Laughter roared as loud as the flames around him as Ferghus O’Malley pointed a hand at the challenger dressed in a long frock coat striding up the nave toward him. “You’re a dead man.”
The Scotsman’s black hair was pulled back from his widow’s peak into a tight tail behind him. He sported a brace of four-barreled Lancaster pistols. Malcolm MacFarlane fired off two shots before he ducked below a bolt of fire that flared over his head. From his crouched position Malcolm shot again, and the shells shattered near the cackling Irishman’s head before the flaming target leapt into the surging mob that was only trying to escape him. Malcolm cursed and fought into the crowd to close on the Irishman.
Assured that the gun-wielding Scotsman protected his flank, Simon Archer drew the confused King William onto his feet. “Apologies for manhandling you, Your Majesty, but please follow the lovely lady behind you. She will lead you and the queen to safety.” Though it was phrased as a polite request, the timbre of his voice brooked no argument. These two attackers—Ferghus O’Malley and Baroness Conrad—were terrible threats with a legendary history of carnage and horror.
Simon didn’t check to see if, in fact, the lovely lady was present; he knew she would be in the proper place. A tall regal woman with auburn hair was already busy herding bishops and earls and countesses under the shadows of the poet Chaucer in the south transept. She wore a full-length velvet cloak of royal blue trimmed with gold. Despite hurried gestures, her stature and grace depicted breeding and manners.
The king hesitated with fear in his expression. “My niece. I can’t leave—”
Simon turned to the north transept where the king stared. Amidst the frantic mob being shoved aside by the annoyed Baroness, he noted the small shape of a desperate child nearly lost in the melee. No one paid the young girl any mind. Simon nodded sharply to the worried old man. “I’ll see to her, on my word. You must go quickly, sir, before the Baroness can reach you.” Simon signaled toward the woman behind them. “Kate, take His Majesty, would you?”
The auburn-haired woman finished giving an archbishop a shove through the door, sending his high mitre flying, then she put two fingers to her lips and let loose a sharp whistle at the king. She jerked her head at the exit behind her and tossed back her elegant cloak to reveal a calf-length wool skirt and a linen blouse across which was draped a soldier’s bandolier. In place of ammunition, the leather slots held numerous glass vials. From her belt, she pulled a length of metal some two feet long with a curved grip at one end. With a flick of a finger on an unseen switch, two prongs unfolded from its front. It was a strange crossbow. She came toward the king, impatient that he was barely shuffling in her direction.
King William regarded her suspiciously until his eyes widened in recognition. “My word. Katherine Anstruther.” Then he started to turn away. “But I can’t leave that poor girl.”
Kate grabbed the king by the arm and yanked him to the exit. She spared only a brief glance at Simon before giving the king another more gentle shove out. “Simon Archer will fetch your niece. Now come on, a little faster would be better.”
With the king safe, Simon spun to the Baroness, watching the stark white of her hair as she came closer through the mob. Finally the last of the stumbling nobility cleared and the strange woman with four arms stood facing Simon twenty yards away. Something moved beside her. One of her metal hands was clamped around the lacy wrist of the small girl Simon had been after.
Princess Victoria, the niece of the king and queen and the heir to the realm.
The Baroness lifted the girl, who was barely eleven years old, off the ground like a fresh-bagged quail. “The king left something important behind. Now stand aside or I’ll kill her.”
Simon kept his sword raised but froze in his tracks.
“Run her through!” the young princess shouted, grasping the Baroness’s goggles and wrenching them aside.