“Please,” she said, “just let me go. I do not wish for trouble.”
The larger man bent toward her until his head was low enough that I could see the pale part in her brown hair. “Oh, but we like trouble, don’t we Charles?”
“Aye, Eustace,” he replied. “Trouble sounds just about right.”
My jaw clenched. My blood turned to slush.
“Eustace Clarkson”—the girl’s voice was louder, though still steady—“my grandfather sent me to deliver this medicament to our new lady queen. I’m sure Her Grace would not wish you to tamper with her servant. If you release me, I shall make no mention of this to her. Or to Captain Lucie.”
The boy turned to his friend, and I saw his profile. Bulky. Cropped platinum hair, so light his pink scalp peeked through. A murky pale-gray eye narrowed.
I should run. I should just run away right now.
“You dare threaten me?”
I flinched as Eustace slammed a palm onto the wooden boards next to the girl’s face. “It sickens me that our king would allow a Jew to even enter his palace, much less tend his queen.”
The muscles stiffened across my back. A burn of anger began to edge out fear as I saw him flash a cruel grin.
Charles cleared his throat nervously. “Eustace, oughten we get back to our duties? We do not wish to be at odds with Captain Lucie. He could have us dismissed from the city guard. Or worse.”
“William Lucie.” Eustace spat at the girl’s feet. “That piece of shite. Thinks he’s better than me because he’s the son of the Castellan? He’s only a bastard Richard Lucie got off some serving whore. We’ll say we were trying to control the crowd. They’ll never know we left to chase this one down.”
Charles spoke haltingly. “Aye, but Sir Richard claims him as his son, and William is good with a sword. If she tells him—”
“Shut up!” Eustace roared. “Rachel here knows better than to open her pretty Jew mouth, don’t you Rachel?”
“Master Eustace.” Rachel’s voice was so magnificently composed, I found myself rooting for her to spit on him or kick him right where it counted. “If you leave me be, I shall say nothing to Captain Lucie. But let me pass, for Queen Eleanor will not appreciate being made to wait for her draught.”
I tensed, ready to back away. If they didn’t let the girl go, I’d just beat on doors until someone came and make them help her. It was the smart thing to do.
Snarling, Eustace reached down and rucked Rachel’s russet skirts up to the waist, baring white legs. She flailed at him, but Charles—apparently forgetting his fear of this Captain Lucie—snatched hold of her thrashing fists and pinned them above her head.
“You know,” Eustace purred, “I always wondered what a Jewess had between her legs.”
Oh, that’s it.
I scrambled to my feet. “Stop it! Leave her alone!”
As they whipped around, my hand slapped over my mouth. I wanted to rip the words from the air, stuff them back down my throat, and scuttle away like a scared rabbit.
Oh sweet Moses, what have I done?
Eustace Clarkson’s sword pinged against the stone wall as he ripped it from its hilt. I fumbled for the dagger in my boot, slicing through my skirts as I withdrew it. Eustace advanced down the alley toward me. I backed up as his gaze raked down my body.
Letting go of Rachel, the red-haired, bucktoothed Charles hooted, “Stand down Eus, it’s just a wench. A pretty wee black-haired one at that. Now we can each have one.”
“Well, well. And so we can.” The nasty grin on Eustace’s pitted face sent a sharp new fear through me.
Something Phoebe had once said shivered through me. Be mindful, Hope. Men in the Middle Ages think nothing of rape. In most cases, it’s not even a crime.
At the time, it had seemed ridiculous. But as Eustace sheathed his sword and took another step in my direction, the horror of it suddenly seemed all too real.
Rachel, seeing her shot, took it. She darted between the men and bolted toward the street. As she ran, her enormous golden eyes locked with mine.
Run, she mouthed.
Chapter 20
I DIDN’T WAIT TO ASK QUESTIONS.
Rachel shoved the pile of crates over to buy us a few, precious seconds. Her yellow veil billowed behind her as we sprinted through the narrow streets.
“This way,” she called.
Heavy footsteps pounded behind us, but I didn’t look back. All my attention was focused on not tripping and stabbing myself with the knife still clenched in my hand.
Rachel ducked through a low doorway. The pungency of worked leather. Boxes of scraps and barrels of nails. A cobbler’s shop. The owner’s eyes went wide as Rachel muttered something to him in a language I thought was very old Hebrew. The man thrust his chin toward the curtained back of the shop.
“Come,” Rachel huffed. “There’s another way out.”