The 48

by Donna Hosie

  “I don’t care.” I was sitting at a rickety table with my head in my hands. My stomach was cramping so much with worry and fear that I wanted to tear my own guts out with a knife.

  “Alex will be okay,” said Alice. “He’ll be back soon. He’s probably just doing some more reconnaissance work.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “And you don’t know he’s in danger. It’s not like people can text here. And he’s too smart to send a written message. It could be intercepted.”

  “No, he’s too smart to send a written message with dangerous information in it. There’s no danger in sending a message with a simple I’m fine, see you in a few days in it.”

  This was a disaster. Anything could have happened to him. Grinch could have gotten to him. Why hadn’t I insisted on going to Wulfhall with him?

  There was a knock—three quick raps from a blunt instrument. Alice gave me a panicked look and ran to the hinged side of the solid oak door. Her back was flush against the wall. I had not been given connecting lodgings at Windsor Castle because Alex had not traveled with us. I had only my brother’s belongings—most of them borrowed—to remind me he had been here in this time at all.

  A young squire was standing nervously in the hall. He handed me a sealed note, bowed, and stared at the floor, making no attempt to leave. I opened the heavy parchment and scanned the looping script inside the note.

  By Lady Seymour

  I greet you with yll tydyngs. Come wyth express readyness to Horseshoe Cloyster at the West End of the Lower Ward.

  “Is there a reply, milord?” asked the squire.

  “Who gave this to you?” I demanded.

  “The lady, milord.”

  “I’m not a lord,” I said. “Did the lady hand it to you personally?”

  “She did, milord. Is there a reply?”

  “Was she alone?” I asked. I casually reached around the side of the door and handed the note to Alice, who was still hiding quietly behind it.

  “No, milord,” replied the squire. “There was a surgeon there. For the injured man.”

  “What injured man?”

  “The—the one who looks like milord, milord.”

  “The one who looks like—”

  No!

  I started running.

  The pain was so great I couldn’t recall the Imperatives. I searched around in my fever for excerpts from the Tenets. Something—anything—that would remind me of what I was. Who I was.

  But my mind was lost to agony.

  Pain meant I was alive.

  But I wanted to die.

  Lady Jane wished to take food to the poor. It was a fool’s errand. The poor spread the summer sickness, every great house knew that. I wanted to get away from this court, but I did not wish to do it in a casket lined with lead.

  Yet my friend was determined, and the thought of being free of the constraints of the castle, just for a while, made me reckless.

  As I gazed upon my reflection in the polished mirror in our shared bedchamber, I barely recognized myself. My long, fair hair was brushed to perfection, tied up, and hidden beneath the hood of a black cape. My blue eyes were as pale as the dress that for so long had kept me hidden from view. It was a familiar sight, and yet on the inside, I was changed.

  The highborn lady who had been happy to exist in the shadows was gone. She had to be, if I was going to defy my father by not marrying the man chosen for me. I should have been horrified by my actions—consorting with sorcerers, envisioning a life abroad with them.

  But all I could think about was my anxiety for the return of Alexander of Cleves to court. I would have to confront him, tell him that I knew his dark secret. But also that I was trustworthy, and that if he assisted me, then I would be forever loyal to him.

  Why hadn’t he come?

  * * *

  —

  Lady Jane and I had left the castle by the sally door: an opening that was supposed to be a secret, but one which the men at the castle, highborn or not, used regularly to visit the local taverns and brothels. How Lady Jane knew of its whereabouts, I did not ask. I had enough secrets to keep for now.

  We carried baskets of bread and cured meat. Too stale for the court, but a feast for those who had nothing.

  I kept my face covered at all times. I did not wish to be recognized, and I did not wish to inhale the air that surrounded the desperate. It was a foul-smelling, invisible fog with groping fingers that lingered and brushed against my skin. It seemed to be an omen of the path I was now choosing to walk.

  * * *

  —

  It was on the way back through Horseshoe Cloister that evening that we heard Bewsey, a yeoman, calling for help. He was older than Thomas Ladman and the head of his guard.

  Not that I cared for the Ladman bastard anymore.

  “Quick, we must hurry inside,” I whispered to Lady Jane. “No one must see us.”

  “But he sounds alarmed. What if someone is hurt?”

  I tugged at her arm. “We cannot tarry. Someone else will come along.”

  “We have done nothing wrong today, Lady Margaret. The king will not punish us for taking care of his subjects beyond the walls of Windsor Castle.”

  “The king will not punish you,” I snapped. “My good name will be ruined.”

  “Then leave.”

  “I cannot leave you.”

  “Then stay. The choice is yours,” said Lady Jane. “See, over there. That is Fiennes, one of the surgeons. I was right. Someone is hurt.”

  “Fiennes is a butcher!” I cried. “Please, it will just be a prisoner who has—”

  Then Lady Jane and I gasped to see the body of a young man illuminated by torchlight as Bewsey and Fiennes carried him into a cottage.

  It was Alexander of Cleves.

  He was dead.

  We of The 48 regard the civilizations of the Greeks and the Romans as the genesis for time writing and time assassinations. Neither civilization showed weakness in the face of death. Assets are expected to learn such fortitude when faced with death.

  There was another sentence to the Tenet.

  And I couldn’t remember it.

  Windsor Castle consisted of a palace, a small town built around that palace, and a brick fortification surrounding everything. The private apartments where I had been given lodgings were at the back of the town—to the east of the State Apartments used by Henry.

  It couldn’t have been farther from Horseshoe Cloister if it had tried.

  I left the squire in my dust. Alice and the letter, too. I ran down to the quadrangle, which was a large rectangular courtyard behind the famous Round Tower. Momentum and gravity became my allies as the downward descent aided my speed.

  It was Alex. It could only be Alex.

  Jane’s handwriting flashed in front of my eyes as I continued to run.

  yll tydyngs…yll tydyngs…yll tydyngs…

  The squire had said that a surgeon was there. Why? What for? If anyone had hurt my brother, I would kill them.

  I would kill them all.

  * * *

  —

  The Gothic castle seemed to loom up on all sides like a steepled tsunami as I ran into the Lower Ward. My chest burned as the cold night air pumped in and out of my lungs. Windsor wasn’t as large as Hampton Court, and it was much easier to navigate. Once I had passed St. George’s Chapel, with its tall windows and ornate façade, I took a slight right and ran straight into the first open door I saw.

  “Alex!” I cried. “Alex!”

  “Charles!” called a female voice.

  The voice was delicate and soft, the complete antithesis of the screams that were pulsing out of my burning chest.

  “Where is my brother? Where the hell is my brother?”

  “Calm yourself, lad.” Muscular arms wrapped
around my chest. Immediately my Imperative martial arts training kicked in. I threw my captor over my shoulder. He landed with a heavy thud.

  Jane Seymour immediately stepped in front of me.

  “Are you going to attack me, too, Charles?” she asked, putting her hands up in supplication.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “He’s through there,” replied Jane, sweeping her left arm back. “Please, Charles. Do not let him see your worry. You must remain strong.”

  My head was spinning. I felt so light I wasn’t sure I was walking. My entire body was floating. All of my training had disappeared. The countenance, the language, the accent, all gone. All that mattered was my brother.

  Jane led me into a warm room, heated by a roaring fireplace that crackled and spat orange embers onto a gray stone floor. My brother was lying on a long table. Another man, in a bloodstained apron, was standing by his head. Lady Margaret was at Alex’s side, holding his right hand in hers. She was praying in Latin.

  Alex’s clothes were lying on the floor. He had been stripped of everything except a simple white shirt and his underwear. Thick wadding had been wrapped around his thigh, but even as I watched, a patch of blood on the cloth was growing larger and larger.

  “I have been unable to contain the bleeding,” said the man in the apron. “And we have to roll him over so I can deal with the wounds on his back.”

  “His back?” My voice was detached. An echo.

  I floated over to Alex. His eyes were moving beneath his translucent lids. Beads of sweat were popping into life all over his unshaven face.

  “Alex…it’s Charlie…can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  I bent down and stroked his face. His skin was hot.

  “Alex…I’m here, Alex. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  “He has not spoken once in the time we have been here,” whispered Lady Margaret. “Yet there is life in him still. Prayer and the Lord’s favor will see Alexander through this. Have faith, Charles of Cleves. Hope is not lost.”

  “I’ll require assistance in turning him over and holding him steady,” said the surgeon. “Where’s the rosemary water?”

  It was Jane who placed a shallow bowl of steaming water on the table. The man I had thrown over my shoulder joined her. He didn’t look angry.

  “Bewsey, you take the legs.” The surgeon turned to me. “Cleves, is it?” I nodded. “You hold your brother’s shoulders. Lady Seymour, Lady Margaret, you should both remove yourself from these quarters. This is no place for highborn ladies of the court.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Lady Margaret.

  “Your concern is noted, Master Fiennes,” replied Jane Seymour. “Now, what can we do to help?”

  The surgeon named Fiennes sighed. “The lad’s back needs to be cleansed with the water, and I will apply the balm. On my say…now.”

  Bewsey, Fiennes, and I rolled Alex onto his left side. My brother groaned, and then his tongue fell out of his mouth. Lady Margaret stifled a gasp.

  I didn’t know how I stayed standing.

  Alex’s bloodstained shirt was slashed as if he had been mauled by a lion. Fiennes tore the remnants off with a few tugs to reveal Alex’s mutilated skin, which was crisscrossed with slashes. Some were deep, with exposed purple flesh that pulsed with bubbles of blood. Others were shorter and more like scratches.

  “What devilry did this?” cried Lady Margaret.

  “Nasty,” said the surgeon, so matter-of-factly he could have been commenting on the weather. Then he and Jane got to work. She carefully dabbed at each wound with a soaked cloth. Fiennes then placed a clean piece of muslin, dressed with a balm, against each slash. The larger ones had to be done several times before Fiennes was satisfied.

  The smells of rosemary and lemon permeated the stifling heat. I could see that the long hem of Jane’s dress was wet with water and tainted with my brother’s blood.

  “Alex! What happened to him?”

  Alice rushed into the room; she still had Jane’s letter in her hand.

  “I found him down by the sally door,” said Bewsey. “I was doing a sweep of the fortifications.”

  “Did he say who attacked him?” asked Alice.

  “He hasn’t said a word since I brought him here,” replied Bewsey. “Fiennes was dealing with a prisoner in the dungeon. I called for help because the lad here is of the nobility. Lady Jane and Lady Margaret…well, I’m not right sure what miladies were doing there…” Bewsey trailed off as I continued to whisper words of encouragement to my brother. His breathing was labored but steady.

  Lady Margaret had backed into a wall. Her round, pale face was aghast, and several locks of blond hair had fallen down to frame her face. She looked like a terrified cherub witnessing Hell.

  “Please do not reveal my presence here to my brother,” said Jane, and her calm nature was betrayed by a quiver in her voice. “Lady Margaret and I were outside the castle walls, taking food to the poor. We also came in and out via the sally door. We saw and heard no one.”

  “What’s a sally door?” asked Alice.

  “It’s an opening in the fortification around a castle,” I replied. “A way of getting in and out without disrupting the integrity of the main structure. Would one of the yeomen guards have done this?”

  Bewsey shook his head, but it was Fiennes the surgeon who replied.

  “Nay. Whoever did this took great delight in ripping up the boy’s back. Your brother has been whipped and stabbed. A yeoman would not do this. This was done by someone who likes torture.”

  Stabbed. I had been so busy concentrating on Alex’s back, I had forgotten the wound to his thigh.

  I didn’t need to move him to look. Blood was dripping from the table and was pooling by my feet.

  “He’s still bleeding!” I cried. “Please help him.”

  “Charlie, he needs a tourniquet,” said Alice. “We need to cut off the blood to his leg or he’s going to bleed to death.”

  “We may need to amputate,” said Bewsey.

  “No!”

  Jane Seymour was trying her best to remain composed as I screamed and yelled, but she was starting to sway. Her skin now had a jaundiced tinge, just visible in the flickering light of the fire. Lady Margaret was sliding down the wall.

  “We could cauterize without removing the limb,” said Fiennes. “I have seen it done on the French mainland.”

  “Char…Charlie…” Alex groaned and swatted at air as he tried to grab me.

  “I’m here.” I held his hand, which was cold and clammy. “You hold on.”

  “A…A…”

  Each letter was costing Alex dearly. His head fell back onto the table with a thud.

  “He is losing too much blood,” said Fiennes. “It’s amputation or cauterization—you must decide.”

  I wasn’t religious—the only higher power that The 48 were instructed to believe in was the Termination Order Directorate—but I started to beg something greater than me to help save my brother.

  Fiennes took that as acceptance for his experiment.

  “Bewsey, hold a poker in the flames until it burns with a white light.”

  “Alice, get Lady Jane and Lady Margaret out of here,” I said.

  “I will stay,” replied Jane.

  “As…as will I,” stammered Lady Margaret. She crossed herself as she pulled herself up.

  “Your brother, the queen, even the king could be looking for you both,” I said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Jane arched her back and stared up at me.

  “The king? You think because it is night that the king would be looking for me to warm his bed?”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “Can you get over yourselves and start thinking about Alex?” snapped Alice. “Now, is there any alcohol in this pl
ace?”

  “There’s probably wine,” replied Bewsey.

  “No. It needs to be pure. We’ll need it for disinfecting and anesthetic.”

  “Anesthetic?” asked Jane.

  Alice nodded to Bewsey, who was holding a long iron poker in the heart of the fire.

  “Alex is about to have a burning poker placed on his leg. We need to knock him out or his screams will raise every single person in the castle.”

  Bile rose in my throat.

  “Cleves, you place your arm across his shoulders and hold him down,” said Fiennes, taking a small bottle from a tatty black leather pouch around his waist. “Miss, you be ready to pour this whiskey onto the leg—but have a care to jump back before he starts kicking. Pour some into his mouth now.” He handed the brown glass bottle to Alice. “Bewsey, you hold the leg. I’ll cauterize.”

  “And what of me?” asked Jane.

  “We should pray, Lady Jane,” said Lady Margaret. “Pray that whatever wickedness has fallen on this place is forsaken. The Devil needs to be driven out of Alexander of Cleves. Driven from us all.”

  “Religion,” muttered Alice. “Your God isn’t going to save anyone.”

  Then Alex made a noise like someone choking to death and the division in the room evaporated. Whatever our reasons, we were all united in wanting this to be done, and quickly.

  “Lady Jane, Lady Margaret, could you both stand by the door and make sure no one comes in?” suggested Alice. “If that’s all right with you, miladies?”

  Jane smiled at Alice, deliberately ignoring me. I hadn’t meant to offend her, but Alex was all that mattered to me now.

  “I will make myself useful there,” replied Jane.

  Lady Margaret went to stroke my brother’s forehead and then pulled away, as if she was worried about catching the pain.

  “Be quick, Fiennes,” said Bewsey. The poker was glowing white in his hand. Sweat was dripping down his face. “This is not some traitorous scullion being racked. This is the son of the Duke of Cleves. Your head is on the block if harm comes to him.”