Elizabeth's visit Underhill at the end of February had had a pacifying effect on her, but not for very long. All through March she struggled with her fears, and in the first week in April she wrote again to Northumberland. This time she had a reply—from William Cecil but over Northumberland's signature—saying the roads were too dangerous, the weather too unsettled, her brother's health, although improving, still too uncertain, for a visit at this time. As soon as the situation improved, she would receive an invitation.
She did not believe Edward's health was improving or in the forthcoming invitation, but the hope of one, of a sanctioned visit, held her quiet until the middle of May. Then Elizabeth became aware of the lovely spring England was enjoying. The weather was perfect, the roads in as good condition as one could desire. As for Edward's health, that was what she wished to establish.
In the beginning of June, she told Denno flatly that she would set off for London in three days. If she was established at Somerset House, rumor of her residence would surely come to Edward; perhaps he would ask to see her. Even if he did not, she would know she had made the effort and he would know she had tried to come to him.
Denoriel was not happy with her decision, but he knew when arguing was hopeless and only begged her to come Underhill again so Harry could give her the latest news. Harry was no happier with her decision. The rumor in Mary's household was that Edward was failing rapidly and Mary was clearly fearful that some attack would be made upon her.
"It is foolish, Bess, to go to London. There is no way to secure Somerset house in the same way Hatfield can be secured. There Denno and your men know every person who lives in and around the neighborhood and strangers can be carefully watched."
Elizabeth wrung her hands. "I know it. I know it, but I must go. I must try. I have nightmares that Edward is asking for me and being told that I do not care enough for him to see him in his time of need."
Harry and Denoriel consulted each other in speaking glances but neither voiced any more reservations. For Elizabeth, her moods always strung so tightly, it was sometimes better to dare physical danger than to court safety at the price of guilt.
"Then how should she go?" Denoriel asked Harry. "For a trip to London, Elizabeth could call in the country gentlemen from Ashridge and Enfield as well as Hatfield and have a small army to protect her. You remember that Pasgen told us Vidal is ruling Caer Mordwyn again. And the Dark Court is reveling in snatched humans, but so cleverly snatched by Vidal's planning that Oberon does not disapprove. A small army would be proof against any attack by Vidal."
"No," Harry said, immediately. "Such a show of strength, and for no reason anyone in the mortal world would know, would be very provocative. God alone knows how Northumberland would react to Elizabeth appearing with hundreds of armed gentlemen. And it might not be wise to flaunt such strength in Mary's face either."
Elizabeth bit her lip. "I am not so afraid of Vidal. I think he would not dare attack me or use monsters openly lest Oberon hear of his disobedience, but I am worried about Northumberland. I cannot understand why he opposes my coming to London. And if my appearance there would thwart some plan of his, how far would he go to stop me?"
"If I knew the plan, I could answer better," Harry said, his mouth a thin line of dissatisfaction.
"That we have no hint of it from Cecil worries me also," Elizabeth said. "He has always warned me of anything important."
"I can only think he does not know," Denoriel said. "That he does not write at all, even common news, is a warning in itself. He knows that Northumberland is planning something, but he does not know what and does not want to hint lest he hint the wrong thing."
Harry looked thoughtful. "Bess's question—how far would Northumberland go to stop her—is significant. If he is merely trying to keep her away from Edward, either because he does not want her to influence the king or because he wants to conceal how ill Edward truly is, he will not go too far. Likely you will have another message soon discouraging you from traveling."
Elizabeth's jaw firmed. "I will not be discouraged. I will go to London." Then she bit her lip again. "Nonetheless, although I agree with Da that I dare not call up my tenants. I do not think I can travel with just Gerrit, Shaylor, Dickson, and Nyle."
She cast a guilty glance at Denoriel. He had been urging her to pension off her old guardsmen, but she could not bring herself to cast them aside, to make them feel old and useless. And for such duties as guarding her doors in a residence they were perfect, knowing from long experience whom she would welcome, whom she would need warning was come, and whom she would not wish to see at all.
"They are brave and steady and would die for me, I know, but," she admitted with a sigh, "they are growing old. They have all seen more than forty winters."
"That is true enough," Denoriel agreed, smiling; he was well aware of Elizabeth's fierce loyalty to those who served her. "But you need not go with them alone. If they are well supported by younger guards they will do very well." He uttered a soft laugh. "And just in case the attack should come from Vidal, those four would not be surprised by anything from mouse-sized trolls to green giants. They have seen it all and fought it all already. And so have Ladbroke and Tolliver and Sandy Dunstan."
"Of course," Elizabeth said, also smiling. "I had forgot them."
Ladbroke and Dunstan, she thought, must be at least as old as the guardsmen, but they showed little sign of it. Elizabeth knew they had been snatched Underhill as children and returned to the mortal world when Denoriel needed servants with special skills to help protect Harry as a child. They had only dim memories of the world of the Sidhe and, in addition, like Elizabeth were bespelled to be incapable of speaking of the Sidhe or Underhill or magic or enchantment while in the mortal world. However the years spent Underhill had not added to their age, so they looked ten years younger than the guardsmen—and Tolliver, rescued as a young boy from abandonment in a churchyard, was actually more than ten years younger than the other men.
"That makes seven who will be steady no matter what happens," Harry said. "I think with them as a strong core, a force of twenty all told would be large enough. I do not think Northumberland can possibly be desperate enough to order his men to fight yours and I agree that Vidal will chance no monsters in the mortal world, at least not yet. So another ten or thirteen who are young and strong and—" he grinned broadly "—already hard smitten by our Elizabeth's enchantment, and only a whole army will be able to endanger her."
Elizabeth had taken warning from Harry's remark that she might receive another message from Northumberland forbidding her to come to London. Because she did not want to seem to defy him openly, she hurried along her preparations for leaving Hatfield. The servants, harried to make ready all that would be needed for a protracted stay at Somerset House and thinned in ranks because some had already been sent off to London, had neither time nor energy to walk down to the inn for gossip (and complaint) and an ale or two.
If Vidal had had Sidhe spies in Hatfield town, they would have noticed the sudden absence of Elizabeth's servants from their usual haunts. However, he knew none of the Dark Sidhe would be willing to spend so much time in the mortal world, particularly at an inn where the cauldrons and spits for cooking and the frequent presence of Elizabeth's guardsmen in their armor and carrying weapons of steel, caused them constant pain. And the few werewolves and witches who could pass for human were too unstable. The presence of so many tasty and helpless mortals might draw them to attack. Therefore only imps watched and listened.
The imps did not like the presence of so much iron either, but they had compensation in being allowed to pinch and trip and pull the hair of the inn's patrons and drink the spurts of power generated by the pain—at least now and again. Though they were invisible, too much mischief caused comment, and comment brought punishment from their master. To the imps, who were not too clever and only interested in mortals as objects of torment, the absence of Elizabeth's servants had no significance. It was only the very night before she left that several tired servants came to the inn and remarked on their hope for a good rest now that their mistress would actually take to the road the next morning.
Vidal was angry, but he dared not punish the imps lest they try to disappear to avoid further duty. If they did that, he would have to destroy them as a lesson to the other imps, and Vidal had become chary of destroying his subjects since his return. His own tendency to destroy and his conflict with Pasgen had decimated his Court. As he could, he was creating more ogres and trolls and the witches and boggles, and some others were reproducing on their own, but he wanted more subjects not fewer.
He Gated at once to London and some of his ill humor was dissipated when he found Albertus still awake, just returned from an evening entertainment. Albertus was startled and alarmed at the shortness of Vidal's notice, but he picked up the brooch that disguised him and went out again at once to the small set of rooms he rented on the respectable border of a dangerous slum. There beggar children were always available for carrying messages and for mischief too. He sent one boy with a summons to Francis Howard-Mowbray's lodging and another to his favorite inn.
The first boy came back with the note undelivered; Francis was not at home, but the other found him at the inn and actually brought him back to Albertus's lodging. Francis was not drunk; Albertus made a mental note that although Francis spent a lot of time in inns, he did not drink to excess. He was glad of that, partly because it made his hireling more reliable and partly because a drunken man was more prone to violence than a sober one—and Francis was enough prone to violence without drink.
Francis was not pleased when Albertus told him to gather his men and get onto the road to Hatfield. But at least he did not need instructions and long explanations. Francis already knew what he was supposed to do and had actually scouted the road to find suitable spots to ambush Elizabeth's party.
"You said I would have a day's notice," he growled. "I cannot possibly gather the full troop at this time of night."
"Take who you can," Albertus replied, through gritted teeth. "I only learned a quarter candlemark before I sent the boy for you. You know I am only a go-between, and I do not even know for whom. I am given orders, just as you are. And I doubt the man who transmits the orders is the one who gives them. He is not rich or important enough. But I believe that whoever the orders come from knows that the notice was too short. He or she will be satisfied if you take the lady on her return."
"When will that be? How long will I have?"
"I cannot even guess, but I believe she will be staying some time in London. I have been told that she wishes to visit her brother. You can set your own spies on her to give warning when she makes ready to leave."
Francis only nodded to that. He had made his protest and by it prepared an excuse for failure to seize or destroy his target. Now he was free to do what seemed best to him. He nodded again as Albertus stepped forward and handed him a purse that clinked softly.
Fortunately it was not very late, Francis thought, as he left Albertus's rooms. Some, at least, of the young men committed to support him would still be drinking if he went back to the inn and they would summon their fellows when he told them their work would begin before dawn on the morrow. As he went down the dimly lit, empty stairway, he tossed the purse into the air once, grinning, then caught it and concealed it in a deep pocket of his doublet.
No one need know that he was being paid. So far all those committed to support him believed he was planning to abduct Lady Elizabeth because he was determined to see Lady Mary on the throne. To those hot-heads who simply admired Mary for her courage in the face of so much persecution and the fact that she was King Henry's eldest daughter, he spoke of the Act of Succession and her father's will, which named her heir after Edward. Those who were Catholic, either secretly or openly, he reminded that the duke of Northumberland was dedicated to the reformed religion and must be intending to bypass Lady Mary, who would surely bring back the old rite. If they were not prevented, Northumberland and his supporters would force the dying king to call Parliament and make Lady Elizabeth his heir.
Francis pointed out that if they removed Lady Elizabeth, Lady Mary would be the only heir remaining and even Northumberland would have to accept her. To those who nervously asked what he meant by "remove," he said he hoped they would be able to carry Elizabeth off to France. Perhaps they could make it seem she wished to enlist the French to put her on the throne in defiance of Mary's right. Surely then she would be removed by Parliament from the succession and no longer be a danger to Lady Mary.
In any case, the men he had recruited thus far were all volunteers and would not expect to be paid, except perhaps in drinks or a dinner or two. Francis did not mind that; he would enjoy it himself and the conviviality would bind the men to him. He patted the bulge, well hidden by his clothing, and stepped out quickly for the inn.
After a few moments his steps slowed. He was not sure why the swarthy and stocky Master John Smith—Francis's lips twisted in disdain at the notion he would believe the man's name was John Smith—wanted him to gather as many as fifty men. Francis frowned over that, then shrugged. With the king on his deathbed there was bound to be some disorder. Either for protection or attack those who could afford to pay in good silver might want a fighting force.
Francis frowned again. The near twenty younger sons he had recruited were likely all he could get for "honor." And after he had lost the excuse of Lady Mary's right to be queen, he might lose them and need to hire men—although one could never tell. Some of the hot-heads who had sworn to him might develop a taste for the kind of work he was offering. Whoever was John Smith's master likely would have more exciting projects for them than snatching or, at worst, killing one young woman.
When Elizabeth's cortege came slowly over the low hill on the road from Hatfield to London, Francis Howard-Mowbray drew a harsh breath. He had not expected so many to be with her. And then he realized that most of those in the train that followed the armed men who surrounded her were servants. He smiled and softly called his men to make ready. The train of servants was more a danger to Lady Elizabeth than to his men. They would panic and run away as soon as his troop rode out shouting and brandishing weapons.
His men were moderately well concealed in a patch of woods in the narrow valley between two hills. The stream that had worn the land into a valley had diminished, but it still flowed shallowly over the road, which made the bottom of the valley pebbly and muddy.
Francis signaled for the men to wait and himself moved forward, keeping to the far side and the shade of a large oak. Two men rode well ahead of the main group, one somewhat stout in well-worn armor, the other in a newer breastplate that fit well but had seen less service. Francis glanced at them and dismissed them; when the main group was attacked, they would probably flee down the road toward London. He gave no signal, waiting for the main group to reach the treacherous muddy portion of the road.
Another cautious glance told him his prey was there, following another two men-at-arms. He smiled to himself; she was making everything very easy for him. On one side she was accompanied by an elegant but ancient gentleman, his white hair showing under his bonnet. He was armed with a sword, but if he had drawn it in twenty years, Francis would be much surprised. On the other side was what must be an upper servant with a fine lady riding pillion behind him. The servant also carried a sword—much good it would do him with the woman behind him blocking every movement.
Down the hill they came, Lady Elizabeth and her companions talking animatedly. The two advance guards passed the muddy stretch of road. Francis raised his hand; he heard the horses behind him move. The old gentleman suddenly turned his head toward the wood in which Francis's men were concealed. Francis opened his mouth to shout and then swallowed back the word "Go!"
Over the other hill, the one to the south, a horse appeared suddenly, pounding along at a gallop. As he came down the hill, it was clear the horseman was wearing the king's livery. Francis shrank back to where the oak's broad trunk and deep shadow would better conceal him. Elizabeth stopped her horse just before its forehooves touched the muddy area, watching the rider approach. Francis clearly heard her say "Shit!"
The old man said "Elizabeth!"
Francis felt mildly shocked by the gentleman's familiarity in addressing the king's daughter without any title, but that was only the surface of his mind. Underneath he was rapidly reviewing the advantages and disadvantages of going ahead with the attack. The greatest disadvantage was that his party would be seen by the king's messenger, but second thought said that was a minor matter. His party wore no identifying colors or tokens and with any luck the messenger would be among the dead.
The greatest advantage was that their quarry was now a sitting target, totally concentrated on the arriving messenger. Francis again raised his arm as a signal and looked around to make sure his troop was still in place and ready. At that moment the messenger slowed to pass through the pebbly mud, came between the two men-at-arms immediately preceding Elizabeth, making her more vulnerable, and pulled his horse to a stop.
"From the king, my lady," he said, fumbling in a saddlebag.
"Go!" Francis bellowed.
"Shield!" the old gentleman cried.
That seemed a very strange thing to yell when an attacker plunged out of the trees, but Francis had little time to consider it. The old gentleman had whipped out his sword and the horse he was riding was suddenly, incredibly, athwart Francis's own mount, which shied violently sideways. Since Francis's sword was in his hand, he was able to parry the old gentleman's thrust, but his whole arm felt numb from the power of the blow.
Meanwhile the rest of his party was pouring out of the wood, shouting threats. Francis had just a moment to notice that his hope that Elizabeth would panic and lose control, allowing her horse to bolt, had not been fulfilled. Then the monster the old gentleman was riding bit his poor horse so fiercely that the animal screamed and bolted away with blood streaming from its neck.
Francis fought his frightened beast to a standstill and then turned it back to the fray, which in that short time had taken on an entirely different aspect from what he expected. Before he could force his reluctant horse back into the action, he saw that Elizabeth had backed her mount away from the messenger, as if she believed he were part of the attacking party.
Although the two guardsmen who had preceded her had wrenched their horses around to come between her and the attackers, both of them were engaged as were four other guardsmen who were fighting their way in her direction. For one moment she was alone. Henry Clinton broke through the fighting and reached out to grasp her, to pull her from her horse. Francis shouted encouragement, but Henry's hand never touched her; it seemed to strike an invisible but very solid wall about two inches away from her shoulder and slide away.
Then Francis shouted again, for a knife had sprouted from the side of Henry's throat. And the old gentleman and his monster horse were suddenly beside Elizabeth, his sword flashing with shocking speed to ward away another who had forced his way through the fighting. Again the monster the old man rode struck and the other horse screamed and bolted, driving away two more of Francis's party. And then the two men-at-arms that Francis was sure would gallop away to safety were back, plunging into the melee and striking right and left from behind to throw his party into even greater disarray.
They did not need more disarray. The guardsmen who had been following behind Lady Elizabeth had drawn weapons and driven their horses forward, forming a wall that most of his own men could not breach. Francis stopped trying to force his horse back into the battle and took time for a look around.
Immediately he saw that another of his expectations had been dead wrong. Far from panicking, the male servants had hopped down from the carts in which they rode carrying long, stout cudgels and, following two men dressed as grooms but with drawn swords, were running toward the few men who were trying to flank Elizabeth's men-at-arms.
One man's cudgel struck the rear of an attacker's horse a solid whack while another man's cudgel struck the rider so that when the horse bolted away, the rider fumbled helplessly with the reins. Another of the servants dodged under a blow launched at him and thudded his cudgel against George Coleg's thigh. The blow was so violent that Coleg screamed and dropped his reins to clutch at his leg. A second cudgel rapped the injured man's horse alongside the tail and that animal too bolted. Meanwhile the armed grooms had wounded and driven back two more of Francis's men.
Near Lady Elizabeth another man died. Francis watched with starting eyes as the upper servant he thought would be immobilized by the lady riding pillion pulled a knife from his boot top and sent it into the eye of a second man who was reaching for their quarry while the old gentleman was engaged.
Francis's whirling thoughts brought up the image of Henry Clinton who had first tried to seize Elizabeth and died with a knife in his throat. And then William Pausey fell as the old gentleman's sword drove William's blade aside, slid under it, and whipped forward with terrifying accuracy to stab above the breastplate collar right into the throat.
No coward, but no fool either, Francis bellowed, "Withdraw! Retire! Enough! We are done here! Withdraw! Withdraw!"
Two more men slumped in their saddles, holding themselves ahorse with a desperate clutch on the pommel. Francis rode forward to try to distract the guardsmen who were attacking them, but the retreat of most of his men gave the wounded space to turn their horses. The guardsmen surged forward after the retreating men and Francis cursed luridly. The woodland in which they had set the ambush was too small to hide them for long or give them room to escape. However he was spared being hunted.
"Stand!" a stentorian voice bellowed.
The guardsmen pulled up their horses, muttering their dissatisfaction. And the servants swinging their cudgels were just as angry and eager for revenge on those who attacked their lady.
Now Francis understood why John Smith wanted him to have a troop of fifty. He took the chance of stopping where he had initially watched Elizabeth come, as he thought, into his trap. He saw the guardsmen, specially four older men, move restlessly, obviously wanting to pursue their attackers, and he was surprised himself to realize that the powerful voice had come from the younger man who had been riding ahead of the party.
"I agree. Sir Edward is quite correct. We dare not spread our strength. The retreat might be a device to separate us and make us vulnerable, thus making our lady an easier prize."
It was the old gentleman speaking and it was of considerable interest to Francis that the guardsmen instantly quieted. The old man was someone important. He was visibly trembling after his exertions, but the voice was strong and very beautiful. Francis thought he was not likely to forget it. Cautiously he eased his horse away from the shelter of the great oak and moved deeper into the wood, where a charcoal burner's track led to a farmer's lane that would eventually take him to the road to London at some distance from where they were. The last thing he heard was a girl's voice, high with anxiety.
"You weren't touched, were you, Denno?"
"No." Denoriel smiled at Elizabeth. "I'm just getting too old for so much excitement."
He could not say that the pain of close contact with steel transmitted through his silver sword was still rolling through him, but he knew Elizabeth understood that and only wished to assure her that the death metal had not touched him and that he had no need immediately to go Underhill. If he had been poisoned, she would have sent him off on some errand so that Miralys could transport him to Mwynwyn to be healed.
"Thank God," Elizabeth murmured and then, raising her voice, "Is anyone else hurt?"
She looked around at the guards and servants who had fought for her. Two of the servants sat down on the ground rather suddenly, only then realizing they were hurt. And some of the guardsmen started to dismount, groaning now that the furious action was over and they felt their injuries.
Sir Edward Paulet was enchanted anew. Most women he knew would have been screaming or fainting with fear. Lady Elizabeth was concerned only for her entourage. The only fear he had heard in her voice was when she asked Lord Denno if he had been touched.
Sir Edward wrenched his mind away from Lord Denno and Lady Elizabeth to the current situation. "Tom Woolman and Roger Heartwell," he called, "watch the wood. Henry Coldhand ride down the road to the top of the next rise and watch there. Benjamin Carpenter ride back and watch the road behind. All of you give warning if you see so much as a dog on the road."
"There are bandages and salves in the baggage cart," Kat Ashley said.
Her voice was trembling and her whole body shook, but Sir Edward noticed that she had herself well in hand; Lady Elizabeth set the example and her whole household tried to live up to her. Mistress Ashley looked around sharply.
"Gerrit, come help me down," she said. "We must see to the wounded before we decide what else to do."
The old man-at-arms who had been riding point with Sir Edward before the attack—and had been as quick as Sir Edward himself was to ride back to the fighting—swung off his horse and came to lift Mistress Ashley off the pillion.
"Very nice," Gerrit said to Dunstan, as he set Kat on her feet. "Very nice indeed. Didn't know you could do that. Neat trick when you can't get hand-to-hand."
Sandy Dunstan watched Gerrit steady Mistress Ashley, saw her straighten herself up, draw away from Gerrit and walk toward the injured. He shrugged, pushing away a long-ago memory of himself throwing silver knives with jeweled hilts into a target he could see clearly though the silver sky had neither sun nor moon. That life had been easier and less dangerous, but he had almost died of boredom and his service was often mindless and humiliating.
"Takes a lot of practice," Dunstan said, smiling, "but considering how my lady is getting nearer and nearer . . ." He did not say 'the throne' but Gerrit nodded understanding. "For safety, in house and on the road, I keep a few knives around my person and keep up my practice."
Tight as blood-kin that group, Sir Edward thought. Of course they'd all been with Lady Elizabeth since she was about three years old and he had only been given the place of captain of her guard a month ago. For all that closeness, they had welcomed him pleasantly enough but were clearly withholding judgment until he should prove himself one way or another.
He covered a smile with his hand, thinking that he had been very annoyed when the place had been offered because he thought he would be bored. He had expected interest and variety when he applied for a place in the king's guard, and had been disappointed when he was recommended instead for this position with Lady Elizabeth. But just living in the same household with her provided excitement and as for journeys—he wondered if every one would be as dangerous as this one.
He thanked God now he had been unable to refuse because the distant cousin who had offered the place was high in Court circles. Sir Edward had thought at the time that his mother, who invariably lectured him on being too daring, had urged her relative to find a sinecure for him. He should have known better. His cousin, William Paulet, now marquis of Winchester, was a wily old dog.
Doubtless, although he said nothing except that Edward was likely to do better with his offer, Winchester had known the king was very sick and his guard might well be disbanded if he died. Also his cousin did hint that Lady Mary would require Catholic observance from him. Thus, service with Lady Elizabeth was best.
Of course, Sir Edward knew that Winchester expected him to provide information about Lady Elizabeth and her household. And so he would. Sir Edward smiled behind his hand again. Although it was true that Winchester liked Lady Elizabeth and wished her well, Sir Edward was not going to trust his cousin's good will. He might well pass information; there was plenty to be said about his lady's studies, how carefully she managed her household, and how she behaved when ambassadors were sent to visit her. But Sir Edward would tell no tales that could harm his enchanting lady.
The women servants had now descended from the carts in which they had been sheltering and begun to root through the baggage to find the medical supplies everyone carried on a journey. The roads were rough so that broken axles or wheels could tip wagons and cause injuries to the passengers. Worse, because of the bad times there were outlaws who attacked travelers.
After a single glance to be sure that the wounded were being attended, Sir Edward took stock of the men who were unhurt, ordered the baggage wagon and the cart that had carried the servants drawn closer, and set his diminished troop—enlarged by the armed grooms—into defensive positions. He would have liked to tell Lady Elizabeth to sit in the cart where she would be stationary, surrounded by fighters, and safer, but he suspected that if he made the suggestion he would get his ears burned off—and might lose his place, too.
Another glance showed him that Lady Elizabeth had drawn her horse as close as possible to that of Lord Denno, and they had their heads together . . . as usual. A real puzzle was Lord Denno. Rich as Croesus and indulgent to Lady Elizabeth as a doting father. Old enough to be her grandfather, too, but . . . Sir Edward looked away, around the busy site. He did not want be caught staring. But . . . there was something between those two that had nothing to do with the rich presents Lord Denno brought or Lady Elizabeth's need for a father-like friend, as Mistress Ashley would have it.
In the next moment Sir Edward had good reason to join them.
"Those weren't outlaws." Elizabeth's voice was indignant.
She had pulled her horse close to Miralys, and nodded to Sir Edward as he joined her and Denoriel.
"No, I do not believe they were," Lord Denno replied, with the faint accent that Sir Edward could not place no matter how hard he tried.
All of them turned to look at the messenger in royal livery, who had done nothing to help them when they were attacked.
The man was quivering like aspic in a nervous servant's hands and for a moment Elizabeth could not imagine why he had not fled. Then she saw that Nyle, bared sword in hand, was right behind him, and one of the young men-at-arms, whose name Elizabeth did not know, was to the side, holding of the messenger's reins. The young man had a bloody sleeve.
"Are you hurt, Nyle?" Elizabeth asked anxiously.
"No, m'lady."
"Good." She smiled at him, her gladness warm and open. "Then let your partner go and get his wound dressed." She looked directly at the younger man. "I am sorry you were hurt . . . ah . . . Robert—" She had not known the name but caught it from Nyle's mouthing.
"It's naught but a scratch, m'lady," the young man muttered, his eyes worshipful.
"I hope so." Elizabeth smiled at him. "But let us be sure rather than sorry. Let it be cleaned and bound so it will not fester. Among Nyle, Sir Edward, and Lord Denno, whoever this is will do me no harm. I will be safe."
"Yes, m'lady," Robert whispered and reached the reins toward Denoriel who had come to his side.
Denoriel smothered a grin. Apparently the young man would sit bleeding rather than be salved if he could watch Elizabeth. The messenger reached forward as if to intercept the reins before Denoriel took them and found the "old man's" rapier an inch from his neck. He cried out and sat back.
"I am a royal messenger!"
"Are you indeed?" Elizabeth's voice could have cooled a drink on a day far hotter than this one.
"I am. I am. I can show you my patent. And here is a letter to your ladyship from the king."
Elizabeth's face suddenly lit with hope. "Edward was well enough to write me a letter?" she said, reaching out eagerly.
The messenger found the letter in his saddlebag and handed it to Elizabeth. As she breathlessly broke the seal, he showed the order for him to use post horses to Denoriel. The order was under Northumberland's seal. The sword at his throat did not waver.
"It is not from Edward," Elizabeth cried. "It is not even his signature!" Hope of her dearly loved little brother's recovery destroyed, fury took its place. She turned on the messenger. "Who are you? Who sent you? Who paid you to lead that armed band of assassins to attack me?"
"No, my lady! No! I am a royal messenger. I knew nothing about those men. Nothing!"
Elizabeth's pale cheeks flushed slightly with rage. Denoriel's arm drew back in readiness to stab at her word. And Kat Ashley came and plucked at her riding skirt.
"Elizabeth, we can go no farther just now, and I think we should go back to Hatfield, which is much closer than London. Two of the men have serious wounds. I do not understand how men can keep fighting with great holes in them—"
Worry dampened rage. "Not any of my four," Elizabeth said softly.
"No, no. Dickson has a cut, but it is truly no more than a scratch. The others are all well. But Dunstan says it would be better if we could pull off the road. Dunstan will decide whether we could make horse litters for the wounded or whether we should make a suitable place for them in the wagons."
"We should certainly remove ourselves as soon as we can from this place," Sir Edward said.
"Yes, and I think we should read that message carefully and try to discover from whom it came. And since the reason for your setting out from Hatfield so swiftly no longer exists—" Denoriel eyed the messenger with disfavor "—we might as well go back to Hatfield. We can set out anew . . . if you decide to do so, any time at all."
"I agree," Elizabeth said, her thin lips becoming even thinner. "And Hatfield would be a better place to get answers from this 'royal messenger'."