“Then why are ye chained?” Broc sensed her desperation, but would she lie to gain his agreement?
“I’ve escaped Lord Hollister many times in the past, which mocks the very essence of his profession as chief warder. He thrives on authority, but his true love lies in degrading a person mentally. I am immune to his threats. No harm will come to me en route to London.”
Broc pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. She couldn’t possibly know the torment he’d suffered the past few days. “Then ye have not been hurt?”
Her pause made him question her honesty. “Nay,” she finally said. “Manfred has been assigned to me for the duration, and I can assure you, I am not his sexual preference.”
Broc allowed his forehead to fall against hers, thankful she hadn’t been violated, yet still in turmoil over what she asked of him. “How can ye ask me to leave ye here?” “Please, go. Please. You must get the boys out. I will meet you where the tunnel splits into a tee in two days. Midnight. Do you remember the count?”
“I remember.” Broc must be touched by madness for even considering this plan, as well thought out as it might be. “Please.” She cupped her hands over the sides of his face and drew him over top of her.
His nose touched her chin as he suckled her bottom lip.
There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he was no good to her dead. “I will place men in the Tower. They will be dressed as Yorkists and have a blade of grass woven into the laces of their left boot. Go with them. They will bring ye to me.” He kissed the backs of her eyes. “I will not fail ye.” “I know. Save Eli and Martin and then save me.” Broc pulled her hand with him as he slithered out from beneath the canvas, not letting go until the last possible second. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself. The guilt he carried for the deaths of his kin left everlasting marks on his conscience, but if he failed Lizbeth and her nephews, he would be left with a scar on his soul. Godspeed. Terror stricken, she clamped her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes as a flood of tears washed over her temples. She was not so brave. Had she shown any signs of weakness, Broc wouldn’t have left her.
If caught together, neither of them would have been able to save her nephews. She pulled herself into a sitting position, hugged her knees, and stared into the darkness. Lord Hollister had tortured her mind with threats against Eli and Martin, promising to end their lives quickly upon his return. ‘Twas his sick-minded way of offering her a gift. Mercy. An end without the agony of torture.
She, however, would not be granted such mercy.
Lord Hollister had been giddy this morn when he informed her of her sentence: peine forte et dure—pressing to death. No doubt he would drag the process out until Broc delivered the document; then Lord Hollister would order the iron weights added to her chest until she was dead. She didn’t know if she could bear the punishment, but the process would give her time to plead with Father to free her. The boys would be safe, and that was all that mattered. Gloucester would see to Lord Hoi lister’s punishment and Buckingham as well. All will be well.
She reached for Mother’s rosary beneath the wool skirts Buckingham’s maid had dressed her in, but her pocket was empty. She clasped her hands together. Protect my husband. He taught her strength and endurance, gave her courage, but mostly he’d shown her what it felt like to love. A field of orange poppies blossomed in her mind. Eli and Martin were there running with her own sons and daughters; her father watched from afar, finally at peace with his own demons. Broc held her in front of him and kissed her hair. He whispered sweet words in her ear—words she heard only in her dreams. Words of love. In the shadows of the glen, Broc chose ten warriors to accompany him to London, leaving twenty behind to follow Lizbeth’s progress. With Smitt at his side, they rode south by the light of the moon to Stony Stratford, where Gloucester had barricaded the main road with his sentinels. There was no reason to lurk in the wood. Dressed as Yorkists, they claimed to be securing the route to London for Gloucester’s cavalcade. They traveled throughout the small hours of the night, the ground vibrating beneath the hooves of their horses. While England slept, Broc purged his steed forward at a bloodrushing pace, regret pooling in his gut until he feared the hurricane inside him might swallow him whole. Villages, tippling houses, forests passed in a dark blur. London Bridge appeared, looming on dawn’s horizon. Broc slapped the flanks of his steed and forged ahead like a raving lunatic being chased by his own black soul. Smitt pulled out ahead and turned a half circle, causing Broc to halt his steed. The squeal of its neigh preceded the rise of its front hooves.
“Halt!” Smitt held up two hands.
“God’s hooks, man!” The stillness of Broc’s steed emphasized the tremors attacking his limbs. He felt crazed by a fever. His sweat-drenched skin tingled; his breathing was erratic, his wits unstable.
“Think ye to fly over London’s gates?” Smitt scowled, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and panted. Smitt never scowled, nor did he pant. Broc twisted to find the others stripped of stamina as well. Without a doubt these men would follow him into Hell, which was exactly where he led them.
“I need to piss.” Smitt trotted past Broc in a huff toward a small brook. “Think ye we’ve the time?”
“Aye.” Broc dipped his head toward his men, granting them reprieve. When he dismounted, the weight of his body nearly buckled his knees. He needed rest, as did the other Maxwell warriors. They were worthless to Lizbeth’s nephews in their current physical state.
Broc led his horse to water, then sidled up next to Smitt.
“Mayhap we should rest a wee bit. Aye?”
“Mayhap.” Smitt’s tone lost its bite. “Forgive my disrespect, m’lord.”
Broc forced his mouth to retain its grim line, though he wanted to smile. ‘Twas the first time Smitt paid homage to his title. “No harm, cousin. I needed to be stopped. We close our eyes a few hours, then we will set forth a plan. Have ye ideas on how we might enter the Tower?”
“Oh, aye.” Smitt nodded, his smile returning with a wicked twist. “And it involves a great deal of bloodshed.”
Broc backed his steed up to face Watling Street and motioned
for his warriors to do the same. Crowds filled the
narrow streets, preparing for their young sovereign to arrive with his uncle. Merchants filled their stalls with wares—
pitch, wax, rope, and other goods—while the city’s aldermen sent criers racing throughout London to announce the coming of their king.
The Maxwell warriors blended into the bedlam of colored brocades with their scarlet surcoats and decorated horses. Two Yorkists atop speckled steeds carried flags bearing Gloucester’s crest. They trotted by and offered Broc a regal greeting. He returned the gesture, all the while thinking of how much he loathed the English. He motioned Smitt and another of his cousins toward a vine-covered door. Gregor tethered their two steeds outside the haberdashers, not far from the same location Broc and Lizbeth had stolen the king’s horse sennights before. Once the secret passageway into the dungeon sealed his J men inside, Broc guided the remainder of his small force down Tower Street. Pride and guilt consumed his conscience as the rattle of harnesses clattered behind him. His kinsmen had ridden hard throughout the night without complaint. They’d obeyed his every demand, and Broc owed them his life for their loyalty.
The caw of a raven greeted them at the gates of the Tower. Its black wings spread wide overhead as the bird circled them, warning them. An eerie feeling curled around Broc’s spine. Was his plan flawless? Had he considered every possible option for a successful mission? Of course he’d considered sending all his men in through the tunnel, but they needed free reign over the stronghold to search every tower and every nook for Eli and Martin’s location without having | to skulk about in dark corridors. He would see them safely to Scotland and they would know the love of a family, his family, but time was not a commodity he had much of. , “Halt! Declare yourself and your intent,” the yeoman waiter be
llowed from behind the iron gate.
Startled out of his apprehension, Broc immediately delved ., into his guise. “I am Sir Julian Ascott. I come with instruction to secure the Tower for the Duke of Gloucester.”
The gatekeeper approached, plainly dressed in a rustcolored doublet, tan trews, a black velvet cap, and pointed shoes. “’Where are your orders?”
“My orders were given verbally.” Broc looked down his nose with noble arrogance.
“Your chief warder sent me in his stead to make the appropriate preparations for the arrival of our sovereign king and his uncle.”
The gatekeeper’s brows made a straight line of distress. He leaned to the right to inspect the Maxwell warriors through the iron grid of the portcullis. “I cannot grant ye entrance, lest ye have written orders.”
“Do ye think I would want to enter this vile place had I not been instructed to do so?
Raise the gate and let us pass, else answer to Lord Hollister and his evil temper.” Broc could only hope Hollister made more enemies than allies. The gatekeeper’s knuckles whitened around the pike he held, and his head pushed back on his shoulders, giving him two chins. “Whilst I may not care for the chief warder’s character, I have strict orders not to let anyone pass.”
“Very well then. Gather the yeomen and secure the Tower yourself. Have all the prisoners moved to the northwest corner of the inner ward and clean out the refuse in the dungeon. Advise the laundress and your scullions to prepare for an increased number of attendants by this eve. We will wait here.” Broc crossed his arms over his chest. “This eve?”
“This eve.” Broc raised a finger. “One more thing. Have Lady Ives’s chamber prepared and inform the Lord High Executioner that his daughter has been rescued from that filthy Scot and will be arriving come the morrow.” “S’truth?” The gatekeeper s eyes lit up.
“Lizzy is coming home?”
Apparently not everyone thought ill of the executioner’s daughter, only those who didn’t know her. “Oh, aye. She is.
I spoke to her yester eve at Northampton. One of my men got himself sotted on malmsey wine and Lady Ives offered him a tincture for his head pounding. She’s a gentle maiden with the oddest color eyes, am I wrong?”
“Gold. Lizzy’s eyes are gold.” The gatekeeper waved at a porter and the clank of metal prefaced the raising of the portcullis, granting Broc and his brethren entry. “Lady Ives saved my foot, she did. Well, most of it. Lost the little toe, but ye should have seen it before she tended me. The flesh nigh fell from the bone. S’truth.”
Broc should have mentioned Lizbeth’s name earlier. He and his men dismounted and turned their reins over to the awaiting attendants. Broc fell into step beside the gatekeeper and feigned great interest in the man’s many ailments as they crossed the grounds. At the entrance to the White Tower, Broc turned to the gatekeeper. “Thank ye for your escort, sir. Mayhap ye might aid me by seeing to the duty of preparing Lady Ives’s chamber.”
“Aye, sir. If ye’ve need of anything else, send any guard to the gate. The name’s Godfrey. I do not believe I offered it.” His grin pushed his cheeks into rippling wrinkles.
“Thank ye, Godfrey. Ye have been most helpful.” Broc watched the gatekeeper leave, then gave his attention to the Maxwell warriors. “Search every corner of the towers I assigned ye. When ye find the boys, take them into the tunnel as we planned and Smitt will take them to safety. Failure is not an option. We search until we find them, aye?”
Each of his brethren donned a stone-faced nod of agreement before they scattered. Broc followed his nose to the base of the Wardrobe Tower. ‘Twas easy to understand why the entrance was empty. The pungent odor had the distinct smell of a privy. He struck a flint and lit a rushlight, hoping the smoke would tamp the smell now burning his throat. He didn’t want to think about Eli and Martin living in such foul conditions. The spiral stairwell offered many detours: various chambers storing ammunitions, garments, and jewels. For hours, he checked the antechambers of each, but found little evidence anyone had even been in this section, much less lived here. On the third level, he entered a chamber stacked wall to wall with coffers. A late afternoon sun poured through a small open window and silhouetted two carved wooden birds sitting on the sill. Where had he seen those birds before? He picked one up, and then the other, trying to recall if he’d seen them at Market Cross in Leicestershire. Then it struck him. The mantel at Edlynn’s cottage was riddled with them—round, fat birds. Lizzy had mentioned in passing that her Father had carved wooden birds. Broc studied the room with the utmost intensity now.
A cuttie stool sat in the corner; wood shavings lay scattered in chunks over the floor. An archway peeked out from behind three coffers. He set his torch in a wall sconce and moved the barricade to find a small door. A moment of dread mixed with anticipation raised the hair on his neck. He heard his breath catch over the crackling sound of the rushlight as he released the iron bar and pulled the door wide. The ripe scent of death nearly gagged him. He retrieved the torch and held it inside. Two small decaying bodies, both wearing pale gowns, embraced each other atop a straw-filled pallet on the floor. Broc held his forearm over his mouth and tried to look at anything but them. How was he going to tell Lizbeth that Hollister lied? He played on her love for her nephews to obtain her obedience. Broc bent to one knee and crossed the boys he’d intended to raise as his sons with the sign of his religion, then spoke the words he hoped would set them free. The torch flickered on the wall behind them. Three names roughly written into the stone drew his attention: Eli, Martin, Lizzy. Tiny white lines etched an oval around each name. Upon closer inspection, he realized the primitive pattern covered the interior of all four walls. Then he saw the numbers.
Lizbeth’s numbers.
The bastard locked her in here. In the dark. “Damn him!” Broc cursed Hollister aloud, wishing the man was in front of him so he could rip out his eyes and blind him the way he’d blinded Lizbeth.
“Who are you?”
Startled by the voice, Broc drew his sword and whirled around. “I am Sir Julian Ascott. I am securing the Tower on Lord Hollister’s orders.” He spewed the information only moments before he recognized Lizbeth’s father. The Lord High Executioner didn’t have the grim appearance Broc had seen in the dungeon. Standing before him was a simple auld man with dark hair speckled gray at the temples and a sagging pale face. Gone was his black cloak, black gloves, black whip, replaced with tan trews, a pale tunic, and a flask of drink.
“I know you.” Lord Ives tilted his head and studied Broc with dull brown eyes. “You are no English. You’re the Scot who took my daughter.”
“I dinnae take her. She rescued me from the Tower.”
“And you have returned. For what purpose?”
“To save her nephews.”
Lord Ives’s gaze dipped to the floor where his grandsons lay on their deathbed. “You are too late. Months, in fact.” He sat heavily atop the cuttie stool and stared at the white sky through the small window. “I did not even know they were my grandsons until my son returned from war.” “Did ye kill Eli and Martin to save them from your curse?” Broc asked in an accusatory tone, but part of him wanted to know the man Lizbeth believed was worth saving. The executioner’s eyes glazed over in obvious thought, and Broc suspected the man spent a lot of his hours atop this particular cuttie stool. “I did not protect them.”
That answer was not one Broc wanted to hear. Lilian and Mattie died because he didn’t protect them, as did Aiden. Did that mean Broc held the weapon that killed them? “Put your sword down and tell me how my Lizzy is faring.” He took a long draw off the flask. The executioner’s demeanor was surreal, his mind obviously not his own. Dumbfounded, Broc stepped from the antechamber, closing the door behind him. He sheathed his sword and then set his torch in the wall sconce. While he didn’t trust the executioner, he certainly presented no threat. Regardless of the man’s size, Broc could easily kill him with his bare hands should the need arise.
&nb
sp; “Did she make it to sanctuary?” Lord Ives asked when Broc failed to respond quickly enough.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Lord Ives looked up at him and turned his head slightly to the side. “What’s that you say?
Speak up.”
“I said, ‘in a manner of speaking,’” Broc repeated his words a little louder. Lizbeth never mentioned the man was hard of hearing.
Lord Ives’s eyes slid shut. “Then she is well?” “She cries in her sleep. She counts in the dark, and she prays for her kin. She is by far the most selfless person I have ever known, and I find it difficult to believe a man such as ye spawned her.”
The executioner tipped his flask for another drink, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Have you ever been to war? Ever pierce a man’s flesh with your blade?” “I’ve killed on the battlefield for honor.” Broc’s volume increased a notch. He wanted to be sure the man heard him. “Then we are not so different, you and I. We are both murderers in our own right. You kill to protect your country. I kill to punish those who commit crimes against mine.” Broc scoffed at the comparison. “And what crime did your son commit against your country?”
Lord Ives closed his eyes, no doubt hiding his sins.
“Kamden committed no crime.”
“Yet ye wielded your ax against him?”
The executioner shook his head and propped his elbows on his knees. “I did not execute my son.”
“Then Hollister did?” ‘Twas a reasonable assumption given the man’s hatred for Lizbeth’s brother. “Nay. A porter dressed in my garb took my ax on Hollister’s order, whilst I was chained in the dungeon. Hollister would have done the deed himself had he the stomach, but you see, our chief warder has no gut for execution. Tis the blood. I’ve seen him vomit in the torture chamber during a simple amputation. Make no mistake, he takes great pleasure in his position. He is empowered by ordering the executions and even delivering the sentence.”
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