He glanced at his shoulder, which burned as if thrust through with a hot poker just above the collarbone. The black fabric of his doublet was torn and wet, the ragged hole scarlet around the edges, but the blood was not spurting from some vital conduit. That at least was a relief.
Ned continued to row, but with Mal incapacitated they were making slow progress. The arquebusiers began to reload. Mal used his uninjured arm to pull Hendricks towards him, turning her back to his belly so they could ply the oars as one. So small, she fitted into him like a lover… For a moment he rested his cheek against her hair, letting the pain melt into the distance, then they bent to the oars and pulled, and he ground his teeth against the fire in his shoulder.
The rumble sounded again from downstream, echoing across the water. Not thunder, nor, thank the Lord, more gunfire. Drums.
"Rehi!"
Mal spared a glance backwards. Sandy was waving to him from the prow of a large craft heading in their direction. The ambassador's barge.
The royal guards halted, looking to their captains, who motioned for them to lower their weapons. Prince Robert stood on the jetty, arms folded, watching the oncoming barge. Hendricks twisted round with a grin of relief, but her smile faded on seeing Mal's expression.
"The ambassador will save us, won't he?" she whispered.
The drumbeat changed and the rowers on one side shipped their oars. The barge began to turn in a wide arc.
"Come on, Mal!" Ned shouted, hauling on the oars.
The wash from the barge pushed against them, even as their efforts drove them on. Mal's vision began to go dark around the edges, until all he could see was the bright patch of his own blood on the girl's doublet in front of him, accusing him of failure. He turned towards the barge. The vessel's dark bulk loomed over them for a moment, and Mal felt sure its oars would rake the little skiff out of the water and tip it over like a child's toy. Then the barge was past, lurching side-on to the current as it turned back for London.
"Sandy!"
His brother looked round for a moment from where he stood in the barge's prow, arms wrapped about the diminutive skrayling. He gazed at Mal with dark eyes that seemed to look right through him, sparking a jolt of some buried memory that strove to reach the surface of Mal's mind but floundered like a drowning man and was gone. The barge swung round and Sandy disappeared from view behind its central canopy.
Dammit, now they really were on their own. Kiiren had what he came for, and he was leaving the rest of them to the wolves.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Coby turned to look at Mal. He was deathly pale, his eyes unfocused. Had he lost so much blood already? It was hard to tell against the blackness of his livery doublet. Without thinking she let go of both oars and put her palms to his face.
"Don't die on me," she whispered.
He coughed and managed a weak grin. "I'm in no fit state."
Over his shoulder she glimpsed a pale-haired figure in the stern of the barge, swinging a coil of rope. Gabriel Parrish. Moments later the rope sailed overhead and she flailed for it.
"Careful!" Faulkner shouted at her. "Here, take this and wrap it round the cleat."
He passed her a loop of rope. When she looked blank, he pointed to the two-pronged metal thing on the prow, where the painter was still tied. She clambered past Mal and wrapped the line around it as best she could before the retreating barge pulled the rope taut. Faulkner threaded the loose end under the thwarts and secured it, just to be certain.
"They could have bloody stopped to pick us up," Faulkner muttered. "Here, let me see him."
"I'm fine," Mal replied, waving him away.
Coby slid onto the thwart on his good side.
"You don't look fine," she told him.
"S'not the first time I've been shot at." He peered at the wound. "Closest, though."
"We're going to have to get nearer to the barge," Ned said, pointing to the next bend in the river. "We're going to be all over the place at this rate."
Fortunately Parrish had had the same idea, and had enlisted one of the skraylings to help him haul the skiff in. They picked up speed, slowly edging closer to the barge's stern. Mal seemed to be rallying now they were getting away, though his face was still pale and drawn. She clutched his good hand and talked to him in a low voice.
"We did it, sir. We found you both and got away. See, we're nearly to the barge."
"And then what?" he rasped. "What happens when we get back to London?"
"Don't worry about it. Your brother is safe. That's all that matters, right?"
He nodded. "Aye."
She looked back upstream. The prince and his men were already leaving the jetty, heading back into Ferrymead House.
"What will they do?" she asked Mal.
"Ride ahead," he replied. "There are no bridges between here and London, so unless they commandeer a vessel…"
"You think they would try to stop us?"
"I don't know. A diversion to Bartholomew Fair is one thing; assaulting the Prince of Wales' mentor is a touch more serious."
He started to laugh, but it turned into a grimace. Just then the skiff's prow bumped against the stern of the barge, knocking them all aftwards. Strong hands reached down to haul them aboard, and for a moment all was a confusion of greetings in English and Vinlandic.
"Catlyn-tuur!" the ambassador cried, rushing to his former bodyguard's side. "Come, sit down and let me tend your hurt."
"That's all you seem to do," Mal muttered, but allowed himself to be led away.
Faulkner and Parrish were likewise reunited, entangled in a passion embrace in a corner of the barge's stern. Coby found herself alone once more. No, not alone. Sandy was staring at her, his brow furrowed. Then to her surprise he bowed in the skrayling fashion.
"H?sea."
It sounded more like a sneeze than a greeting, but she bowed politely in return.
"I don't think we've been properly introduced, sir," she said. She sounded idiotic in her own ears, but what else was one to say? "I am Jacob Hendricks, of Suffolk's Men."
"Erishen."
"That's your name? Erishen?"
He nodded. Well, if the madman wanted to pretend he was a skrayling, Coby was not going to argue.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go and see how your brother is doing."
Mal drained the cup Kiiren handed him, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"What the hell do you put in this brew?"
"Many herbs," the ambassador replied. "I shall not bore you with names."
He had stripped off his robes and wore a plain brown tunic like a skrayling servant. By his side was a multi-tiered wooden box full of glass bottles and strange implements. Mal unbuttoned his doublet and shrugged out of it, gritting his teeth against the pain.
"Tsh, let me do that," Kiiren said. "You will make bleed worse."
"How did you come to be here?" Mal asked as Kiiren examined the bullet wound with professional detachment.
"Your friend Gabriel came to me and told me your friends had gone to house of Lord Suffolk near palace. I think perhaps you might need my help, so I tell Leland-tuur Lord Suffolk sends for me."
"And he believed you?"
Kiiren smiled. "Lie down now. You will soon feel… strange."
"I feel fine," Mal lied. Either the boat had started to fly through the air, or something was very wrong with his sense of balance.
As he began to sway on his feet, Kiiren eased him onto the bench and propped him up on pillows.
"Close eyes and sleep," the skrayling said. "When you wake, all will be mended and we will be back in London."
Mal opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't feel his tongue any more.
"Nnnnh…"