The Last Princess (20 page)

“You must be so proud of your father,” I said to Polly. “He helped start this whole Resistance army.”

“I am,” she said sleepily. “And I’m proud of you, Eliza. You could be sleeping in a real bed tonight, safe under a real roof. You could have gone to Wales. But you chose to stay and fight.”

I stared up at the starless sky, thinking of
Mary and Jamie. My greatest fear was that we would arrive too late to save them.

“I wish the British people were more proud of my father,” I whispered. I had never spoken these words aloud before and felt an ache in my chest as I said them. “I wish
I
was more proud of my father. His legacy was a shattered country. Even if England survives all this, he will always be remembered as the king who
almost lost us everything.” I thought of one night last spring, during a meeting of all the heads of government at Buckingham Palace. Mary and I were passing
around hors d’oeuvres and glasses of red and white wine—playing hostess. It was our favorite thing to do at the palace parties. An argument erupted between Prime Minister Charles Bellson and my father. The prime minister was trying to warn
him of a “mounting problem” while my father sat on the sofa smoking his cigar and sipping vintage wine. “That’s preposterous,” my father said. “Let’s just drop the subject.”

The prime minister was trying to convince him to turn over the last of the lands around Balmoral. Father used to call them “Mary’s woods.” It was said that a supply of oil and cadmium was in the soil, but the woods would
be ruined in the digging process. My father stood up, almost teary-eyed. The woods were one of the last properties owned by the royal family and not the state, and letting go of them would be admitting defeat. He was not willing to do that. He turned to the prime minister and said, “Please, you are ruining the party.”

Polly squeezed my hand in hers. “He was a good, kind man. He didn’t want to
start a war. And the Seventeen Days had nothing to do with him. He had no idea what would happen—no one did.”

“I know,” I said.
Perhaps he was not the best king
, I thought,
but he was a kind man and a good father. It is not just soldiers who are killed in wars
, he used to say,
civilians die, too
. Children, mothers, fathers, grandparents. There is no such thing as a safe war, which was perhaps
why he never started one with Cornelius Hollister. “But I wish my family had done more.”

“
You
will,” Polly murmured. “Mary is going to be a great queen, and you are the best princess this country has ever seen. Now get some sleep. We need to be up in a few hours.” She turned on her side, pulling the covers to her chin. Soon I heard the steady sound of her breathing.

I felt exhausted, my body
heavy as lead, but when I closed my eyes I found myself unable to sleep. The execution was in a matter of hours. I pulled on the sweater I was using as a pillow and tied my boots, moving carefully so as not to wake Polly. I tiptoed around the other soldiers, stepping over sleeping bodies until I was near the door flap. Every one of them had a beating heart. Every one of them was someone’s mother
or father, sister or brother, son or daughter. And every one of them was loved deeply, the way I loved Mary and Jamie.

I walked quickly out into the cool night air, taking deep breaths, hoping to walk the worry out of my mind. The battle, the invasion of the Steel Tower, keeping our troops alive, getting Mary and Jamie out. We had won the Battle of Newcastle, but I knew Hollister’s real forces
were waiting for
us in London. I pressed my hands against my face, wishing I could cry. I wanted some kind of relief.

There was a flicker in the dark, the flame of a match moving to light a torch. Eoghan’s face appeared out of the darkness. “Are you okay?” he asked, tilting his head at me.

I was glad to see him. “I’m fine,” I said, shivering from the cold night air. “I just can’t sleep, that’s
all.”

“Here.” He placed his coat around my shoulders. “This will keep you warm.”

I felt the touch of his hand through the fabric of his coat, warm and reassuring as he sat beside me on the broken stone wall.

“Up worrying?” Eoghan continued. “It happens to me all the time.”

I looked over at him. His brown eyes glistened in the dancing light of the torch. “I understand now why my father never
wanted to start a war,” I said softly. “People are going to be killed tomorrow, people who are loved and respected and
needed
. Because of me.”

Eoghan looked away. “When I was young, my mother sent me to Sunday school. They taught us about Heaven and Hell.” He pulled his jacket close, his breath visible in the cold night air. “But when my son was born, he was very sick. The doctors told us he
wouldn’t make it. I held him in
my arms, just praying and praying that he would live. For the first week, I hardly let go of him at all. He was so small. I remember thinking, what kind of world is this where you can love someone so much, only to lose them forever? That’s when I realized that Heaven doesn’t exist in another place, and neither does Hell. It’s all here on Earth. We live them both,
right here with one another. It’s just that sometimes we have to go through Hell to get to Heaven.”

His eyes blazed in the firelight. “We are all here because we want to be. Every one of these men and women knows the risks and is willing to die for the cause. For
your
cause. Have faith in our troops, have faith in our country, and most of all, have faith in yourself.” He paused. “I know you may
not have faith right now. But until you regain yours, trust me when I say
I
know we are doing the right thing.”

30

THE GRAY OF THE SKY AND THE GRAY OF THE PAVEMENT BLURRED
together in the predawn darkness as we rode silently into London. In the distance, the Steel Tower rose from the city skyline. The general brought us to a halt, straining through binoculars to see what lay ahead on the road to the Tower.

“The roads look clear,” he said, but his brow furrowed skeptically. “Hollister’s forces seem to
be headed south. They’re fighting another band of Resistance troops coming in from that way.”

I turned to Eoghan and Polly on either side of me. They looked visibly relieved to find out we were not alone. The general had heard on the radio that battles had been fought in
the south by other Resistance forces and that Hollister’s army had suffered considerable losses. Public opinion seemed to be
changing. I felt hopeful, but I knew never to underestimate Cornelius Hollister.

The general gathered the troops, giving final battle instructions. “We will divide into two groups. I’ll lead the cavalry to the Tower, the infantry will fight the troops to the south.”

I looked behind me at the thousands of troops spreading out like a sea. The Tower was so close. We had come so far.

“I’ll stay
with you,” Eoghan said to me.

“All’s clear!” the soldiers on lookout called as they rode toward us.

The general looked back at us. I waited anxiously, trying to read his expression, but he mostly just seemed exhausted. “Charge the Tower!” he finally called.

The brigade of horses made their way across the Thames. The roads were clear, and we rode without opposition toward Tower Bridge. When
we arrived at the Tower, we found the drawbridges down. I slowed Caligula. The cavalry were already making their way across, following the general’s command to invade the White Tower first. Eoghan disappeared inside, followed by Polly and George, who were among the first to enter.

“Wait!” I called out breathlessly to the troops. The bridge was never left down; something was wrong. “Turn back!
Turn back!”

But it was too late. My voice was lost in the sound of horses galloping across the creaking drawbridge. Turning back was no longer an option.

“Caligula, forward.” I tapped her with my feet. She sensed my fear of crossing the bridge, but she moved forward, walking gingerly.

Suddenly the bridge began to move beneath our feet. Inside the Tower, alarms echoed, signaling the raising
of the bridge. Caligula tried to regain her footing, but the bridge was rising rapidly, and she slipped backward.

I let go of the reins, clasping my arms around her neck instead, trusting her completely. She lowered her forelegs into a crouch and took off, her back legs lurching forward as she jumped across the widening gap. She landed heavily on her front legs and slid down the slope of the
other side of the bridge.

We rode through the open gates, past the bell tower, the White Tower, and into the Green Tower, the walled inner garden where throughout history the aristocracy had been executed. I heard a loud clanking sound. Looking behind me, I saw the gates, known as the Traitor Gates, closing shut behind us. We were trapped inside the walls.

I rode up to General Wallace. He was
looking frantically back and forth from the Tower to the closed gates. I knew what he was thinking. We needed more troops to win, and to get out alive we’d need an escape route. Without warning, Hollister’s men charged from every direction.

I pulled my sword from its sheath as a masked and armored girl on horseback charged at me. She didn’t have a sevil, but she raised a long sword, swinging
the blade just inches from my neck. Caligula turned and shot past her. There was a violent crack of thunder, and a sudden downpour turned the courtyard into churning mud. The rain fell like a veil, making it difficult to distinguish friends from enemies.

The wounded fell from their horses and ran for cover inside the walls of the Tower. It was a fatal mistake—they would never be able to escape
from there. I heard someone yelling on my right and looked to see the girl in armor charging me again, her blonde hair falling loose under her helmet.
Portia
. I raised my sword above my head, holding it with both hands. Caligula spun around, and as she reared up on her back legs, I stood in the stirrups and brought my sword down hard on Portia’s shoulder. The blow barely fazed her; she recovered,
raised her sword, and came at me once more.

Polly appeared by my side, knocking into Portia. Her
small brown mare was hardly a match for Portia’s warhorse, but she had the element of surprise and threw Portia off balance. Portia’s eyes opened in shock as she swerved, falling sideways off her horse.

“Polly!” I cried out. She smiled at me, her whole face lighting up with pleasure. She turned to
rejoin the battle just as a dagger flew through the air and sank into her back. Pain and shock blossomed on her face. She reached slowly behind her to feel the dagger with her hand. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she slid to the ground.

I saw the triumphant smile on Portia’s face from where she crouched on the muddy ground. I didn’t stop to think. There was a loud ringing in my ears, or maybe
it was the sound of Caligula’s roar as she ploughed forward, charging straight at Portia. I slashed at her with my sword, unsure if I had made contact, my vision red with rage. With a cry of pain, Portia retreated, scrambling backward like a crab. She glared at me when she reached cover.

I didn’t have time to pursue her. I jumped off Caligula and ran to Polly’s side. She lay in the mud at the
edge of the battlefield, her eyes still closed, the color drained from her face and lips. I knelt and lifted her head to my lap. Her skin felt cold and wet from the rain. The dagger had pierced her ribs on the right side. Carefully I withdrew it. Blood
seeped out, turning to red water as the rain washed it away.

“Keep breathing,” I said, holding her hands in mine. “Keep breathing, Polly, please!”

I yelled for help, screaming into the rain, into the sea of horses and bodies, splattering mud, swords and chains hurtling through the air. But no one came. The rain fell harder now, driving into the ground like bullets. I pulled Polly away from the stampede to a dark corner.

She made a rasping noise as she breathed. I could not let her go. I could not let her die.

“Polly.” I tried to warm her
hands in mine. “Please, try… please try to breathe. I know it’s painful. I’m going to get you help.” I ran out into the muddy rain-soaked field, searching for one of our soldiers.

“Eliza!” Eoghan raced between me and a soldier wielding a spiked chain. The chain missed me but whipped against Eoghan’s back, flinging him forward. He gripped his horse’s mane and shot his rifle with the other hand.

“Polly’s been badly hurt! We need to get her out of here.” Eoghan turned at my words and followed me to the alcove where Polly lay. She was still breathing, but the rasping sound had worsened. I looked out across the battlefield, relieved to see the gates had been broken open.

“Help me lift her onto Caligula,” I said.

“I’ll take her.” Eoghan pulled her onto the front of his saddle and sat behind
her. “You follow us.”

Across the field, the general was calling to our troops to retreat. Anyone who could escape ran back through the gates. The ground was covered with the bodies of men and women, their uniforms drenched with rain and splattered with mud. It was impossible to tell our troops from the enemy’s. Lying mangled and helpless on the ground, we all looked the same.

I hurried after
Eoghan toward the gates. Caligula trudged through the mud, her dark mane soaked through. I felt her shiver and knew she was cold and tired, but I pressed my heels into her sides, urging her forward. “Come on, girl,” I murmured. Any minute now they would raise the drawbridge.

Bullets and spears flew past us in the surrounding rain, and I heard the telltale clanking that meant the bridge was being
lifted.

“Hurry, Caligula!” I shouted. We were so close, only a few yards away. Caligula tensed to jump, but her left hind leg was moving strangely. I looked back and saw a long gash along her flank. I knew Clara could treat the wound when we got back to camp, so I kept forcing Caligula forward.

But just as she leapt to make the crossing, a rider flew out of the rain toward us, knocking us backward
into the Tower.
Caligula let out a roar. I looked to see a spear embedded in her flank.