that noise?” asked the young guard inside the door of the White Tower as he glanced nervously around the dimly lit entrance hall.

             
“Nothing, lad,” answered his older and more experienced colleague standing opposite him. “You’re too jumpy,” he continued. “I know you’re new but you’ve got to get used to the odd noise.”

             
“It sounded strange,” he said again, drawing his sword. “I’ve got a funny feeling about it.”

             
“Jesus Christ, boy!” the older man shouted, recoiling from the blade inches from his face. “Put that sword away, what’s wrong with you, man? There are our two men out there, and that is all. Listen, I’ve been on the King’s guard for fifteen years, I covered most of France with their father, Edward. I know a noise when I hear one, and that ain’t one.”

             
“But don’t you think, you know, after all that’s happened?”

             
“No, lad, I don’t. No one has ever got in here, not ever. Couple of idiots got through the old tunnel, which is now under guard, and they got caught.”

             
“And escaped.”

             
“Yes, well, you heard the two lads’ testaments. It was Sykes that let ‘em out and it was Sykes who killed Rogers. That can’t happen now, Sykes is dead.”

             
“Good,” the young man said confidently before seeing the anger rise in his elder. “He’s a traitor, right?”

             
“Listen to me, son,” the older man said firmly. “You don’t talk bad about Robert, you hear me? He was my friend. With the politics of today you think every man is loyal to one King? We’ve got two kings as it is with that Duke here. Some men lose their way, is all it is. Sykes was an honourable man. He chose a different path and obviously followed it with courage; which is more than I can say for that bastard, Rogers. Now, relax about the door.

             
Knowing when he was beaten, the young soldier sheathed his sword then jumped as he heard a knock.

             
“See?” said the older man opening the door. “Just the lads wanting a hot drink and a piss.”

             
“Wait I still think you should just...” he was cut off and his mouth dropped in horror as the tip of a sword shot out the back of the old guard’s neck and withdrew sharply leaving him to slump on the floor in a heap.

             
Too many men to count trampled the body and the slick gore around him as they stormed into the hall wearing cloaks and masks.

             
“Don’t make a sound!” whispered a masked man as he grabbed the young soldier around the neck with a bandaged hand. “What’s your name?” he whispered harshly.

             
“Thomas,” he replied, shaking and hoarse with the constriction. “I’m the King’s guard.”

             
“Good for you,” said the man. “You can tell Saint Peter at the gates when you beg him to let you see God tonight. How many are here right now? I said how many guards and where?”

             
The young guard thought to himself for a moment as he looked around at the eight or so shadowed men, panting with their swords bared. He raised his chin defiantly and stared down the mask before him.

             
“No,” he said, though his voice shook. “I am the King’s guard and I will not tell you. I cannot.”

             
Without a sound, the bandaged man nodded and only a flash of light registered in the corner of his vision before he felt a blade slice through his cheek and catch the corner of his eye as it was pulled away. His courage crumbled in an instant and he gripped his face in agony, crying harder with shame as each tear rolled from his eyes. The bandaged hand clamped tight over his mouth to muffle his sobs before the masked face again leaned closer and the frightening voice whispered once more.

             
“How many?” he said harshly. “Or lose your balls.”

             
“Ten,” he replied, crying. “Six below the King’s chamber and four with him. The rest are with the Duke in Wales.”

             
“Thank you,” whispered the deadly voice. “Kill him please before he drowns me in snivels.”

             
The guard jolted as he spotted movement to his side, but his hopes were lifted as a young man’s voice sounded from the same direction.

             
“No, stop,” it said. “He has no need to die. What are you, lad? Sixteen?”

             
The guard nodded as he looked for the mask who spoke, desperate for salvation.

             
“Step back,” said the bandaged man, “or die as well.”

             
Disgusted, Jake stepped forward another pace, lifted his sword high making Spence flinch, and then smashed the hilt against the boy’s head, knocking him out cold.

             
“Tie him up, Spence,” he said. “And grow up out of your bully attitude or I’ll kill you myself, I swear to god.”

             
“William,” said Courtridge quietly. “He’s right, bind the boy and let’s go.”

             
With a long glance at Jake, Spence finally turned and did as he was told; binding the guard around the wrists, legs and mouth, and then dragging him into the shadows of the hall.

             
The whole group scuttled silently up the stairs, stopping before the second landing where Courtridge held them from the front. He turned to whisper to the killers behind him, while the six uniformed guards played dice noisily, inches out of their view ahead.

             
“Archers,” he said, calling to Simon and Guy and raising his own crossbow. “We’ll hit one each, then drop your bows and rush them with John and Samuel. The rest of you with me upstairs; I want two crossbows up front - cocked and ready, then swords behind. Ok?”

             
A series of grunts told Courtridge he’d been understood; then as Simon and Guy steadied themselves with their bows drawn and crept forward with Courtridge, he turned to them once more and nodded to the waiting crowd behind him.

             
“On three,” he whispered to the tough bowmen next to him. “One, two, three.”

             
All hell broke loose with the arrows as they took men from their seats and a swarm of black-cloaked figures silently raged through the rooms and stairs of the White Tower. John was barely at the top of the stairs before the two archers had slaughtered the remaining three men before them and sped back towards the stairs leaving a bloody mess in their wake. He surveyed the room as the others hit the steps and held his sword tightly as he looked at the young faces of the men around him. One guard, pinned to a door by an arrow buried deep in his shoulder was stirring to consciousness and was breathing as he slowly began to realise where he was. John ducked out of sight to avoid a confrontation and the need to kill another innocent guard, but glanced back as the wounded man spoke.

             
“Peter? Peter? Are you alive?” he said through the grimace of his agony before gritting his teeth and shocking John by snapping off the end of the arrow and sliding his wound right over it. He growled in pain as he picked up a sword and stumbled away at the back of the hallway.

             
John ran upstairs into a chaos he hadn’t expected as the camera at his chest took in the footage of the medieval treason and the vicious close combat that unfolded before him. The stairs ran red with the blood of a soldier killed as he defended the king, and the bodies of guards littered the room. Screams came from the chambers as the dark men emerged carrying two young boys. One of them, the eldest, who was barely a teenager himself, struggled violently as two men tried desperately to hold him high above their heads. John jumped at the hand of his teammate Jake as he watched the dangerous entanglement reach the stone steps.

             
“They’re so young, Johnny” he whispered faintly and weakly as he watched.

             
“We can’t let them do it,” John replied quietly. “You’re right, they’re just little kids.”

             
“You know we have to. We can’t change history.”

             
“But how can we just watch?”

             
“I know.”

             
John gasped as the eldest boy, King Edward, roared defiance and struggled free of the hands only to fall face first onto the stone steps leading down. He rolled only a few steps before he slowed down, but the awkward angle of his neck as his face hit the stone, snapped him like a porcelain doll and he slid to a stop; broken and lifeless in his night clothes.

             
John looked away, unable to watch the horror unfold before him and Jake held his shoulder as Courtridge burst through onto the steps. His face was grim as he lifted his mask and gazed down on the broken boy. He swallowed once then pulled it back down roughly over his face as he spoke.

             
“Pick him up and bloody get out of here you bastards,” he said firmly before turning to John. “My friend, I need you to carry the other boy. I know you’re reluctant to kill the soldiers and I need the bowmen and Samuel with me. Spence and Jake will stay with you. Would you?”

             
John nodded as Simon the large archer handed the wriggling boy to him and ran down the stairs.

             
“Don’t let him go, John,” said Courtridge before running ahead himself to lead the group.

The entire band of men followed down
the steep stairs at pace and burst out into the courtyard.

             
“Keep calm, kid,” John whispered to the boy wriggling on his shoulder as he crossed the courtyard to the inner gate. As the first shadows carrying the dead King passed through the gate and into the street of the Tower, a voice sounded from behind them making John jump.

             
“Halt!” screamed the desperate voice as John turned to see the guard from upstairs stumbling towards them. “Stay where you are, or die!”

             
John’s heart sank at the courage and stupidity of the young man as he said goodbye to his last chances of survival.

             
“Die?” Spence said next to him with amusement in his voice. John faced away from the guard as the vicious, bandaged knight walked behind him and pulled on the boy so he almost slipped from his shoulder. He felt the struggle renew energetically as the boy’s legs wriggled frantically in his arms and the guard shouted in panic once more.

             
“Your Highness!” screamed the guard as the form of the boy suddenly dropped limp in John’s arms and the realisation dawned on him that the young prince had become another victim of their crimes. He closed his eyes in grief.

             
A yell of rage told him the guard had the same feelings as Spence leaned close to Jake who stood with them.

             
“Deal with him,” he said as he gently pushed John through the gate and into the street. They ran hard to the outer gate, joined by the two men from the walls and the gate men behind them. John turned to Spence.

             
“What about Jake and the other one who peeled off into the darkness?” he asked.

             
“Don’t worry about him, and wonder boy will make it out if he’s so special. Edmund wants Henry left inside. I don’t think he trusts him,” he said smugly.

             
“I’m not leaving without my brother,” John said angrily.

             
“Get the boy on the horse.”

             
“I will kill you, Spence. Now keep that gate open.”

             
John turned and passed the dead prince onto the horse beside him, turning away again as he saw his still, white face for the first time. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him with the face imprinted on his mind, and as the horse sped away, some of the shadows began to disappear quickly into the darkness. As though watching himself from the outside, his body moved backwards off balance and he felt Jake’s arms under his own as the reassuring voice sank into him giving him strength.