Part 31 (1/2)

Now the hymn's final verse, which extolled Dunstan's role in bringing hope, peace, and light to the world.

Per Te Pater spes unica ...

Movement in the kitchen pa.s.sage. Yes, the butchers, huddled in a bunch, a.s.sembled to rush the king. I was sure of it now, even from forty feet away. I looked around in a panic.

The voices of the Overey canons broke into harmony as they descanted on the second line.

Per Te Proles pax unica ...

I stared in a cold horror even as my ears rang with the hopeful line. The butchers of Southwark were ma.s.sed less than twenty feet from King Richard. Their leader was in front. He held a cleaver in one hand, a long knife in the other. Ten butchers at least, bristling with blades. Despite the king's guard how safe could Richard be?

'Your Highness!' I called out weakly over the din of the hymn, attracting annoyed looks from those nearby.

With no regard for propriety or my own fate, I started to push through the ranks, my gaze still fixed on the kitchen pa.s.sage. The butchers crept forward in the shadows, still unnoticed by the crowd, all attention on the king. I pushed someone aside. 'What in-' Thomas Pinchbeak fell back as I pa.s.sed, tripping over his stick.

Now an arm, and a leg did no one else see them?

'Your Highness!' I was almost there. One of Richard's rear guards saw me coming. He reached for his sword.

The canons descanted the third line. I pushed toward the frontmost ranks, pointing madly back at the pa.s.sage.

'Your Highness!' I yelled. I was shoved aside, by whom I would never know, and fell against a pavilion post.

Et Spiritus Lux- Spiritus!

'Richard!' I cried as I came to my feet.

The singing stopped. Heads turned, including the king's.

'For the commons!' With a hoa.r.s.e chorus of shouts the shadows came to life, and the butchers flew as one from the kitchen pa.s.sage, twenty blades raised for the attack. For an awful moment all I saw was a tangle of arms bristling with blades, some grotesquely spiked machine of war hurtling toward the king. There was glee on their faces, a righteous madness bellowing from their opened mouths.

There was a scream. Wykeham leapt backwards. King Richard froze before his a.s.sailants.

Then, with a swift rush of air, the sky fell. A cascade of arrows took the butchers in their backs, necks, and chests. The entire group collapsed in place, most of them past agony before they hit the ground. I looked up. Royal archers, at least twenty of them, lined the inner roof on three sides, new arrows already notched.

I gaped at the spectacle. The butchers were dead or dying, pools of new blood glistening on the stone. A pile of corpses. Richard had been safe the entire time.

FIFTY.

Winchester Palace Edgar Rykener saw the shower of arrows before he saw his brother. At first he a.s.sumed Gerald was among the attackers, and the sight of his death was like an arrow in his own neck, so sudden and violent it was. Then he looked at the kitchen pa.s.sage and saw Gerald's face, pale in the shadows. His eyes were wide, registering his boyish shock at what his fellow butchers had done. Edgar's heart soared. Gerald turned and fled.

As the crowd started to react to the attack Edgar dodged around a privet hedge and sprinted for the kitchen gate. Gerald was just disappearing through a second pa.s.sageway toward the west courtyard. Edgar followed him as the shouts spread in their wake. The courtyard was deserted aside from an old horse and an empty wagon. Gerald sprinted across the s.p.a.ce and dodged left at the wagon, angling for the west tower.

'Gerald!' Edgar called ahead before his brother disappeared. Gerald hesitated, turned.

'Edgar! What the-'

Gerald ran up to the next landing. It gave on to a poorly lit chamber above the bishop's lower gallery. He turned toward Edgar, kicking up dust.

Edgar embraced him, loving him for his defiance of Grimes, and felt his brother's hesitation before he returned the hug. 'He's gone now, Gerald. Grimes can't hurt you now.'

Gerald was trembling. 'Now I'll only be hanged,' he murmured.

Edgar didn't doubt it. He looked around, casting for a plan. The s.p.a.ce was filled with old rugs and broken furniture, m.u.f.fling the urgent shouts from below. 'Wykeham's probably rounding up all the kitchen folks as we stand here, seeing if others are part of it,' he said. 'You have to get out of the palace, and right soon.'

'How-how?'

Edgar looked at him in the darkness, asking himself the same question. Then he had it. From his side bag he removed the bundle of clothes and thrust them into Gerald's arms. Gerald looked down. He spread out the dress, then let out a cruel laugh.

'Oh, so now I'm to be the swerver?'

Edgar glared at him. 'You've a better thought?'

Gerald hesitated.

'It's the only way, Gerald,' said Edgar. 'Otherwise you're like to be caught and killed this very hour. Now, put it on.'

Reluctantly, Gerald eased himself out of his rough breeches, tunic, and ap.r.o.n then pulled the dress over his head. He tugged and smoothed until the garment, a one-piece woollen affair full of patches and st.i.tching, sat more or less right.

Edgar stepped back and appraised him in the half light. He wet his fingertips to wipe some grime off his brother's cheeks, then teased the strands of hair pus.h.i.+ng out of the plain coif he had tied around Gerald's head. His brother's voice hadn't yet cracked despite his age, no whiskers on him, and his thin-soled shoes could pa.s.s for a scullery maid's. He figured it would all do for the purpose. He walked to the top of the stairs and listened. Voices, two or three men approaching the tower. He turned back and pulled on Gerald's arm.

'Straight for the postern, Gerald. Then the p.r.i.c.king Bishop on Rose Alley.' He handed him a few coins. 'Give these to that old sheath on the steps, and wait for me inside.'

Gerald looked at him, and Edgar wanted to laugh despite the danger. He put a hand to the back of his brother's head and pushed it down. 'Eyes to the ground and you'll be fine.'

Halfway down the stairs Edgar gave his brother a gentle push. Gerald didn't look back, but as he entered the west yard Edgar watched him through a narrow aperture along the tower wall. Gerald pa.s.sed two guards but neither spared a glance for the ragged servingwoman coming from the tower. More guards in the yard now, searching out conspirators.

Now for his own escape. Edgar looked down at the courtyard, forming an idea. The horse-drawn cart was one of many in Southwark that doubled as a pageant wagon at festival time. Though the wagon itself was empty and wouldn't do, its undercarriage was obscured by the frayed cloths hanging over each side. He had to get to that wagon.

He waited for the last guard to disappear into one of the surrounding buildings. When he was gone Edgar climbed on to the stone sill, threw his legs over, hung for a moment, and dropped, meeting the courtyard pavers with a painful impact. He stood, ankles still sound. He darted for the wagon and slid beneath the cloths. Wedging himself between the clouts, he took his weight off his arms and tested the fit. It would work. He waited patiently, his mind on Gerald, until the cartman returned to the courtyard. After a word with the guards, he took the horse's reins. Edgar felt a lurch. The cart moved slowly toward the palace's back gate.

FIFTY-ONE.

Winchester Palace The king's guard had encircled Richard, swords drawn. The crowd, moments ago riven with cries of fright, had quieted itself to a low murmur. Most were huddled in small knots, watching ghoulishly as it became known that the danger had pa.s.sed and a pile of bodies lay on the ground, and a search was on for any remaining conspirators. Hodge ordered the corpses hauled off, a swift task involving several handcarts and a dozen servants. Others brought out buckets of water and washed the blood off the pavers. The bishop spoke to the king, and it seemed the procession would continue to Ma.s.s when a loud voice filled the air.

'Your Highness,' said Robert de Vere, in a voice that carried through the a.s.semblage.

'What is it, Oxford?' The king looked unsteady, sickened.

'With your leave, sire, I wish to speak.' The king nodded. The earl approached Richard with his right arm raised. He took a slow circle around the front of the pavilion, displaying something for all of us to see. 'Your eyes and ears, please,' he called out. The earl's hand clutched a book. A thin volume, with a simple, unembossed binding, and no clasps.

'What's the meaning of this, Oxford?' the king demanded.