The King Slayer Part 8

We've been on the road for an hour, Peter leading the way, John and I falling behind, each of us laden with a hastily packed bag filled with clothes and weapons. I've not seen much of Harrow, just a map John drew for me once. But I understand the landscape enough to recall that Rochester is surrounded by hills on the north, Anglian territory to the east, and the country of Cambria to the west. It's an odd place to set up camp. If Blackwell and his men somehow managed to breach the barrier en ma.s.se, we would be landlocked, and there would be no escape.

"I've been thinking about the spy," I say. It's the first thing I've said all day so far. "The one letting Blackwell's men inside Harrow. I think we can all agree it's someone still living here. It has to be. They know too much. Enough to tell them exactly where to go, how to get there, and in some cases, when to be there."

I think back to the first breach: the archer found halfway between Nicholas's home and Gareth's. The second breach at the Mudchute, the third at my trial, the fourth in my bed, the fifth on the high street a day later. And now this: the camp.

"What if it's him? Lord... Three Surnames?" I can't continue calling him Lord Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough, it's ridiculous. "And what if that's why he's setting up camp there? It's so remote. What if he's leading everyone into Rochester with the plan of locking us inside with no means of escape, and handing Blackwell the key?" I flinch at the thought of it. How easy it would be, were it true. How fast. One traitor, one battle, no survivors.

Peter opens his mouth, but it's John who speaks first.

"He's not the spy." John turns to me. "Look, I know how he seems. I know he seems privileged and arrogant and, well, an a.s.s." He smiles a little. "But I've spent a lot of time at Rochester. With Fitzroy-sorry, I call him that, his surname is just too long-and with his family. I've known him a long time and he'd never turn traitor. He would never put his family in danger, no matter what the gain."

I want to tell him that sometimes people don't do things for gain, they do them to prevent loss. That sometimes people fall into something, get in over their heads, and the hope is never to get back up, only to do whatever is necessary to keep from falling further.

"John is right," Peter says. "There's nothing Fitzroy wouldn't do for his family, for his daughter. He's as loyal to Harrow as Nicholas. I'd trust him with my life, and I do." Peter's tone is placating, eager to keep the uneasy peace between him and John. "As for why the camp is there, it's simple. There's no other place big enough-or safe enough-to house an army. Southern Harrow is naught but open fields and forests, hamlets and cottages. Rochester Hall is the largest and safest home in all of Harrow, a castle in its own right."

"And there's a benefit to it being remote," John adds. "If anything were to happen, there are plenty of means of escape. There are tunnels that run beneath it, straight across the border into Cambria, and an inlet that runs in about a mile from there, with access to the sea. But most of all, Rochester has as many protective spells on it as Nicholas's house in Crouch Hill. Though a lot of them are-stop."

John holds out an arm, and Peter and I halt in our tracks. John breaks away from us, looking along the ground until he spots a fist-sized rock. He tosses it down the center of the road, as if he were playing a game of lawn bowls.

From nowhere comes a roaring sound, then a sudden drop in air pressure like that before a storm. A thundering gust of wind hurls its way toward us, picking up debris from the road as it goes, whirling into a gray, dusty cyclone.

I take an involuntary step backward, but John moves toward it, his hand outstretched. "Field of Bulls. The Mount Inn. Snows Hill Arms."

Like that, the wind dissipates, exploding into a cloud of dirt, leaves, and twigs. John starts off down the road again, motioning for us to follow.

"What was that? That you said?" I'm coughing and wiping grit from my eyes. "They sounded like taverns."

"They are." John swipes a hand through his hair, shaking debris from his curls. "To get past the cyclone, you have to list three pubs in Harrow. Three pubs you've been to." He shrugs. "Fitzroy said that if someone wanted to see him but they couldn't name three places they've had drinks, then he didn't want to see them."

Peter explodes into laughter and I smile, the first real smile in days.

As we continue down the lane, the countryside yielding nothing more than what I've seen all day-hills, valleys, trees, sheep-I begin to have my doubts about the supposed grandness of Rochester Hall. If it is as large as Peter says, I should have seen it by now. It should be visible for miles, the same way Greenwich Tower lurked in the horizon, a stalwart blight on the vista of Upminster.

John raises his hand again. He snaps his fingers twice, fast, then lets out a short whistle. I begin to grow irritated at the theatrics of this place, for all its show but very little substance. Until it happens: The air before me s.h.i.+mmers, goes blurry, and at once the hills, valleys, trees, and sheep-there not just seconds ago-disappear, an illusion in tapestry. And in their place: Rochester Hall.

I feel my eyes go round.

Peter called it a castle in its own right, but in truth I expected a home like Gareth's or even Humbert's, with its many gardens and waterways, protected by a moat and a portcullis. I wasn't expecting a fortress.

It's ma.s.sive. Made entirely of deep red brick and ringed by hundred-foot-high curtain walls, its many spires and towers are cut with arrow slits and connected by parapets. It's surrounded by a large, algae-choked lake, and the only access to the entrance-a heavily fortified gatehouse on the other side-is via a footbridge, easily a half mile long. Beyond the lake the grounds stretch on and on, farther than I can see, all the way into the densely wooded hills.

Peter smiles at my grudgingly impressed silence.

John leads us across the bridge, our footsteps the only sound under the blue, eerily silent sky. "Where is everyone?" I say. "It's so quiet. And how are we to get in? That doesn't exactly look welcoming." I wave my hand at the iron gate looming before us, closed and forbidding.

"At Rochester, you can't believe everything you see," John tells me. "And you can't believe everything you hear, either."

My earlier irritation is back.

John steps up to the gate, places his palm flat against the iron. I expect it to creak upward on its hinges, or to disappear, or perhaps some ghostly ministration to arrive and usher us inside. What I don't expect is this: for the arrow slit that was not a second earlier eight feet above my head to now be in front of me. And for it to be no longer small, nor an arrow slit, but a door-sized opening.

Peter whistles his approval as John steps through, gesturing for us to follow. Inside, a tunnel winding into darkness. John navigates it with ease, leading us left, right, up and down corridors as if he's done it a hundred times, which he no doubt has, until we're outside again. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust once more to the bright sunlight but when they do, I see a camp so large it seems almost a village in and of itself.

The park stretches out for miles, every inch of it occupied by people, tents, supplies, wagons, dogs, horses. Smoke fills the air from a thousand small campfires; tents and marquees of every shape and size rise from the ground, some striped and multipitched, others white and single-poled. Crates are stacked everywhere, spilling over with cookware, flatware, lanterns, linens.

Past the park and down a long, sloping incline lie the training fields. Two jousting pits lie side by side, filled with sand and lined on one side with wooden stands, covered by a canopy. Beside them, the archery b.u.t.ts, rows of meticulously racked bows and arrows, colorful targets painted on canvas and wrapped around bales of hay. Next to that, an open meadow bare of anything save for several dozen fat wooden chests filled with weapons-knives and chains, sickles and maces, daggers and axes.

I also see, though perhaps I'm not meant to, the carca.s.ses of several dozen catapults, lurking at the edge of the woods, to be loaded and sprung, then moved to strategic points around the camp in the event of a siege.

Once again, Peter whistles his approval. "Fitzroy's outdone himself."

"There must be a thousand people here," I say.

"He says just under, yes," Peter replies. "We've pet.i.tioned Gaul for two thousand troops, and they'll fit."

"What about the rest of Harrow?" We pa.s.s a trio of wagons, a dozen men still hauling out supplies. "How many are there? Do we have room for them, too?"

"Three thousand, give or take," John replies. "Not all of them will move here, though, not even under threat of war. But there's s.p.a.ce for them if they do."

Six thousand people. It seems impossible that Rochester could shelter them all. Once again, my thoughts go back to the spy, the enemy, the traitor in our midst. What would happen if Blackwell were to gain access. I know what John said, what Peter said, that it isn't Chime's father. Maybe they're right. But I also know what Blackwell always said: Warfare is based on deception. To win, you must present yourself to the enemy in a way that makes them believe what they want to believe. I should have listened then, when he all but laid out his secret in front of us.

What am I not hearing now?

As if on cue, he appears then: Lord Three Surnames himself. Up close, he's taller and more attractive than he was at the trial. Finely dressed in brown leather breeches, a steel-gray-and-green harlequin jacket over a steel-gray doublet, and a brown leather scabbard fastened about his waist, only it's empty. He's commander in chief of this army, but he looks like a man playing at war, not planning for it.

He slaps John on the back, gives his hand a hearty shake. Does the same to Peter. Then he turns to me, blue eyes brightening as he takes me in. I watch them closely, as if I could spot deception swirling along their surface.

"Miss Grey." He extends his hand to me; I take it.

"Lord Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough."

"Please, call me Fitzroy," he says. "It's lovely to see you again, outside the confines of the council. And it's a pleasure to have you join our forces. You're one to be reckoned with, as I understand."

I open my mouth to respond, but Peter speaks for me. "She's quite skilled with a knife," he offers. His grin is broad but I can see the strain behind it. "Her swordplay is nonpareil, and I'm eager to get her to the archery b.u.t.ts. She's far too modest to claim it, but I daresay she's a better shot than you, Fitzroy."

It's uncomfortable, this: Peter extolling virtues learned in order to capture and kill the people of Harrow, now repurposed to save them. Virtues that nearly no longer exist. But Peter has his part to play in all of this, just as I do.

There's a roar then, the sound of men cheering and laughing, coming from the jousting pits. I can just make out a dozen or so men, watching two others circle each other in the sand, their sword blades flas.h.i.+ng in the early-afternoon sunlight.

"Sparring," Peter says with some satisfaction.

"Every day," Fitzroy replies. "They'll make their way through their own ranks, then they'll start looking for opponents." He gives my shoulder a clap. "They're throwing away a small fortune down there. But I'd be willing to place my own on Elizabeth."

He smiles. John scowls. Peter swallows.

I smile back.

Fitzroy lifts a hand and from nowhere, a young boy in white livery scurries up. "Take their bags to their tents, if you please. Elizabeth Grey and John Raleigh. They're both inner ring five, I believe." The boy nods, takes our bags, then dashes away.

"Those fighting are in the white tents," Fitzroy says as we make our way to the jousting pit. "The circles increase by rank. I'm in the center, along with the field marshal, the captain, the lieutenant. You'll meet them later. The company makes up the outer rings." He glances at me. "Does Blackwell employ a similar ranking among his men?"

I allow a smirk. "I'd say he favored a more 'first among equals' type ranking."

Fitzroy throws me a smile; it lights up his face. He really is breathtakingly handsome. "I wager he did."

"Elizabeth!" A familiar voice cuts through the noise around us. "John!"

I turn to see Fifer waving at us through the crowd, Schuyler behind her.

"What are you doing here?" John says as she pulls up before us.

Fifer jerks her thumb at Schuyler. He's got four bags slung over his shoulder, wearing an expression that's equal parts amused and annoyed.

"It's his fault," Fifer says. "He told Nicholas he didn't think it was safe for me to live at home. Not with all the attacks, and not after what happened to you, Elizabeth. So Nicholas sent me here." She looks around, grimacing as she does. "It's the last place I want to be, living in a tent. With all these men. It's unseemly and barbaric."

"I'm going to be living in a tent," I say.

"As I said." Fifer grins. "Barbaric."

We gather at the edge of the jousting pit, watching the bout until it ends: a thrust forward, a jab to the chest that would have been fatal in a real fight but instead ended with a nick to the skin, a bloom of red against a white linen s.h.i.+rt.

The losing man swears; the winning one laughs. The rest of them join in, tossing around coins and insults. The victor, tall and broad and pock-faced, looks around the pit. Finally, his eyes land on John and light up.

"Come on, son. Let's see if your swordplay is as pretty as your face," he calls out. He s.n.a.t.c.hes the cutla.s.s from the losing man's hand and tosses it to John.

John catches it easily, a smirk breaking out on his face again-the same smirk I've come to know and dread. "It's certainly not as ugly as yours," he calls back.

The men all laugh and jeer; even Peter joins in. A dozen or so others, attracted by the noise, wander over to watch. Fifer and I exchange a rapid glance.

"John," Fifer whispers. "I don't know if this is a good idea. You can't win, you really shouldn't even try, not with all these people watching...."

He glances at her, an unmistakable look of contempt crossing his face. "Not you, too." Fifer's eyes go wide. I don't know if he's ever looked at or spoken to her that way before.

John shrugs off his coat, tossing it into the gra.s.s. Spins the cutla.s.s once, twice in his hand, and steps into the sand. The man who challenged him, a pirate by his clothing and his att.i.tude, walks forward, flips him an obscene gesture. In return, John kicks up a spray of sand, dousing him with it. The crowd laughs and catcalls.

"Here we go," Fifer mutters.

John and the pirate circle each other, swords held high.

The sun is bright today: too bright. I turn to s.h.i.+eld my eyes from the light and as I do, I see a riot of color opposite the pit from me. A cl.u.s.ter of bright girls in even brighter gowns, cerulean blue and emerald green and cardinal red, Chime among them. Her dress, in canary yellow, is the brightest of all. She sees me watching her, but her eyes skim right past me and land on John, and there they stay.

I look back to the match. The gambling has begun in earnest now, men throwing around coins and barbs, catcalls and challenges. John ignores it all, focused entirely on the man before him, who advances blow after blow, all of which John deflects. I know what he's doing; it's what I was taught to do: Allow your opponent to expend all his energy on showing off while conserving yours.

The crowd around us continues to grow. Soldiers in red-and-blue color-blocked surcoats, pageboys in white livery, servants in brown muslin, and one man in black: Gareth. He stands down the line from me, arms folded, eyes fixed on the fight.

John takes a blow from his opponent's sword, parries it once, twice, then ripostes. He makes as if he's about to lunge but stomps his foot instead, a feint. The pirate strikes and John steps aside; there's a s.h.i.+ver of metal on metal before John thrusts his blade forward.

Gareth looks from John to me and back to John again, as if he's beginning to understand something. And he's not the only one. Chime has stepped away from her group of friends to stand beside her father. She tugs his sleeve; they exchange a word, two, before turning back to John, matching eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He's too good," Fifer mutters. "He needs to stop. They're going to figure it out."

Without a word, I edge away from the pit. Wander to the one beside it, some twenty feet away. There's no one here but two small boys, wrestling in the sand. They take one look at me, scramble to their feet, and scamper away.

I glance again at John, who is circling the man before him, ready to attack.

News travels fast in Harrow, you know that. It's what Gareth said at my trial, to account for the hundreds who showed up to watch it. If he figures out there's more to account for John's skill than his father's tutelage, how long before he tells the council? Before the council tells everyone else? How long before that news reaches the ears of Blackwell's spy and he sends his men after John? I shrug off my coat, toss it into the gra.s.s.

Schuyler, I think. Hit me.

SCHUYLER'S HEAD JERKS IN MY direction from across the tiltyard; he was as focused on watching John as everyone else. Even from here I can see his startled expression, but it quickly gives way to understanding. We need a distraction. Something to take the attention off John and onto something else and it may as well be me.

What are you waiting for? I think. Then, for good measure I add, Scared?

I barely have time to blink before he's slamming into me with the force of a battering ram.

I'm knocked to the ground, my breath knocked from my lungs. I'm momentarily stunned at the pain of it but I shake it off, just as I've done every other time he's caused me pain these past two weeks. Get to my feet. There's a murmur from the crowd nearest us; someone saw, someone is paying attention. It's not enough. I need everyone to be watching.

Again.

Schuyler digs his feet in the sand like a restless lion and crooks his finger at me, a mocking gesture. I lunge for him. Catch him around the waist, rear back, then knee him in the place all boys are vulnerable-even hundred-year-old revenants. Schuyler groans and staggers backward. He lobs a fist at me as he goes, a halfhearted swing I duck easily. He's going easy on me; he can't go easy on me. Already our fight has lost interest from the crowd, they're back to watching and cheering for John.

I reach for my weapons belt, for the line of knives I keep there. Schuyler's already recovered, coming for me again. Before I can think better of it, I slide one out, take aim, and plunge it into his chest.

He sucks in a nonexistent breath, a darkness stealing across his face. That smirk he wore before now turns menacing, and I see it: that feral, wild look revenants get when they're in the heat of battle, when they sense blood. The instinct they get when they return from the dead, the one that wants to put others in their place.

Schuyler yanks out the knife, tosses it aside. Then he's on me, smacking me across the face, hard, the force of the blow turning the world black around the edges. I pull my leg back and slam it into his left kneecap. I hear it crack and Schuyler groans and crumples to the ground, his handsome face twisting in pain, lunging for me as he falls. I leap away but I'm not fast enough; he catches my foot in his hand and yanks and I land with a thud in the sand.

He gets to his feet, kicks me in the ribs. I twist and dodge his second attempt; I'm not so lucky with the third. His heavy, black-booted foot lands squarely in my gut; the force of it knocks the breath from my lungs and sends me flying. I tumble across the sand before finally stopping on my back, arms and legs splayed, eyes unwillingly closed. I feel the rumble of feet along the ground. Schuyler, he's coming for me again. I need to move; I have to move.

But when I crack my eye open I see that it's not Schuyler. It's John.

He slams into Schuyler with the same force Schuyler used on me, knocking him into the sand. John pulls back and punches Schuyler in the face once, twice, then jams his thumb into the spot in Schuyler's chest where I stabbed him with my knife.

Schuyler grabs John by the front of his s.h.i.+rt and pushes him off, or tries to. John yanks from his grasp, then rears back and knees him in the stomach.

d.a.m.nation, John. Everything I was trying to achieve he's about to undo, and possibly make it worse.

"John! Schuyler!" I throw myself on top of both of them. "Stop!" We tumble together in a tangled heap of arms and legs and obscenities.

"Elizabeth, get off!" John grabs my arm and shoves me off him. I lunge for him again, this time wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him on top of me, forcing him to look at me. His face is inches from mine, he's breathing heavily against me, his dark curls plastered to his face with sweat. He's staring at me, so intense, and for a moment I forget what I was going to say.

He's hauled off me then, none too gently. Before I can register what's happening, I'm wrenched to my feet, too.

"Move." It's Peter and Nicholas. "Now."

Peter, still grasping my arm, gives me a little shove. Nicholas is holding John, and together they push us across the gra.s.s like scolded schoolchildren, Schuyler and Fifer trailing behind us. I glance behind me and, to my horror, a crowd of people stand behind us, watching. Not a dozen, or two, or even three. No, this crowd numbers into the hundreds. I wanted a distraction; instead I caused an attraction.

We trudge across the field, away from the tents, away from the noise and the smoke and the bustle and the crowds. Through a nest of trees to a stretch of wide, flat gra.s.sy ground that leads through a long, yew-tree-lined alley and straight into the large inner courtyard of Rochester Hall.