Part 11 (1/2)

”Elizabeth. Oh my G.o.d, Bess.” I cringe at his nickname for me, too intimate to be said aloud in front of a crowd, too intimate to be said at all. ”It really is you. I heard your voice, but I thought I was imagining it.” He staggers first to one knee, then the other, looking up at me. ”What are you doing here?”

”My lord,” I say, the old habit of deference slipping into place, smooth as bed silk. ”This isn't the time-”

”I heard you'd escaped,” he continues. ”But Uncle didn't tell me what happened to you. I asked-demanded-but he wouldn't tell me.” Malcolm shakes his head. ”I didn't know you were in prison until after you were already gone. Still, no one would tell me anything. I should be told everything!”

Malcolm is babbling now, a combination of shock, fear, of being beaten half to death before nearly being executed. He talks as if he doesn't realize we're not alone, as if he's forgotten there are men around him, listening to every word he says.

”My lord.” I keep my voice low so no one can hear. ”Please, stop-”

”I don't know if anything he said was true,” he continues. ”About your being a witch. It doesn't matter if it was. I would have stopped it, if I'd known. You know that, don't you? That I wouldn't let anyone hurt you?”

Malcolm takes my hand then, curling his fingers around mine before bringing them to his lips. This time I don't grit my teeth and bear it, this time I flinch from it and this is what finally gets his attention. He drops my hand and sees-finally-the men around us, their weapons pulled and poised. It jerks him into the present: shock and understanding first coloring his face, then paling it.

”What is the meaning of this?” Peter steps before me, his eyes dark and angry. ”Elizabeth, who is this man?”

I start at the realization: Peter doesn't recognize him; the Watch doesn't, either. They don't realize that the man they captured, the man they nearly executed, the man on his knees before them, is the king-the deposed king-of Anglia.

”He's-” I start. Then I stop, thinking quickly. Is it better if they don't know it's Malcolm? Worse? Would they dare to kill the king? Or would it only make them kill him faster? Malcolm doesn't seem to know, either; he hasn't moved, not an inch. I can hear his ragged breathing, mingled with my own.

It happens so fast then. The man beside Peter lunges forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing my arm and yanking me from Malcolm's side. Peter raises his sword once more, and we're back to where we started.

”He's the king!” I shout. ”You can't kill him. He's not one of Blackwell's men. He's the king.”

A terrible silence falls then, as weighty as an ax to a block.

”You're lying.” The man holding my arm gives it a savage shake. ”This man is not the king. He's a witch hunter. He's one of your friends, and you're trying to save him.”

”I'm not lying.” I turn to Malcolm. ”Tell them your name. Tell them who you are.”

Malcolm looks at me, uncertain. He doesn't know if this will save him or condemn him.

”If you want to live, tell them.”

Malcolm lurches to his feet, unsteady, what little color he has left draining from his face. He's in no condition to stand, or even sit, but that doesn't matter. Malcolm would never state his elevation from his knees.

”My name is Malcolm Douglas Alexander Hall.” He glances at the men, his earlier hesitation gone. ”Son of William Hyde Alexander Hall, House of Stuart, and Catherine Johanna Louise Hesse-Coburg, House of Saxony. t.i.tles: Duke of Farthing in Gael. Duke of Cheam in Southeast Anglia. Supreme Head and Lord of Airann.” A pause, then: ”First in line to the kingdom of Anglia and Cambria. Interrupted.”

Interrupted from his own throne, by his own uncle. Thomas Charles Albert Louis Hall, also House of Stuart in Anglia, officially t.i.tled Duke of Norwich, but who styled himself Lord Blackwell after his princ.i.p.al holding in Southwest Anglia.

Interrupted from certain death, by me.

”Oh my G.o.d,” Fifer whispers. ”Elizabeth, what have you done?” Voices erupt around me, from all the men in the Watch but one: Peter. His mouth has gone slack, as has his weapon, as he stares at the man responsible for the death of his wife, his daughter. He could have had justice, he could have avenged them. He almost did. And I stopped it.

”He is the king of Anglia,” I tell him. ”To kill him is regicide. That's against the law. It's a treasonable offense, punishable by death.”

At once, I know this was the wrong thing to say.

”The law!” Peter's voice, never spoken to me in anything other than honeyed tones, even after I had his own son arrested, rises to a pitch. ”Punishable by death!” He rounds on me, dark eyes lit by anger but something else, too: grief. ”His laws are nothing but death. He killed my wife, my daughter. He killed them.”

”He's done that, yes,” comes a voice, thin with pain. ”And he's a blackguard, no doubt, and it's a puck to spare him. Even so, the worth of his trouble is still more than the trouble he's worth.”

The men whip their heads around and I do, too. The man in the field. The one we'd forgotten about, the one I thought was dead. Only he's not dead, and he's not a man.

It's a woman.

By all rights, she looks like a man: tall, broad-shouldered, well muscled, even; a shock of pale red hair cut above her ears. Early twenties, if I had to guess. But the tell is her voice: sweet and high and girlish. She's on her knees now, and I can see the hilt of a knife protruding from over her shoulder.

The men of the Watch look around at one another, puzzled.

”Who are you?” Peter steps toward her. He lowers his sword, raises it, then lowers it again, as if he's unsure whether to pull a weapon on a female.

”Keagan Hearn.” The woman extends a shackled hand to him. Peter doesn't take it; she lets it fall. ”From Airann, 'course, the lovely river city of Dyflin.”

”That's all very well and good, Keagan from Airann,” Peter says. ”But what are you doing here in Anglia? And with him?” Peter jerks the point of his sword at Malcolm.

”I reckon that's clear enough, no? Sprung him from prison, there in Upminster. Fleet. Wretched place.” Keagan sits back on her heels, grimacing. ”Taking him back to Airann. Was, until we ran into you lot. No chance you could let us on our way-no.” Peter's sword is against Keagan's throat now, his decision made. ”I suppose not.”

”Why would you rescue him?” Another man of the Watch steps forward. ”Are you a sympathizer? Traitor? Persecutor?”

”No, sir,” Keagan replies. ”None of those things. But then, none of those exist any longer, do they? They, like everything else, exist under a different rule now.”

”Don't play games, la.s.s,” Peter says. ”You're in enough trouble already.” He glances at Malcolm, still swaying on his feet. ”Why were you taking him to Airann? What are you planning to do? Gather troops? Invade Anglia? Take the throne?”

”You can't take what already belongs to you,” Malcolm says. ”The throne is mine. It was taken from me, and I have every intention of getting it back.”

”Ach.” Keagan turns to him. ”What have I told you about that? Don't lead with that. Never with that.”

”I only speak the truth,” Malcolm says, a haughtiness to his tone. ”A king and his words are divine. You would do well to heed them both.”

”That att.i.tude is precisely why you are here”-she points to the ground-”instead of there.” She jerks her thumb behind her, vaguely toward Upminster.

”Your lack of respect offends me,” Malcolm says.

”And your lack of humility offends me,” Keagan snaps. ”My G.o.d, man. If you expect to live through this, you'd best learn to read a room.”

Malcolm opens his mouth, then shuts it. I feel my eyes go wide. I've never heard anyone speak to Malcolm that way. Not his councillors, not his advisors, not even his own uncle, who hated him and wanted him dead. But Keagan clearly cares for none of this: the deference nor the consequence.

”Looks as if we've got company.” She jerks her head toward the road and straightens her posture, the slightest wince the only giveaway to the knife still lodged in her shoulder blade.

Striding across the field are Nicholas, Gareth, and Fitzroy, their robes flapping in attendance. On their heels is Schuyler. I glance at Fifer, who nods: It was she who summoned Schuyler, told him what happened, told him to come and to bring Nicholas.

Malcolm seems to recognize Nicholas immediately. He'll know him from when Nicholas was in his father's council, from once charging him as the most wanted man in Anglia. He draws himself to his full height-not considerable, as Malcolm is only a few inches taller than I am.

The three men pull up short, take in the scene before them.

”Ye mus' be the cavalry.” Keagan's brogue is thick and sarcastic.

”Schuyler's been so good as to inform us of what's happened here,” Fitzroy says. ”But we've not heard why. Or how. And who you are.” He steps in front of Keagan.

”Some la.s.s from Airann,” one of the Watch says. ”And a traitor.”