by Lyn South
“Wait for it,” Nico says.
A few seconds later, light flashes in the emptiness as vegetation the width of a narrow door slides open to the right. The image is more pixelated than the assassin’s figure in the previous file, but visible inside what looks like a gaping wound in the countryside is the vestibule of a time pod.
Shadows move just inside the entryway of the other ship. A few seconds later, one shadow moves through the door and emerges into the sunlight. It’s a male figure—light-haired, broad shouldered, walks with a bit of a swagger. He moves around the perimeter of the ship—one of many physical camouflage-checks a time flight crew performs during the day—and Nico zooms in for a better look.
The backside of his head— a mop of curly blond hair—comes into sharp focus and I know exactly who it is before his gaze moves up toward the sky and back down again. The last time I saw this asshole was on the De Medici job when he ragged on me for screwing with his retirement with one breath and offered to be my father figure with the next.
Merde. Jackson Carter—the rat-bastard ex-commander who put me in this shitty situation in the first place—is on the scene and working with that psycho, Becca Trevor.
This is bad. Really fucking bad.
Chapter 22
“Fagin. Dodger. Get up here now. We’ve got a big problem,” Nico’s voice booms over the CommLink speakers in my quarters, waking me from a dead sleep.
It takes a few minutes before I’m lucid enough to do anything more than groan at the intrusion. “Computer, time check,” I say, croaking the words out. My throat feels like I’ve been walking in a desert all night. “And what the hell is wrong with Nico?”
“The time is Zero-Five-Thirty.” The computer’s soothing feminine tone is more sedative than energetic motivation to climb out from under my pillow. “Commander Garcia’s heart rate and respiration are elevated, indicating he is—”
“Computer, shut up.” I’m not looking for a laundry list of Nico’s vital signs.
“Dodger!” Nico says again, his voice more urgent.
I groan. “On my way.”
Last night, we spent several hours combing through the footage Nico had pieced together from several long-range cameras, to figure out how many backups Trevor has on the scene.
I couldn’t concentrate. The emotional and physical exhaustion only intensified as the night wore on. Somewhere south of two o’clock, Fagin ordered me to bed—dozing at the conference table and drooling on the tabletop is a breach of etiquette she can’t stomach—even though we still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Trevor in the surveillance footage.
If I dreamt at all, I don’t remember, but it must’ve been a restless night. The sheets are twisted around me, and I feel as though the scant three hours of sleep have drained my energy more than not sleeping at all would have done.
There’s a sharp rap on my door. “Dodger, let’s go,” Fagin says.
Five minutes later, both Fagin and I slouch in chairs in the Ready Room peering at a tabletop hologram image paused in mid-action: Lady Anne exiting the palace, flanked by two of King Henry’s guards. “This better be good,” I say. “I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
Nico paces the room. He chews the skin on the side of his thumb and his eyes never leave the hologram.
Fagin stares at the image. “What are we looking at?”
“Lady Anne on her way to the tower,” he says in a dry, matter-of-fact tone.
“She’s not supposed to move to the queen’s apartments in the tower until her coronation,” Fagin replies. She shoots Nico an annoyed look that asks: You woke us up for this?
“She’s been checking the place out for the last few days. Henry’s been refurbishing the rooms, and she wanted to get a good look at the progress,” I reply.
“This footage is hot off the presses.” Nico checks the time. “Like, fifteen-minutes-ago hot.” He works the hologram control panel and the image springs to life again, this time in reverse; he rewinds back to the moment they roused Anne from her sleep.
Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk and Anne’s uncle, stands in her privy chamber waiting for the ladies-in-waiting to finish dressing her before she can receive him. When she emerges, still half-asleep and dazed, he wastes no time getting to the point. “My Lady Marquess, I am sent by the king to arrest you on the charge of seducing his royal majesty away from his lawful wife by means of witchcraft.”
Fagin and I exchange wide-eyed looks and spring out of our seats. Norfolk’s words are more effective in jolting us out of the sleep-deprived mental haze than a high-powered stimulant. Fagin opens her mouth to speak. Nico frowns and gives her a sharp wave, deferring the questions he sees in our eyes, and points at the hologram.
My stomach cramps. This is wrong. So very wrong.
We watch Anne’s eyes dart around the room. She’s fully awake now, too, and looks bewildered. “Uncle?” There’s the hint of a smile on her face, as though she thinks this might be someone’s idea of a tasteless prank—one which would surely cost the jokester their standing at court, if not their head. “What is your meaning? Surely, you can’t believe—”
“I am entirely in earnest, Your Grace,” he says in a tone that suggests this is anything but a joke. “Last evening, the king received information that you have been unfaithful to His Majesty. After questioning several witnesses, a talisman was found in the king’s chambers under his bed, one that was seen in your possession by your ladies. Bishop Fisher has pronounced it cursed with a spell to tempt the king into your bed.”
“Sir, I am no witch,” Anne says, crying out in rage. “The king loves me of his own accord. He knows his own mind and my conscience, in any regard to the king, is clear.”
“Have you no concern for your immortal soul that you lie so egregiously?” Norfolk tugs a piece of parchment free from its place tucked into his belt. He snaps the paper open with a flick of his wrist and reads:
I weep for our lost love as I prepare to marry the king. I beg you, do not exile me from your heart. I could not bear it, if you do. This child I carry is yours, not his.
My heart skips a beat. No. Oh, no, no, no, NO!
“What’s going on?” Fagin cuts in, talking over the hologram audio. “Anne Boleyn isn’t arrested for treason, and executed, for four more years. This isn’t—”
“Sh!” Nico hushes her and points back to the hologram. “Listen.”
“What letter is that you read?” Anne says. A wild and terrified look washes over her face, and she leaps from her chair. “Do you think to accuse me with this falsehood? The child I carry is the king’s!” She snatches the letter from her uncle and scans it, her lips moving as she silently reads.
“This was delivered to the king last evening,” Norfolk says. “We have confirmed the charges with Lady Rochford, and many other witnesses, that you dallied with Sir Thomas Wyatt in your private quarters, and—”
“Falsehood!” Anne screams. She crumples the paper in her hands and moves toward the fireplace.
Norfolk blocks her path and wrestles the letter away from her. “We have Wyatt’s confession.”
Anne freezes in place, her face a mask of horror and disbelief. “No. It isn’t true. You must have tortured him to gain a false confession. Anything he said under the pain of torture is suspect. There is nothing between him and me.”
Out of patience, Norfolk glances at the two guards flanking him on either side. With a quick jerk of his head, he gives the command for the guards to take Anne into custody. “You have offended our sovereign the king’s grace in committing treason against his person, and you are condemned to die for your crimes. You will be imprisoned in the Tower of London until the king’s pleasure is further known.”
Lady Anne wails as the guards drag her from the room by her wrists.
Nico pauses the hologram. For a moment, we stand in stunned silence. My arms and legs feel like they’re weighted down, and a surreal kaleidoscope of images swims through my head as the last twelve hours rewin
d themselves in my brain. I know the contents of that letter. Faking Anne’s declaration of love for Thomas Wyatt should have resulted in banishment from court, not arrest. Tenterhooks of regret rake through my heart like scalding claws. Did I so badly miscalculate the king’s reaction? What have I done?
Fagin explodes. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” Nico says. “I kept searching surveillance tapes after you both went to bed. The MicroCam in Lady Anne’s chambers is motion-triggered and set to higher priority than cameras in the common areas. When Norfolk entered with the guards, the feed popped up on my auxiliary screens. When I realized what was happening, I called you.”
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” Fagin continues, nervously. “She has to give birth to Elizabeth.” She stops and looks at me. “What was the last thing you saw Anne doing? Did you see any of this going on? You’ve been with her more than any of the rest of us, surely, you must’ve seen something if these accusations are true.”
The cramps in my stomach have migrated to my chest in a radiating, constricting band of spasms in my chest. It’s suffocating me. I have to get out of here.
“Dodger!” Fagin grabs my shoulders and gives me a shake.
I run my tongue over my parched lips and try to focus. I must choose my words carefully; I can’t give anything away. Not right now. “I’ve seen no evidence of witchcraft.” Then, glancing at Nico. “Where’s Trevor now?”
Nico taps the control panel. “Lieutenant Trevor, report in,” he says. There’s nothing, not even static, over the CommLink. He waits a few seconds and tries again. “Trevor, do you read me?”
Still nothing. Nico shakes his head and taps the panel again. He peers at the data onscreen and lets out a long breath. “She’s not onboard. She must’ve removed both her LensCams and CommLink because I have no audio or image feeds from her for the last twelve hours. There’s not even a bio-signature reading. She’s gone completely off-grid.” Nico’s eyes widen in understanding. His eyes sear into mine and I can hardly stand the weight of them. “You think she had something to do with this?”
Until I find out exactly what happened, I’m not getting anywhere near a confessional booth. “Maybe.” My tone is as noncommittal as I can manage. “Won’t know for sure until we figure out where she’s been all night, and what she’s up to now.” Willing my muscles to work, I move toward the door. “We need eyes and ears on the ground out there. I have to get dressed.”
“I’m going with you.” Fagin says, heading toward her own quarters to change out of her black sweats and into court-appropriate attire. “I’ll start looking for Trevor in the kitchens; if she’s still in disguise, she might show up there, first. You...” She points at me. “Talk with any of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting that you can find, especially the ones who testified against her last night. And you...” She points back at Nico. “See what else you can find about these bogus charges and when they have scheduled the execution. She’s being set up and you can bet whoever’s behind this will want to see it done as fast as possible.”
When I arrive at the palace, I find the outer chamber of Anne’s apartments deserted. It also looks freshly ransacked. I wonder if the raiders found—or planted—any fake evidence to bolster the charges against her. They didn’t need much help in that regard. You did a fine fucking job of giving them a smoking gun letter to finish her off.
Having a conscience can be a bitch.
“Someone was in a hurry,” Nico says, deadpan. “Turn to your left and give me a view of the other side of the room.” When I oblige, and he gets a glimpse of the detritus scattered everywhere, he lets out a long, low whistle. “Whoever it was, they were moving hard and fast looking for whatever it is they were looking for.”
“They didn’t bother tidying up when they were done tearing it apart, either.”
A faint sob drifts out of Anne’s bedroom.
“I think we’ve got a live one,” I say, moving in the direction of the sound.
“Easy does it. Give me a good visual sweep of the room as you go in.”
“Roger that.”
The door is ajar and I nudge it farther open with one foot before peering around the edge. The moon has set, but the sun hasn’t yet broken the horizon so there’s no light in the room. I can’t see much further past my extended hand until my eyes adjust.
“Easy,” Nico repeats. “That’s it, nice and easy.”
The sob is soft, muffled. It’s coming from the left side of the room. There’s a hiccup and a sniffle before the sob builds. It’s definitely a woman’s cry.
“Hello?” I say, not too loud. I don’t want whoever is in the corner to scream. “Hello, who’s there?”
There’s another snuffling sound, then a tentative question. “Mademoiselle Clémence? Is that you?”
“Yes. Who is there?”
“Anne,” comes the reply. “Gainsford.”
My eyes have adjusted enough to see the woman’s silhouette as she crouches in the corner. I scan the rest of the room again to confirm there’s no one else hiding in the shadows before I move over to her.
“Anne, tell me what happened.” Kneeling next to her, I reach out my hand. When my fingers graze her knee, she lunges into my arms, nearly knocking me off-balance, and sobs into my shoulder. We collapse in a heap on the floor.
Though I make all the comforting sounds I can—a Herculean feat given that the agitation coursing through me still has me off-balance—it doesn’t soothe her; she alternates between anguished howls and full-on blubbering. All of which makes intelligible speech an impossibility.
“Anne, I can’t understand you. Slow down.” It takes some convincing, but I finally get her to lock eyes with me and breathe together in a slow, smooth rhythm. When her breathing settles into gentler pattern, I question her again. “What happened?”
“How could they treat her thus?” Anne’s eyes burn with intensity, a mixture of grief and anger and confusion. “The king seemed so in love. They both seemed so in love.”
I don’t have time for this. “Anne,” I say, controlling my words in a gentle, measured tone. “Tell me every detail that happened from the time I left your company in Lady Anne’s chamber last night and this morning when Anne’s uncle arrived.”
She chews her lower lip. “I served Lady Anne’s dinner—she had little appetite and vomited halfway through the meal. No doubt from the horror of the vile attack on her person—then I helped her with the stool, and...”
“Perhaps, not that much detail,” I say, cutting her off before she goes any further in-depth regarding Lady Anne’s toilet habits. “Tell me what happened this morning.”
“My lady is falsely accused,” she says. Her eyes turn cold and hard. Sweet Anne Gainsford, perpetually kind, sincere, and unassuming, turns from meek lady-in-waiting to hellhound in the time it takes to snap your fingers. “I wish I could cross paths with the villain who has maligned my sweet lady in such a way. Whoever has cast such vile and deceitful accusations against her would be fortunate to spend eternity in hell for their lies rather than face my wrath.”
From the look on her face and the venom in her voice, I’d be tempted to choose hell instead of facing her if that act of penitence were required to enter heaven.
“Calm yourself. Surely, the king will show her mercy and listen to her defense in these accusations. He loves her with his whole heart and soul, of that I am certain.”
Anne wrinkles her nose and looks at me as if I’m talking nonsense. “Listen to her?” A sob hiccups, again, in her throat. “The trial is done and she is condemned. There will be no mercy for her.”
“What about her father? Can’t he speak to the king on her behalf?”
“All of the Boleyns have been banished from court. At least, they will be exiled after the execution today.”
Oh, fuck.
Nico’s voice breaks in, “Today?”
“When is the execution?” I ask, swallowing the bile that rises to the back of my throat.
Anne Gainsford’s eyes well up again. Her shoulders heave and her whole body trembles so hard it seems ready to explode. She shakes her head, perhaps thinking that not answering might delay the inevitable.
“Anne, what time?” I grip her shoulders and give her a good shake.
She casts a glance toward the windows of the Eastward-facing window seat. There’s a red-orange glow shimmering through the lead-paned glass and the room is growing brighter.
Anne swallows hard and, unable to keep the levy from rupturing, lets the tears fall again as she chokes out a single word: “Sunrise.”
Chapter 23
A hangman’s noose sways in a slow arc, nudged by a winter wind carrying the scent of wood smoke and horse dung. In front of the noose, a wooden plank balances across two trestles. Several yards to the right of the scaffold, a bonfire burns. I don’t feel the fire. I don’t feel the cold.
The sensation welling up inside me is the turbulence of too many emotions to compress into one neat little word, but “terror” comes the closest.
Lying on the makeshift table are several gruesome-looking knives; the first rays of today’s sun gleam across the surface of the curved blades making them look even more ominous.
A carnival-like atmosphere grows as the village awakes and word of the impending executions spreads like the spark of a gunpowder trail. Clusters of people, mostly courtiers buzzing with curiosity turned excitement, swarm Tower Hill. From the snippets of conversation, I overhear, as I push my through the crowd, the identity of the condemned, and the specific charges against them, are mostly lost on the crowd-at-large.
All they know is: There’s going to be a show and they want a good view.
Toward the front of the pack, Charles Brandon stands beside the king’s chief minister, Thomas Cromwell. Their expressions are grim. Weary. They look like they’ve haven’t slept at all.
I pull the hood of my cloak up over my head and move to stand behind them. They speak in hushed tones.
“By Saint George, I knew it would come to this, yet I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” Brandon says. He sounds confused, but not shocked. There was no love lost between him and Anne, and he wasn’t cozy with Sir Thomas, either. “The king knew of my suspicions regarding his lady and the poet. I would have given anything to spare him this pain.”