Valentine (27 page)

Glayer Felsteppe blanched. “Wait. You . . . you are not one of my soldiers, John Miller? You weren’t at Benningsgate with me last night?”

Valentine pursed his lips and glanced at Mary. “He is no very quick, is he?” He looked back at Felsteppe, and the certain fury in his dark eyes took Mary’s breath. “Allow me to introduce myself, since we have no yet properly met: Valentine Alesander, friend to Roman Berg, Adrian Hailsworth, and—” Valentine’s eyes narrowed—“Constantine Gerard. Now that we are acquainted with each other . . . it is time for you to pay for what you’ve done.”

Felsteppe drew his sword with a ringing hiss and swept out his other arm toward Mary. “Get back, Lady Mary; in but a moment, I shall increase my wealth by one thousand pieces of silver.”

But Mary ran around his outstretched arm to stand between Felsteppe and Valentine. “No. He is innocent of the crimes he has been accused of.”

Glayer gave her a confused frown. “What are you doing?”

“Maria, move!” Valentine commanded.

But Mary did not budge, hoping with some small part of her that she could end this hunt here and now, and somehow convince Glayer Felsteppe to let Valentine go free. “They are all innocent. The men he spoke of were not behind the massacre at Chastellet—it was another who betrayed the king. Valentine wasn’t even there.”

Glayer Felsteppe seemed to be losing his patience. “What would you know of anything, you simple woman? Get out of the way.” Glayer moved a step closer.

Mary threw up her hands. “No! He is innocent, I tell you!”

“Maria,” Valentine said from behind her, “he knows I am innocent.”

Felsteppe’s eyes narrowed.

Valentine continued. “He knows all of us are innocent because it is he who betrayed Chastellet.”

“What?” Mary asked and looked to Felsteppe. “Is that why it was you at the Queen’s Inn? You’re leading the search for them because
you
are the traitor?”

“What do you know about the Queen’s Inn?” Felsteppe demanded.

“I saw you!”
Mary shouted. “I heard what you said! You thief! You . . . you
liar
!”

“Come away now,
mi amor
,” Valentine ordered quietly. “He will no hesitate to kill you. He has already done as much to Constantine’s wife and son.”

Mary gasped and backed up slowly until she was standing slightly behind Valentine. “You killed them?”

But Felsteppe’s eyes were flicking from Mary to Valentine, his mind working. “
You’re
the Englishwoman,” he said at last. And then he roared, “
Where have you been, Mary?
What do you know?”

The sound of a door creaking filled the tense, vibrating silence, and from the direction of the chapel, Father Braund called, “Is everything all right? I heard shouting.”

Glayer Felsteppe glanced over his shoulder and Valentine rushed forward, slicing at the red-haired man’s sword arm. Felsteppe whipped his head around with a cry and slashed awkwardly with the sword even as blood gushed from his forearm. The blow glanced off Valentine’s ribs, laying open his tunic and the skin beneath it.

Mary screamed, and then heard the chapel door slam shut.

Valentine and Felsteppe circled each other in the hall, Mary’s chair between them. Felsteppe had moved his sword to his left hand, his right forearm dripping fat red splotches onto the wooden floor. Valentine pressed his left hand to his side briefly and then glanced down at his palm; it was slick with blood.

“You’ll never best me with that little splinter,” Felsteppe taunted, his breathing labored.

“No?” Valentine challenged. “Then why do you hesitate? Only come a bit closer and I will cut out your eyes and shove them down your throat so that you might witness your black heart as it ceases to beat, you filthy coward.”

Felsteppe feinted to the left and then slashed with a backhand motion. Valentine arched his body away from the blade and skittered back.

“It is you who retreats.” Felsteppe laughed. “But go on, run around like a rabbit for a while if you would. It will only tire you out more quickly.”

“I can afford to bide my time,” Valentine said easily, placing the chair between them. “My wound is but a scratch. You, however—” he gestured toward Felsteppe’s dripping hand—“are ruining the floor with your blood.”

Felsteppe’s face was growing paler, in sharp contrast to his bright hair. Mary could see the fear in his eyes, and she hoped that it would be over soon.

Then a rapping sounded on the door at the bottom of the stairs.

“Lady Mary?” a warbly voice called. “Lady Mary? It’s Lady Elmsbeth.”

“Oh my God.” Mary gasped. “That woman has the worst timing!” She turned her head to call down the stairwell while still keeping an eye on the adversaries before her. “Go away, Dowager! I’m busy!”

“I don’t like the sound of your voice, young woman,” Lady Elmsbeth said, her disapproval clear. “Something is wrong; I can hear it. You let me up this moment or I shall have this door broken in!”

“Go away!”
Mary shouted.

“Have you a pirate up there?” the dowager demanded.

Glayer Felsteppe must have at last realized the futility of continuing the battle alone, for he cried out, “Call for the soldiers to break down the door! Beckham Hall is under attack!”

“Good heavens!” the old woman shrieked.

“This is no good, Maria,” Valentine warned, still circling the chair as the first shuddering crashes against the door rang up the stairwell and filled the air of the hall.

“There are two hundred soldiers readying to cut you down, Alesander,” Felsteppe said with a greasy smile. “It would be kinder to yourself to run upon my blade now. Mary might want to look away first, since she clearly has misplaced feelings for you. Don’t worry—I shall rid her of them once we are wed.”

“Never,” Valentine vowed. “You will never touch her again.”

The crashes continued, and Mary heard the sound of wood splintering, metal screeching against stone.

“Time’s up, Alesander,” Felsteppe said and held his arms away from his sides, his hand still dripping thick blood, as the sounds of boots pounded on the stairs.

“I think that you are right.” Valentine flipped the dagger in his hand and flung it at Glayer Felsteppe.

It sank to its hilt in his upper chest with a sick thunk. Felsteppe staggered back, his eyes wide. He dropped his sword with a clang and raised his bloody hand to the dagger.

“For Stan,” Valentine growled.

And then he whirled and seized Mary’s hand. “Up, yes?” he said, shaking her from her horror.

They dashed past Felsteppe’s crumpling form to the rear of the hall, Mary leading, and leaped onto the stairs. Behind them, the shouts of soldiers swelled, and Valentine flung the door closed behind them. Once on the third floor, they ran through the columns to the opposite corner of the keep, where another staircase nestled. They whipped around and charged up. But the flat trapdoor was stuck, and they spent precious moments trading positions while Valentine threw his shoulder into the wood.

In moments they burst into the bright sunlight of the palisade and clambered out. Valentine dropped the door and slid the bolt home. Then he spun around in place, taking in their surroundings. He pointed a long arm toward the blue water of the harbor.

“Look, Maria,” he said with a grin.

She saw a familiar ship not far from shore, and although the telltale flag was not raised, Mary knew it could only be—

“
The Azure Skull
,” she whispered.

“We must only reach it.” Valentine glanced over the side of the battlements at the village, some fifty feet below. “Too high,” he said. “Damn!”

“Wait,” Mary said, “There’s another stair! This way!” She grabbed his hand and they sprinted between the battlements ringing the angled roof below; one side, two sides, to the corner of the walk opposite where they had come up. Mary stepped aside while Valentine wrenched open the heavy hatch and then she climbed down.

“Where does it lead?” he asked, coming after her, lowering the door over his head.

Mary paused and looked up. “The garrison.”

Valentine growled. “Why can it no lead to the kitchen? Go, go, Maria!”

They zigzagged down what seemed to Mary to be ten flights of steps, until at last they burst into the room at the dungeon level. There were indeed soldiers within, perhaps a score, but they only looked up in surprise as the lady in the fine gown and the bleeding man dashed through to the opposite flight.

They came up from the garrison in the main hall, only steps from the door that led outside, but they were halted by the formidable bulk of none other than the dowager countess.

“Mary! There you are!” Lady Elmsbeth’s talons sank into her arms. The old woman looked up at Valentine, taking in his bleeding side. “Good heavens, it’s
you
!”

Valentine conceded, inclining his head. “It is I.”

“There’s no time to explain.” Mary gasped. “Tell Father Braund: Glayer Felsteppe is the traitor. He has murdered Lady Mary Beckham.”

“What are you talking about, Mary?” Lady Elmsbeth demanded. “You’re standing right before me!”

“Tell him,” Mary insisted. “Tell him Maria Alesander told you. I will send word when it is safe.” Mary leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lady Elmsbeth’s plump cheek. “Thank you again for everything.”

Valentine swooped in and kissed the old woman squarely on the mouth.
“Gracias, señora.”

Lady Elmsbeth gasped and whooped. “Oh! Oh my! Oh, good heavens, go! Go! They’re coming!”

Mary and Valentine rushed from Beckham Hall through the guardhouse and down the stairs. They ran from the keep straight into the milling crowd of villagers, drawing curious stares but no pursuers.

Yet.

Valentine pulled Mary to a halt near a line of horses tethered to a rail. He loosened the reins of one and then threw Mary onto its back, swinging up behind her.

“Ho, there, fellow!” an older man shouted, coming toward them with his hand raised. “That’s my horse!”

“It is indeed a fine beast, friend,” Valentine called, and then turned the horse toward the harbor and spurred it into a gallop down the street, sending peasantry diving for the gutters.

“How are we to get to the ship?” Mary asked over the pounding hooves.

“We will worry about that if we reach the docks,” Valentine said, glancing over his shoulder.

Mary peeked under his arm past his flapping cape. Waves of soldiers were rushing from Beckham Hall into the street. “They’re coming!” she shouted.

“I know!” Valentine shouted back.

They weaved among the merchants carrying their loads from the docks, leaving numerous broken crates and ribald curses in their wake.

They were running out of road.

“Valentine, look!” Mary pointed past the horse’s neck to a small boat bobbing perhaps only one hundred feet beyond the end of the closest dock. Three men were aboard, one of them standing and raising his arms to signal. “It’s Roland!”

Valentine yanked his mount to a sharp halt where the dock met the land, causing the horse to dance and toss its head in protest. He looked behind them, and Mary heard the shouts of the soldiers swelling as they neared. Valentine looked back to the boat, still too far away.

Roland was standing in the bow, and he waved a long arm, his meaning clear:
Come on!

“Mi amor,”
Valentine said calmly, “I do apologize for no mentioning it sooner—you look lovely today. But I am afraid your gown is going to get wet.” Then he kicked at the horse’s sides, causing it to rear with a scream before charging into a full gallop down the wooden dock.

“Valentine?” Mary asked in a shrill voice. And then her screams matched the horse’s as the mount leaped from the end of the dock into the bay.

She felt Valentine’s hands around her waist as he threw her away from the falling beast, and they landed in the water with a great splash. Mary came up sputtering and flailed at the water with her arms.

“
Vamanos,
Maria.” Valentine gasped, wrapping his arm around her chest and dragging her through the water on her back while she clung to his wet sleeve. “There is no time for drowning.”

It seemed only a moment later that she was hauled from his grasp with a great wash of water and tossed unceremoniously into the bottom of the small boat as Valentine clambered over the side.

“Heave!” Roland shouted. “Heave, you dogs!” Then Roland leaned over Mary’s gasping form, his face and his grin upside down. “We keep meeting this way, you and I.”

Mary laughed even as she coughed.

But there was little time for levity. As she sat up in the bottom of the lurching boat, the two men at the oars straining and moving the vessel through the water swiftly, the first wave of soldiers gained the end of the pier. A moment later, a
whipt
of sound rushed past Mary’s left ear, and she saw the archers.

“Get down!” Roland shouted, and Valentine dove on top of her while Francisco’s first mate commanded the men. “Heave, me hearties!
The Skull
shall cover us!”

And Roland was right. A great roar of men echoed across the water, but it was coming from the direction opposite the dock. Valentine sat up, and when Mary followed and turned her head to look up, she saw the hulk of
The Skull
looming behind them, the black and blue flag snapping high on the mast.

Francisco’s crew lined the rails, their own bows raised.

A shower of arrows moved the air over their heads, and an instant later, the screams and calls of retreat from Glayer Felsteppe’s soldiers answered the attack. But retreat was not forthcoming, for those who were struck, nor for the remainder of them when the overburdened dock collapsed into the bay, dumping the lot of them into the sea.