A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  Marie overhears him and pulls alongside. “That will not be a problem. Once we pass into Oxfordshire, some of us are going home presently.”

  “Who is?” asks Salazar.

  “Both Bennetts and Stephen,” she replies.

  Noah regards her skeptically. “Where is Stephen going home to?”

  “Uncle Horace in Surrey, to keep an eye on the young ones.”

  Noah shakes his head. “That’s too far to ride in one night. Those three needn’t go any further with us now. We’re unlikely to be in danger until reaching Oxfordshire, and they will not be going that far with us in any event. I’d feel much better if Stephen were to spend the night with the Bennetts at Gray’s Inn. He can use my rooms.” Looking down the embankment, he spots a stream. “Let’s water the horses, and put our heads together a moment.”

  They trot down a dale, and canter along the stream to a glen that cannot be seen from the road. Fortunately, Jonathan thought to pack pen, ink, and paper. As Arthur is the only one who knows the precise location of their destination, a vacant barn at the edge of his family’s farm, he joins Noah and Jonathan in composing a note to Sir Robert Cecil requesting a Crown escort to ensure their safe return to Gray’s Inn. At Noah’s insistence, they ask that the escort be headed by Yeoman Gardner, the trusty guard who admitted Noah and his uncle to the Tower so many years ago.

  It’s Stephen who suggests they omit the precise location of the barn, proposing instead that they appoint some public place for the next day’s rendezvous with Gardner, which might prevent their being trapped in the barn by someone having either found the note or taken it from Stephen by force.

  “Where are the Cecils staying tonight?” asks Stephen.

  “At the Nevilles’ at Lothbury,” Noah replies.

  Stephen’s eyes grow wide. “But that’s practically next door to Guildhall!”

  “Yes, well, that can’t be helped. Did you bring a change of clothing?”

  Stephen snaps his fingers. “Now that you mention it, I did!”

  Noah summons the Bennetts to hear the plan.

  “All right,” he says. “The Bennetts will accompany Stephen to Lothbury, but remain out of sight. Having the three of you appear there together after today’s escapade would be foolhardy. Stephen, you may leave the note with Walker, if you tell him it’s an emergency. Otherwise, find Henry. Only as a last resort, wake Sir Robert Cecil, and if you do, show some deference. After that, accompany the Bennetts back to Gray’s Inn for the night. Here’s my key.”

  “Where have you proposed to meet Gardner tomorrow?” asks Stephen.

  “There’s a parish church at Stanton Saint John, just northeast of Oxford. I’ve asked him in the note to meet us there at two o’clock, if he can.”

  “How do you plan to cross the Thame?” asks Stephen, referring to the river that meanders through Oxfordshire for many miles before becoming a tributary of the much wider Thames River that runs through London.

  Arthur replies. “Some miles from here, there’s a small ferry that rests on the eastern bank. It’s little more than a raft, really, guided by a couple of long poles. It’s big enough to take the five of us and our horses, but that’s about the limit of it.”

  “Can the river be forded at that spot?” asks Noah.

  “No. Although the Thame is only about a hundred feet wide at that point, it’s twenty deep, which means it cannot be forded. There are no bridges close by, and the nearest fords are about thirty miles in either direction, which is why the ferry is there. If we cross over on it, we can leave it on the west bank for the night. There’s a ferryman who tends to it every morning. As soon as he sees it on the wrong bank, he’ll move it back.”

  “Won’t Essex’s men be looking for us there?” asks Noah.

  Arthur shrugs. “I wish I knew. But our only practical alternative leaves us much more exposed, and Essex would anticipate us going that way, too. It’s Holman’s Bridge, by Aylesbury. If I were Essex, I’d be encamped on that bridge when we got there. We have no choice but to assume he cannot spy out every route. And, fortunately, he doesn’t know precisely where we’re going.”

  “All right, we all know our jobs now,” says Noah. “You three leave us, and godspeed. See you in London tomorrow, by the grace of God.”

  Just before riding away, Stephen looks back at Marie, concern evident on his face. “Take good care, Mother!”

  “Never mind me, young man. Watch yourself!” she replies, and watches him disappear the way they came, her face a mixture of pride and concern.

  As the remaining party prepares to remount, Jonathan takes Noah aside and discreetly hands him a pistol.

  “What’s this?” asks Noah. “I told you, Jon. No lethal measures.”

  Jonathan smirks. “Of course not. We’ll leave those to the enemy. This won’t kill anyone. It’s powdered up, but there’s no ball in it.”

  Noah regards him skeptically. “No loose shot, either?”

  Jonathan shakes his head and remounts. They leave the stream and rejoin the road. As they move quickly toward the ferry, Noah prays it will be on their side of the river when they arrive.

  Either way, it will be the perfect place for a trap.

  “It’s over this hill,” says Arthur. “When we reach the top, keep to the forest, and keep your voices down. If they’re here, we may be able to spot them in the clearing.”

  Less than an hour of daylight remains. The woods are thick, but the lowest branches are high enough to allow them to pass comfortably on horseback. A thick layer of brush covers the forest floor. Though they try their best to keep silent, from time to time the quiet rustling of their movement is unavoidably punctuated by the sound of a hoof striking a rock, or the crack of a branch.

  As they reach the crest of the ridge and the horses come to a halt, there’s an eerie silence. They find themselves looking down on a large meadow. About a half mile in the distance, a narrow river runs across their field of view. On its near bank is a dock with a small ferry tied to it. A pair of long poles point straight up, affixed to the ferry by some means that cannot be made out at this distance. A thick fog rolls downstream, joined by a mist that rises from the river’s surface.

  “Something’s not right,” Arthur says pensively. “Look at the ground by the dock. There are fresh tracks. They seem to lead … ” He peers to his right, toward the edge of the woods but a short distance away. “Let’s back up into the trees!” he whispers urgently. “I don’t think they’ve spotted us.” They move back.

  “What do you mean, ‘they’?” asks Noah, in an alarmed whisper. “Who? How many are there?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Arthur, “maybe only two, but I fear the worst. It may be them.” He peers out at a hilltop beyond the point where he expects the enemy may lie in wait. “We should move above them, and scout them from behind. You see that ridge to our right? We should be able to see them from there.” He turns to Salazar. “What do you think, Andres?”

  Andres looks to the spot Arthur indicated. “I don’t know the terrain, but that’s at least a quarter hour’s ride from here, and I’m not even sure they’d be visible from there. It would take an additional quarter hour to return, so we’d lose at least a half hour. I doubt we’ve enough daylight.” He hesitates. “Can we cross the river at night?”

  Arthur shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to try it. There are some big rocks in it, and, around this time of year, the river can suddenly turn swift.”

  “That decides it,” says Marie. “We’re out of time. If they’re here, we’re going to have to draw them out.”

  “How?” asks Noah.

  There’s a moment’s silence.

  “Well,” says Jonathan, “if they’ve tracked us here all the way from London, then they probably still have no firearms, as they would have been authorized to arrest us, but not to kill us.”

  “Stands to reason,” says Arthur. “But there are no witnesses out here, and if they do have pistols and instructions to use them, w
e’re dead. Maybe they knew about the writ of safe passage. If they did, then they surely wouldn’t have brought pistols to Guildhall, relying instead upon overpowering strength. They could not afford to kill us there. And I think Essex would still be inclined to have them arrest us, rather than kill us.”

  “The only way to draw them out is to show them their quarry,” says Salazar. “I have an idea. Master Ames, give Arthur your cap and barrister’s cloak.” Noah fishes around in his saddlebag. “Goodwife Rodriguez, did you bring an overcoat?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Do you think I wish to freeze to death?”

  “May I borrow it?” asks Salazar. She gives it to him. “Jonathan, bring your weapons to hand. If they fire on us, then fire in their direction. That should pin them down long enough for us to escape. And if they come after us, then come after them.” Jonathan nods, and silently pats down several weapons already on his person while Arthur and Andres do their best to look like Noah and Marie from the rear.

  “Masks and hoods on!” whispers Andres. “Jonathan, don’t come out right away. If we’re followed, we’ll draw them back past the edge of the woods, and you hit them from behind.” He sits up primly, turns to Arthur, and says in a high-pitched effeminate voice: “Shall we?”

  “By all means, my dear,” replies Arthur in a deep baritone.

  Cautiously, Arthur and Andres ride side by side into the clearing. Noah and Marie watch them go.

  “Do I really sound like that?” asks Noah.

  She turns to him, quietly outraged. “Do I?”

  Arthur and Salazar have gone only a short way when two men emerge from the precise location where Arthur expected them to be. The tangerine and cream of Essex’s livery is plain, even in the gloaming.

  “Halt!” one shouts.

  Instead of stopping, Arthur and Andres pick up speed, ride briefly toward the river, then veer left with Essex’s men in hot pursuit, making a great circle that brings them up to the edge of the woods, right past Jonathan. As they ride by, Jonathan spurs his horse forward, rides up behind the man nearest Arthur, and sandbags him from behind with such force that the man falls out of the saddle and lands face down on the ground with his limbs splayed, motionless.

  At the first sign of commotion, Salazar turns and flashes a broad smile at the Essex man nearest him, whose shock at seeing a mustachioed young Spaniard instead of a woman provides Salazar with the brief moment he needs to leap out of the saddle onto him and drag him to the ground, pummeling his face all the while, giving him no chance to recover.

  Soon both Jonathan’s and Andres’s men lie face down, their hands bound behind them. In a moment, they’re being dragged up into the woods past Noah and Marie. Jonathan’s prisoner is not moving at all. Although Andres’ appears terrified, he does not struggle.

  As soon as Arthur is confident their adversaries have been subdued, he dismounts and checks their saddlebags for weapons. One was carrying a dagger, the other a short sword. Otherwise, all he finds are a few coins and maps. “They have no pistols, thank heavens,” he says. “Bring them a short way into the woods, and tie them up near their mounts. Someone will surely come searching for them.” He leads the two horses up into the woods. In a moment, the men and horses have been securely tied to the trunks of large oak trees.

  “Let’s go,” says Jonathan. He rides casually down toward the ferry with Arthur and Andres, ignoring Noah and Marie, who straggle behind. The fog creeps up out of the river onto the meadow before them. It’s growing dark.

  “Shall we?” asks Marie, mimicking the voice Andres used to imitate her.

  “Why, certainly, my dear,” replies Noah, in equally theatrical tones.

  They leave the cover of the woods well behind the others, and have gone only a short way before the others disappear into the mist by the raft.

  At that moment, Gelly Meyrick returns and finds his men missing.

  Fog has rapidly billowed up from the river and now covers the entire meadow, stopping only a few yards short of the forest’s edge, making sounds difficult to locate.

  It’s Marie who first senses the heavy approach of Meyrick’s horse from behind. Instead of turning to look, she immediately prods her mount away from the approaching hoofbeats.

  “Come on, Noah!” she yells behind her. Momentarily flustered, Noah fails to comprehend why she’s lurched away.

  Meyrick rides out of the mist and strikes Noah heavily in the lower back with his huge open hand, knocking the wind out of him and nearly throwing him from the saddle. Noah doubles over in breathless pain, which was evidently Meyrick’s plan, as he rides right past Noah and gallops after Marie.

  “Come back here, witch!” Meyrick grunts in a grating voice that brings to mind a wild boar. His strategy is apparently to capture the weakest member of the company, whom he naturally expects to be the woman. That’s a mistake for which Marie intends to make him pay dearly.

  Having turned just in time to see Noah struck from behind, she quickly turns and gallops away to draw Meyrick after her. He’s riding a big warhorse, giving him the advantage in strength, but ceding her the edge in speed. She presses her advantage by carving a great circle around the meadow and climbing obliquely back up the hill past the spot where they first left the shelter of the woods.

  Meyrick is not as stupid as he looks, however. He’s anticipated her move. Instead of following in her wake, under cover of fog he goes straight up the hill, bisecting her circle, seeking to cut her off at forest’s edge.

  Although she initially blames the fog for her inability to hear his hoofbeats behind her, at the last second she realizes her mistake and prods her mount to a fast gallop. Just as Meyrick emerges from the fog, his grubby arm outstretched in her direction, she flies past him, her shoulder brushing his hand, knocking it out of the way.

  Realizing that she has actually come within reach of the brute and nearly collided with him, she lets go a horrified shriek, putting a warlike edge on it before it leaves her throat.

  She must get to the ferry, which is now their only escape, and she’s probably singlehandedly delaying its departure. As she leaves the clearing and dives back into the fog, Meyrick and his monstrous horse come alongside. On a straight downward run, her speed advantage has completely disappeared, and her slight advantage in maneuverability will make no difference. Turning into the thickening fog, she realizes that neither she nor her mount can see more than a few yards ahead.

  “Meyrick!” shouts Noah, as Meyrick speeds past him toward the ferry in close pursuit of Marie.

  Noah can see the brute gaining on her, maneuvering to her right, and grasping for her. He prods Bucklebury, who hurtles forward into the clearing made by the two leading horses as they cut through the fog.

  “Meyrick!” he shouts again, but still the brute takes no notice, fully intent on getting his filthy hands on Marie. Noah quickly searches his pockets for weapons. All he can find is Uncle Avram’s dagger and the pistol that Jonathan handed him earlier. His mind races, and he curses himself. It was on his own instructions that Jonathan loaded the pistol with nothing but a powder charge. He’ll have to make do as best he can.

  He draws the dagger and pulls up to Meyrick’s right, trying to get close enough to brandish it in his face. Meyrick takes his eyes off Marie for only a split second. Seeing the dagger, he draws his short sword and prepares to swing it, but not at Noah — at Marie. Noah must do something fast, so he lunges at Meyrick with the dagger, nearly falling from the saddle in the process.

  Meyrick sees him lunge and quickly swings his short sword at Noah. Noah recoils, but not fast enough. The sword swings under his outstretched arm and grazes the left side of his torso. He shouts in agony and surprise, and drops his dagger. A warm trickle at the site of the wound cools rapidly in the passing wind.

  Marie has disappeared into the mist up ahead, leaving Noah and Meyrick galloping side by side into thick fog. Their mounts scream in terror, as they can no longer see more than a few feet ahead, and, running blin
d, can break a leg on something as commonplace as an unexpected divot or dead branch.

  Doing his best to ignore his bloody wound, Noah quickly draws the pistol. As Meyrick draws back his sword to make another thrust, in sheer desperation Noah spurs Bucklebury to still greater speed, bringing him to the neck of Meyrick’s mount. His wound shrieks at him as he stretches out his left arm, brings the pistol as near as possible to the ear of Meyrick’s mount, cocks it, and fires.

  BOOM! The blast rings out. Even through the dampening mist, it echoes off the hills and round again. Meyrick’s mount pitches and tumbles, ejecting him forward like a cannonball into the fog.

  As Bucklebury slows down, Noah looks down at his wound, which bleeds profusely. He nearly blacks out, but maintains his senses and struggles to remain in the saddle. He sees Marie ahead of him, the activity around the ferry having split the fog in its immediate vicinity. He can see her hand off her mount to Arthur, who brings it on board and helps her to embark.

  Noah proceeds straight to the landing. Although he tries to come to a halt at the dock, there’s no stopping Bucklebury, who leaps excitedly onto the ferry, somehow landing on the small space still vacant. The ferry pitches from his weight, causing the other horses to whinny excitedly. If the other horses had not been placed precisely where they were, the ferry would surely have capsized, but instead it quickly rights itself.

  As Noah dismounts and becalms Bucklebury, the pain returns and shoots through his left side like a knife. He doubles over, and lies face down on the deck, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Marie gasps. “Oh, my God! Noah, you’re hurt!”

  She turns him over, trembling in anticipation of what she might find. She grabs a piece of cloth from her saddlebag and wipes away as much of the blood as possible. “It must hurt like the devil,” she says, “but it’s not deep. You’ve been very fortunate, yet again.”