The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [73]
Instinct proved correct. I froze as the pistol fired again. This time Henry displayed remarkably improved marksmanship, the ball spraying grotesquerie right above my shoulder. Tiny shards of plaster flew into my face. It wasn’t until I felt the warm trickle of blood that I realized the ball had grazed me, as well.
“You got him!” Henry guffawed. Someone else had fired the shot. I continued my precarious advance. My escape must have addled their wits. I was surprised that whoever had the gun hadn’t realized they could far more effectively shoot at me from the gallery.
The pistol pulled back. I quickened my step, nearing a casement. I hoped there wouldn’t be shutters, locks, small leaded panes I couldn’t smash. Between the pain in my legs and the throbbing in my shoulder, I was feeling faint. Another pop came, the ball razing the air above my head.
I struggled forward, flat with the wall.
The casement swung open. I halted when I saw a figure step onto the parapet with feline stealth. It paused. Another shot rang out, sending plaster flying. It turned. In the moonlight, I caught the gleam of dark eyes.
Then the figure started moving. Toward me.
My entire being clamored an urgent warning, even as I stood transfixed by the sight of the man approaching me in complete disregard for his own safety.
Two distinct impressions went through me in those crucial seconds. The first was that he moved as if he’d been tripping over rooftops all his life. The second was that either he’d come to finish the job for the Dudleys or he sought to rescue me.
When I spied the curved blade in his gloved hand, I realized I shouldn’t wait to find out. Hopefully I had come close enough to the water gate. If not, I wasn’t likely to regret my error.
I sprang forth with all the strength I had left.
And leapt out into nothingness.
Chapter Twenty
I plunged feetfirst into the river. I had kept my body pointed like a blade, knowing that if I hit the surface any other way I would certainly die. Still, it was like falling into slate, the impact yanking all air from my lungs with terrifying suddenness. I gasped, flailed to the surface. The brackish taste of salt mixed with dregs and mud clogged my nostrils, my throat, my ears. I coughed it out, trying to gain control of my floundering body.
The river flowed all around me, a swift current flooded by the tidal influx, its inky back littered with branches and leaves. A bloated corpse of something bobbed nearby, sank briefly, and resurfaced. Caught in the current, the corpse and I were like flotsam, dragged along while I, at least, struggled to stay above water.
My left shoulder had gone numb, as had my arm. Gazing back toward the dwindling palace, I envisioned my would-be assassin staring down in disbelief. I also understood just how far a jump it had been. It was amazing I had survived at all.
And once again I was going to drown.
I struggled to swim sideways against the current, toward a distant cluster of trees on a shore, evading the putrid corpse. I couldn’t ignore how dire my situation had become. I’d been shot, or at least skimmed by a ball, and must be losing blood. The cold had also begun to affect my lungs, making it difficult to breathe and move at the same time. Even while my heart and head roared, somewhere deep within, in that dark place where nothing has consequence, I wanted to stop, go still, drift, and let it all pass.
The shore wavered like a desert mirage. Submerged in an icy, suffocating cocoon, I stared toward it with faltering eyes, my arms inexorably ceasing their futile movements. In a rush of panic, I thrashed my legs, seeking to quicken my blood. Nothing moved. Or I didn’t feel anything move. I kicked again, in desperation. There was something twined about my ankles.
“No,” I heard myself whisper. “Not like this. Please, God. No.”
An eternity passed. I tried to bring my legs up to my unfeeling