The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [72]
In Sidney’s wake, the curtains stirred.
I turned my attention to the bed. Mistress Alice had finished mixing the powder in the goblet. Edward didn’t stir or protest as Lady Dudley reached down to smooth his coverlets and rearrange his pillows. He stared fixedly at her through his pain-laced eyes when she took the goblet from Mistress Alice and, placing one hand under his head, propped him up.
“Drink,” she said, and Edward did. She smiled. “Now rest. Rest and dream of angels.”
His eyes closed. He seemed to melt into his pillows. Turning away, Lady Dudley set the goblet on the table and reached into the medicine chest. She brought up something, made a sudden movement. Steel slashed. There was no sound. A gush of scarlet sprayed from Mistress Alice’s throat, splattering the carpet and the bed. Before my horrified eyes, she fell to her knees, looking straight at me, then crumpled onto the floor.
“NOOO!” My wail erupted from me like a wounded howl. I sprang forth. Master Shelton rushed at me, seizing my left arm to yank it behind my back. My cry was cut short, the pain searing through my torn shoulder muscles.
“I told you not to meddle,” he hissed in my ear. “Be still. You cannot stop this.”
I panted with helpless rage, watching Lady Dudley drop the bloodied knife and step over Mistress Alice’s convulsing body. Blood pumped out from under her, darkening the carpet.
“Kill him,” she told Master Shelton.
I kicked back with all my strength. I felt my heel slam into the steward’s shin, rammed my elbow simultaneously into his chest. It was like hitting granite; yet with a surprised grunt, Master Shelton released me.
Sidney scooped up the sword and thrust it at me as I dove for the alcove, where a draft now blew through the curtains. I heard Lady Dudley cry out, heard the door open, heard furious shouting; but I didn’t pause to see how many were entering the room to come after me.
Something whined and popped. I ducked as the ball flew past and embedded itself in the wall. Someone, perhaps one of the Dudley retainers with Henry, had a firearm. Such weapons were lethal but difficult to manage at close range. I knew it would take a good minute to reload and ignite the matchlock. It was all the time I had.
I leapt onto the windowsill, squeezing through the open window. With sword in hand, and my heart in my throat, I dropped into the night.
I hit the stone leads of the story below with teeth-rattling impact. The sword flew from my hand, clattering off the edge into the courtyard below. Sprawled, my head reeling, the agony was so intense I thought I had shattered both my legs. Then I realized I could move, despite the pain, and glanced up to the window through which I’d just leapt in time to see a long-nosed hand-pistol belch smoke.
I rolled. A ball struck the spot where I’d lain and ricocheted against the palace wall.
“A pox on it,” I heard Henry Dudley curse. “I missed him. Don’t worry. I’ll get him.”
The pistol disappeared for reloading. I forced myself upright. Standing as flat against the wall as I could, I looked to either side with a sickening drop in my bowels. The leads weren’t leads at all. Instead of a walkway there was an extended parapet with a decorative balustrade, punctuated by stucco nymphs and running parallel with an indoor gallery. At the far end I could see a mullioned casement and the turrets of a water gate. At any moment someone above me would realize the same and race downstairs to finish me off.
I had no escape.
Think. Don’t panic. Breathe. Forget everything else. Forget Mistress Alice. Forget her blood seeping into the floor.…
To the left rose the moldering roof of the tower housing the secret staircase. To the right stood the gate. I began edging in that direction, away from the light spilling from the window above. I didn’t know that much about firearms but Master Shelton did, for he had served in the Scottish wars. He once remarked to me that guns were a primitive weapon, infamous for not igniting when lit, missing targets despite perfect aim, or backfiring