by Lily Reynard
Dear God, what have I done? she thought, as she saw how Chelmsford's eyes shone when they drew apart.
He raised a possessive hand to her cheek, and she forced herself to smile at him.
I have to endure this. I gave my word.
They continued on to the far side of the churchyard, St. Paul's grime-blackened saints and angels observing their progress from crumbling ledges high above.
Emerging onto Cheapside, they forced their way across the wide street, clinging to each other to avoid separation.
On all sides, the houses of London's most prosperous citizens were being emptied of carpets, bedsteads, and inlaid tables. Those driving already-packed wagons yelled curses at the half-laden vehicles blocking the way, and traffic everywhere was at a standstill.
But as yet, there was little panic amongst all the bustle.
They made it as far as the center of the street when Sweetheart, who had been uneasy at the press of people and the rush of the wind since leaving the coach, began to flap wildly.
His attempt to fly away was thwarted by the leash attached to soft leather jesses around his legs.
Antonia took him from Margaret, and he settled on her shoulder with a quick shake of his scarlet tail.
Finally, they reached the other side, and began walking against the prevailing current of refugees.
Antonia counted off the side-streets until they reached Milk Lane.
It was abruptly calmer as they turned the corner and began to walk down the lane. The houses rising high on either side of the narrow lane blocked the wind, and there were fewer people here.
They passed St. Maudlin, huddled amidst thickly clustered tombstones in a tiny churchyard, and continued on toward Penny Lane.
Kit had posted a broadsheet advertising his fencing academy at the entrance to the lane. She paused to read it, trying to rein in her rioting emotions.
Anger and desire and hurt churned through her gut, and she felt greensick at the thought of seeing him again in a few minutes.
Christopher Fitzgeorge, Master of the Noble Science of Defense
Salle d'armes on the right hand in Penny Lane, near Adam & Eve Court. Teaches Gentlemen the use of smallsword and quarterstaff at home and abroad.
Then, just ahead of them, a cloaked and hooded figure emerged from the tunnel-like entrance of Penny Lane.
In the same instant, Antonia felt herself caught in a cruel grip from behind.
She drew breath to scream, but a large hand suddenly clapped over her mouth.
She threw herself frantically forward, kicking through her obstructing skirts and biting down on her captor's fingers.
He yanked her back against him. Sharp, cold metal pressed just under her jaw.
"Don't move, and not a word from you, my lady." The voice sounded familiar, somehow, but in the shock of the moment, Antonia couldn't place it.
Beyond, she saw Mall held similarly captive in the embrace of a rough-looking man, a long dagger held to her throat. Her face looked corpse-pale under her freckles.
Margaret shrieked and ran to Antonia, burying her face against Antonia's stomacher. "Don't go! Don't leave me!"
Sweetheart was screeching with ear-splitting volume, his gray-and-white wings beating against Antonia's face. His clawed feet scrabbled for purchase on her sleeves, and he chewed wildly on the leash's gilded chain.
A third man, just ahead of her, drawled, "Paying a visit to your low-born lover, my dear?"
"Thornsby! How dare you attack her?" Out of the corner of her eye, Antonia saw Chelmsford reach for his sword.
He drew it in a smooth, confident motion and lunged for Thornsby.
Thornsby threw back his cloak and parried Chelmsford's blow with his own sword. The harsh scrape of blade against blade echoed off the houses around them.
Then Thornsby counterattacked, moving so fast that Antonia barely saw the rapier in his hands.
He closed on Chelmsford, and thrust viciously under the other man's guard, sending the young marquess stumbling back against the side of the nearest house.
Horrified, Antonia saw the grin on Thornsby's face as he deliberately pushed his narrow blade all the way through Chelmsford's chest, giving it a vicious twist before pulling it out.
Chelmsford drew a rasping breath and crumpled, leaving a long, uneven smear of blood against the whitewashed wall.
His own rapier fell from his hand with a clatter against the cobblestones. He toppled sideways, coming to rest at the base of the wall. He coughed once, the effort sending a spray of bright blood across the pavement.
Antonia screamed around her captor's hand and tried to break free. She felt a burning pain from the blade at her throat, but the iron grip across her chest did not loosen.
"There, now. That resolves the obstacle of your betrothal," Thornsby said, turning to her.
Sweetheart gave an eerie echo of her scream, his wings fully extended and his neck outstretched.
Thornsby glared at the parrot.
"Sir George, kill that damned bird, if you please."
Sir George Purbeck? He's the one helping Thornsby with this mad scheme?
With a frantic twist of her wrist, Antonia released Sweetheart's leash and used all her strength to launch him into the air.
He flew away with a defiant flash of scarlet and gray, high over the heads—and swords—of Thornsby and his men.
It was a slender hope, but better than none, that someone might find him and read his leg-band, inscribed with her name.
"You stub-faced bitch!" Thornsby growled.
He closed the distance between them in two quick strides, and drew back his arm.
The pressure of the blade against her neck vanished a bare instant before Thornsby's fist smashed into her cheek.
Purbeck released her, and she staggered, nearly falling.
There was no pain at first, only a tingling numbness and the salty taste of blood.
Antonia blinked fiercely through watering eyes, and struggled to speak using lips stunned from the force of Thornsby's blow. "Why—why are you doing this?"
"Why do you think? I am in need of a wife, and you are the perfect bride for me."
Antonia recoiled, shocked and sickened. "You cannot be serious!"
"What? You mislike my rough wooing?" Thornsby smiled, fierce as a starving wolf. "Now, let us make haste. We have a ship to catch and a minister awaiting us in Wolwych."
He bent and tried to pull Margaret away, but she wailed, "No! No! No!" and clung stubbornly to Antonia's skirts.
"Faugh!" Thornsby stepped back and glared at Antonia.
"Don't hurt her," Antonia begged. "She's just a child. Let her go."
"What? So that the mewling brat can run home and fetch her papa?" Thornsby twisted his hand cruelly in Margaret's blonde locks. "Behave yourself, Lady Cranbourne, if you want your lover's brat to live. Defy me, and—" He raised his rapier, and let the ochre sunlight run down the bloodstained blade with chilling emphasis.
Turning his head, he ordered his other companion, "Bind the red-head and put her in a doorway. By the time anyone finds her, we'll have reached Paul's Wharf."
Mall struggled violently in the man's grip. Antonia heard muffled protests around the hand clapped over her maid's mouth.
"Mall, stop. Don’t make them hurt you," Antonia called, relieved that Thornsby wasn't stooping to the murder of another innocent!
Antonia looked at Chelmsford's crumpled form, and swallowed hard, fighting nausea.
This is all my fault. He was trying to defend me.
Now, it was up to her to find a way to ensure that his killer did not triumph.
Oh, if only Kit were here!
But he had been working for Thornsby. Even if he had been here, whose side would Kit have taken?
"Come now." Thornsby jerked at her arm, and Antonia stumbled, nearly falling as her unseen captor released her abruptly.
Margaret cried out as Antonia trod on her foot, and loosened her grip on Antonia's skirts.
>
In an instant, Thornsby grabbed the little girl.
"Please reconsider your actions, my lord," Antonia begged.
The left side of her face ached fiercely with each jarring step.
She continued, "Do you really think the king will let a forced marriage stand, now that you've killed the Duke of Selborough's heir?"
Thornsby shrugged. "The city is burning, and will take all evidence of this day with it. Your word against mine, milady, and I have an assurance of your continued compliance."
He lifted Margaret and swung her jauntily around. She gasped, wide-eyed with fear.
"I hope you will not object to an extended wedding journey to...shall we say, France?" Thornsby asked as they began to wade through the Cheapside traffic.
Purbeck prodded Antonia along in Thornsby's wake. The point of his dagger felt wickedly sharp even through the fabric of her gown and chemise.
Antonia did not deign to answer. As they crossed the crowded street, she peered intently at each passer-by, mutely hoping that someone would recognize her plight.
But in the chaos to escape the approaching fire, no one gave their little group a second glance.
"I don't suppose you've ever been to Paris?" Thornsby continued. "No? In any case, we shall not return to England until the new Countess of Thornsby is great with child."
Antonia's stomach rose at the thought of sharing his bed.
"And if the countess is barren?" she asked, acidly. "What then?"
Thornsby shrugged. "Then I shall arrange a splendid match for Anne, and hope that she bears a sturdy nephew."
As they passed St. Paul's again, heading toward the Thames, Antonia's mind worked furiously, trying to devise a plan.
Because if Thornsby forced her onto his ship, all hope would be lost.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For they eat the bread of wickedness,
and drink the wine of violence.
But the path of the just is as the shining light,
that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.
—Proverbs 4:16-18
Kit trudged up the other end of Penny Lane, hoping against hope that Margaret had returned to their rooms while he was out.
He had spent hours searching the streets for her, but no one had seen her since she left the schoolroom.
But why would Margaret run away?
It was very unlike her—she was a quiet child, and obedient. And well aware of the dangers in this place.
Kit wiped his face with his sleeve, wondering where he should search next, and saw dark streaks of soot staining the linen.
The wind was shifting, filling the air with the throat-scratching scent of smoke.
What if the fire came this way before he found his daughter?
He had to find her, and soon! But how?
The streets and alleys of London were crowded enough on the best days, but to locate one little girl in the midst of this tumult...!
Please God, he prayed. Please, let her be home, and waiting for me.
As he neared his house, he saw a commotion further up. A group of his neighbors were clustered in the middle of the lane, and he heard exclamations and laughter.
She's returned home! He quickened his step, already anticipating their reunion embrace, but angry for the scare she'd given him.
He did not expect to see a gray-and-white parrot, very like Antonia's, sitting on top of a little girl's head. His heart rose with sudden joy, then fell an instant later as the gaggle of adults surrounding her parted.
The girl was not Margaret, but rather Peggy Ashton, who lived two houses down.
"Eh, Master Fitzgeorge! Is this not your lady's pet?" called Mr. Philpot, the grocer who rented the shop on the ground floor of Kit's salle d'armes.
"It would seem so," Kit replied, then asked anxiously: "Have you seen my daughter? She's not returned from—"
He was interrupted by Peggy's mother, Mrs. Ashton, who pushed her way to her daughter's side.
"If there's a reward, I claim it!" Mrs. Ashton glared around, but most particularly at Kit. "It's my Peggy that went and found the creature, after all."
She reached out for the bird, who lunged for her hand.
Mrs. Ashton flinched back with a loud cry. "It bit me! Vicious beast!"
"Stop!" Kit leapt forward, and caught her wrist before she could strike the bird. "The poor creature's frightened, Mrs. Ashton, with all the commotion. I shall return it to Lady Cranbourne, and you shall get the reward. You have my word on it."
Mrs. Ashton gave him a searching glance, and stepped aside. "Take the beast, then, before it bites my girl."
He reached out, slowly, as he had seen Antonia do on numerous occasions, and gently nudged the soft gray breast feathers.
The parrot hesitated, his black claws digging into little Peggy's cap. He cocked his head and blinked, as if he were considering his options.
"Papa?" he asked, in an eerie imitation of Margaret's voice, and Kit's heart clenched.
Then Sweetheart raised his right foot and stepped delicately onto Kit's wrist, using his beak to steady himself.
Kit looked closely, and saw the engraved silver band around one of the bird's legs.
It was Sweetheart, all right. But how had he come here? Antonia kept his wing feathers trimmed, and the bird could only fly short distances.
Surely, Antonia must be nearby, but why would she venture here on such a day, when all others were attempting to leave?
And where was Margaret?
He felt instinctively that her disappearance was tied to Sweetheart's unexpected visit.
"Who's that?" Mrs. Ashton suddenly demanded, pointing at a spot further up the lane.
"Oh, that poor woman!" exclaimed the grocer.
Kit turned, the bird still on his wrist, and saw Mall Jenkins stumbling toward them.
Her cap was gone, her bright red hair disheveled and loose upon her shoulders, and a length of rope trailed from a loop fastened around her left wrist.
Her hands and the front of her gown were covered with blood.
Kit thrust Sweetheart back at Peggy, then ran to meet Mall. He caught her up as she collapsed against him, weeping hysterically.
"Mall! What's happened?" Fear began to squeeze his chest.
She clung to him, convulsed with sobs, and his self-possession broke.
"Mall! Stop crying!" He shook her a little. "Where's Margaret? Antonia? What happened?"
She threw back her head, wild-eyed, but Kit couldn't understand what she was saying around those terrible gulping sobs.
He shouted at her, shaking her again, harder now, as if he could dislodge the words that way, desperate to know what had befallen her.
But the more he shouted and shook her, the more hysterical and incoherent she became.
He felt hands on his wrists, tugging at him, and became aware that Mrs. Philpot was trying to intervene. "—must calm yourself, Mr. Fitzgeorge! The poor girl needs a moment or two. And so do you, from the looks of it!"
Kit stared at his neighbor for a moment, her no-nonsense tone making him claw for his tattered self-control.
Mrs. Philpot put an arm around Mall's shoulders and pulled her away from Kit.
"My daughter," he said, urgently. "She must know—Margaret's life may depend on—I need her to tell me. Now!"
Mrs. Philpot shook her head. "Calm yourself, Mr. Fitzgeorge. If aught's happened to your daughter, you'll not do her any good, the state you're in."
While Mrs. Philpot tended to Mall, wiping the blood from her hands with gentle pats and soft words, Kit leaned against the nearest wall.
Trying to compose himself, he took deep, shuddering breaths. His neighbor was right—he couldn't let his emotions interfere with any action he might need to take. That was the first lesson he'd learned as a soldier.
And what a soldier needed was a weapon. The blood on Mall's hands and clothing foretold that much.
Still holding Sweetheart, he entered his house and ran upstairs t
o his bedroom.
Opening his wooden clothing chest, Kit dug down through piles of neatly folded linen shirts and smallclothes until his fingers touched the worn leather scabbard of his schiavona buried at the bottom.
He had put it aside in favor of the lighter rapier favored by his students weeks ago, when he began to teach. But now he wanted a heavier weapon.
He drew it out and belted it on, its familiar weight at his hip providing fierce comfort. The schiavona might not be as agile as a rapier, but it was a soldier's blade, designed for killing.
He tucked a dagger into his belt for good measure, put away the rapier, and ran downstairs again.
Mall was still standing where he had left her.
She had finally stopped weeping, but was still sickly-pale with shock and terror. Mrs. Philpot was unknotting the rope from her wrist, and clucking over the blood staining Mall's clothes and skin.
The rope fell away as Kit reached them, revealing a raw, bruised patch of skin. He caught only a few words, but what he heard chilled him.
"Lord Chelmsford...sword...took milady...and Margaret. Stabbed him!"
"Mall!" Kit took her shoulders. "Who did it?"
"Lord Thornsby." She looked up at him, her eyes reddened and wild. "He's taking my lady to a ship at Paul's Wharf. He's holding your daughter as his hostage to force my lady to obey him. Please do something!"
At her words, terror and rage spun inside him like a maelstrom.
"I'll kill him," Kit growled. "Julian is a dead man."
He raised his head, and saw Mrs. Philpot staring apprehensively at him.
Mall, however, returned his look with one equally as fierce, despite her reddened eyes. "I trust you will, Mr. Fitzgeorge," she said, hoarsely. "For milady's sake, and for Lord Chelmsford." She started a little as she said this. "Oh, we must hurry! The poor lad's dying!"
"For God's sake, will someone not fetch the chirurgeon?" Kit snapped.
Mrs. Philpot blinked. "I'll do it." She trotted away.
Kit took Mall's bruised hand, as gently as he could. "Take me to him."
It seemed a long walk to the end of the lane.