The King's Daughter (59 page)

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Edward walked the half mile barely seeing what was around him. He went west along deserted Cheapside, then along Paternoster Row with St. Paul’s a blur beside him, then down Ave Maria Lane. He turned the corner of Ave Maria and saw Ludgate dead ahead … and stopped in amazement. The big, double wooden doors of the gate stood wide open. Why had Lord Howard not shut the gate?

Outside it, Fleet Street looked deserted. Inside stood perhaps forty men, but not Howard’s soldiers, Edward realized. These looked like the citizens’ watch. Some were portly, older men, and some tugged uncomfortably at their unfamiliar brigandines, and awkwardly adjusted their swords. But they all looked zealous. A lanky man stood on the steps of the gatehouse door beside the gate, and the others had crowded in to hear him above the noise of cannon booming in the distance. Edward recognized the speaker, Henry Peck-ham, a prominent citizen. He recognized several aldermen, too. Edward was appalled, realizing what had happened. The citizens’ watch had betrayed the Queen. Led to treason by Peckham, they had opened Ludgate and were waiting to welcome Wyatt.

With a pang of dread he saw that there was no sign, either, of the Grenville archers. He looked around frantically for them. The three stories of Ludgate Jail rose over the gate above the eight-foot thickness of London Wall, and pale faces peered out from the jail’s barred windows, but there were no archers. None stood on the roof of the gatehouse to the left, either, though a ladder was set there.

Edward looked to the right of the gate, to the Belle Sauvage Tavern with its painted sign of a wild man standing beside a bell. Yesterday, up on the tavern roof, Edward had been part of the deliberations for erecting a crude scaffolding as a platform for the archers, but now the scaffold stood bare. Where were they? Still at Newgate? With Howard’s men? Were none of them aware yet that Wyatt was coming here to Ludgate?

The group of rebel citizens with Peckham dispersed to take up positions around the gate. Edward ducked into the doorway of the Belle Sauvage, but the attention of Peck-ham’s men was firmly on the gate and no one seemed to notice Edward. Crammed into the doorway, he tried to think, but his mind was clogged with fear. Thornleigh was going to come marching through that open gate. Thornleigh was going to hunt him down and kill him.

Where in God’s name were the archers?

Rebels’ cannon shots whizzed above the Earl of Devon’s cavalry on St. Martin’s Field. Carlos turned in his saddle and watched a ball plow into the brown grass beyond the rear of the cavalry line. Two more shots whirred over their heads. Wentworth, beside Carlos, cringed slightly. The horses lined up on either side of them whinnied and shied. Carlos saw anxiety in the faces of the men as they tried to calm their mounts.

“Shouldn’t we fall back, sir?” Wentworth nervously called to Carlos above the blasts.

Carlos shook his head. He’d been carefully watching the cannon shots. Every one had flown high. Either Wyatt’s guns were damaged by all the rain and their accuracy fouled, or his artillery officer was not experienced enough to make the instant, necessary adjustments. Or maybe Wyatt was only firing warning shots, unwilling to kill Englishmen. The latter was the most likely, Carlos decided. It fit the pattern of the rebel leader’s fainthearted, delayed campaign all the way from Rochester. Nevertheless, the noise alone was frightening Devon’s men. And Devon himself sat his horse like a statue, white-faced and rigid. “No,” Carlos answered. “The enemy must pass in front of us. Devon will attack.” He nodded to the road. “Look.”

From their slight rise of land they both looked down at the road, no wider than a cart track, leading from Knightsbridge through Charing Cross. Wyatt had turned onto it from thecauseway to avoid Pembroke’s cannon, and had halted his column just west of Charing Cross. His whole army—almost all foot soldiers—were stopped near their own smoking cannon. “Army” was too grand a word, Carlos thought, for it looked like Wyatt had even fewer than the three thousand Carlos had estimated in their camp at Dartford. Desertions, no doubt. He could see no sign that Wyatt’s losses had come from any skirmishing with Pembroke’s troops.

“Attack?” Wentworth repeated, glancing uncertainly over at the white-faced commander. Devon had placed himself behind the cavalry line, but every shot of the cannon had made him creep in closer, and his stallion’s shoulders were now crowding between the rumps of two other horses. Wentworth looked back at Carlos. “The commander doesn’t seem about to do that, sir.”

Carlos gritted his teeth. It was true. Devon could no more lead an attack than Carlos’s horse could fly. They would sit here and do nothing while Wyatt passed right before them. Carlos looked out beyond the mass of Wyatt’s men. He could not see any of Pembroke’s troops from here, but it was clear that they, too, had sat immobile on either side of the mile of causeway between Knightsbridge and Charing Cross, and had done nothing. They had simply let Wyatt pass. Carlos knew why. Each commander was too uncertain of his men, too afraid of mass desertions, too downright timid. They were going to let Wyatt reach the city walls, and then they would rely on the city forces within to stop him. Carlos fumed in silence. The enemy was so easily within their grasp. It was maddening to watch.

Another cannon ball whizzed over the horsemen’s heads. Carlos did not watch this ball land. He was looking intently down at Wyatt’s company. He was almost certain he could make out Thornleigh standing at the front of the waiting column.
He’s as good as his word,
Carlos thought.
And as stubborn as his daughter.
He pushed out of his mind the thought of the two of them and yanked his reins, wanting action. He must try to talk some sense into the idiot nobleman, Devon. As he turned his horse’s head, he caught a last glimpse of Thornleigh waving his arms toward the city as if eager to march forward. Carlos shook his head.
Foolish old man.

Isabel sat on the stool before Sydenham’s fire, a prisoner. Palmer sat at Sydenham’s desk, his dagger in his hand. In the distance, cannon boomed.

Isabel was staring into the low fire, but her mind was on Ludgate. The scene she imagined there ate at her like the sharp flames eating the logs. She was sure that Wyatt’s inside supporters would have the gate open by now, and her father, advancing at the front of Wyatt’s army, would march straight in beneath the Grenville archers on the roofs. Instructed by Sydenham, they would slaughter him.

She had to get to Ludgate.

Desperately, she tried to think. How could she get free of Palmer? It seemed impossible. She was alone … had no weapon … no way …

No way? Carlos’s words faintly echoed from that night they had talked in the stable.
There is always a way. Surprise. And attack without mercy.

A trumpet blasted outside. Palmer twisted abruptly, knocking over some pieces on the chess board, and peered out the crack between the closed curtains. Apparently seeing nothing alarming outside, he relaxed. He turned back and saw the fallen chessmen and meticulously began to rearrange the pieces, frowning in puzzlement as if unsure of their exact placement.

Isabel turned back to the fire. The low-burning logs, the blackened brick interior, the ornate fire dogs, the poker.

Her heart began to beat fast. Palmer’s careful handling of the chessmen—his scrupulous concern for his master’s possessions—sparked a thought in her. The fire had burned low but there were still enough orange-blue flames, like liquid teeth, rippling along the blackened logs. She glanced up at the shelf behind Palmer where Sydenham’s rare books,priceless gifts from the Emperor, lay in state. Unfortunately, they were beyond her reach.

Her eyes fell on her mother’s book on the desk.
Always a way.

Abruptly, she stood. Palmer sat up straight, alert, his dagger ready. “May I at least read?” Isabel asked, pointing to her mother’s book.

Palmer frowned, skeptical.

Isabel came forward. Palmer got up, glaring at her, and raised the dagger. “Get back.”

“Certainly,” Isabel said, reaching the desk. “I only want this.” She picked up the book, adding with a touch of scorn, “It is only one of your master’s precious books. See?” She fanned the pages before him. “No dagger hidden inside.”

Palmer grunted, displeased but unwilling to make an issue of it. “Sit down,” he said.

Isabel took her mother’s book back to her stool at the fire. She placed the book on her lap, lifted the two brass clasps, opened the cover, and glanced through the pages. Palmer settled back in his chair.

Isabel ripped a page out of the book. Palmer stiffened in his chair. “What are you doing?” he snapped.

Isabel leaned forward and dropped the page into the fire. It curled and shriveled and blackened. Palmer gasped and jumped up. Isabel tore out another page and cast it into the fire.

“Stop! That’s the master’s!”

Isabel crumpled several pages together, wrenched them out in a handful, and flung them onto the flames. She flipped back the book to the title page where the beautiful flower’s colors glinted in the firelight, and tilted it so that Palmer could see the gorgeous painting. She ripped the page free. She bent over the flame with it.

“Stop!”
Palmer ran forward, sheathing his dagger to free both hands to grab her. Isabel jumped up as he lunged for the book. They struggled over it. Isabel suddenly let the book go. Palmer had it. Isabel snatched up the hearth poker. Palmer’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding. He dropped the book and whipped out his dagger as Isabel smashed the poker against his head.

He crashed to the hearth on his knees, dropping the dagger. His arms flailed at Isabel, groping for her. She raised the poker and brought it down on his head again, then again. He toppled and sprawled on the floor on his side.

Isabel froze at the blood gushing from his forehead, pooling on the floor … and at her mother’s book being consumed by the fire.

34
The Battle of Ludgate

L
eave the guns!” Thornleigh yelled to Wyatt.

Wyatt looked down from his horse, grime embedded in the lines of uncertainty that furrowed his face. He looked over to his battery of smoking cannon where the gunners were firing at will, aiming over the heads of the line of royalist cavalry on the slope of St. Martin’s Field, as Wyatt had instructed them.

The cannon boomed again, and Thornleigh watched the enemy cavalry. They did not break. None of the shots had come near them. “If you’re not going to use the guns to kill, leave them!” he shouted to Wyatt. “They only hold us back.” He pointed toward the city. “We’ve got to move on!”

The men anxiously awaited some order for action. Wyatt took a deep breath, deciding. “Right!” he said. “Cobham, maintain your troop here at the cannon and keep firing high. The rest of you …” He drew his sword and pointed it toward London, then stood in his stirrups and shouted to his men, “Onward! On to our London friends! On to Ludgate!”

The men took up the cry. “To Ludgate!” they shouted. “Onward!” They rushed forward to follow Wyatt. “To Ludgate!”

They marched four abreast. Thornleigh kept in the front rank. He glanced anxiously up at the Queen’s cavalry on the slope as he moved with Wyatt’s men toward Charing Cross. The horsemen remained in line, unmoving as Wyatt’s company marched into the village. They tromped through the narrow main street, passed the great cross, then marched out of it again and carried on eastward along the Strand. Thornleigh was amazed that the Queen’s horsemen had not attacked. He tried not to even think of that possibility. He concentrated on the muddy stretch of the Strand before him, glancing around only now and then for royalists, hoping he could continue unmolested along this last mile. He wanted only to make it into London and reach Sydenham.

He could see Temple Bar looming ahead, the boundary between London and Westminster. From there it was just a half-mile to Ludgate.

Another cannon shot screamed above Carlos and the Earl of Devon on the slope. It was too much for Devon, who dropped his reins to block his ears with his hands. His horse reared and Devon pitched backward. Carlos caught him before he toppled. Devon wriggled away from Carlos’s arm, screaming, “Let go, you fool!” His eyes were wild with panic as he scrabbled for the reins at his horse’s neck and yanked his mount around. “We are destroyed!” he cried. “All is lost!” He dug his spurs into his stallion’s sides and the horse bounded into a canter and he clung to its neck as it galloped southward toward Whitehall. Carlos looked around. The now leaderless horsemen were jostling and murmuring in fear. The cannon salvo paused long enough for Devon’s faint cries across the field to reach them. “Destroyed! Lost!” A half-dozen horsemen broke away and raced off after him. Panic broke out among the men:

“The commander!”

“Sound retreat!”

“Is it surrender?”

“We are lost!”

Horses began jostling, uncertain of their riders’ shaky commands. Carlos galloped back to Wentworth. “Keep those men in line!” he yelled, pointing to the right. Circling the lieutenant at a gallop, Carlos headed back to the other end of the line where three more men had just fled and another was urging his confused horse to follow. Carlos drew his sword over the last man’s head and brought the blade down, slicing the man’s reins in half. The man groped for the remnants by the bit, fumbling for control. As the other horsemen stared in amazement, Carlos galloped in a tight circle in front of them, his sword held high, and shouted, “Next man who deserts will feel my blade across his throat!”

The horsemen fearfully reined in their mounts. There was silence. The salvo from Wyatt’s guns on the road started up again. The horsemen cringed, afraid to stay, afraid to leave.

The Earl of Devon’s stallion clattered over the cobbles into the gateway of Whitehall Palace. “All is lost!” Devon cried. The men of Sir John Gage’s troop at the gate scattered apart to let him in. They had heard the frightful roar of the cannon up by Charing Cross but no one knew what was happening. Their anxious questions exploded like a hail of shot: