Tag shrugged. “We’ve been invited, haven’t we?”
They circled the green, side-stepping through clusters of tourists gathered around traditionally garbed Beefeaters, who extoled their patrons with stories of beheaded queens and imprisoned traitors.
As Sharyn and the others approached the King’s House, a roped stanchion blocked their way. A posted sign stated No Entry. The armed guard noted their group as they came to a stop. He firmed his grip on his weapon but remained silent.
“What now?” Naomi asked.
Anxious to get out of sight, Sharyn lifted an arm and called over. “We were told to come here! Could you check with whomever is inside?”
The guard shifted from his post, strode to the door, and rapped a fist on it, while never taking his eyes off them.
Duncan leaned toward Sharyn. “The King’s House serves as the residence of the Constable of the Tower, an honorary title, given for recognition of distinguished military service.”
“Do you know who holds the position now?” Tag asked.
Duncan shook his head. “Changes every five years.”
The black door to the house swung open. A young woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, bowed her head out and listened as the guard whispered to her. She then eyed Sharyn’s group, sizing them up.
Sharyn studied her in turn. The woman wore a thick gray turtleneck and jeans. Her red hair had been braided into an efficient tail.
Clearly not the constable.
The woman finally nodded and opened the door wider, but her eyes remained squinted with suspicion. The guard crossed to them, lifted the rope, and motioned them through.
Sharyn ducked past, wary of the weapon balanced in the soldier’s other hand. The modernity of the black assault rifle contrasted harshly with the bright ceremonial clothing.
With each step toward the doorway, Sharyn felt a rising tension.
The woman shifted to the side and lifted an arm to welcome them. “My father is upstairs.”
Anxious to get inside, Sharyn crossed the threshold first. The others crowded behind her into a foyer, where a marble bust of some historical figure stared at them, looking little impressed. Beyond the entryway, a larger hall opened, painted red and covered in framed art and formal photos. The space looked ready to receive dignitaries to the Tower.
Which is definitely not us.
The constable’s daughter closed the door behind them, sealing them inside.
Sharyn turned to her. “Thank you for—”
A harsh cry, full of venom, cut her off.
“Traitors . . . Traitors all!”
18
3:51 p.m.
Duncan tensed at the angry outburst, which rose from the top of a staircase ahead. The five of them crowded toward the closed door behind them. They all had the same fear.
Did we walk into a trap?
The woman elbowed past them with a scowl and headed for the stairs. “It’s only Hugh. Don’t mind him. He’s picked up on the day’s tension. My father will calm him down.”
Duncan turned to the others, trying to judge whether to hightail it out of there or not.
Sharyn let out a hard breath, then stepped after the woman, perhaps too curious to turn back. “Let’s go.”
They headed after the constable’s daughter, who had stopped halfway up the steps after noting their hesitation.
