Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(18)

Threading his way through the crowded market, he was careful to avoid the throngs of buyers. Already he’d squashed a salamander and a tree toad.

Princess Mary Tudor was just ahead. As she walked, her horrid brown ringlets bounced, whisking the shoulders of her dress like little dancing brooms. Her legs were as spindly as twigs, and her shoulders heaved as she sniffled, which was almost all the time. Winthrop’s father, Luke Cahill, said he was to marry her someday. Ha! He would rather live as a boil on the backside of a hairy boar. For one thing, she was only ten, a full year younger. For another, she was a first-class twit. Also, her nose ran faster than her bony legs, and she smelled of elderberries.

Not to mention she was ugly.

Mary held tight to the warty hand of their governess, Mistress Kletsch. With her other hand, Mistress Kletsch squeezed the merchants’ fruits and vegetables while complaining about high prices. As if the king’s governess needed to save money.

As Mary glanced over her shoulder, Master Winthrop cheerfully picked his nose and wiped it on a gooseberry. She crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and turned away in disgust.

Now.

Lunging forward, he pulled back Mary’s collar with one hand and dropped in the newt with the other. The creature’s little eyes flashed with fright before it disappeared into the layers of fine silk and lace.

Princess Mary’s shriek was sweet music.

Winthrop pretended to be examining a particularly interesting fig. “Is something wrong?” he said innocently. Watching the old lady fumble with the folds of clothing was even funnier than Mary’s jerky dance.

“Master Winthrop Cahill, you lowborn pig, my father shall have your head!” the princess yelled.

But the boy’s howls of laughter abruptly ended when the cart of figs and gooseberries came crashing down around him. “Thief! Thief!” a merchant cried out.

Princess Mary’s screams were drowned out by voices shouting, “Over here!” and “Stop him!” As a gray-clad figure darted among the carts, a burly arm hurled a melon through the air. Apples went flying as people dove out of the way, running after the thief. Winthrop watched in awe. A humiliated Mary, a bandit in the market — could life possibly be sweeter?

He felt a reptilian claw closing over his arm. “Come with me, young man,” Mistress Kletsch commanded, pulling him back toward the carriage along with Princess Mary, who was now half undressed and weeping. The governess nearly threw them into the carriage, climbing in after them. “Go, Edward!” she cried.

The driver whipped the horses and the carriage took off. Crafted by King Henry VIII’s master coachmaker, it raced smoothly over the English countryside away from the market. Mary and the governess were both yelling at Master Winthrop now, but all he wanted to do was look outside at the melee.

The carriage jounced abruptly. Winthrop’s heart leaped with glee. Had they run over a dead body? Leaving Mary and the governess to their squealings, he looked out the back window. Alas, nothing to be seen but a dusty receding road.

Disappointed, he turned back. But not before catching a patch of gray wool just beneath the right corner of the window.

Curious, he climbed the seat again and gazed downward.

A pair of eyes gazed back up. The market thief was crouched on the carriage’s running board, dressed in gray and wearing a woolen cap with a mask that covered all but his eyes. Clinging to a metal hook, he cast Master Winthrop a panicked, pleading look.

No. Not he. She. The thin physique, the long-lashed eyes made that clear.

More adventure! There was sure to be a reward for this vagabond, and Edward the driver would revel in the capture.

Winthrop smiled at the thief and winked. Don’t worry, he mouthed. Then he turned to the front of the carriage.

On his way to Edward, he took great care to step on the princess’s foot. “Warty Winthrop!” she cried out.

“Bloody Mary!” he spat back.

The carriage jounced again. Master Winthrop spun around. He looked out the back of the carriage just in time to see the thief running off down the road. And he watched carefully as she stuffed something into the knot of a gnarled oak tree, whose arms looked like those of a wild dancer.

“Wicked, wicked, wicked child!” said old Williams, dragging Master Cahill by the arm though the Persian rug-covered corridors of King Henry VIII’s Palace of Placentia.

“Last time it was four wickeds and one wretched,” Master Winthrop chirped. “Incorrigible, too. Whatever that means.”

Williams tut-tutted, yanking the boy around a marble-columned corner. “What on earth have you done to make dear, gentle old Mistress Kletsch resign? The fifth governess in three months! How can we expect to replace her on such short — where is Hargrove? Hargrove promised he would meet us with another candidate for the king’s approval!”

“Mistress Kletsch smells like the fart of a dying warthog,” Winthrop replied. “And that’s after she has taken a bath.”

“Dastardly boy — foul, odious boy!” Williams said, looking around frantically for his fellow courtier.

“Odious …” Winthrop said. “I like that.”

Stepping into the opening of the king’s chamber, Williams was suddenly calm and ramrod straight. He held Winthrop tightly to his side, set his face into a neutral expression, and cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

Standing next to King Henry was a man with massive shoulders, fierce eyes, and long black hair. As he paced before a line of prisoners, his cape billowed around his gray robe. He was staring at the first man in line, a broad, curly-haired fellow with few teeth and soiled hands.