The King Slayer Part 11

"Elizabeth. Oh my G.o.d, Bess." I cringe at his nickname for me, too intimate to be said aloud in front of a crowd, too intimate to be said at all. "It really is you. I heard your voice, but I thought I was imagining it." He staggers first to one knee, then the other, looking up at me. "What are you doing here?"

"My lord," I say, the old habit of deference slipping into place, smooth as bed silk. "This isn't the time-"

"I heard you'd escaped," he continues. "But Uncle didn't tell me what happened to you. I asked-demanded-but he wouldn't tell me." Malcolm shakes his head. "I didn't know you were in prison until after you were already gone. Still, no one would tell me anything. I should be told everything!"

Malcolm is babbling now, a combination of shock, fear, of being beaten half to death before nearly being executed. He talks as if he doesn't realize we're not alone, as if he's forgotten there are men around him, listening to every word he says.

"My lord." I keep my voice low so no one can hear. "Please, stop-"

"I don't know if anything he said was true," he continues. "About your being a witch. It doesn't matter if it was. I would have stopped it, if I'd known. You know that, don't you? That I wouldn't let anyone hurt you?"

Malcolm takes my hand then, curling his fingers around mine before bringing them to his lips. This time I don't grit my teeth and bear it, this time I flinch from it and this is what finally gets his attention. He drops my hand and sees-finally-the men around us, their weapons pulled and poised. It jerks him into the present: shock and understanding first coloring his face, then paling it.

"What is the meaning of this?" Peter steps before me, his eyes dark and angry. "Elizabeth, who is this man?"

I start at the realization: Peter doesn't recognize him; the Watch doesn't, either. They don't realize that the man they captured, the man they nearly executed, the man on his knees before them, is the king-the deposed king-of Anglia.

"He's-" I start. Then I stop, thinking quickly. Is it better if they don't know it's Malcolm? Worse? Would they dare to kill the king? Or would it only make them kill him faster? Malcolm doesn't seem to know, either; he hasn't moved, not an inch. I can hear his ragged breathing, mingled with my own.

It happens so fast then. The man beside Peter lunges forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing my arm and yanking me from Malcolm's side. Peter raises his sword once more, and we're back to where we started.

"He's the king!" I shout. "You can't kill him. He's not one of Blackwell's men. He's the king."

A terrible silence falls then, as weighty as an ax to a block.

"You're lying." The man holding my arm gives it a savage shake. "This man is not the king. He's a witch hunter. He's one of your friends, and you're trying to save him."

"I'm not lying." I turn to Malcolm. "Tell them your name. Tell them who you are."

Malcolm looks at me, uncertain. He doesn't know if this will save him or condemn him.

"If you want to live, tell them."

Malcolm lurches to his feet, unsteady, what little color he has left draining from his face. He's in no condition to stand, or even sit, but that doesn't matter. Malcolm would never state his elevation from his knees.

"My name is Malcolm Douglas Alexander Hall." He glances at the men, his earlier hesitation gone. "Son of William Hyde Alexander Hall, House of Stuart, and Catherine Johanna Louise Hesse-Coburg, House of Saxony. t.i.tles: Duke of Farthing in Gael. Duke of Cheam in Southeast Anglia. Supreme Head and Lord of Airann." A pause, then: "First in line to the kingdom of Anglia and Cambria. Interrupted."

Interrupted from his own throne, by his own uncle. Thomas Charles Albert Louis Hall, also House of Stuart in Anglia, officially t.i.tled Duke of Norwich, but who styled himself Lord Blackwell after his princ.i.p.al holding in Southwest Anglia.

Interrupted from certain death, by me.

"Oh my G.o.d," Fifer whispers. "Elizabeth, what have you done?" Voices erupt around me, from all the men in the Watch but one: Peter. His mouth has gone slack, as has his weapon, as he stares at the man responsible for the death of his wife, his daughter. He could have had justice, he could have avenged them. He almost did. And I stopped it.

"He is the king of Anglia," I tell him. "To kill him is regicide. That's against the law. It's a treasonable offense, punishable by death."

At once, I know this was the wrong thing to say.

"The law!" Peter's voice, never spoken to me in anything other than honeyed tones, even after I had his own son arrested, rises to a pitch. "Punishable by death!" He rounds on me, dark eyes lit by anger but something else, too: grief. "His laws are nothing but death. He killed my wife, my daughter. He killed them."

"He's done that, yes," comes a voice, thin with pain. "And he's a blackguard, no doubt, and it's a puck to spare him. Even so, the worth of his trouble is still more than the trouble he's worth."

The men whip their heads around and I do, too. The man in the field. The one we'd forgotten about, the one I thought was dead. Only he's not dead, and he's not a man.

It's a woman.

By all rights, she looks like a man: tall, broad-shouldered, well muscled, even; a shock of pale red hair cut above her ears. Early twenties, if I had to guess. But the tell is her voice: sweet and high and girlish. She's on her knees now, and I can see the hilt of a knife protruding from over her shoulder.

The men of the Watch look around at one another, puzzled.

"Who are you?" Peter steps toward her. He lowers his sword, raises it, then lowers it again, as if he's unsure whether to pull a weapon on a female.

"Keagan Hearn." The woman extends a shackled hand to him. Peter doesn't take it; she lets it fall. "From Airann, 'course, the lovely river city of Dyflin."

"That's all very well and good, Keagan from Airann," Peter says. "But what are you doing here in Anglia? And with him?" Peter jerks the point of his sword at Malcolm.

"I reckon that's clear enough, no? Sprung him from prison, there in Upminster. Fleet. Wretched place." Keagan sits back on her heels, grimacing. "Taking him back to Airann. Was, until we ran into you lot. No chance you could let us on our way-no." Peter's sword is against Keagan's throat now, his decision made. "I suppose not."

"Why would you rescue him?" Another man of the Watch steps forward. "Are you a sympathizer? Traitor? Persecutor?"

"No, sir," Keagan replies. "None of those things. But then, none of those exist any longer, do they? They, like everything else, exist under a different rule now."

"Don't play games, la.s.s," Peter says. "You're in enough trouble already." He glances at Malcolm, still swaying on his feet. "Why were you taking him to Airann? What are you planning to do? Gather troops? Invade Anglia? Take the throne?"

"You can't take what already belongs to you," Malcolm says. "The throne is mine. It was taken from me, and I have every intention of getting it back."

"Ach." Keagan turns to him. "What have I told you about that? Don't lead with that. Never with that."

"I only speak the truth," Malcolm says, a haughtiness to his tone. "A king and his words are divine. You would do well to heed them both."

"That att.i.tude is precisely why you are here"-she points to the ground-"instead of there." She jerks her thumb behind her, vaguely toward Upminster.

"Your lack of respect offends me," Malcolm says.

"And your lack of humility offends me," Keagan snaps. "My G.o.d, man. If you expect to live through this, you'd best learn to read a room."

Malcolm opens his mouth, then shuts it. I feel my eyes go wide. I've never heard anyone speak to Malcolm that way. Not his councillors, not his advisors, not even his own uncle, who hated him and wanted him dead. But Keagan clearly cares for none of this: the deference nor the consequence.

"Looks as if we've got company." She jerks her head toward the road and straightens her posture, the slightest wince the only giveaway to the knife still lodged in her shoulder blade.

Striding across the field are Nicholas, Gareth, and Fitzroy, their robes flapping in attendance. On their heels is Schuyler. I glance at Fifer, who nods: It was she who summoned Schuyler, told him what happened, told him to come and to bring Nicholas.

Malcolm seems to recognize Nicholas immediately. He'll know him from when Nicholas was in his father's council, from once charging him as the most wanted man in Anglia. He draws himself to his full height-not considerable, as Malcolm is only a few inches taller than I am.

The three men pull up short, take in the scene before them.

"Ye mus' be the cavalry." Keagan's brogue is thick and sarcastic.

"Schuyler's been so good as to inform us of what's happened here," Fitzroy says. "But we've not heard why. Or how. And who you are." He steps in front of Keagan.

"Some la.s.s from Airann," one of the Watch says. "And a traitor."

"Ach," Keagan mutters again. "I told you, I'm no traitor. I'm a militant. A member of the Order of the Rose."

The men exchange rapid glances; even I'm surprised. The Order of the Rose is a resistance group comprised of students at the university in Airann, founded four years ago-just after Blackwell became Inquisitor-in response to his antimagic laws. But it makes no sense that this girl, Keagan, is here in Harrow; even less that she's with Malcolm. The Order, at least as I know it, is an intellectual organization. They distribute pamphlets, write scathing treatises for underground journals. They don't kidnap kings.

"The Order," Fitzroy says. "Of course. A fine group. I've been following your movements since you began. I always did enjoy your tracts." He rocks back on his heels. "A Tale of a Tub was my favorite. When the brother relied on inner illumination for guidance, then walked around with his eyes closed after swallowing candle snuffs? Amusing."

Keagan grins.

"Your protestations of late have certainly moved beyond satire, though, haven't they?" Fitzroy continues. "Rudimentary explosives. Burning effigies. Defacing buildings. And, most recently, bridges."

Keagan lets out a girlish peal of laughter. "Defaced is right. Did that one myself. Crawled up onto Upminster Bridge, stuck pamphlets on the spikes through those severed heads. Reckon they don't mind, though. What with being dead and all."

"Heads?" Gareth says. "Whose?"

Keagan shrugs. "Some of Blackwell's, some of yours, some just in the way."

Gareth doesn't reply.

"And now you've taken a king captive."

Keagan nods, all earlier levity gone. "That's just the start."

"A student group," Peter repeats in a mutter. "G.o.d's blood."

"No need to invoke," Keagan says calmly. "Now, much as I'd like to chin-wag all day long, I've got a bit of a pressing matter." She lifts her chained hands, points her thumbs over her shoulder. "This dagger you clapped in me, she stings diabolical."

Fitzroy starts toward her.

"Wait a moment." Gareth holds out a hand. "You don't know who she is. She said she's part of this Order, but we don't know that. She could be one of Blackwell's. She could be lying."

"I told you-" Keagan starts.

"She's not lying," Fitzroy finishes for her. "Her actions prove that. Were she one of Blackwell's, she wouldn't have broken his nephew out of jail, she would have killed him. Hold very still." He places one hand on Keagan's shoulder, the other around the hilt of the dagger. "On three," he says. "One, two-" Before he can get to three, Fitzroy rips the knife from her back.

Keagan lets out a soft groan, pitching forward onto the ground. Fitzroy fishes a handkerchief from inside his doublet and presses it against the wound to stop the bleeding.

"You said taking the king-Malcolm"-Nicholas glances at him; Malcolm has wisely kept his mouth shut since Nicholas's arrival-"was just the start." He steps to Keagan's side, touches a finger to her back. A soft white glow emanates from his hand and at once, the cut is healed. Keagan shuts her eyes, briefly, in relief. "The start of what, exactly?"

"The plan to knock Blackwell off the throne, 'course," Keagan says. "What else?"

I could laugh-I very nearly do-at the idea of a student group believing they can overthrow Blackwell. But Nicholas doesn't look amused at all.

"I see," he says. "And you've taken Malcolm because you believe he should remain as king?"

"Him? No. I mean, he had his chance, didn't he?" Keagan glances at Malcolm, a look of utter disdain on her freckled, ruddy face. Malcolm stares back at her, jaw and fists clenched; I've never seen him look this angry and I almost-almost-feel sorry for him.

"Didn't do much with it," Keagan continues. "If he had, we wouldn't be here, would we? No." She answers her own question. "But he does have his uses. If Malcolm is dead, Blackwell's no usurper: He's the rightful heir to the throne of Anglia, and no country in this world would support overthrowing him. The only chance we have is to keep Malcolm alive. Dead? We're no longer resisting. We're contending. You'll find, I think, we won't last long if that's the case."

I hadn't considered this. And judging by the way the men of the Watch look around at one another, shifting uneasily in their gray cloaks, they hadn't, either.

Nicholas nods, his dark eyes intent. "So you were planning on holding him as a political prisoner. Have you facilities for that? Guards? Troops?"

"In a manner of speaking," Keagan replies.

"To take custody of a deposed king puts you, your university, your city, and your country at terrible risk," Nicholas says. His voice is firm, but it is not unkind. "You risk attacks from Blackwell, once he discovers you have Malcolm. You risk attacks from those in Airann who oppose his being there, and from those in Anglia who want revenge. You risk retaliation from opposing countries. Retaliation from supporting countries. Interest from neutral countries hoping to profit from the chaos, sending in spies and bounty hunters."

For the first time, Keagan's bright eyes flicker with uncertainty.

"He can't stay here," Gareth says. "We cannot risk this falling on us. We are enough of a target as it is. First her"-he glances at me-"now this."

"We cannot kill him," Fitzroy says.

"No," Nicholas agrees. "We cannot. But we can detain him for the time being, until we determine the best course of action."

"You're not suggesting we keep him here," Peter says. "You're not suggesting you put this man in the same prison where my son is." It's too much, then, for him. Too much that his son is in jail because of me, too much that Malcolm still breathes air because of me. Peter sheathes his sword, spins on his heel, and walks across the field toward the road.

"Fitzroy, could you and Gareth escort our two guests to Hexham?" Nicholas says. "And Schuyler, could you please accompany them? Schuyler is a revenant," Nicholas adds. "With all that it means. So I very much advise against an escape attempt."

Malcolm swallows. Keagan's eyes go wide again.

Nicholas turns to the remaining five men in the Watch. "I'd like you to go with them to Hexham, and to stay as additional guards there this evening. And I would request that you not speak of this to anyone else." He looks at Fifer and me. "You're dismissed."

The men of the Watch step forward, grasp Keagan and Malcolm by their shackled arms, and lead them away. Keagan goes without protest. But Malcolm twists in their grip, as much as he can, looking over his shoulder at me. In his face is a plea: for me to speak to him, to speak for him. For me to stay with him.

But he is not the king anymore and I am no longer his mistress, so I do neither. Instead, I turn on my heel and, for the first time, I walk away.

"DISMISSED!"

I'm halfway across the field before Fifer catches up to me.

"Nicholas hasn't dismissed me since I was twelve," she goes on. "Since the time I was angry at him and cursed him and made his eyebrows fall out. He looked ridiculous, he was furious with me but it was so funny-" She stops. "Either way, I'm going to hear about this later, we both are, and it won't be pleasant." A pause. "It's always trouble with you, isn't it?"

I don't reply.

"What do you make of all that?" Fifer switches tack. "That girl, Keagan. Bold as bra.s.s, going into Upminster like that, breaking into Fleet. I wonder how she did it."

Still, I don't reply.

"And the Order of the Rose. I've heard of them, of course, we all have. There've been a fair few from Harrow who are supposedly members, but no one really knows. Their membership, their magic, it's all shrouded in secrecy. I suppose it has to be, doesn't it? Otherwise it's just more names for the Inquisition."

I step from the field onto the road and keep walking. I don't make it more than a few dozen yards before I feel a hand on my sleeve.

"Elizabeth." Fifer's breath comes short. "Rochester is this way."

I spin on my heel, begin walking in the other direction.

"Elizabeth!" Fifer steps in front of me then, takes me by the shoulders. Leans into me, her eyes searching mine. "What is it? It's him, isn't it? Malcolm?"