The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3)

by Stella Riley

  Ashley took a moment to reflect on the fact that, since the tavern was now shut for the night, there was definitely not going to be any secret meeting in an upstairs room. In truth, he’d never thought there would be … but it was helpful to have his suspicious verified.

  The voices of the two inebriates faded into the distance. Ashley decided that his current position was as good as any and remained perfectly motionless, listening to and identifying every sound. Water sloshed, timbers creaked and the occasional voice drifted out from one of the vessels in the harbour. So far, there was nothing at all untoward … but Ashley knew that somewhere not too far away, five assassins would soon be lying in wait. If, that was, they weren’t there already.

  Walking from the inn to the quayside, Francis and Cyrano’s route would bring them out at a carefully calculated point between himself and Will, with Jem keeping pace in between them. Ashley prayed that nothing would happen before they got there and that he hadn’t made a mistake trusting One-Eyed Will. Then he wondered how Francis’s nerves were holding up. Strolling along in the open, knowing you were a target was no easy thing. Partly to give him something else to think about and partly because Cyrano’s small fund of English was overlaid by a strong French accent which would instantly give the game away, he’d told Francis to reinforce the illusion with the occasional fragment of conversation. Francis had responded to this by remarking that he was delighted his strengths were finally being recognised – thus making everyone smile. Ashley hoped they were all still smiling a few hours from now.

  He stood motionless for what seemed an age until the bell-tower of St Catherine sent his nerves into spasm by announcing that it was one o’clock. Ashley steadied his breathing and kept his eyes on the empty stretch of the quay. Presently, from somewhere away to his right came the sound of booted feet on the cobbles and he froze, trying to determine how many. Then came the drift of Francis’s lazy tones complaining of the all-pervading stink. Ashley loosened his sword in its scabbard and pulled the knife from his boot.

  Not long now.

  Though still some distance away, Cyrano and Francis came into view. Francis seemed to be saying something about a girl which, judging by his rumble of laughter, Cyrano had understood.

  Christ, thought Ashley grimly. This is no time for bawdy jokes. Concentrate, damn you. Then, his eyes still raking the quay for any sign of the expected attackers, Where the hell are they?

  And that was when he saw it.

  Two dark shapes cresting the low harbour wall and dropping silently some dozen yards behind Francis and Cyrano. Drawing his sword and starting to edge along the buildings at his back, Ashley checked his instinctive shout of warning when he saw the sharp turn of Cyrano’s head.

  He’d heard. Thank God.

  But Francis’s attention was fixed in the other direction and, following it, Ashley saw two more bodies slithering into view some way further back from where he stood. The resulting gap offered him a chance of getting to Francis and Cyrano before this second pair could close in – but only if he acted now. He could see neither Will nor Jem which, though it was as it should be, wasn’t an especially comforting thought just at present. Both Cyrano and Francis were drawing their swords, preparing to fight on two fronts. Ashley pushed away from the wall and broke into a run.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jem doing the same but couldn’t see Will. He wondered briefly where the fifth assassin was and hoped he was wasting his time looking for Jack Cardale. Then he was skidding to a halt a couple of yards from Francis and immediately pivoted to parry an oncoming blade.

  Earlier in the day, he had stressed that this would be no time for finesse. They needed to incapacitate at least one of their opponents as fast as possible if they were to stand a chance of capturing any of the others. Consequently, he met the attack with savage force and followed through with disconcerting rapidity. Taken by surprise, the fellow retreated a few steps and then tried to stand his ground. Not wanting to drift too far from the centre of the fight, Ashley let him.

  On his left, Francis seemed to be holding his own against a tall fellow with an abnormally long reach while, beyond him, Cyrano was battling with the other two and apparently giving both of them a hard time. Then Jem stormed up to join him. There was still no sign of Will and Ashley hadn’t the time to look.

  For perhaps three minutes, the fight eddied and flowed to neither side’s advantage until, becoming aware that Francis was being driven gradually back, Ashley re-doubled his own efforts. He took a slash to the forearm but ignored it. Seeking a particular opening, he delivered a swift flurry of moves until he found he wanted. Then he drove his knife through the fellow’s heart and swivelled to assist Francis. Unfortunately, before he could reach him, another man dropped over the harbour wall and rushed down on him.

  Where the hell is Will? thought Ashley, as he leapt to meet the unexpected attack. And, managing to turn his new opponent with a lightning riposte, found the answer. Some two dozen yards away, Sir William was occupied with a fierce engagement of his own.

  Meanwhile, left facing a single swordsman, Cyrano was able to drive the fellow back until his thighs hit the low wall. A deep thrust to the shoulder was sufficient to send him plummeting backwards over it. Cyrano grinned and glanced around. Jem’s inexpert hacking and slashing was working well enough and he’d seemingly managed to inflict a couple of flesh-wounds with his knife; so like Ashley before him, Cyrano swung round to help Francis … and, again like Ashley, found himself facing yet another new enemy.

  Aware of it but busy contending with a stronger and more cautious fighter than the previous one, only two thoughts got past Ashley’s concentration. The first was that, presumably hampered by having only partial vision, Will was apparently making little progress; and the second was, Christ. Seven, so far. Have they sent a bloody regiment?

  Faces appeared at windows overlooking the harbour and then promptly withdrew again. Lanterns on many of the boats were being extinguished, as the men on board disappeared below deck. Unsurprisingly, no one wanted anything to do with what was happening on the quay.

  Spinning on his heel, Ashley narrowly avoided a thrust to the shoulder. Blood was starting to drip down his hand but wasn’t yet impairing his grip. He parried and followed through with an immediate riposte. His adversary jumped back and circled.

  Damn.

  He tried to evaluate the situation. Two down; one definitely dead – and five still standing. For the moment, at least, the odds were even. But Francis was tiring; Jem, an inexpert swordsman, was still trying to disarm his opponent so he could close in with his knife; and Will, now much closer and limping badly, was gradually driving his attacker back towards the rest of them. Cyrano was still fighting like a demon and had inflicted some damage but, like himself, had so far failed to bring his current foe down. As far as Ashley could tell, all five of them were now bleeding – some more seriously than others. So if they were all to get out of this alive, it was going to be up to either himself or Cyrano to adjust the numbers in their favour.

  Francis, meanwhile, had given up thinking at all. There was cramp in his hand and his shoulder was on fire. In desperation, he tried one of the deceptive moves that Ashley had taught him and knew, even as he launched into it, that he’d mistimed it. His reward was a savage thrust to his right bicep – which would have been quite bad enough even it if hadn’t been in precisely the same spot as the wound he’d received at Worcester. His blade clattered to the cobbles and, swearing, he dropped to one knee, a hand clamped hard over his arm.

  His attacker grunted with satisfaction and booted him in the chest.

  Francis went sprawling. His hat rolled away, taking the blond wig with it.

  The tall fellow stared for a second and then, apparently without thinking, blurted, ‘That’s not York!’

  Into the tiny hiatus that followed, Ashley snapped breathlessly, ‘It’s not the King, either. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.’

  For a split second
, all five assassins froze – which proved to be the undoing of two of them. Cyrano sent his adversary’s sword flying from his hand and kicked him in the groin. Ashley locked blades with his own opponent, forced a disarm and knocked the fellow out with a blow to the jaw using his sword-hilt. Then he swung round and, positioning himself in between Francis and the man who’d wounded him, said, ‘We can finish this or you can accept your failure and withdraw. Either one is fine by me.’

  For an instant, the tall man seemed completely nonplussed. He looked around at the bodies on the ground and those of his comrades still being threatened by Jem and Will. Finally, he said warily, ‘If the King isn’t here – why are you? It makes no sense.’

  ‘That depends on your point of view,’ replied Ashley. ‘Well? Do we battle on?’

  ‘To what end?’ The fellow drew a long breath. ‘A truce, then – while my colleagues and I collect our fallen friends?’

  ‘You can take most of them,’ came the cool reply. ‘But these two …’ He gestured to the man writhing at Cyrano’s feet and the one still out cold at his own, ‘… go with us.’

  ‘I can’t agree to that!’

  ‘You prefer the rest of your men to die? Because they are your men, aren’t they?’ Shooting a brief, meaningful glance at Cyrano, Ashley swept the point of his sword downwards to rest on the throat of the fellow on the ground. ‘As I said, it’s all one to me.’

  The tall man started forward and then stopped abruptly when he felt an icy blade feathering his neck. Forcing the words through clenched teeth, he indicated the man Ashley was threatening and said, ‘That is my brother.’

  ‘Is it? Then I imagine you don’t want to see his throat cut. But since, like you, he came here to commit regicide … and since I really only need one of you alive, you’ll appreciate that I really couldn’t care less whose brother he is.’

  ‘You cold-blooded bastard!’

  Francis was still sitting on the ground, breathing raggedly and watching blood seep through his fingers, but the words spoken only two nights ago by Cyrano made him look up. He couldn’t see Ashley’s face – but he didn’t need to. That light, negligent tone and allied with the unwavering sword-point was chilling enough. Since the night they’d disposed of d’Auxerre’s body, Francis had been aware of the streak of icy ruthlessness that would let Ashley do whatever he thought necessary. He also suddenly recognised that he was less dangerous when he let his temper loose than when, as now, he kept it under rigid control. Francis had glimpsed The Falcon before but never quite as clearly as at this particular moment … and it sent an unpleasant little shiver down his spine.

  ‘Indeed. But what does that make you?’ said Ashley. He let the inevitable pause linger for a moment and then said dispassionately, ‘I can kill your brother now … or I can take him back to be hanged. Or I might consider letting both him and the other fellow go … if you volunteer to take their place.’

  The tall fellow’s eyes widened. He said abruptly, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Someone you’d be wise to take seriously. And you?’

  ‘Major Deane.’ There was an unpleasant silence while the Major waited in vain for Ashley to speak. Finally, he said slowly, ‘And if I agree – you’ll leave the rest of my men alone?’

  ‘Provided the two still on their feet don’t do anything stupid – yes.’

  ‘I have your word on that?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  The man shut his eyes, then opened them again.

  ‘Very well. I agree.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ashley with something that sounded cordial but wasn’t. ‘And now you may order your men to stand down … and surrender your sword to the gentleman behind you.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  FIFTEEN

  Pauline maintained her usual manner through the first two nights of Francis’s absence. By the third one, however, she could feel the cracks beginning to show. She did her best to plaster over them for the sake of keeping Athenais in the dark, but managing to appear cheerful as well was more than she could manage. Consequently, it was no surprise when – after hearing her snap at both Etienne and Froissart – Athenais said laughingly, ‘God, Pauline. The sooner Francis comes home, the better. And don’t think I won’t tell him how much you’ve missed him – because I will.’

  Pauline looked at her sourly. The glow which had been missing for so many weeks had returned to the lovely face and Athenais’s spirits no longer seemed weighed down by things one could only guess at. These were good signs and would have been welcome if Pauline wasn’t living with the constant fear that the reason for this improvement might never come back from Honfleur.

  She said reflexively, ‘And I suppose you’re not missing the Colonel?’

  ‘All the time,’ came the simple reply. ‘But perhaps that was what I needed.’

  Pauline pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  A further twenty-four hours went by, turning worry into serious alarm. They’d been gone four nights now and, by Pauline’s calculations, should have been back. Nightmares prevented her sleeping and, when she tried to eat, the food seemed to stick in her throat. How she’d managed to keep it from Athenais for this long, she had no idea.

  And then Athenais found her retching in the scullery and everything came to a head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Athenais flatly.

  ‘Nothing.’ Pauline wiped her mouth and reached for the water-jug. ‘I think the fish might have been off.’

  ‘It wasn’t – and you scarcely touched it anyway.’

  ‘Something else then.’ She shrugged and declined to turn around. ‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘I hadn’t got that far, actually.’ Athenais paused, thinking. ‘Clearly you’re worried about Francis. Why?’

  ‘I’m not worried. Why should I be?’

  ‘You tell me. I know they’ve been away a bit longer than they hoped – but Ashley said that might happen. The man with the letters was sailing from England and could be delayed by the weather – in which case, they’d have no choice but to wait for him. That must be what’s happened. They’re just kicking their heels and probably getting fairly annoyed about it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pauline swallowed hard and kept her voice even. ‘It’s as you said yesterday. I just miss him.’

  Immediately and without a shadow of a doubt, Athenais recognised the lie. In all the years they’d known each other, she’d never once heard Pauline willingly admit a weakness.

  She said, ‘You do, of course. But this is more than that, isn’t it?’ Without warning, she reached out and pulled Pauline round to face her. ‘You’re frightened. Why?’

  Pauline shut her eyes and said nothing.

  Now thoroughly alarmed, Athenais gave her a little shake. ‘Why? Whatever Francis is doing, Ashley is doing it with him. So tell me what it is. Clearly, they haven’t merely ridden to the coast to collect some correspondence, have they? Have they?’

  Opening her eyes and expelling a long breath, Pauline said, ‘No.’

  ‘What, then? What are they doing?’

  ‘I can’t … Ashley made me promise not to tell you.’

  ‘Bugger what Ashley said,’ snapped Athenais. ‘If he and Francis are off somewhere risking their lives, I’ve a right to know about it. Is that what they’re doing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pauline watched the grey eyes fill with the same fear that was fermenting inside her own gut. She said rebelliously, ‘God damn it. I should never have promised. You’d better sit down.’

  Athenais sat and listened without a word as Pauline described the whole scenario from the beginning. And even when Pauline stopped speaking, she still said nothing for a very long time. Then, finally, ‘Have I got this right? They’ve gone to catch some assassins who can’t assassinate the King because he’s not there. Francis is pretending to be the Duke of York. Ashley’s doing God knows what. And they’ve invited Cyrano de Bergerac to join the party. Am I missing any
thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have they completely lost their wits?’

  ‘The Colonel apparently has,’ said Pauline bitterly. ‘I can’t speak for the rest of them – except to say they wouldn’t be doing this if he hadn’t talked them into it.’

  Athenais let this pass.

  ‘And they should have been home yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. Today, at the very latest.’

  ‘So … so it’s possible something has gone wrong.’ Her voice quivered a bit and some of the colour faded from her face. ‘I wish you’d told me before.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Athenais rose and put her arms around her friend’s shoulders.

  ‘So you wouldn’t have been bearing it alone,’ she said.

  * * *

  Neither of them went to bed that night. Instead, they stayed in the parlour, dozing fitfully and hoping the prodigals might yet return. They didn’t. Dawn heralded the start of yet another day and the hours continued to crawl by. At around noon, Athenais said, ‘If we went to the Louvre, do you think King Charles would receive us?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Pauline wearily. ‘But if he did?’

  ‘He might know something. More than we do, at any rate.’

  ‘Not much if they stuck to the original plan. And even if he did, do you think he’d share it with us?’

  Athenais slumped in her chair.

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Speaking about this to anyone except the King wouldn’t be safe – and since he presumably doesn’t know that Francis and Ashley are living here with us like a bloody ménage à quatre, he’s got no reason to trust us.’

  ‘I know. I’d just feel better if we could do something.’

  ‘There’s nothing to do but wait. And hope. And, if you think it’ll do any good, pray.’

  * * *

  Despite everybody wanting nothing more than to go home, Ashley had decreed a day of rest and a further night’s stay in Honfleur. On top of a sleepless and physically demanding night, all of them had injuries of one sort or another. His own and those of Cyrano and Jem were largely superficial but Sir William’s thigh-wound had continued to bleed for longer than it should have done and Francis’s arm was giving Ashley severe cause for concern. So the five of them patched each other up as best they could, got some rest in between taking turns to guard Major Deane … and planned to start their journey back to Paris early the following morning.