And Less Than Kind Read online

  "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.