“You there,” he motioned to the sergeant. “Come here and give me a hand with this.”
The soldier was either too dim to ask what he needed assistance with, or he simply did not care. He walked over to the wardrobe expectantly.
Guy stood slightly aback of him, one hand shrouded in the clothes that were slung over the wardrobe door. “Can you jar that boot free? It seems to be stuck in the drawer.”
The soldier bent down, yanking at the leather boot. It took Guy less than a second to wrap the belt around the soldier’s neck, tightening the noose so tightly that the mail hauberk cut into the skin.
In a strangled heap of mail and blood, the soldier slipped to the floor.
Guy smiled. Death always made him smile. Even if the soldier was bigger than he was, the armor fit well enough.
It wasn’t difficult to slip past the guards at his door. He kept his eyes averted and his helm on, telling the guards that Stoneley was ill and that he was summoning a physic. If the Tower guardshappened to look into the room, they would see a man in bed, covered to his head with a blanket. Guy knew his guards well enough to know that they would not bother to enter the room and check the prisoner personally.
Taking the papal guard on his word, they continued to stand vigilant watch at the door, expecting a physic shortly.
Free! Free! Guy’s mind sang with the glee of it, the simplicity of it. He could not believe he had not thought of this strategy earlier, but in truth, the opportunity had not presented itself. What he had done moments ago was done in the spur of the moment.
He knew his way out of the White Tower easily, and he moved directly for the Martin Tower. His heart was pounding in his ears as he moved across the dark courtyard, moving freely as he had not moved in over two years. It was almost too good to believe!
His mind was reeling with plans, possibilities, and escape routes. Over his shoulder, he could see the small papal escort waiting patiently by the Tower entrance, but they apparently had not seen him. With the three-quarter moon, it was dark enough in the shadows that they could not make out the color of his crimson tunic from that distance away.
As soon as he rounded the White Tower, he was out of their line of sight and he relaxed. Several hundred yards in front of him loomed the Martin Tower, and he lowered his head as he scurried down the walk. Behind him, the Salt Tower provided him ample shadow coverage.
There were sentries posted an intervals and he passed them with no problem. His excitement, his confidence, soared.
Sweet Remington would soon be within his grasp. But as he approached the Martin Tower, he slowed. As soon as he entered her bower, she would know it was he. And he had no doubt thatshe would give him away to her guards, who would most likely be de Russe’s men. And they would kill him.
His pace slowed more dramatically. Mayhap he could send someone else in to retrieve her, to deliver her straight into his hands far away from de Russe’s dogs.
Wise man that he was, Stoneley thought quickly on his feet. At the entrance to the Martin Tower was one of Henry’s household soldiers. He approached the man.
“The papal delegation wishes to speak with Lady Stoneley,” he stated firmly. “You will summon her and bring her so that I may escort her to the hearings.”
The guard looked him up and down. “An’ what’s wrong with your legs, pansy? You can mount stairs as well as I can.”
Guy’s first reaction was to strike, but he clenched his fist instead. He gave a helpless shrug. “I have got the gout, man. It’ll take me all night to take those stairs. Be a good chum, will you?”
The household soldier grumbled and cursed, but he complied. Guy smiled smugly, pleased at his cleverness and glancing overhead. The moon was beautiful this night.
*
Remington was asleepwhen Patrick roused her. Stumbling from the great bed, she donned her ecru-satin surcoat and pulled her hair back into a golden net. Still half-asleep, she splashed cold water on her face and pinched some color into her cheeks, gradually becoming increasingly anxious as she groomed. Why did not Gaston come personally for her? She prayed that nothing was terribly wrong, realizing she had done more praying recently than she had done in her entire life.
Running her finger in a small vial of mint balm and rubbing it over her teeth to freshen her breath, she was ready and threw open the bower door even as she struggled to shove her shoe on.
“I am ready, Patrick,” she said hurriedly.
Patrick steadied her as she adjusted the hasty shoe. “You shall need a cloak, Remi. ’Tis cool outside.”
With a sharp exhale, she dashed back into the room and retrieved a cloak of crushed golden silk, a gift from Gaston after the twins were born. The lining was of white rabbit, almost too hot on the cool night, but it matched the dress so, therefore, she took it anyway.
“Let’s go!” she said eagerly.
Patrick escorted her to the base of the Martin Tower, where the household guard was back at his post. The soldier pointed to the papal guard several feet away.
“He’s come for the lady.”
Remington swung the cloak over her shoulders, gazing at the guard in the distance. It never occurred to her that it was odd that the man had not come for her personally, or that he had not met her at the base of the stairs. All she knew was that the man was to take her to Gaston.
