The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (34 page)

Something clenched in his gut.
 
He thought,
It would be worse if I let you drag everything into the open by putting it into words.
 
But he kept his expression perfectly relaxed and said politely, ‘I’m sorry. Was there something you wanted to discuss?’

Yes – you stupid man.
 
I want to know whether you only kissed me because I asked you to – or whether it meant anything to you
.
 
Closing one hand hard over the other, she said, ‘You don’t think we have anything to say to one another?’

‘Specifically and right now?
 
No.
 
I don’t believe so.’

‘I see.’
 
You’re going to keep on doing this, aren’t you? Retreating behind a stone wall of perfect manners while you pretend you don’t know what I mean. And there’s nothing I can do to stop you without completely humiliating myself.
 
‘My mistake, then.’

He knew better to ask her what she meant which left little alternative than to say impassively, ‘It would seem so.
 
And now I really must go.’

‘Then go.’ She gave a slight, dismissive shrug and, though she refrained from voicing her thought, didn’t bother to veil her expression.

Ashley read it without difficulty and he smiled wryly in response.

‘You find me impossible?
 
Quite.’
 
And, as he turned to leave, ‘Unfortunately, that isn’t likely to change.’
 

*
 
*
 
*

During the final week before the opening of
Mariamne
, rehearsals of all kinds took place on the floor of the auditorium while the stage was readied for performance.
 
Sets were painted and then assembled on runners or attached to a complex series of pulleys; flash-pans were cunningly inserted and fused to provide the explosive effects Froissart was demanding; clouds were suspended on wires ready to be lowered when needed and great metal sheets took up residence in the wings, waiting to provide the rumble of thunder or clamour of distant battle.

Pauline spent nearly every waking hour overseeing the seamstresses working on costumes, players walked round muttering to themselves or gathered in corners, in spare moments between full rehearsal, to work on bits of script and Ashley’s swordsmen went over and over the routines he had set until their sweat could be smelled ten paces away.

Francis, outfitted as an armoured knight, was in his element.
 

Ashley, when he finally stopped laughing, said he looked like a lobster.

Francis agreed that he felt like one.

Athenais grew increasingly cross with herself for not being able to keep her eyes off Ashley, blade in hand and the epitome of athletic grace in his shirt-sleeves.
 
She also found it intensely annoying that, since the start of combined rehearsals, virtually every other lady in the company was doing the same.
 
They flirted with Francis because he flirted back.
 
But they sighed over Ashley because, though he was invariably pleasant, his exquisite manners created a distance that rendered him unattainable – and thus increased his attraction.

Meanwhile, the days sped by like sand in a glass.

By the opening night, having sat through three dress-and-technical rehearsals, Ashley knew more about the internal workings of the theatre than he’d ever wanted to but he still elected to watch the play from the wings.
 
He told himself that he was there to see how Etienne and the others performed under fire – and what the audience thought of a properly-constructed fight sequence.
 
It wasn’t true, of course.
 
He wanted to watch Athenais.

Held back by a pair of jewelled combs, her hair flowed down her back in a torrent of gleaming curls that made his fingers itch; the gown of midnight-blue brocade moulded every curve of her diminutive figure and revealed an expanse of creamy skin that made his mouth water; and expert use of cosmetics rendered her eyes hypnotic and her lips seductive enough to make his body tighten.
 
In short, merely looking at her was subtle torture.

Before her first entrance, she remained a little apart from the other players.
 
Her thoughts appeared to be turned inward and she took long, measured breaths whilst shaking her hands loose at the wrist.
 
In the preceding days, he’d been aware of her watching him work.
 
Now she didn’t even seem to know he was there.
 
Every atom of concentration was focussed on what she was about to do and every distraction was firmly shut out.
 
She looked like a soldier in the last moments before a battle.
 
Ashley retreated into the shadows.
 
She did not need him now.

When at last she stepped out upon the stage, the house greeted her with enthusiasm and then fell silent.
 
Witnessing her performance at closer quarters than usual, Ashley was aware of nuances he’d never noticed before.
 
He saw how her expression softened when she touched Etienne Lepreux’s cheek … how her breath seemed to catch when he put his arm about her … how she all but melted into his body when they kissed.
 
She really was an incredible actress, thought Ashley.
 
It really looked as though she meant it.
 

Perhaps she does,
said a nasty little demon in his head
.
 
Then again, she was like that with you, wasn’t she?
 
If it isn’t real now, it may not have been real then.
 
Since she’s so good at pretending, how could any man ever be sure that she’s sincere?

The whole thing was beginning to threaten his sanity and make him wonder what in hell was wrong with him.
 
In his entire life, his wits had never been so scrambled over a woman. But right now the question of distinguishing truth from illusion had him clenching his fists until they ached.

The pyrotechnical effects drew gasps from the audience and then coughs and sneezes as the auditorium became wreathed in smoke. The comic fight in the second act provoked gales of laughter and good-humoured catcalls and the more violent one in Act Four finished on a storm of applause.
 

Exiting the stage, Etienne slapped Ashley on the shoulder and said, ‘Thank you, Colonel.
 
That felt … it actually felt good.’

‘You did well,’ nodded Ashley.
 
‘All three of you.’
 

Detaching himself from his corner, he passed Francis murmuring, ‘Have fun.
 
Doubtless you’ll escort the ladies home?’
 
And, leaving by the stage-door, he made his way out into the cold, night air.
 
He’d seen the last act three times already and, knowing what was in it, had absolutely no wish to see it a fourth.
 
His guts were churning enough as it was.

~
 
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Thinking that a walk might be the best cure for his mental state, he decided to make a detour to find out if Jem had any new information.
 
If he hadn’t, Ashley reflected, there was really no point in continuing the surveillance.

A brief, specific whistle brought Jem ambling down to the corner where he waited out of sight of Mistress Walter’s windows.

‘A new face tonight,’ grunted Jem.
 
‘Been in there a while, an’ all.’

‘He’s still there?’

‘Aye.
 
Tall fellow with an eye-patch.’

Ashley frowned.
 
‘Hair?’

‘Dark.
 
Black, most likely.
 
And lots of it.’
 
He waited expectantly and then, when the Colonel said nothing, ‘You going to wait to see him for yourself?’

‘No.’ The frown intensified.
 
‘If it’s who I think it is, he lives in the Rue des Minimes – near the H
ô
tel des Vaux.
 
Follow him when he leaves and let me know as soon as you can.
 
Tonight, if possible.’

‘Want to give me a name, Colonel?’

‘Not until I’ve made some further enquiries,’ came the clipped reply.
 
‘Just do as I’ve asked, will you?’
 
And he walked away.

Ashley wasn’t more than a street away when he realised that he was being followed.
 
Again.
 
Only this time, it wasn’t just one pair of feet – it was at least three; and, though they were taking some care to be quiet, all of them were wearing boots.
 
He loosened his sword in its sheath, paused briefly in the shadows of a doorway to take out his knife and then strode on in the general direction of the Rue des Rosiers.
 

He was making what he’d hoped would be a discreet detour between two high-walled gardens when a figure stepped out in front of him, swiftly followed by a second one.
 
He knew immediately that they were not thieves. He also knew that they weren’t there simply to hurt him.
 
If you wanted to give someone a beating, you sent fellows with muscles and big sticks.
 
Even in the fitful light of the courtyard, he could tell that his potential assailants were well-dressed and carrying swords.
 
So … a killing matter, then.

‘Damn,’ breathed Ashley.
 
And then, as a third man materialised away to his left, ‘Double damn.’

Dealing with two men was viable – dealing with three, less so.
 
If all of them rushed him at once … but they wouldn’t, he thought.
 
He hoped.
 
One of them was in charge and would want his moment of glory.
 
The others would only join in if Monsieur Watch-Me-Be-A-Hero’s attack looked likely to fail. That meant he needed to disable the fellow very fast and very thoroughly if he was to stand any chance of getting past the other two.
 
His gaze swept over the space around him, taking in the fact that it narrowed to half-width where the third man lounged against the wall and that, between himself and where the other two stood, a gnarled tree-branch overhung one of the walls.
 
Finally, on the far side of the courtyard, a flight of narrow steps curled up to he knew not where – which wasn’t likely to be particularly useful.

The man to his left couldn’t see the knife in his right hand and was probably expecting him to draw his sword.
 
Moreover, decided Ashley, that insolent pose spoke of over-confidence.
 
He’d seen that kind of idiocy more times than he could count.
 
Young fellows who’d learned their swordsmanship in the best schools and were full of bravado without ever sparing a thought about what they might be up against.
 
This one clearly didn’t know that his provocative attitude was an open invitation.
 

I could throw the knife
.
I can take him down from here
.
 

But if he did that, the other two would be upon him before he could retrieve his blade and, for a number of reasons, he wanted it back.
 
So keeping the knife hidden against his thigh, he strolled in seemingly idle fashion towards the would-be-hero, saying, ‘Were you looking for me in particular – or would anyone be fair game?’

The man detached himself from the wall, drew his sword and took a couple of steps forward. ‘I’d say that’s likely to be the least of your worries.’

Mentally measuring the distance and bunching his muscles ready to spring, Ashley halted at a precisely calculated spot.

‘What worries?’ he asked.
 
And threw the knife with deadly accuracy.

It took the would-be assassin straight through his Adam’s apple.
 
His face registered surprise and his knees buckled; but, before he hit the ground, Ashley was on him, wrenching the knife free with his left hand, pulling his sword screaming from its sheath and swinging round to face the other two men.

They were already bearing down on him but their pace slowed as they realised just how easily he’d despatched their comrade.
 
One of them appeared to have half an ostrich cascading from his hat; the other’s coat was adorned with the kind of elaborate floral embroidery usually favoured by women.
 
Any professional assassin, reflected Ashley distantly, would laugh himself silly.
 

His own smile cold and hard, he said, ‘Your choice, gentlemen. You can still walk away.’

‘And you can still die,’ spat Feather-head.
 
Then, without bothering to alert his companion, he moved straight into the attack.

Ashley parried the first blow and side-stepped the second so as to put the wall behind him before the other man could join in the fray.
 
Then the fight exploded in earnest.

Using both sword and knife along with a good deal of physical dexterity, he managed to keep his attackers at bay whilst mentally evaluating both their skill and his options.
 
As far as the latter were concerned, he didn’t have many.
 
Running wasn’t possible – and he wouldn’t have done it anyway.
 
He wanted one of these fellows either
hors de combat
or permanently out of the game – it didn’t matter which – and the other on the ground facing the point of his sword so he could ask the obvious question.
 

These young gallants weren’t here on their own account.
 
Someone had sent them.
 
Although he’d made various discreet enquiries regarding both Hyde’s letter and Lucy Walter, none were so far likely to have occasioned a serious desire for his demise - which left only one likely choice. The Marquis bloody d’Auxerre who, Ashley suspected, would be delighted to see his head on a pike.

He twisted to avoid a vicious slash to his left hand and swept his blade in a gleaming arc to push the other man back. Steel clamoured against steel, hissing and slithering in a wild
accelerando
.
 
It was time to get serious and to stop using his brain for any function other than keeping himself alive.
 

In two extremely fast and complex moves, he forced one assailant back in order to avoid a slash that would have severed his hamstring and, pivoting, delivered a single, hard kick to the other’s sword-hand.
 
It worked but not as well as he’d hoped.
 
He succeeded in temporarily disarming Feather-head but failed to completely dodge a clumsy lunge from Monsieur Fleur.
 
Cold steel pierced his left arm just above the elbow and, for a moment, pain took his breath. Blood started to flow down towards his hand but he kept a firm grip on the knife.

Feather-head was already sweeping around in search of his blade.
 
Luckily, it had landed several yards away near the spiral steps.
 
Ashley calculated that if, as he’d intended, his boot had struck the precise point on the wrist which rendered its owner’s hand useless, he had about a minute of one-on-one fighting to bring the pretty fellow down.
 
Without wasting a second of it, he launched a fierce, driving attack with both knife and sword that gave his opponent no opportunity to do more than attempt to defend himself as he retreated.
 
His mouth set in a hard line and not taking his eyes off the man’s face for an instant, Ashley completed a series of moves that gave him the opening his wanted. Deflecting the enemy blade with a savage parry, he drove his own deep into Monsieur Fleur’s right shoulder at the spot that would disable his arm, whilst simultaneously hooking his feet from under him.
 
The man howled and dropped like a stone.
 
His hat rolled away across the cobbles, revealing bright, almost too-blond hair and the traitorous wink of a diamond in his ear.

Ashley made the connection but hadn’t time to think about. The bastard wasn’t going to die any time soon, so he’d question him later.
 
Meanwhile … he swivelled, just in time to deflect the sword-point that was about to be driven into his back.

Bloody hell
, he thought, trying to recover his breath and feeling stickiness on the fingers holding the knife.
 
Persistent, aren’t they?

Feather-head lunged.
 
Ashley parried, produced a clever and little known riposte and glided out of the way.
 
Feather-head charged again, grunting.
 
Ashley responded with a swift counter-exchange.
 
Then, allowing the blades to tangle, he locked them together, bringing Feather-head within easy range of the knife.
 
Feeling the sharp, slender point piercing the side of his coat just beneath the second rib, the man came to an abrupt halt, his gaze frozen like that of a rabbit in the light.
 

Ashley never killed by accident or if he didn’t have to.
 
Feather-head’s current position was such that he couldn’t do a damned thing to defend himself.
 
Consequently, Ashley was just about to end the bout by inflicting serious but non-fatal pain when there was a tell-tale scrape of metal … and Feather-head hissed, ‘Henri –
now!
’

Withdrawing the knife a fraction, Ashley smashed his knee into the fellow’s groin and pivoted at the same moment – but he was a second too late.
 
Even as Feather-head howled and went down clutching his balls, a sword was thrust deep into his own thigh and withdrawn with such excruciatingly savage clumsiness that he lost both his balance and all sense of what he was doing.
 
His sword clattered to the ground and he dropped involuntarily on to his good knee on the cobbles. He tried to think past the blinding agony but, before he could gather himself, a boot smacked into the back of his skull, sending him down on his face.
 
Henri, he supposed hazily, had found his blade; and, since his right arm was paralysed at the shoulder, he was using his left.
 
Badly.

Groping for his own sword-hilt but failing to find it, Ashley rolled over just in time to see Henri poised to take another wild stab at him.
 
There wasn’t much he could do but he tried anyway, instinctively twisting to one side to avoid the blade and bringing up his knees in preparation to ram his feet into Henri’s stomach.
 
He escaped the second thrust by mere inches but the attempt to use his legs sent pain screaming through his entire body.
 
His vision blurred, then darkened on the image of Henri coming at him again.

And, as he felt himself sliding towards oblivion, he thought,
 
Now? God has a sense of humour after all.

~
 
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