Triumff: Her Majesty's Hero (38 page)

    “The Divine Jaspers, for one,” Triumff interrupted.

    “The damned Church!” spat Lord Slee from nearby. “I might’ve known. And what is your part in this evil sham, Woolly?”

    Woolly swung around slowly to face the Chancellor. Triumff thought the cardinal was going to strike Slee.

    “I believe Lord Slee is about to remark upon the obscene and incriminating parchment concealed about your person,” said a thin, panting voice from nearby.

    They all turned.

    Lord Callum Gull approached them across the stage. His rapier dragged from one hand, and he clutched his belly with the other. They could all see the blood soaking his arm and doublet front. His countenance was pale, his walk unsteady, and he was breathing hard, his face knotted in pain.

    “It implicates you as the ringleader of this obscenity, cardinal,” Gull said, sucking in each breath. “It is a damning document. Lord Slee knows that it will have you dragged to the headsman in the morning. He knows it, because he placed it there.”

    “This,” said Slee, his lips curling back across his teeth, “is the most outrageous slander I have ever heard! Trust you to have a lackey come out on cue and defend your blackstained soul! The man is a liar, and you, Woolly, are the blight of this land!”

    “I’m many things, Slee,” said Gull, thumping down the stage steps, heavily, “but I’m no liar. This is your handiwork. You were in this with Jaspers, and with that bastard son of Castile, de la Vega. De la Vega told me all this himself.”

    He paused.

    “Just before he died on the steel of my rapier,” he finished.

    “Nonsense! Lies! Conspiracy!” cried Slee, wheeling around and staring at the shocked, silent crowd gathered around them. “De la Vega is a loyal man! I am a loyal man! These devious murderers are in this together! See how they conveniently cover their backs, and silence loyal subjects who might expose their treason!”

    “There were four traitors, actually,” said de Quincey as he and Mother Grundy strode in through the gap beside the VIP tent. De Quincey was looking fiercer than Gull had ever seen him. He carried a crossbow in his hand.

    “And you, sir, are?” asked Cardinal Woolly.

    “Neville de Quincey, Police Surgeon,” he said. “This is Mother Grundy, from Suffolk. She has been most efficacious in combating this evil.”

    “Mother Grundy,” the cardinal said with a nod.

    “Your Worship,” responded the old woman. “Neville here is quite correct. And a damn fine shot, if I might add.”

    “We were following up investigations with Lord Gull,” said de Quincey. “We have evidence that shows the conspiracy was led by Lord Slee, Regent de la Vega, the Divine Jaspers, and Lord Salisbury.”

    “I can corroborate Jaspers’s involvement,” said Triumff, “and you’d better hunt out a stage manager from the Swan called de Tongfort, too. He’s one of Jaspers’s henchmen. The son of a bitch gave me this,” he added, touching the wound on his scalp.

    “Clap Lord Slee in irons,” said Woolly, in a voice that was so quiet it was terrifying.

    “You bastards!” yelled Slee, pulling a long dagger from his cloak. His face was livid, and the veins on his temple pulsed visibly. “Any man that touches me will die in agony! This blade is laced with venom!”

    The nobles and huscarls around Slee backed off, unwilling to enjoy a slow, screaming death. Slee broke from them, and ran. He hurtled through the Royal Pavilion, tore an exit through the canvas with his blade, and sprinted into the dark gardens beyond.

    A shadow stood in his way.

    “Aside, I say! I’ll kill you!” Slee shrieked, foam flecking his lips.

    Eastwoodho shook his head slowly, and thumbed back the hammer of his sidearm. His eyes narrowed to papercuts.

    “Are you feeling opportune?” he asked.

    Slee went for him like a rabid animal.

    “I guess not,” said Clinton Eastwoodho.

    Everyone in the shattered arena jumped at the sound of the gunshot from beyond the tent.

    Woolly turned away, and fixed his gaze on Salisbury, who still sat, alone, on the bench in the VIP marquee. Every eye followed the cardinal’s gaze.

    Salisbury got to his feet, raised his glass, and toasted the company. Then he emptied it down his throat.

    “Take me away,” he sighed. “I’ve got no stomach for this.”

    The guards surrounded him.

    Mother Grundy approached Cardinal Woolly, as de Quincey helped Lord Gull to a seat at the stage edge, and saw to his wounds.

    “The Divine must be found with all haste,” she began.

    “Because he has one more of those trinkets,” Triumff finished, joining them.

    “Indeed he does, young man,” said Mother Grundy, turning to him.

    “He could be anywhere,” said the cardinal, wiping his brow. “Thousands of people are fleeing Richmond at this very moment. A creature as gifted as Jaspers could lose himself among them. Where would we begin to search?”

    “The river,” said a small voice from behind him.

    As you will have realised by now, gentle reader, my part in this Night of Infamy is nowhere near as heroic as Sir Rupert’s, Doll’s, Mr de Quincey’s or Lord Gull’s, but this was my moment of greatness. I urge you to savour it. I certainly do.

    “When the panic began,” said I, Wllm Beaver, “and the mob was fleeing hither and yon, I saw the Divine. He was racing for the Richmond Royal Stairs. There were boats at the quay there, I believe-“

    “You old goat, you, Beaver!” cried Triumff, interrupting me to be sure, but nonetheless clapping me on the shoulder. I had hoped for “William, you Achilles, you!” but I can’t complain. Well, I can. “You old goat, you!” won’t look that great on a headstone in Poets’ Corner.

    “If he’s already on the river, we won’t catch him now,” the cardinal began. “I’ll-“

    “We will, sir,” said de Quincey, approaching them. “Mother Grundy knows how. If she’d er do it again. Ma’am?”

    Mother Grundy nodded. “Of course, Neville. Make haste now, make merry come supper.”

    Cardinal Woolly frowned, working that through.

    “I’ll go with you pair,” said Triumff. “I have unfinished business with Jaspers.”

    “Weren’t you tending to Lord Gull, Police Surgeon de Quincey?” Woolly began.

    “I can do that,” said Doll. “I’ve been with Rupert long enough to know how to tend a sword cut.” She crossed to Lord Gull, who looked up at her with a faint smile.

    “Can I trust my life to Triumff’s girl?” he muttered.

    She glared down at him.

    “You’re in no position to be choosy, Gull,” she replied.

    With a chuckle, Gull got to his feet, leaning on her for support. He threw his bloody rapier across the arena to Triumff, who caught it neatly.

    “That might help,” he called.

    Triumff nodded.

    “It might indeed,” he called back. “Ready?” he asked of de Quincey and Mother Grundy.

    The three of them hurried away towards the Royal Steps as Woolly watched them go. His shoulders, which seemed to have been holding up the burden of the entire Earth, sagged.

    He looked around and saw me, Wllm Beaver, pulling out his notepad and pencil.

    “Not now, Master Beaver,” he said, “not now.”

“Don’t flinch! Be a man!” Doll told Lord Gull.

He looked up at her, an eyebrow arched.

    “Let me see,” she murmured, and managed to move his arm aside.

The wound to Gull’s stomach was deep and bloody.

    “He didn’t let you off easily, did he?” she asked as she dressed it.

    “No,” sighed Gull.

    “Then why do you smile, Lord Gull?” asked Doll.

    “Because the Queen is alive. Because I won. Such things make it worthwhile for a soldier to smile.”

    “And my name’s Callum, Miss Taresheet,” he added.

    “Is that so?” She sniped at him. “I’m Doll.”

    He smiled again. “Rupert Triumff is a fortunate man,” he remarked obliquely.

    A shadow fell across them.

    “Miss Taresheet? Where might I find Master Rupert?”

    “Agnew! What are you doing here?” asked Doll.

    “My best, lady. And Master Rupert?” he asked again.

    “Gone to the river,” said Doll, “chasing that vile Jaspers. Agnew?”

    She called his name, but he had already gone.

The elms were swaying and singing in the wind, and the Palace walls were dark cliffs beyond them. Agnew hurried over to the figures huddled in the lea of the wall.

    “So where’s Rupert?” Uptil asked anxiously.

    “Gone after Jaspers, on the river.” Agnew said, glancing around.

    “Then we have to get after him,” said Uptil. The figure behind them growled softly.

    “Where’s Master Bluett gone?” asked Agnew.

    “He said that he had his own business to attend to,” said Uptil. “We can’t afford to wait for him. Let’s go.”

Bonville de Tongfort limped silently down the damp stone steps of the Maze Approach. The swell of noise from the Palace grounds and the Shene outside was fading.

    He felt sick. His leg hurt like a bastard from the stab-wound Triumff had given him, and his face and stomach ached.

    He felt alone, but he wasn’t.

    “De Tongfort?” a voice called from the dark undergrowth by his side.

    De Tongfort spun around, his rapier up and glinting in the starlight.

    The storta swung out of nowhere, whistling in the still air.

    Bonville de Tongfort felt his toes clench. This was remarkable, because his head was currently detached, and heading for the ground.

    There was a thump, followed by a slower impact.

    Drew Bluett leaned on his sword and sighed, his weariness and the pain of his bruises overwhelming him like a tide.

    “Got you at last,” he breathed.

At Battersea.

The sky above the City was lit volcanically, and gunpowder scented the down-river wind. News of the calamity at Richmond had not yet reached the City, and the festivities were continuing unabated.

    Ferocious fireworks of every conceivable colour and magnitude fractured the night sky, supplemented by cannonades from the troops and retainers along the riverside. The London sky glowed with the warmth of a thousand bonfires and a million tapers, not to mention one or two burning buildings.

    From the prow of the speeding wherry, Triumff watched the vast display, smiling as dying firerockets hooted and wailed down out of the multi-coloured, smoky night. The bright waters of the Thames mirrored every flash and star, and surge and detonation above. It reminded Rupert of the heart of a naval engagement.

    It also took his mind off the fact that they were moving, oarless, down the river at something close to ten knots.

    Triumff moved back from the prow. Mother Grundy was sitting, arms folded, in the stern chair, watching the passing banks. De Quincey was sitting in an oarsman’s place, trying in vain to stoke and light his pipe. The wherry’s slipstream kept extinguishing his tinder strikes.

    “No sign,” reported Triumff, sitting by de Quincey. “He could have put ashore already, anywhere. We might have passed him.”

    “To keep this far ahead of us,” said Mother Grundy, “he must be using a similar means of propulsion.”

    Triumff began to ask her about that, and then thought better of it. There were some things he felt he didn’t need to know.

    Mother Grundy held out a skinny hand. In the open palm lay a small gemstone. It twitched slightly, with a life of its own.