Traitor Angels (10 page)

Antonio grabbed the vellum and vial, dropping them into the box and shutting it with a clang. “Come on,” he said, and the three of us took off running.

EXCITEMENT LENT WINGS TO OUR FEET AS WE
slipped through the quiet streets. With each step I took, I imagined I felt eyes boring holes into my back, but when I looked behind us there was no one. In the wind, the lanterns swung wildly, throwing arcs of light across the roads.

At the inn, I crept upstairs while Antonio and Crofts saddled the horses. None of us had unpacked our things, and I made quick work of grabbing our bags and tiptoeing outside, where I found the boys waiting in the stables. Crofts had raided the inn’s kitchens for provisions, leaving behind a handful of guineas as compensation.

Wordlessly we strapped our bags to the horses. Every flutter of the breeze made me start, but the night was quiet, the courtyard deserted except for us.

We led the horses to the street. As we swung ourselves onto
the saddles, Crofts said, “Go slowly. We don’t want our speed to attract anyone’s attention. Once we reach the countryside, though, ride as hard as you can.”

Although I longed to urge my horse to go faster, I kept my hands easy on the reins. The horses picked their way over the cobblestones, their hooves ringing.

When we reached the city outskirts, we kicked our spurs and sprinted toward the fields. I kept my eyes trained on the jagged line of trees on the horizon. We plunged into the fields, the long grasses slapping our horses’ legs. Beneath the crashing of my breath in my ears, I caught something else: the faint thud of hoofbeats on packed earth.

I twisted around in my saddle, straining to see in the darkness. Already the lanterns of Oxford were some distance behind us. The stars had begun to come out, raining silver on the fields. By their faint illumination I could just pick out three black silhouettes—the curved shapes of men hunched low on their horses’ backs. They were racing directly toward us. One of them shouted, “Faster! Don’t let them get away!”

They were after us.

Shock stole my breath. Were they highwaymen? Or Buckingham’s spies? They must have concealed themselves in the fields, lying in wait for us until we passed—but how had they known where to find us?

For a horrible instant, my eyes met Antonio’s. His were wide, and his lips were set in a grim line.

There was no time, though, to think. I kicked my heels against my horse’s sides, urging him onward. We thundered across the fields so fast that the grasses became an endless blur.
My heart was slamming so hard into my breastbone I could scarcely breathe. With one hand I clutched the reins; with the other I reached for my sword, my fingers closing around the hilt just as a speck of black appeared on the periphery of my vision. It was one of our pursuers racing ahead of me, but he was still little more than a dark streak under the star-dotted sky.

Then he wheeled around to face me, pulling so hard on his reins that his beast shrieked and reared back on its hind legs. Its front legs kicked, narrowly missing my horse’s head. I let out a harsh cry and yanked on my reins, trying to force my horse to move back. It staggered to the side, whinnying in terror. The other rider’s horse kicked again, its hooves coming within a hairbreadth of my arm.

“Elizabeth!” Antonio shouted from somewhere.

My horse reeled and I nearly lost my seating.
Don’t fall, don’t fall
. Digging my knees harder into the horse’s flanks, I drew on the reins once more, yelling, “Stay!” With my right hand I pulled my smallsword free from its sheath with a rattle of metal. From behind me I heard the sounds of fighting—clanging steel, panting breaths, muffled shouts.

The other rider’s agitated horse danced from side to side. In the silver-spangled darkness, its owner looked ghostly, all traces of color washed from his face. With a jolt, I realized I recognized him as one of the students from the Bodleian Library this afternoon; he had been sitting at a table, darting irritated looks at us until we retired to another room. He had to be one of Buckingham’s men—but how had he known how to hunt us down? Now he held a sword aloft.

Without warning he charged at me, his weapon descending
through the air toward me like a silver line. At once I whipped my sword into a protective blocking position above my head. Steel sang as his blade hit mine. A tremor shot up my arm. I didn’t let my arm fall, but pressed with all my might, trying to force his sword away from mine. We remained seated on our horses, our faces inches from each other’s. I could see the brown dots along his jawline where his barber hadn’t shaved closely enough and the shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. The scent of rose water clung to his skin—a rich man’s perfume.

“What do you want?” I yelled. My arm trembled from the effort of blocking his sword.

The man glared at me, his face a mask of rage. “To stop your father! May God curse him and his traitor angels!”

“What—”

But I never had the chance to finish the question. With a bellow of rage, the man lifted his sword higher, as if he was preparing to lop off my head with one blow. He had left his chest exposed, though, and I saw my chance. I slashed at his side—two quick lines that formed an X. I took care not to make the cuts too deep, using just a shallow swipe of my sword to stop him in his tracks.

He let out a horrible cry and sagged forward. His sword fell, landing in the grass with a soft thump. He clutched his side, gasping. Lines of blood trickled between his fingers. In the night, the blood looked black.

“Come!” a man shouted from behind me. “We have it!”

My assailant streaked past me, clutching the reins one-handed, the other hand still holding his side.

“After him!” I shouted at my horse, digging my heels into his
flanks. The terrified animal merely turned in a circle, whimpering. As we wheeled around, I caught sight of a crumpled form on the ground, a tangle of arms and legs surrounded by tufts of grass. It lay unmoving.

All the air seemed to rush from my chest.
Antonio
.

I pulled on the reins as hard as I could. A jumble of thoughts streamed through my head:
No, please
. I slid off the saddle. My legs were shaking so badly I didn’t think they would support me, but somehow I was running across the field, the long grasses slapping at my chest. Dimly I heard our pursuers riding away.

Antonio lay motionless, his face pressed into the dirt. He still wore his broad-brimmed hat, which hid the condition of his head from me. I prayed a horse hadn’t kicked him there, for I had never heard of a man recovering from such an injury. My hands grasped Antonio’s shoulders, preparing to turn him over, and his hair brushed my fingers. The strands were stiff and curled.

It was a wig. No human hair felt like that.

“Crofts,” I whispered. Not Antonio. A small pocket of warmth bloomed in my heart, but I couldn’t let myself reflect upon my relief now. I rolled Crofts onto his back.

He was conscious, but barely. His eyes fluttered open and closed. Moonlight touched his face, showing the damage his assailant had wrought. His lips were swollen and split. A bruise already stretched along his jaw. When he coughed, flecks of blood flew from his mouth. A few drops landed on his cheek, the little circles marring his pale flesh. He kept his arms curled over his chest, making me wonder if any of his ribs had been broken.

Antonio dropped down next to me, sliding his sword into its sheath with a whine of metal. He was breathing hard. There
was a shallow cut on his forehead, and his doublet had been torn, revealing his white shirt beneath.

“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely.

“I’m well enough. We must look after the duke.”

“I have failed in my duty.” Crofts’s voice was weak. His eyes snapped open, moving wildly until they focused on me. “My attacker dragged me from my horse. I tried to stop him, but he got the box.”

I closed my eyes, enfolding myself in darkness. So these enemies of ours had gotten my father’s clues.
Oh, Father
, I thought despairingly,
how on earth can we help you now?

“Can you get up?” Antonio asked Crofts.

I opened my eyes to see Antonio with his arm around Crofts’s back, struggling to help him sit upright. Something in my chest twisted at the sight. This Crofts didn’t know Antonio or me, and by all rights he should have hated my father for encouraging his grandfather’s execution. Yet he helped us, simply because he didn’t want kings to transform into tyrants—even though it meant opposing his own father.

He ground out a curse between clenched teeth. “I should have stopped them from getting the box—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I interrupted, brushing a stray curl from his jaw, which had already begun to swell.

“We’ll take you back to the inn,” Antonio said. “Then Elizabeth and I must go on ahead to London without you. As long as we can reach her family’s home first, it doesn’t matter that those men got the box.” He sent me a grim look. “I hope the horses aren’t already tired. We’re about to embark on the race of our lives.”

Crofts insisted on going with us, though, saying his position of privilege would open doors that would otherwise remain closed to us. Rather than waste time arguing, we hurriedly bound his ribs—he swore none were broken, although I wasn’t certain I believed him—and helped him onto his horse.

The position of the constellations told us in which direction the east lay, and we directed our horses toward the horizon where the sun would appear—toward London. We didn’t dare stay on the roads, so we raced across the open countryside. I kept wondering if we would overtake our pursuers, and what we would do if we did, but I didn’t see a soul. Who were those men, though? And how had they known where to find us?

Time ceased to exist. Fields stretched on and on, etched with silver from the moon. At last the stars gasped and died. There was only the black weight of the sky, and in the east, a pale swath of gray.

Crofts’s horse slowed to a shuffle. Crofts sat slumped in his saddle, his head lolling on his neck. Was he ill? Or had his injuries grown too painful? Antonio and I pulled up alongside him.

“We shouldn’t stop,” Crofts mumbled.

I started to reach for him, then hesitated.
He’s a king’s son and you’re the daughter of a suspected regicide
, I reminded myself. Then I saw how his fingers dug into his ribs, as if he were trying to hold them together, and every wall separating us seemed to crumble. I pressed my hand to the exposed flesh of his neck. It was burning hot and damp with sweat.

“He’s ill,” I said sharply to Antonio. “Get him down, and quickly. We must break his fever.”

“I’m well,” Crofts protested as Antonio and I scrambled off our horses. Antonio laid him on the ground while I searched the sumpters for the water skins. By the time I had returned with them, Antonio had removed Crofts’s shirt. I wet a strip of linen and wiped Croft’s chest and face with it, praying its cool touch would bring him some relief.

“We may have to bleed him,” Antonio said. “Part of his blood could be poisoned from the fever. We must find the warmest place on his body, then cut there, before the polluted blood can circulate.”

My hand paused in the act of drawing forth my knife. “Circulate? What do you mean?”

“The heart pumps blood and moves it throughout the body.” Crofts’s voice was a shaky whisper. “My grandfather’s physician discovered it years ago, but few people believe in the theory.” He coughed. “Don’t bleed me. Please. When I was fighting the Hollanders, I saw so many men on my ship die from their injuries.”

As Crofts paused for breath, Antonio sent me a questioning look. “Do you remember I told you about England being at war with the Netherlands over our sea trade routes?” I asked quietly. “The king’s brother, the Duke of York, and the king’s twin sons have fought in some of the battles at sea.”

“I watched as cannonballs blew them apart,” Crofts murmured, “and as blood poured from their wounds. It made me wonder if we must keep the blood in our bodies or die without it.” He coughed again, laying a dirty, bloodstained hand on his ribs. “I beg you not to bleed me, Elizabeth.”

My name sounded so strange coming from his lips—he had addressed me as a friend. If anyone had told me a few hours ago
that the king’s son would call me by my first name, I would have thought he’d lost his wits. Now I knew I would do anything, fight anyone, to keep this boy safe, for he could have died while trying to help my family. I rested a gentle hand on his brow.

“I promise I won’t, Your Grace,” I said.

“You’re kind.” His eyes drifted closed. “You remind me of my mother.”

He said nothing more, his breathing shifting into the shallow rhythm of the slumbering.

“We should rest,” Antonio said. “I know you must be desperate to continue to London, but we can’t maintain this pace without killing the horses or ourselves. We’ll have to hope those thieves won’t notice the notation in Hebrew or that they won’t be able to translate it.”

I let out a shuddering breath. He was right. “Yes, we should sleep.”

Neither of us, however, made a move to unpack the bedrolls. Instead we sat side by side on the hard ground. My skin prickled. I looked behind us, but there was nothing except for the unending fields. No attackers, no one at all. They must be far ahead of us by now. Helplessness and fury crested within me like a wave. If only we hadn’t brought Crofts with us—maybe we could have caught up to our assailants and retrieved the box.

It was no use mourning what could have happened. Sighing, I hugged my knees to my chest. I could smell blood and leather on Antonio’s skin. He looked into the distance, frowning as if deep in thought, his tired face framed by the tangle of his hair.

“Who’s the duke’s mother?” he asked.

“Lucy Barlow—she was a Welsh gentlewoman who died
several years ago. There are rumors the king secretly married her, which would make the dukes of Lockton and Monmouth legitimate and the rightful heirs to the throne.”

Antonio’s eyebrows rose, but I said hastily, “I can’t imagine the king would have been so foolish. When Crofts and his brother were born, the king was still a young man living in exile. His father had recently been executed, but the stories go that the son never gave up hope of reclaiming the crown someday as Charles the Second. I doubt he would have jeopardized his future by making a disadvantageous match.”