Into the Dim (25 page)

Only three more steps. Two. Go, Collum! For God's sake, run!

Phoebe already had one of her slim blades pinched between thumb and forefinger. As a burly guard approached her brother from behind, Phoebe's arm reared back as she prepared to throw.

Seeing it, I frantically scanned the mass of guards converging on her brother. In one sweep, I calculated the odds, then snatched her arm down before anyone could notice. “No,” I hissed. “Not here. Not yet.”

It was the white-haired pig Eustace Clarkson who got him. Just as Collum's foot stepped over the threshold, the brute raised a short nubby club in an overhand swing that bashed across the back of the Collum's neck. He dropped like a chunk of lead. The other guards raced in, and the world narrowed to meaty thwacks as they kicked Collum's limp form.

Bile raced up my throat. Sickened, I held fast to Phoebe. My friend's sweet face had washed to green beneath her freckles as she struggled with me to let her go.

“Enough,” the king roared. “Do not injure that man further. He's provided better entertainment than any juggler, by God. And every man in my kingdom shall have a fair trial. Take him to the Tower and see him patched up.”

Eustace Clarkson—pretending he hadn't heard the king's command—launched a last, savage kick to Collum's ribs.

Phoebe had stopped fighting and was making a low, keening noise. I wrapped my arms around her tiny, shaking form, though my own chest felt like it had been scooped out with a melon baller.

As two of the guards lifted the slack Collum between them and hustled him away into the night, Thomas Becket glided across the room and snatched something from the floor. Smiling, he raised it triumphantly in the air. The dagger, all gleaming steel and polished gold. Though I couldn't see the ornamental jewel from this angle, I couldn't care less. We now had much bigger problems than worrying about a stupid stone.

The king settled back onto his throne while the room rang with cheers and the banging of cups. I stared out the door, a heavy weight slamming down on my shoulders as I realized we might never see Collum again.

Henry addressed his subjects. “From this day forward, may every man under my rule know that he lives in a just kingdom.” Shouts of “huzzah” slashed the stuffy air. Henry was energized. His voice boomed over the room, sending every eye his way. “And I say, a thief with enough balls to steal my own property right out from under my nose deserves a proper trial! Let no man ever claim I am not a fair ruler!”

“God save His Grace! God save the king!”

They roared it until I thought the roof might cave in.

H
ENRY WAS RIGHT
. I'
D STUDIED THIS ERA BACKWARDS AND FORWARD
. I knew that by the end of Henry's thirty-five-year reign, the previously lawless kingdom would become a land of peace, law, and stability. When he died, it was said a virgin could walk the length of England completely naked without being touched.

It wasn't something this virgin would try. And though it was great for England, it was a terrible, awful thing for us. Collum had just become the first criminal of King Henry II's reign.

I dashed the tears from my face and whirled to face my mom. “We have to help him.”

She didn't answer, only stared at the empty door.

“Mom?” When she didn't respond, panic began to edge my voice. “Mom!” I shook her, forcing her to look at me. “What do we do?”

My entire life, my mother had had all the answers. She'd ruled over our family like a four-star general. My curriculum. Hobbies. Where I went. Who I spoke with. When I ate, drank, slept. Every hour of my day dictated by her command. And now, when I needed her most, she'd gone practically catatonic.

“Sarah?” Phoebe blinked up at my mom through a storm of tears, only just now realizing that the pregnant woman standing close beside me was my mom. “My God. Sarah, what happened to you?”

Ignoring Phoebe's comment, Mom turned to us. “Girls,” she said in a voice flat and devoid of all emotion. “They'll hang him for this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I got that. Now tell us how to get him out.”

Instead of answering, her blue eyes flicked to a spot over my shoulder. I turned to see her toad-husband marching toward us with William Lucie on his heels.

“Sarah,” Phoebe begged. “Hurry, please.”

But my fierce, capable mother was curling in on herself, cringing as Sir Henry Babcock brushed me aside and latched on to her arm. “Away to your rooms, wife,” he snarled. “In your condition, you should not be witness to such excitement.”

I knew by the way his gaze fixed on my mother's low-slung belly that he thought the kid was his. He didn't care about my mother. The baby. That's all that mattered to him.

I shot a frantic look at William.

“Sir Henry,” William started, but Babcock ignored him and gestured toward a waiting manservant. “Jasper, take my wife to our chambers.”

Without another word, Babcock strolled off and disappeared into a cluster of men who were analyzing the whole event, like reporters after a crime spree. I glanced toward the high table. While Henry was laughing, having a high old time, Eleanor of Aquitaine appeared flushed and exhausted. Frown lines marring her brow, her eyes snagged on me.

Babcock's thuggish guard planted himself at Mom's side. “Let's away, milady.”

With a furtive glance in her husband's direction, Mom scrubbed at her face. The hanging sleeves of her ice-blue dress dropped back and I caught a glimpse of raised, angry scars circling each wrist.

I grabbed her arm. “What happened to you?”

It was all too easy to imagine what could've made those terrible mutilations. But she tore away from my grip and began whispering in ragged, desperate Latin.

“Doesn't matter,” she said. “Listen to me. We don't have much time, and you must understand something.”

“Milady,” the guard warned.

Mom sighed then, and placed cold, trembling hands on each side of my head. Tears glittering, she stared hard into my eyes. “They will never let me escape. Trust me, I've tried.”

“But—”

The ridge of scars that ringed my mother's wrists chafed against my chin as she pulled me closer and let her forehead rest on mine. “You must leave me here. There's no other way.”

I felt Phoebe stiffen as Mom whispered in English, “Get Collum out. If you can.”

“H-how?” My voice wavered as the world around me began to shear away in great hunks.

My mother, the one person in my life who'd always had the answers, shook her head. “I don't know.”

Behind me Phoebe whimpered. “Sarah . . .”

At Jasper's grunted order, we exited through a side door where flagstone steps led to the upper, residential floors of the palace. The air smelled of lye and old fires. Past the wide, second-story landing, the stairs narrowed, the next levels obviously meant for lower-level guests. There, grime still edged the narrow risers, and a rank, musty stench lingered. As Phoebe and I trailed Jasper and my mother to the stairs that led up to the third landing, Mom stopped and planted her feet. She turned, her face set with a grim finality I recognized all too well.

“Stop,” she said. “You can't come with me any further.”

“But—”

She held out a hand to silence me. “No, darling. I love you so much. But I can never leave. It's far too late for me, but not for you. Go. Now. Both of you. They'll have taken Collum to the Tower. Get him out. If you can. But you must get yourselves home to Lucinda. That is an order.”

With that, she turned away and disappeared down the shadowy hall.

I collapsed onto the bottom step. Phoebe slumped down next to me and buried her face in her knees.

How could Mom do this? She wouldn't even
try
to escape? And Collum . . .

Oh God. Collum.

I leaned against the crumbly wall, scanning through everything I'd ever read about the twelfth-century Tower of London. What I remembered was bad. Very, very bad.

I bolted upright as boots stomped up from the landing below.

“We have to get out of here, Pheebs,” I whispered, “go back to Mabray House and figure this out. But we're not leaving either one of them here. I swear it.”

I jerked on her limp arm as the footsteps grew closer. “Get up. We can't help Collum if—”

“Mistress Hope, I thought I'd find you here.”

Slowly, so slowly, I turned. And oh, I knew that voice, but—

Impossible.

A clutch of men rounded the landing below. I squinted against the glare of a torch. As my eyes adjusted, my hands flew to my chest, pressing hard, to keep my heart from leaping out and flopping onto the floor like a landed fish.

I'm dreaming. This is all just a horrible nightmare.

But my head filled with a roar of white noise when, as he languidly gestured for his men to stay put, Bran Cameron sauntered up the steps toward us.

I
STOOD, REELING IN CONFUSION
. B
RAN FOLLOWED AS
I backed up the steps to the landing above. I stared up into his familiar, mismatched eyes. They traced across my face, remote and cold, as if we'd never met.

“Hope?” Phoebe moved unsteadily to stand beside me. “Who is this?”

I couldn't answer as I studied him. Embroidered with a gold crest, his blue-black tunic soaked up the light. Twin curved blades hung from a leather belt slung across his narrow hips. Sleek dark hair curled to his nape. With his sharp jaw and cut-glass features, Bran looked every inch the haughty medieval aristocrat.

“Bran?” My mushy brain began to solidify. Ideas stirred in its depths as it tried to solve this new part of the equation.

Okay, Bran's a
Viator.

He must be. Because the only other explanation would rip me in two.

He tutted, and spoke in perfect Norman French. “Mistress Hope, what
shall
we do with you?”

Phoebe stiffened, repeating in a hoarse whisper, “Who. Is. This?” Her voice grew urgent when I didn't—when I
couldn't
—respond. Her fingernails dug into my arm. “Th-the river,” I managed, never taking my eyes off Bran. “I—we met at the river. Back home.” My eyes turned to hers, desperate. “We went riding together. I thought he was just a normal guy. But he's one of us, right?”

Bran leaned in, whispering to me in modern English, his mouth curved in a wicked half smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that, dove. Just business, you know.”

Phoebe got it before I did. With a roar, she launched herself from my side. Before I could draw breath, she'd leaped into the air, one small foot on a collision course with Bran's midsection.

“Phoebe! What the hell?”

Bran tossed the torch aside. With no effort whatsoever, he caught her ankle in his hands and twisted, sending her to the floor. Phoebe landed like a cat and threw herself at him again, hands curled to gouge out his eyes.

I watched, completely stunned, as Bran caught her up in a bear hug and, with a fluid motion, tussled her off to one of the guards.

“You bloody wanker!” Phoebe screamed. “Hope, he's one of them. He's—”

A jowly guard muffled Phoebe with a huge hand. She twisted and kicked at him.

Bran barked the order. “Take that one back to Mabray House on the South Bank and put her under guard.” He looked at me. “Tie this one's hands. I will question her here.”

A huge, low-browed brute frowned. “Them weren't the lady's orders, milord. We was to take them both to her at once.”

“Who is in charge here, Smithson?” Bran didn't bother to turn. “Do as I say. Tie her hands.”

The foul-smelling guard approached. I tried to run, but he snatched me by the hair. Pain shredded my scalp as he held me against him while another guard wrapped a rope around my wrists and cinched them tight in front of me. When I flailed and kicked at them, they only laughed and shoved me to my knees.

I actually heard the puzzle pieces click together in my mind.
The river. The bluff. I'd told him I was going away. Told him when.

“He's one of
them.
” Phoebe's muffled shout floated up to me. “He's a—” A door slammed shut.

A Timeslipper.
The answer burned like a hot coal behind my eyes.
Yes. And I'm a fool.

I decided to play dumb. I babbled in the Norman French I now knew he would understand. “I can't believe you're here, Bran. But listen, I need your help. My mom is . . .”

He raised a palm and I trailed off, my lips silently forming the final word. “Trapped.”

I looked up at his cool expression, and my heart just stopped, as if someone had ripped it out with greedy hands.

“Oh,” he said, “you're brighter than that. You must know I'm not here to help you or your mother.”

The truth was seeping through. It felt like being slowly boiled alive.

Still, I had to try.

“My mom's husband, I—I think he hurts her, Bran,” I whispered. “Please, you have to help us. You have a mother. Surely you can understand?”

Stall. Just keep stalling until you figure a way out of this.
So many levels of pain bubbled up and popped inside me, I didn't know which one hurt worse. My mom, Collum, or this mind-bending treachery.

Collum, what are they doing to you? Where are you? I need you.

“Come, now,” Bran drawled. “You're too perceptive to believe I'd be swayed by sentimentality. Of course I have a mother. I imagine you've heard of her by now.”

An agony too exquisite to touch twisted inside me. I closed my eyes, trying to bear it as the truth settled between us. “You haven't met, but she would like very much to change that.”

I knew, then. Of course I knew. Who else could it be? Celia Alvarez. Mother of Bran the Liar. Bran the Spy. Bran the Betrayer. He'd been working for her the whole damn time.