The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [58]
As if from across a chasm I heard a faint call. “Brendaaan!”
I paused, pressed against the door, straining.
“Brendan! Brendan, are you there?”
“I’m here! Here!” I banged again on the door, scraping my knuckles raw. “Here! I’m here!” My knees started to buckle when the muffled splashing footsteps grew louder, running toward me. “Open it! Open it!” Unseen hands seized hold of the bolt, yanking it back.
“Be careful,” I shouted. “The room’s flooded. Get back before—”
I was knocked off my feet. Propelled out on a wave, I crashed against the opposite wall and slid to the floor, a boneless sodden rag.
In the dripping hush, a frightened voice asked, “Are you alive?”
“If I’m not, then you must be dead,” I muttered. Arms like blocks of marble hauled me up. Before me stood two figures; one was Peregrine. The other, massive, carrottopped, square jawed and his face marred by pimples, was a stranger.
Peregrine said, “What happened to you? You look awful.”
“You would, too, if you’d been used as bear bait.” I looked at the stranger. “Thank you.”
He nodded, his freckled hands hanging big as bread panders at his side. I said to Peregrine, “How did you find me?”
“This.” He lifted my crumpled jerkin. “We found it by the entrance. We started searching for you when Barnaby saw a man running away.”
“These old cloisters and cells,” added Barnaby, “belonged to the Grey Friars until King Henry kicked them out. They’ve been abandoned for years. If someone comes here, most likely it’s for no good purpose. The moment I saw that man, I knew something was amiss.”
I put on the jerkin, grateful for something dry. I was chilled to my bones.
“We didn’t get a good look at him,” Peregrine said, with excitement in his voice, now that he realized they’d just saved my life. “It was too dark and he wore black. But he caught Barnaby’s attention—he’s got eyes like a falcon, this one. Lucky for you, he did. If we hadn’t happened to find your jerkin, we’d never have thought to look down here.” He paused, regarding me with a newfound awe. “Someone must really want you dead.”
“Indeed. There was no one else with this man?” I asked, though I didn’t need to hear more. I knew who the man in black had been.
Barnaby shook his head. “He was alone. Strange thing—it was if he wanted us to see him. He could have gone any number of ways besides right within our eyesight.”
This gave me pause. I passed a hand over my hair, which was plastered with silt, then accorded the muscular youth a bow. “You must be Master Fitzpatrick, King Edward’s friend. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Brendan Prescott. I owe you my life.”
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Tall and built like a barbican, not uncomely despite his blemished complexion, with a shock of wiry red hair springing out from under his cap, he was not someone to disregard. Judging by the size of those hands and his drenched doublet, he must have been the one who unbolted and yanked open the cell door.
Barnaby said matter-of-factly, “Peregrine told me who you are. You’re a Dudley servant. He also tells me you’re a friend to Her Grace. She’s like a sister to me, which is why I agreed to help you. But I must warn you, if you intend her any harm”—he shook his massive fist—“you won’t like the results.”
I nodded. “Trust me, I intend her no harm. I would explain more, if we had the time. Unfortunately, we must make haste. She is in danger.” I reached up to wrench the crackling torch from the bracket. Peregrine piped, “His Majesty is here, in the Secret Lodgings. Barnaby says he’s been here for weeks. See? I told you I’d find out anything you asked.”
My gaze shifted to Barnaby over the tarry, smoky flame. His stare conveyed grim resolution. We started down the passage, sloshing through ankle-deep pools, toward the steep staircase. I ventured, “Is His Majesty