Bran, a horrified expression tugging down his mouth, trotted over to his mother. The two of them began arguing in rapid-fire Spanish.
Slowly, discreetly, I gathered my reins and took a deep breath. “Now!” I screamed at Phoebe, who kicked her horse into motion.
The startled animal leaped toward mine. I pressed my knees into my horse’s sides, turning her parallel with my friend’s mount. Bending low, I snatched up Phoebe’s dangling leads.
“Oy!” One of the guards yelled behind us. “Milady!”
Shouts and a crash sounded behind us. Footsteps pounded. The gate was open, but Celia savagely wrenched her horse around and moved to block our exit. I gathered Phoebe’s reins and pulled her closer. “Right through,” I said.
Her clenched teeth glowed white as she nodded and hunkered over her animal’s neck. Celia drew something from her sleeve. I burrowed my heels into my horse’s sides. Go. Go. Go.
Celia stood her ground. My horse tried to veer, but I held the reins taut. It was a game of chicken, and from the triumphant leer on Celia’s face, I wasn’t sure who’d win.
Racing at my side, Phoebe muttered a prayer. My eyes were fixed on Celia. On the knife clutched in her hand. We were on a collision course. She wasn’t backing down, but neither was I.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a horse suddenly rear, forelegs flailing at the winter air. Bran’s mount leapt forward, plunging into the side of his mother’s beast, causing it to stumble out of our path. Moonlight flashed on steel as we surged past. Then we were out the gate and galloping down the street. I had no idea if Bran had done it on purpose or if his horse had simply gone skittish.
Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s the enemy. He’s a liar.
With her hands still tied, Phoebe reached up and wrenched the gag down past her chin. “Hope,” she gasped. “Those bloody bastards stole my bag.”
“What does—”
“The extra bracelet,” she cried over the pounding hoofbeats. “The one we brought for Sarah. It was inside.”
Phoebe’s stricken look made my heart plummet. My mom’s bracelet was gone. Without it, we didn’t have enough lodestones for us all to get home.
“Jesus, Hope, what will we do?”
“I don’t know,” I panted as the horse pounded beneath me. “We’ll figure it out. But first—”
The thud of pursuit sounded on the muddy street behind us. I knew there was only one place we might—might—find refuge.
“This way.” I kneed my horse, jerking the reins to the left. “We’re going to Baynard’s Castle. It’s our only shot.”
We raced, side by side, down one crooked lane after another. At each turn, they gained on us. Cold air that stank of fish and the dank Thames stole my breath as it rushed past my face.
“Good girl,” I called to my horse. “Keep going.”
“Bloody damn! Hope, they’re coming.”
“Go,” I urged.
“Help us,” I screamed to the guards as we thundered toward the gate, playing my only card. “Sister Hectare sent for us, but there are thieves on our tail.”
The guards exchanged a look. One shrugged and stepped aside. We plunged through the gate just as the other shouted for the crew behind us to halt.
“What now?” Phoebe asked as we thundered across the courtyard to the front entrance.
“Now we pray Sister Hectare is here,” I huffed. “And that she’ll help us.”
After dismounting, I quickly untied Phoebe’s hands. It took every bit of breathless coaxing before the stern-faced guard at the front entrance agreed to send a servant to see if Sister Hectare was there.
He allowed us inside the entrance hall but set a pimply guard to watch us. The castle had an empty feeling. Only a few torches, set at intervals, lit the long hallway as the minutes passed.
Come on. Please be here. Please.
I heard a woman’s raised voice just outside the massive front doors.
“Oh crap,” I whispered to Phoebe. “I think they got in the gate.”
“What is your business here?”
I whirled to find a wimpled servant approaching, one I’d seen in Eleanor’s chambers—Was it only yesterday? She was scowling, which didn’t bode well for us.
I assumed what I hoped was an imperious demeanor. “It’s imperative that we see Sister Hectare immediately.”
The servant eyed our soiled, wrinkled gowns. “I assume that the good sister has gone with the queen to the Tower, where she and the king reside until coronation on the morrow. And even if she were here, it is late and I would not disturb her.”
Idiot. I chastised myself. You knew that. Even in our own time, the king or queen traditionally stays at the Tower of London the night before their coronation.
“Thank you, Wilifred.”
My knees went weak as Thomas Becket, still disheveled and out of breath, slithered out from a side door.
Where the hell did he come from? I forced myself not to flinch. Beside me, Phoebe let out a quiet groan.