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Finally I tossed some coin on the table for my share and he slapped his other half down. He gave Nan a pinch on her ample buttocks, and she slapped him playfully; then he threw on his cloak and oversized cap before he reached down to scratch the mastiff under its chin. I heard him mutter, “You be a good dog till I get back.” Then he lifted his one good eye and said, “Night’s not getting any warmer.”
I followed him outside into the backyard stalls. Ci
We rode out under a fog-wreathed moon, the cold gnawing at every bit of exposed skin. I wrapped my scarf tighter about my nose and mouth. The chill dissipated some of the fumes of the drink; I felt pleasantly soused, though not to the point of inebriation. Scarcliff ambled ahead, impervious, as if he’d been imbibing water all night. He glanced over his shoulder at me; in that moment, the winter fog parted and a spear of moonlight slashed down across his creviced face, catching the gleam of his eye.
I returned his stare. I reached for my sword.
That was when the others burst upon us.
* * *
There were two of them, both cloaked and masked, astride black steeds that gouged the hardened ice from the road. Ci
I had thought he’d pla
Ci
As indeed it did. The men had spoken in Spanish; they must be in Renard’s employ and had no doubt been tracking me the entire time, waiting for the moment to seize what I had taken. I’d let my guard down, let myself get overly distracted by my suspicions of Scarcliff. I hadn’t considered that Renard would have me followed.
The striking of hooves on the road behind me grew louder. I looked over my shoulder. Both men were gaining on me; the one I had backhanded was ahead, slighter of build than his companion, his dark cloak billowing like outstretched wings, the half-moon in the sky above capturing random glints of metal on his person, including the unsheathed sword he gripped in one gloved hand while he steered his horse with the other.
I strained to see ahead. I couldn’t be too far away. A few more leagues at best and the torch-lit sprawl of Whitehall would appear before me. There would be sentries, courtiers, and officials; it wasn’t that late. No Spaniard would dare harm me in view of the palace. Renard had chosen this moment because of the late hour, this lone stretch of road. He knew that with Peregrine’s death, he could not afford to rouse the queen’s suspicions. It had to appear as if I’d fallen prey to an unfortunate but all too common accident, waylaid and murdered outside the palace while I went about the task he had assigned-
All of a sudden, Ci
The Spaniard was at our heels. As the moonlight caught a streak of dark wet on Ci
Rage filled me. I wanted to stop and fight, but Ci
My body lifted completely off my saddle as Ci
I tumbled onto stony ground, my skull ringing from the impact. My teeth cut into my lip, hard enough that I tasted blood. Looking up in a daze, I saw the Spaniard heel his mount, spraying up clods of frozen turf. He leapt off his saddle, his sword at the ready, his companion riding up close behind.
Struggling to my feet, my head pounding from the fall and the last, lingering effects of my ill-advised bout at the alehouse, I met his approach with my own sword brandished.
* * *
The Spaniard held up a hand to detain his companion. He was a narrow silhouette in head-to-toe black, not tall, though his lack of physical stature offered no comfort. He regarded me impassively from behind a full black face mask, as if he had all the time in the world, before he assumed his stance. This was a man of experience, with no fear of failure. He lunged at me with blinding speed, his sword arcing. As I parried his thrust, the impact of our blades shuddering through my arm and into my very bowels, I understood he wanted to play with me. As he assailed me, his polished moves forcing me backward, step by clumsy step, into the weaker position of defense, I realized just how bad my situation was. Setting aside that just hours before I’d grappled with Dudley and one of my eyes was now a swollen slit, I had only a few painstaking months of practice in the controlled environment of Hatfield’s gallery to rely upon. I was an amateur; I didn’t stand a chance against someone this highly trained.
I was sweating within minutes, breathing hard and fast as he attacked with almost nonchalant precision. Staggering over brittle twigs, stones, and broken branches littering the field, evading his swipes as he pushed me toward the deeper pocket of darkness under the trees, I began to consider that I might die tonight. If he hadn’t delivered the fatal blow by now, it certainly wasn’t because he couldn’t. He was playing with me, biding his time and pushing me to my limits, until I either made a mistake that opened me to his killing thrust or surrendered voluntarily, in acknowledgment of his superiority. Either way, the outcome was bleak. The question was, did I want to die on my feet or on my knees?
Everything faded to insignificance. The knowledge that I still had the one thing that could save Elizabeth, and my fury that once again my own life was deemed forfeit by callous design, compelled me to fight as I had never fought before, even as my arm grew numb and my chest burned from deflecting his relentless assault. Only once did I catch him by surprise, nicking his sleeve with my sword tip.
His teeth gleamed as he smiled. Then he came at me with all his vigor, shedding any pretense of consideration for a savage display of professionalism. Before I knew it, the shocking smack of his blade on my wrist sent a flame of agony shooting up my arm, and my sword went flying as I desperately dodged his move to slice off my hand.