Still screaming, Rose crawled away until the deputy grabbed her by the arm and pulled the girl to her feet. She fought, kicking him in the shin, but the man held on. In frustration, he finally just dropped his sword, lifted Rose over his shoulder, and started carrying her toward the castle.
Hadrian waited until he approached the cobbler shop. “Evening, Deputy,” he said, stepping out of the doorway. “That’s a heavy load you’re carrying. Could you use some help?”
The man looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then said, “I dropped my sword back there. Could you get it?”
“You don’t have a sword, huh?” Hadrian replied. “That’s the problem with only carrying one.” In a breath, Hadrian had the point of his own blade touching the throat of the deputy. “Put her down.”
“I’m an appointed deputy. I’m working for Lord Exeter. Look at the hat!”
“Funny-that strategy didn’t work for the sergeant either.”
“You’ll be hanged for interfering.”
Rose did something behind the man’s back that Hadrian couldn’t see, and the deputy cried out, dropping her.
“Damn it! You bit me!” He reached out to grab her again and Hadrian pressed the point of his blade tighter against the man’s neck.
Thirty feet away, Richard and the sheriff danced to the tune of ringing swords. The sergeant was the better of the two, and being the only one dressed in chain doubled his advantage. The sheriff kept his distance, lunging only when Richard was distracted.
“Terence!” the sheriff shouted. “Just run and get help.”
The deputy took a step back, turned, and ran toward the Gentry Quarter. Hadrian let him go and sheathed his blade.
No longer distracted, the sergeant pressed the sheriff, who fell back but not fast enough. The sergeant cut him in the leg, and when he dropped, Richard thrust his blade through his side, twisting it before drawing it back out.
Hadrian grimaced. That was uncalled for. He had him the moment he slashed the thigh.
With blood dripping from his sword, Richard charged Hadrian, who raised his hands in surrender.
“Easy, I’m on your side.”
The sergeant hesitated a moment, glanced at Rose, then nodded and sheathed his sword. “Thanks. Who are you?”
Hadrian looked at Rose. “I’m a friend of Gwen’s.”
“Who?”
“She’s the lady who runs Medford House,” Rose explained. “Hadrian was a guest.”
“Medford House?” Richard looked confused.
“Yeah, where I live. You know, where we’re going-where you’re taking me.”
“Oh yeah, right.” The sergeant nodded several times. “And we need to get going. Thanks for the help, friend.” He grabbed Rose once more and the two began to run.
They trotted through the central square past the fountain where the cobblestone formed a circle pattern. During the day, Hadrian had hardly noticed the fountain amidst the activity and the crowds, but in the silence of the chill night, it bubbled like a cauldron. Following behind them, Hadrian cringed. Rose’s white skirt stood out as brightly as a surrender flag, and Richard’s military boots slapped the street with enough noise to be a call to arms. Maybe it was the time he had spent with Royce, but the two appeared as deft as oxen. Ironically, after a year of being berated for his own noise and clumsiness, Hadrian could finally appreciate Royce’s frustration. Why don’t they just shout, “Over here! Come find us!”?
Richard stopped when they reached the gate to the Lower Quarter and turned, looking irritated to see Hadrian still with them. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you might need-” Shouts and the stamp of boots cut him off. Hadrian saw lanterns casting jittery shadows of running men.
“Stay here,” Richard told him. “Slow them down. I’ve got to get her away.”
Hadrian nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The sergeant smiled, and grabbing Rose’s wrist once more, they ran into the dark narrow streets of the Lower Quarter.
Hadrian turned to face the approaching noise.
“There! He’s one of them!” Terence, the once-unarmed deputy, had picked up his sword on the way back and now brandished it at him. At his side were three more men wearing hats with white feathers. None of them wore a uniform but all drew their swords.
Albert waited in the reception hall listening to the muffled sounds of gaiety seeping through the corridors. He could smell the scent of meat. Dinner was at long last being served, and he hoped he was about to be finished with his obligations for the night so he could enjoy himself. He looked forward to spending the rest of the evening indulging in the luxury afforded to his class, a lifestyle he had so sorely missed.
He tapped his toes together. His shoes were too tight. New shoes always were. The leather, always stiff at first, needed time to mold to the wearer’s foot and walking style. Albert could hardly recall the last time he had new shoes. Four, maybe five years ago? These were nice. He stared at his toes and realized he couldn’t care less about shoes-he wanted a drink. Maybe after proving himself, Royce would lengthen his leash. In some ways he felt like he had sold his soul, given away his freedom, and yet perhaps freedom was overrated. He had never been more free than when he was living in that barn in Colnora. Any freer and he’d be dead. It was impossible to argue with Royce or Hadrian that he could drink responsibly. They knew so little about him. All they had ever seen was a filthy, penniless vagrant who would sell the shirt off his back for a cup of rum. What they couldn’t see was that drink had not brought him there-drink was how he dealt with it. How else could a man accept helplessness and the inevitability of starvation? How could a man born to a world of castles, carriages, and kings accept a pauper’s end, except by washing it away?
The problem was that while he had his doubts about Hadrian, Albert was certain Royce was not above killing him if he messed up. There was something about that man that reeked of death. Albert spent many years in castle courts learning to assess people, knowing who could be pushed and who might draw a sword at a joke. These were skills courtiers either developed quickly or died in an early misty-morning duel. Albert hadn’t been lying. He was terrible at fencing, but he had developed other skills. The combat skills of the court were the ability to evaluate a man’s intents and purposes in an instant. This is what made Albert certain Royce was more than capable of murder; he sensed a degree of experience in him. There was also a total lack of hesitancy. Royce wouldn’t give Albert a chance to explain or excuse himself. For now there could be no drinking, but maybe one day, when he had proven himself an asset-
“What’s this all about? Who are you?”
Lord Exeter came at him swiftly. The man was imposing. His long dark hair pulled back, the finely trimmed goatee, and harsh eyes. When taken together, it presented a severe presence that screamed, Threat! In that instant, Albert could see that he, too, had killed and would kill again. Men of power-of real power-were always scary.
Exeter surprised him so much that Albert barely remembered what he was supposed to say.
“Your Lordship.” Albert bowed. “I am Viscount Albert Winslow.”
Exeter glared. “Who?”
“I would not expect you to have heard of me.”
“What do you want?”
“I was bidden to relay a message to you from a very generous man. I honestly don’t know what it means, but it sounded most disturbing. I was asked to say the following…” He had also been asked to say the previous. The preamble worked out between himself and Royce as a means of insurance to keep him safe. He was unleashing a lion after rattling his cage, and Albert felt it was important to at least have a chair. Albert took a deep breath-he wanted to get through the whole message without pause. It was important that Exeter heard it all before rushing off. “ ‘I know your plan,’ ” Albert said in his reciting voice. “ ‘I have Rose. Perhaps we can make a deal. I am waiting in a carriage out front-a carriage marked by a rose. Come alone.’ ”