But Patrick demanded to accompany her. She tried to protest, but he insisted. With a resigned shrug, she and Patrick made their way to the papal escort.
Guy saw her coming; his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure the entire keep could hear it. But who was the fool with her? Damnation. He would have to dispose of the knight, and do it quickly. Remington would recognize him in a heartbeat and he could not allow his perfect scheme to be foiled this early in the game.
Panicked for the moment, he turned away from Remington and Patrick and motioned for them to follow. They did, nearly catching up to him as they rounded the corner on the green by the Chapel of St. Peter and Vincula.
But Guy kept a pace ahead of them, working a small dagger out of his waistband. Passing the chopping block, adjacent tothe Beauchamp Tower, Guy clasped the dagger close to his arm and worked his belt loose. His sword went clattering to the soft ground.
“Good Christ,” he said in an exaggerated lower-bred London accent. “’Ow in the ’ell did ’at ’appen?”
Remington came to an abrupt halt, watching Patrick bend down to pick up the sword. One moment Patrick was grasping the weapon; the next moment, the papal guard was on top of him.
And in the next moment, Patrick collapsed on the ground with a dagger protruding from his neck.
Remington did not quite grasp what she was seeing. It was the farthest thing from her mind. A second or two after Patrick landed in a heap, a scream rose to Remington’s lips and her eyes flew to the papal guard, now moving toward her with lightning speed.
Sea-crystal eyes locked with icy-blue. Guy Stoneley was staring back at her.
“Guy!” she shrieked.
It would not do to have a shrieking, screaming captive. Instinctively, Guy brought up a mailed fist and crowned Remington on the side of the head, just like old times. She dropped like a stone.
He left her, a mound of silk and satin, and dragged Patrick across the moist dirt to deposit him in a small doorway. With any luck, he would not be found until morning and by then, he and Remington would be on their way to Mt. Holyoak. With little exertion, he swung Remington into his arms and carried her out into the main courtyard.
The small papal escort looked concerned as he approached, but Guy kept his face lowered and waved them off. “Part the way, men,” he declared.
The three guards looked at him strangely as he commandeered the nearest destrier. “Now where do you think you are going with that horse?”
Guy threw Remington up over the animal and she grunted softly, beginning to come around. Guy slapped her on the rear. “She’s ill, man. Can you not see that? I have got to find a physic.”
The guards looked at each other hesitantly, but Guy was forceful. He mounted behind Remington and gathered the reins. “I shall send the horse back, I promise. You have Bourchier’s word. God bless you for allowing me to seek care for this woman.”
Guy was too fast, too slick. He was spearing the horse toward the main entrance before anyone could stop him.
With a shout that sounded suspiciously like a triumphant bellow, he tore through the narrow entrance as if the demons of hell were on his heel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was justbefore dawn. Gaston was ashen by the time he reached the Tower; so pale he was nearly green. Not a word was spoken between he and Henry, or Nicolas or Antonius. Uncle Jasper seemed to be doing most of the talking, and it was minimal at that.
It had taken the papal escort three hours to realize they had been duped. A search of Guy Stoneley’s rooms turned up a dead comrade in the prisoner’s bed. By the time they returned to Westminster with news of the prisoner’s disappearance, it was an hour before sunrise.
Gaston realized within the first few sentences what had happened. Stunned beyond believing, he knew what had taken place and his only thought at that moment was to reach Remington. No one had so much as mentioned her, but he knew instinctively that she would be missing.
He did not know how he knew. But he knew.
Gaston did not stop until he reached their bedchamber in the Martin Tower. Even then, he only stood in the door like a stone statue, staring at the bed as if he could will Remington to appear.
“Dear God,” he breathed. “She’s gone!”
Nicolas came up behind him, surveying the room. “Where’s Patrick?”
Gaston felt sick. Every emotion he could possible feel was crowding his mind, torturing him. “Send the household troops to search the grounds. Mayhap he’s been….”
“No!” Nicolas stumbled back, horrified. “Do not even suggest it! There is no way Guy Stoneley could best Patrick in a fight!”
Gaston could not react to Nicolas’ grief. He was filled with quite enough of his own. “He must have found out she was here,” he mumbled, feeling as if he were going mad. He did not even realize Henry was standing beside him. “How is it possible that he found out she was here? How did heknow?”
“’Twould not be difficult for a soldier to mention it,” Henry said quietly. “There are a thousand different ways he could have discovered her arrival.”
