The King's Daughter (61 page)

“Follow me!” she cried. She grabbed the arm of Legge’s comrade. “You too! Help us!” She ran past them both, and they stared after her in confusion.

Isabel ran straight toward Henry Peckham’s ragged line defending the gate. Peckham was wiping sweat from his brow, his strangled victim at his feet, when he caught sight of Isabel. He quickly nodded to her, an unthinking acknowledgment of her right to pass. Legge and his friend exchanged quick glances of amazement at her success, then bolted forward to join her. Peckham, believing the men with her were friends, let them pass and then lunged for a royalist coming at him with a dagger.

Isabel and Legge and the tall man raced toward the open timber doors under Ludgate ‘s high stone arch. Isabel grasped the big iron fitting at the edge of one door. She tried to push the door closed. It was too heavy. “Help me!” she cried to the tall man. “Master Legge, close the other door!”

Legge dashed across the gap to the other door. He had just taken hold of its iron bolt when someone lunged at him from behind, knocking him forward. Legge turned and swung his fist at the man’s jaw, felling him.

Isabel whipped around to see Edward Sydenham coming at her with his bare hands uplifted like claws.

Thornleigh’s leg muscles and lungs screamed in pain. He had run nonstop after escaping the attack of Carlos’s cavalry, and he ran on now, ignoring the pain, ignoring the questionsthat the sight of Carlos had unleashed, because now he could see Ludgate’s doors standing open less than a quarter mile ahead.

Wyatt was running beside him. And Thornleigh thought there must be three hundred of their men running behind them. Most were out of breath, many were bleeding, but all were unquestioningly following Wyatt. And, like Thornleigh, Wyatt’s eyes were fixed on their goal, their haven, their reward—the big wide-open doors of Ludgate. They were going to make it in.

Then Thornleigh heard it again—the murderous thunder of a cavalry charge. He twisted around. It was the Spaniard again. His horsemen fell on their rear, again. And tore them to pieces, again.

But again, Wyatt stumbled free and carried on with a fraction of his company. Now, there were no more than fifty of them. And Thornleigh stuck by Wyatt’s side.

Sydenham’s hands were almost at Isabel’s throat when Legge butted his head into Sydenham’s side. Sydenham thudded to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He clawed at the muddy cobbles in a frenzy to get up, but Legge’s tall comrade grabbed him by the feet and hauled him to one side to clear the door’s path, while Legge ran back to the other door. Isabel stared at Sydenham in amazement: he had tried to stop her from closing the gate. He seemed obsessed, beyond caring whether he was jeopardizing Queen Mary’s throne as long as his scheme to have the archer kill her father succeeded.

A shudder ran through her as she realized that her betrayal of Wyatt was no less grotesque.

There was no time for such thoughts.

She lunged for the door and grabbed hold of the iron bar and pushed. Her muscles quivered with the effort, but still the door did not move. The tall man rushed back to help her. Isabel turned and threw her back against the door. Across the gap, Legge was pushing hard at the other door, his shoulder against it, his face red. Grunting with the labor, Isabel finally felt her door budge. It began to move slowly. So did Legge’s door.

The huge hinges creaked, the heavy timber doors gained momentum, and Isabel had to hasten her walk into a lope to keep up. She and the tall man were almost running with the door when, with Legge’s door edge just an arm’s length from hers, she looked out and saw Wyatt’s meager troop staggering down Fleet Street toward her. She caught sight of Wyatt at the head, and of her father at Wyatt’s side. Her father gazed at her, shocked, unbelieving. Wyatt saw her too. The last glimpse Isabel had, like an arrow piercing her eye, was of Wyatt’s stunned face.

The doors slammed shut. Legge drove home the long iron bolt.

Edward Sydenham heard Howard’s men cheer. He scrambled to his feet and saw why. Isabel and the two men had succeeded in closing the gate.

An archer on the gatehouse rooftop, pointing out to Fleet Street, shouted jubilantly, “The Queen’s cavalry are routing the rebels! The rebels are falling!”

Howard’s men cheered more wildly. The closed gate infused new strength into them and simultaneously drained it from Peckham’s men. All around Edward, Howard’s loyalists began striking stronger blows and Peckham’s men began falling.

Edward felt dizzy with hope and fear. If Wyatt’s soldiers were dying outside the gate there was every reason to hope that Thornleigh was dying too. Maybe he already lay dead. But with the gate shut it was impossible to know. Edward’s eyes fell on the small door of the walkway that led under London Wall. It was closed. What if, just beyond the gate, Thornleigh was running toward the walkway, about to burst in here looking for the man he hated?

Edward pulled the pistol from his doublet and ran for the small door and opened it. He fumbled to load the pistol as he stepped into the stone walkway, a tunnel through the eight foot thickness of London Wall. The door at the opposite end was shut. The door behind Edward creaked shut, too. There was no light in the tunnel. Edward walked on, his footsteps echoing, the old terror of small places invading him again and tightening every nerve. He heard the muffled shouts and cries of men as he approached the far door. Reaching it in the darkness, he clawed over its wooden surface to find the bolt. Slivers gouged his palms, but he finally wrenched the bolt aside. He kicked open the door and ran outside … and gasped at the scene of battle before him.

Carlos called it mayhem. Pembroke’s infantry had finally arrived and a troop of Clinton’s cavalry, too—all to subdue the pitiful remnant of Wyatt’s army, no more than fifty men. The rebels fought bravely, but their resistance was hopeless. Vastly outnumbered, they were slipping in mud, crawling through puddles, bleeding, and dying. Some managed to escape the blows of the converging royalists and dashed in all directions away from closed Ludgate. They ran, slid around house corners, careened down lanes toward the river.

Carlos saw Wyatt standing still with an expression of disbelief on his mud-flecked face. Carlos galloped toward him.

Isabel was almost knocked down by a rebel soldier running toward a lane. After closing the huge gate she’d caught sight of Sydenham, and one look at his white face as he drew out his pistol had told her the worst. She had hurried after him through the walkway under London Wall, hoping somehow to stop him. But now, in the melee before her of soldiers running and horses rearing and men fighting and shouting and falling, she had lost Sydenham. Nor could she see her father. If she could only reach him she could pull him away down a lane to the maze of docks and breweries on the riverfront. She could hide him there. If she could just find him before Sydenham did.

A horseman galloped past and Isabel lurched out of his way, then gasped. Though his face was turned from her, she would recognize him anywhere. Carlos.

Edward had forced himself to come toward the fighting, but he cringed on the edge of the fray, terrified of getting closer, yet burning with a need to locate Thornleigh, dead or alive. His pistol trembled in his hand. And then, through the mass of fighting bodies, he glimpsed a tall man, gray haired, with a patch over his left eye—just as Isabel had described him. Edward’s heart thudded in his chest, then seemed to stop, for Richard Thornleigh was looking straight at him.

“Sydenham?” Thornleigh called, hoarse, unsure. Edward flinched—and knew he had betrayed himself. Thornleigh advanced on him, moving through the melee steadily, implacably, stalking Edward.

Edward held up the pistol in both hands to stop the trembling. But men were running past in his line of fire. He could not get a clear shot.

Wyatt’s face showed that he knew it was over. He looked up and saw Carlos coming, and his sword drooped at his side.

Carlos reined in alongside him. “Sir Thomas Wyatt?”

Wyatt nodded bleakly. He turned his sword so that he grasped the tip, the handle uplifted toward Carlos. Carlos accepted the gesture of surrender. He took Wyatt’s sword and sheathed it in his saddle. He beckoned over a lieutenant to bind the captive’s wrists with rope. Carlos looked the rebel commander in the eye and said, “I arrest you in the name of the Queen.”

* * *

Isabel froze. Searching for Sydenham and her father she had suddenly caught sight of them both. Her father was walking steadily toward Sydenham. And Sydenham leveled a pistol at her father.

She twisted around and saw Carlos. She did not stop to think. She ran to him and grabbed his stirrup. He looked down at her in amazement. She pointed to Sydenham. “You hate him too!” she cried. “Stop him!”

Edward cocked the trigger and fired. The ball whizzed by Thornleigh’s ear. Thornleigh kept on coming. He reached Edward and swatted the pistol out of his grasp. He grabbed Edward’s throat. Edward clawed at Thornleigh’s arms, felt Thornleigh’s thumbs jamming his windpipe, felt his throat on fire. Suddenly, Thornleigh let him go and slumped to the ground on his knees. A royalist soldier had jabbed a broken lance against his ribs, then twisted around to fight another opponent. Thornleigh toppled onto his back and lay in the mud groaning.

Edward saw his chance. Still choking from Thornleigh’s attack he dropped to all fours, crawled to the fallen pistol, grabbed it, and scrambled back to Thornleigh, who still lay moaning. Edward steadied himself on his knees, snatched another ball from inside his doublet, loaded the pistol. He pressed the barrel end to Thornleigh’s temple.

“Alto!”

Edward looked up. The sun glared behind the man on horseback, but Edward knew the voice. The Spaniard. He twisted back to Thornleigh and cocked the trigger.

The flat of the Spaniard’s sword smashed his wrist so violently it spun Edward around on his knees and the pistol flew out of his hand. He screamed as pain seared up his arm.

“Edward Sydenham,” Carlos said, baring his teeth in an icy smile of satisfaction. “I find you with the rebels. I arrest you in the name of the Queen.”

* * *

Isabel had rushed to her father as he lay on the ground, wincing at the pain in his side. “My God,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “It
was
you … at the gate. Why, Isabel? How
could
you—”

“Father, come with me!” She struggled to help him up. “We can run down to the river. We can get away!”

A trumpet blared. Isabel frantically looked around. The commotion all around her had changed. It was no longer the clash of battle but the clamor of victory. Through the crush of men she glimpsed Carlos watching her from his horse. Lord Howard was riding toward them, followed by a pack of his Whitecoat officers, and behind them came a throng of cheering London householders, both men and women. Lord Howard ordered his officers to arrest the rebels that were here and round up the ones who’d run away.

Desperate, Isabel grabbed her father’s arm and pulled him to his feet. She could still get him away in the confusion, get him down to the river, hide him. It was still possible, if only she could make him move! If only he’d stop looking at her with such disgust.

Lord Howard pulled his horse to a halt before Wyatt and glared down at the rebel commander. “A kingdom you have risked, Wyatt, and nothing have you gained. Except a date with the executioner.” He prodded his sword tip at the rope that bound Wyatt’s wrists. He looked around at the soldiers. “Who is responsible for this arrest?”

“I am,” Carlos answered, edging his horse forward.

Howard frowned at him. “Did you also lead the charge from Charing Cross?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Valverde.”

“Ah, yes, Abergavenny’s Spaniard.” Howard’s frown broke into a broad smile. “Well done, Valverde. A fine day’s work. Believe me, Her Majesty will show you her gratitude most generously.”

“With land?”

Howard laughed. “With whatever your heart desires, I warrant!” He turned to one of his officers and jerked his chin toward Wyatt. “Take the traitor away.”

The officer hustled Wyatt off like a common thief.

“My lord!” Edward Sydenham was frantically pushing through the crowd to get to the commander. Reaching Howard’s horse he raised his hands, bound with rope like Wyatt’s, to show Howard his grievance. “My lord, I protest! An injustice has been done me!”

Howard looked at Carlos. “You again?”

Carlos nodded.

“Your first error,” Howard said. “Sir Edward Sydenham is a gentleman beloved of the Queen.” He turned to an officer. “Lieutenant, untie Sir Edward’s hands.”

“Wait!” a deep voice boomed. All heads turned as Leonard Legge pushed through the crowd to Howard. “My lord, it’s true, this man betrayed Her Majesty. I saw him at the gate. As we closed it, he tried to open it again to the rebels. I had to bash him out of the way to stop him.”

There was murmured agreement among Lord Howard’s soldiers. “Aye, I saw him, too,” one called out. “He meant to open it.”

Howard looked at Sydenham, shocked. “Sir Edward, what say you to these charges?”

Sydenham had a hunted look. His mouth worked. He seemed to be fighting for words.

“Sir Edward,” Howard repeated, concerned, “here are divers good citizens claiming to have seen you do treason. You really must answer for—”

“I’ll tell you more, my lord,” Legge crowed out. “That woman yonder saved the day!” He pointed across the crowd. “Young Isabel Thornleigh. She closed the gate. She’s the hero of the battle. The angel of the gate!”

Londoners surged forward, cheering. They mobbed Isabel, several calling out, “The angel of the gate!” and pulled her toward Lord Howard, separating her from her father. She reached out for his hand, but he stood like a rock, looking sickened at the cheering as Isabel was pulled away as the Londoners’ heroine.

Howard, meanwhile, shook his head sadly at Sydenham. He turned to Carlos. “Valverde, take Sir Edward into custody. These charges must be investigated. As for this rabble,” he said, turning to his officers who’d rounded up several dozen rebels, “take them away. There’ll be hangings aplenty to thank God for the Queen’s deliverance.”