by Lily Blake
“You won’t, Kenna,” Bash said, softening. He pulled her to him. “I promise.”
“There must be some other way to help Pascal,” Kenna said. She held on tight to the bottom of Bash’s jacket. “Can we signal to him, perhaps? And then he can return to the palace through the tunnel entrance. He could get back in through there.”
Bash considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s too risky. What if some of the townspeople saw? They’d storm the palace, and then the whole place would be compromised. Catherine, the other ladies, Mary… you. Then we’d all be at risk. I couldn’t live with that. Besides, there’s the chance he’s been exposed. That the infection has set in.…”
“I can’t bear to think about that,” Kenna said. “He couldn’t have been outside the walls long.”
“I hope you’re right, I hope it’s not the case. But it can take only a few minutes,” Bash said. “It’s a risk.”
“Then you have to stay,” Kenna insisted, tightening her grip. “Unless you can guarantee you’ll be safe, it’s just too dangerous.”
Bash turned and looked down below, studying the perimeter wall. He’d lived inside the palace his entire life. He knew the grounds well, better than most of the guards and much better than any of the townspeople. His eyes scanned the wall, looking for anything that could be to his advantage. Toward the west side of the wall, away from where the villagers had gathered, he noticed another oak tree. Two branches stretched toward the wall, stopping just before the top of it. Only yesterday Bash had been on the grounds with Pascal, watching the joy with which he climbed the trees in the apple orchard.…
Bash turned back to Kenna, kissing her on the top of her head. “I won’t go outside the perimeter wall. I promise you,” he said. “I have a plan.”
Bash stood at the side entrance to the palace and took a deep breath. A few yards of rope were slung over one shoulder, his crossbow over the other, his dagger secured in his belt. The guards had argued with him, trying to stop him from venturing out of the palace. He’d assured them he wouldn’t go over the perimeter wall, but they still refused him. One of them had stood in his way, but when they returned to their post he’d slipped past, hiding behind a wooden chest in the foyer.
He let out a breath, then stepped out onto the great lawn that separated the palace from the perimeter wall. The cool morning air woke him up a bit and sharpened his focus. He had to move quickly—he and Pascal would be more vulnerable if the people outside the gates spotted them.
He picked up his pace, trying to keep as close to the palace walls as possible. The perimeter wall was pierced every so often with a small narrow window, just large enough for someone to slip their hand through. These windows served as lookouts that the guards could shoot arrows through if the palace ever came under attack. But a few men were pressed up against one now, peering in, yelling things. As he got closer Bash was more visible to the villagers, or anyone who walked past.
“Look!” one man yelled as he spotted Bash crossing the great lawn. He pointed at him, then ran to keep pace. “There’s a noble! He’s come to help us!”
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd. As he headed for the gates, Bash kept his eyes on the ground, his gaze unsteady with sudden tears. Normally, he would have done anything to help these people. He must’ve seen some of them in the local villages, sat beside some of them in the taverns beyond the woods. But the plague had changed everything. Even being here, within shouting range, meant he was at risk.
“I’m sorry,” Bash yelled as he reached the gates. Through them, he could see the unmistakable red flush in the man’s cheeks, the dark shadows under his eyes. “I can’t help you right now.”
The man’s expression fell. “You have to. We need your help—we’ll all die out here without medicine, without supplies. Our families will die. We’re willing to offer what we can… increase our rents or taxes.”
Another man ran up, pressing his face to the iron bars. “Take my horses, all of them. If you could just bring my son into a shelter. He’s only four. His mother’s been gone for years. If I could just talk to you, please.…”
“We want to speak with the king!” a woman yelled. Her red hair was pulled back with a dark linen rag.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t a negotiation,” Bash said, trying to sound firm. His throat tightened. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Another villager approached the gates. The small group turned to talk to him, saying something about callousness, about heaven and the judgment of God.
Bash wiped his eyes. He kept going, trying to block out their words. As soon as he could, he ducked into the shadow of the massive palace. He turned back to the wall, studying the gates. The boy was somewhere outside, but how to find him? How to signal him to the wall?
Bash had taught Pascal to whistle those first days after they’d brought him to the palace. For a while it was the only way Pascal could communicate with them from the other end of the wing. He’d whistle when he woke up in the morning; he’d whistle when he was hungry and wanted the maids to bring him food. Bash had told him to use it whenever he needed something. To use it if he became lost, or if they got separated, so Bash would always be able to find him.
It was a simple tune, two notes rising and three falling. Bash hoped it would work now—it was their only chance if he hoped to draw Pascal away from the crowd without attracting too much attention.
Bash stepped out of the shadows and approached the gates once more, careful to stay as hidden as he could. He cupped his hand beside his mouth, whistling the tune. He waited a moment, but there was no response. He whistled it louder, and to his relief, heard it whistled back. Bash looked through one of the small windows, searching the edges of the crowd. Finally Pascal emerged from a group a hundred yards off. He came running to where Bash stood.
“Are you all right?” Bash asked, looking down at the boy. “Are you hurt?”
Pascal shook his head. “No… I shouldn’t have run away. I just got scared, and then I got lost in the palace. And these people were yelling… I heard them.…” Pascal looked over his shoulder. Two men were fighting over a jug of water. One punched the other in the jaw, blood spilling onto the dirt.
“It’s dangerous out here,” Bash said. “We need you to come home. Would you like that?”
Pascal nodded. A smile crossed his face, then disappeared so quickly Bash wondered if he’d imagined it. “All right, here’s the plan.…” Bash pointed to the left of them, where the oak tree cast its branches right to the top of the stone wall. “If you can climb that tree, I can get you over. I’ll attach a rope to the branch and you can swing down. I can’t open the gates, or we’ll be mobbed. But this way, I can get you over—just you. No one will follow.”
Pascal looked up at the tree, biting down on his bottom lip. “But…”
“I know you can do this,” Bash said, trying to sound as encouraging as he could. “But we have to do it quickly. All right?”
Pascal nodded. He looked more determined now. He clenched his hands into fists, staring up at the giant tree. Bash was overcome by a wave of affection for him. “Good, I’m glad. That’s the brave boy I know.”
Pascal hurried to the base of the tree and scrambled up the lower branches easily. As he climbed higher, though, the branches thinned out and the distance between handholds increased. Bash could see he was using all the strength he had. His breaths were louder, his eyes occasionally squeezing shut.
“Good work. That’s right, keep going,” Bash said, trying to keep his voice low. He peered through the tiny window, looking up at the boy. Pascal reached for another branch, but his hand slipped off it. He cried out before steadying himself.
Bash turned, noticing that one of the men who’d been talking to him before was looking their way. “Listen to me,” he said to Pascal as the villager started toward them. “You have to go faster. You have to hurry, Pascal.”
“I will,” Pascal gasped as he climbed higher. Bash could see how r
ed his face was, how hard he was trying, and just hoped that it would be enough. Pascal was dangling just under the branch he needed to get to. If he could just swing one of his legs over, they’d be set.
But the man was coming closer. A second later, he broke into a run. “Faster, Pascal!” Bash yelled, but from behind the stone wall, he was helpless. He watched in horror as the villager reached the base of the tree. He reached up, grabbing one of Pascal’s legs. He yanked hard and the boy slipped off, tumbling onto the ground.
“Don’t hurt him!” Bash yelled through the wall. He ran up to the tiny window, reaching through it, trying to get the man’s attention.
The villager was holding Pascal by the shoulder. He pulled a knife from his belt and pressed it to the boy’s throat. “Well, noble,” the man sneered as he looked through the window at Bash. “Are you ready to negotiate now?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mary pulled the robe tight around her waist, fastening it with the belt. It was no use; she couldn’t keep away the chill. She continued following the tunnel as it wound down a narrow set of stairs. She didn’t use the secret passageways often. The elaborate web of tunnels had been built into the palace as a means of escape for royals, and they’d only been in that kind of peril once—when the palace was under siege by Spaniards. She wasn’t used to the sting of mildew in her throat, the scurry of rats along the walls, the water that dripped from the ceiling. She regretted not exchanging her slippers for her riding boots or the single pair of flats she owned. She wasn’t dressed properly—not in the slightest.
She knew she could have put on something else, but she hadn’t wanted to wake Greer. She could almost see her friend’s face, could almost imagine how she would’ve argued with her. It wasn’t safe, it wasn’t smart.… Mary hadn’t wanted to waste even a minute considering the consequences. Whoever was using the tunnels wouldn’t expect her here, now, just after dawn. She’d at least have the advantage of surprise.
She held the torch out, illuminating the few feet in front of her. She took a right, then another right, winding through the narrow corridors. She scanned the walls, the floor, searching for any evidence—some clue that would explain who had been using the tunnels and why. But there was nothing. No discarded torches or candles. No marks on the floor that distinguished a path.
She kept going, winding through another long hall. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She was thinking about turning back when her foot struck something—something soft. She flinched, her whole body tense. Please… don’t let this be what I think it is.…
When she lowered the torch, the thing came into view. It was an old doll, its face and dress covered in dirt. The body was filled with tufts of cotton. The hair was bright orange yarn and the face had a sewn-on smile. It was so worn, the fabric on the arms was ripped in places, the hem of the skirt frayed. Some little girl had loved it well.
How had it ended up down here, though? The thing wasn’t by a passageway entrance—someone would have had to come a long way to leave it here, this deep beneath the palace. And even if they had, what child would be let into the tunnels alone? Francis had two younger brothers—Henry’s youngest sons, one four years old, the other seven. Mary had only ever seen them playing with wooden soldiers or horses. This had clearly been made for a girl.…
Clarissa, Catherine’s illegitimate daughter, could’ve left it there—she’d used the tunnels when she was alive, hiding out in the shadows. But she’d been dead for months now, killed after trying to kidnap Henry’s youngest sons. Besides, she was nearly Mary’s age—seventeen or eighteen. Too old to be playing with toys.
It could’ve been there a decade, maybe two. It was possible. Some princess many years before could have owned it. Maybe she had been playing… exploring… and had dropped the doll as she ran through the narrow corridors. That makes sense, Mary told herself. It’s possible.…
So why couldn’t she make herself believe it? She looked down at the thing, at that permanent, crooked smile. Its tangled yarn hair, the X’s it had for eyes. There was something unnerving about it—about finding a doll abandoned down here, in a dusty, forgotten corner. It called to mind long-ago stories of kidnappings in the palace. Of children being held for ransom while the nobility scrambled to find them. There had been so many murders… there had been rapes.…
She took another step forward, lifting the torch again. Her heart was pounding, her skin now damp with sweat. The light revealed a corner covered with cobwebs. As Mary moved the torch over the stone walls, spiders went scurrying out of view. There on the floor beneath them, she saw an old blanket—ripped up and covered with dirt. There were a few chicken bones, an empty jug for water, and a shriveled apple core. Mary knelt down, examining the items closer. Had someone been living here, in the passageways? Who? For how long?
She kicked the blankets aside with her foot, relieved there was nothing under them. They’ve probably been sitting down here for months, she told herself. Nobody uses the tunnels with any regularity. These things could have been here a year ago, unseen until now. Mary turned to go, when she caught something out of the corner of her eye. There, just beyond the glow of the torchlight, was a large dark stain. She brought the torch closer to the floor, studying the thick burgundy liquid congealed on the stone. She recognized the sick-sweet smell immediately.
It was blood… fresh blood.
The sight of it was enough to set Mary’s heart pounding. She took a step back and realized it was sticking to the bottom of her slippers. Someone had been here… someone was here. The blood wasn’t even dry.
She heard a sound behind her, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. She spun around, moving the torch in front of her, trying to get as clear a view of the tunnel as she could. “Hello?” she called into the darkness. “Who’s there?”
She waited a breath, trying to calm herself. Then she heard it—the sound of footsteps on the stone floor. They weren’t coming toward her, though. They were heading away.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” she called, following them. She walked faster, trying to keep up with the sound. The steps were even, but occasionally they’d speed up, the person breaking into a run. “I’m a friend. I just want to talk to you.”
For a moment there was silence. The person paused, stopping there in the dark. Mary picked up her pace, hoping that she might be able to reach whoever it was, but then they sped up again.
It was impossible to see very far in front of her—it was too dark, and the person was too far off. But she kept after the sound of footsteps, listening to them go right and wind down the stairs, always following close behind. She’d stopped paying attention to each turn. The footsteps always seemed just ahead of her, just out of reach. Even as Mary broke into a run, she couldn’t keep up. It didn’t seem to make any difference.
Then, just when she thought she might be getting close, the footsteps stopped. She couldn’t hear anything in the tunnels beyond her. She took small, tentative steps, her hands extending in front of her, just beyond the glow of the torchlight. Whoever was there knew the passages well. They knew every turn, every hidden staircase. They didn’t even use a light to lead their way.
Mary stood there, waiting in the dark. Ten minutes passed, but there was no sound of them. Whoever it had been, they had either left the passageways through some secret, unknown route, or they had simply stopped walking. They could still be hiding there, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Mary couldn’t risk it. She spun around, starting back the other way as fast as she could. She waited to see if the person would follow. Behind her, the tunnels were silent. After a few quick turns, winding back up a set of narrow steps, she was sure she’d lost them.
She thought of the warm bed that awaited her upstairs. She was chilled, exhausted, and now that she couldn’t go forward, all she wanted to do was return to her chambers. It had been foolish not to tell Greer where she was going. What would her friend think when she woke to find her gone? What if Greer assumed the worst?
What if she thought the prophecy had come true?
Mary picked the hem of her nightdress off the stone floor. She would get back to her room, change into something clean and dry, and then return to the tunnels later on in the day. She’d show the guards the blood. Maybe they knew something about that strange blanket, the old supplies that had been abandoned there in that corner.
She took another turn, thinking she was going back the way she’d come. Nothing looked familiar. She hadn’t walked very far before she realized she had no idea how to get back to the upper rooms. It was a warren of tunnels down here, and in her frantic chase after the footsteps, Mary had gotten so turned around, she’d completely lost her bearings.
She started down another passageway. Something will look familiar, she thought. You’ll find an exit soon. But suddenly all she could think of was the game she had played with her friends when she was little, before she’d been sent off to the convent. You were blindfolded, and then the others took turns spinning you around until you’d lost all sense of where things were. Then, only when you got the go-ahead, could you take the blindfold off and try to tag as many girls as you could. Mary had always hated that feeling of disorientation—that suddenly, once the blindfold was off and the world returned, you stumbled, fell. You could never be certain of where you were going.
Mary felt something like that dizziness again now—nothing made sense. Every corner she took looked more foreign than the last. She hit a dead end, her head spinning as she whipped back around. It’s no longer a game, she thought as she went down a staircase and hit yet another wall. If she couldn’t find her way back… what would become of her? Would she ever be found?
Stay calm, Mary told herself as she walked down another passageway. You’ll find your way out. But as she picked up her pace, her fear grew. She didn’t know where she was in relation to the north wing. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the stone corridors. She kept her hand on the wall, hoping to feel a seam where one of the doors was, but it was no use.