by Lily Blake
“Bash, you don’t believe this,” Kenna protested as they entered Mary’s chambers. “He’s been right about some things… and wrong about others. Didn’t he go back on all he’d said about Francis? His visions change sometimes. They’re not reliable.”
“I know Nostradamus is sometimes wrong,” Bash said, choosing his words carefully. “But his visions shouldn’t be taken lightly. There’s sometimes a greater meaning beneath them.”
“What Bash means,” Kenna said, glaring at her husband, “is that Nostradamus is an unshaven charlatan, no better than a cheap fortune-teller, who shouldn’t be listened to under any circumstances.”
“Oh, is that what I was saying?” Bash asked. Even Mary managed a tiny smile.
“I just don’t think—” But before Kenna could finish her sentence, a horrible scream came from outside, the sound echoing in the quiet chambers.
“Who is that?” Mary asked, striding to the balcony. “What’s going on?”
Bash took a few steps in front of her. He opened the balcony doors and looked at the grounds below, then motioned for the women to follow him. Kenna stepped out with Mary. She brought her hand to her mouth as she took in the scene in front of the gates. The crowd had more than doubled. People had brought their children, babies even, and were holding them up toward the palace guards. A few men had a thick log. They rushed the iron bars of the gates, trying to force them open.
Bash studied the crowd before them. Things had gotten so much worse, just in a matter of hours. This was no longer a small group of people begging for help—this was the beginning of a mob. A brick flew over the perimeter wall, nearly hitting a guard who stood watch behind the gates.
“The plague is spreading fast,” Mary said. “There’s been word they’ve closed roads, that some people can’t get home, even if they wanted to. They’re probably hungry… without food or water. Who knows how long they’ll be here.”
“Mary…” Kenna started, though she had no idea what she could say to make this any better.
“To think… Francis is out there. He’s out there by his own choice, with all those sick people. He left me knowing he might die.” Mary’s voice broke as she said it. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And I might die too, if Nostradamus is correct.”
Before Kenna could respond, another yell went up from the crowd. The person didn’t sound angry, though—they sounded scared. “What’s happening?” Kenna asked, taking a step closer to the railing.
Bash pulled her arm back. As soon as he did, a few arrows flew past. He turned, looking out at the guards stationed over the palace’s front entrance. Five of them had their bows drawn; one by one they launched another arrow, then another, at the crowd below. The villagers scattered. A few ran off, disappearing into the woods.
“They’re trying to get them to back away,” Bash said.
“It’s not working.” Mary pointed to another group by the wall. The attack had only made them angrier. They stuck their arms through the wrought-iron rails, screaming and cursing at the men above.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Kenna said, grabbing Bash’s arm. “It makes me sick thinking Pascal is lost. What if something happens to him? What if one of the villagers gets inside the walls…?”
“Hopefully that’s not possible,” Mary said, standing beside them.
“Hopefully,” Bash repeated. But as they stood there in silence, watching the angry mob, anything seemed possible. The crowd had doubled in the past day. How long would it take before more guards were needed to keep them at bay? In their desperation, would they try to scale the palace walls?
“I can’t,” Mary said, pulling her friends inside. “I can’t watch anymore.”
Kenna followed, glancing back one last time before Mary pulled the balcony doors closed behind them.
Pascal could hear her footsteps up ahead. He couldn’t see the girl; she’d taken another turn, then another, disappearing into the dark tunnels. “Come,” she called back to him. “Come follow me.…”
He ran until his legs hurt. The tunnel straightened out. Then the girl opened a door ten yards away, light streaming in from above. Then she bounded up a narrow staircase, waving for him to follow.
He took off after her, sprinting toward the door and running up the stairs. When he got out, he was in the woods, trees all around him. Somewhere close by he could hear people yelling. The forest was lit by the glowing moon. “Hello? Where are you?” he asked, scanning the forest. She was nowhere to be seen.
He turned back, looking at the trapdoor in the ground, half covered by dried leaves. Everything about being here made him nervous. It was dark, and the pagans hunted at night, looking for innocents to sacrifice. He knew how dangerous it was.
Pascal ran a few yards, searching beyond the trees. “Please! Where’d you go?” he called out. Almost as soon as he said it, he heard a creaking sound. He whipped around, toward the tunnel exit, and saw her closing the door in the ground. She must have been hiding behind one of the trees. Now, back in the tunnels, she’d shut him out.
He ran to the door, trying to catch it before she locked it. It was no use. She’d left him in the woods, alone, after leading him out here. “Please, let me in,” he called, banging on the metal. She didn’t respond. Minutes passed and she still didn’t say anything, still didn’t open the door.
He turned back to the woods. It was so dark, it would be easy to get lost. He started toward the yelling, knowing there were people nearby… somewhere.
Within ten minutes he reached the edge of the trees. The palace wall was right in front of him, the gates crowded with people. Pascal started toward them. Even though they were yelling, some fighting, he was just thankful he wasn’t alone anymore.
She told me to go that way, Pascal thought. She wanted me to get lost. She locked me outside. She’d said other things to him too, asked him questions about his mother and his brothers. None of it had made any sense. He wondered if she was like the man who lived in the woods near his old village. Pascal’s father said he’d gone mad. He was always babbling to himself and asking questions that no one understood.
He tried to keep his eyes down as he moved through the crowd. Everyone was so angry. A man yelled as he threw himself against the bars. Another woman was kneeling on the ground, crying, a baby in her arms.
In front of him, by the wall, a woman with white hair had stolen a loaf of bread. She clutched it in her hand, ripping the top off and stuffing it in her mouth. “I’ll cut your throat,” a man with a huge black beard growled. “Give that back right now!”
He lunged at her, smacking her across the face. Pascal couldn’t watch. He turned away as a few more villagers rushed in, some pushing the man, others screaming for the woman to give him the bread back, that it was rightfully his.
Whatever he’d seen inside the palace walls, nothing was more terrifying than being out here. He pushed to the other side of the crowd, wondering if maybe she’d come out through another secret exit. The girl in the dress, the masked figure who’d led him here, wasn’t among the sick. She must’ve gone back inside the walls. Would she come back for him? Would she unlock the door?
Pascal turned back to the dark woods, staring through the trees. The door had been in the ground, covered by a thick layer of dried leaves and twigs—he’d barely been able to find it when he’d been only a few yards away. He couldn’t go back searching for it now, not with the pagans haunting the woods. He’d have to be out here until morning.
He sank down by the wall, pulling his knees to his chest, trying to keep warm. Another fight broke out a few yards away, this time someone yelling about the plague. The boy wiped the tears from his eyes. He’d been so stupid to follow her. Kenna and Bash had told him what was happening outside the walls. He’d heard them talk about the people who were dying, people who were infected with the plague.
Isn’t this what The Darkness wanted to stop? He was spilling the blood of innocents. It can’t happen again, he’d said
to Pascal, after he’d killed three women in that house. Pascal had listened to their screams. The Darkness had paced back and forth, blood covering his hands and shirt, and he’d kept repeating that, as though Pascal was supposed to understand.
Then he’d turned to Pascal and pressed the bloody knife in his hands. You must draw blood. You must continue the sacrifices even when I am gone, he’d said. He wanted Pascal to help him prevent another plague from spreading from village to village. Pascal had said he wouldn’t, that no matter what, he’d never become like The Darkness, but that only angered the man. Pascal knew he was dead, but he still saw The Darkness in his dreams. Those teeth, sharpened into points. The mask he wore, made of human skin.
Pascal buried his face into his knees, curling into a ball, trying to make it all go away. The screaming, the fighting. A few arrows rained down on the villagers and he could hear their panicked yells.
What had Kenna told him? That he was safe inside the palace walls, that no one would hurt him. Even if he couldn’t trust Bash, he knew he could trust Kenna. She’d spoken in the same soft tones his mother had, stroking his hair back from his face, whispering to him before he went to bed. She was the only person who knew how frightened he was.
Why had he run away? Why was he outside the walls now? He’d been so stupid. He hated that he was here, alone, with the dying. Whatever had happened with Bash and Kenna, he longed more than ever to see their familiar faces, to be inside the palace walls once again.
He let the tears come fast. He covered his ears to block out the screams. Please, he thought, rocking back and forth to comfort himself. Please let someone come help me. I don’t want to die out here. I don’t want to die like these people.
CHAPTER TEN
Late that night, Mary was asleep, lost in a nightmare. She struggled with all her might, but she couldn’t free her hands. They were tied to the top of the target, the rope wound in expert knots. She was alone in the center of the palace lawn. There was nobody to help her. Her feet were bound to the post below, and she was stretched across the target, her midsection exposed and vulnerable.
“Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Please, someone help me,” she cried, twisting against the restraints. Her wrists burned from the effort.
Footsteps sounded somewhere to her left. When she turned her head, she saw a figure off in the distance, silhouetted by the setting sun. As he got closer, she could make out the man’s features. Panic rose in her chest. It was King Henry, striding across the lawn toward her, his bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” Mary called to him. She tried once again to free herself, kicking against the rope by her feet.
“Oh, come now, Mary,” the king said, his lips curling into a sinister smile. “I know you’re not quite that stupid. This is my late afternoon target practice. Even kings deserve a little relaxation every now and then, right?”
Mary’s throat went dry. She watched in horror as the king stopped fifteen paces from her, notched his arrow, and drew his arm back. The razor-sharp tip was aimed right at Mary’s heart.
“Please!” she yelled, her voice hoarse. “Don’t do this! Stop, please—”
“You should have believed the prophecy.” The king closed one eye, improving his aim. “Nostradamus is always right, you know. Now stop struggling. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Help, anyone! Please help me!” Mary yelled again, hoping someone in the palace might see what was happening and come down. But it was too late. The king drew his arm farther back… and let the arrow fly. It was going to miss her heart—it was headed straight for her neck.
Mary woke, gasping for air. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Her hands flew to her neck, inspecting the smooth, unbroken skin around her throat. She took long, slow sips of air, trying to calm herself. She was all right. She was in bed. It was just a nightmare.
“Mary?” Greer’s voice was heavy with sleep. She shifted underneath the covers, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“It was… it was so awful. I had this dream,” Mary said. It had seemed so real. Mary ran her hands through her hair, noticing for the first time that they were shaking.
“You’re white as a sheet,” Greer said, moving closer to Mary. She rested a hand on her back. “Can I get you something? Something to calm your nerves? Some wine, maybe?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m fine,” Mary said, shaking her head. She pushed her dark curls out of her eyes. She waited for the nightmare to fade, but it stayed with her, that horrible image of the arrow coming toward her throat. She could feel herself on the edge of panic again.
She lay back, propping herself up on the pillow, hoping sleep would come. She let her breaths slow. But when she closed her eyes, she could still see him, standing there on the lawn. She could still hear it, the faint springing sound the bow made when he released the string.
She rolled over, looking at her friend’s peaceful face. “Greer…” she whispered, waking her again. “I know this sounds crazy… but I need to see the king.”
“The… king?” Greer echoed. “Mary, the king is dead.”
Mary knew this—Francis had been there when his father died—he’d told her what had happened, how Henry’s breaths had slowed, then finally stopped. But that didn’t lessen the panic she felt now. She got out of bed and pulled on her embroidered robe. She strode to the entrance to her chambers, ignoring Greer, who called out behind her. When she opened the door, the two guards who were on duty spun to face her, their weapons at the ready.
They bowed when they saw it was Mary. Both of them kept their eyes averted even after they’d straightened up, one looking at the floor, the other studying a tapestry that hung on the wall. Mary pulled her robe tight around her, not caring if they saw her like this, in only her nightclothes.
“I need to see the king,” she commanded. She was aware of Greer behind her now, could practically feel Greer’s disapproval as she glared at the side of Mary’s face.
“The… king isn’t here, my queen,” the guard on her right said. Mary recognized him as the guard with the freckles, the one who had blocked her passage to the stables. “I believe he rode away from the palace on urgent business.”
A moment too late, Mary realized her mistake. “Not King Francis,” she said. “King Henry. I need to see his body.”
“Mary, what’s gotten into you? All this because of a dream?” Greer asked. “You have to be kidding.”
But Mary kept her gaze fixed on the two guards before her. She pushed past them, down the corridor, satisfied when she turned and saw Greer and the freckled guard following behind.
They walked the palace halls in silence. When they reached the lower floors, the freckled guard pushed past, opening the heavy wooden door that led down to the crypt.
“You’ll want to watch your footing there, Your Majesty,” he said. He pointed to an uneven step as he led the way down the stairs. He was holding a torch high, but as they descended deep into the palace, it was so dark that Mary could only see a few feet in front of her.
“Or we could turn around,” Greer murmured somewhere behind her. “That’s an option too.”
Mary didn’t respond. She’d told Greer she didn’t have to come along, that she would have a guard with her, but Greer had refused to let her go wandering into the depths of the palace alone.
Mary had never been down to the crypt before. She knew about it, of course. When she and Francis were children, they used to dare each other to go down and touch the grave markers of the most ruthless kings and queens. They’d urge each other on, but despite what she’d told Francis, she’d never made it farther than halfway down the stairs. Now that she was finally taking the trip, she realized she hadn’t missed much. The walls were covered in thick cobwebs. Mary could hear the rats scurrying past their feet. She kept her eyes straight ahead, focused on th
e guard in front of her. Even his neck was freckled, she noticed, smiling in quiet amusement.
“What’s your name?” Mary asked. After a pause, the guard turned around to face her, his cheeks turning a deep red.
“My name, Your Majesty?”
Mary nodded.
“James,” he said. “At your service.”
“And how long have you been stationed here?”
“About a year, my lady,” he said. “I’ve… never been down to the crypt before, though.”
“You’re a smart man, James,” Greer piped up from behind them.
“I know where we’re going, though, don’t worry about that,” he said. “I just meant… I don’t really like the idea of it. Dead bodies and all.”
He kept going, winding down the narrow staircase, which emptied out into a small stone foyer. At the end of it was a heavy wooden door. James handed the torch to Greer while he pulled it open.
Mary stepped inside first. The floor was uneven. She looked down, realizing she was walking over grave markers, the stone slabs jutting up from the ground. She crossed herself as she continued on through the long, narrow room. Off to the side, in a small alcove, Henry’s body was laid out on a stone slab surrounded by candles. It was just as she’d been expecting, except he wasn’t alone. Catherine was standing over him, holding one of his hands, her eyes closed.
Mary watched her for a moment. Her head was bent forward, her lips moving ever so slightly, as though she were praying. Mary took a step toward her, and she noticed then that Catherine’s cheeks were wet. She squeezed the king’s hand as she cried.
Mary had just drawn a breath to speak when Catherine cut the silence. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Mary?”
“I needed to see the king,” Mary said, starting toward them. Greer and the guard followed, the torch casting strange shadows on the crypt walls.
She stood beside Catherine, who dabbed at her cheeks, wiping away any sign of emotion. They looked down at Henry’s body. He was dressed for burial, in his finest regalia and robes. A velvet jacket with rabbit fur trim. His gold rings. A crucifix around his neck, settled right above his heart. He looked much the same as he had in life—it was only the bandage on his eye that gave away the cause of his death.