Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(26)

Her horse faltered below her, confused. Then it began picking up speed. Eyeing its saddle, Madeleine pushed against the lance and released her grip. She plummeted downward, hoping to time her trajectory right. Hoping that the laws of physics she had learned from Xenophilus — angles of momentum, vectors and velocity — would save her life.

With a loud whomp, she landed heavily on its back. The horse let out a baffled whinny. Its legs nearly gave out, but fear took charge and it dug in harder.

“In the name of — come back here, you coward!” shouted King Henry from behind her.

The horse was heading at full tilt toward the palace’s stone gate. Four feet thick, it had been opened to let out an ornate, gilded black carriage. Now the gate was rising, and the guards stared at her in dismay. “What the devil are you doin’?” one of them screamed, running into her pathway. “Ye’ll get yerself killt!”

The horse was frothing now. It whinnied again, picking up speed. At the last second, the guard leaped out of the way.

Her eyes on the retreating carriage, Madeleine held tight as the horse squeezed through the gap.

“There, Father! That’ll be the tree!” Master Winthrop said, pointing through the window of the royal carriage.

“Are ye sure, son?” his father said. “It looks like every other tree in the forest.”

“The knothole. It’s in the right place. The two branches like the arms of a dancer!” Winthrop barely waited for the carriage to stop before he leaped out.

Luke Cahill grabbed a torch as his son raced to the knothole. Although it was morning, the thick tree cover made the forest dark. Luke had given clear instructions. They were to reach in to that hole together. He could not risk the clumsiness of an eleven-year-old’s fingers destroying anything fragile. If the girl had hidden something crucial — his father’s full list of ingredients, perhaps …

Or was it their father’s? His and the girl’s? All night, in his dreams, he had seen Madeleine’s face — her features transforming into Olivia’s and then Gideon’s. Her mannerisms were so like Jane’s, her voice nearly identical to Katherine’s. What if she were his sister? How could he countenance her death?

“Father, come!” Luke was snapped back into reality by the voice of his son. His only real family.

You sentimental fool, he scolded himself, walking toward the tree, you must not be swayed by a face. The world is full of traps.

Winthrop waited by the knothole, his hands clasped together, dancing from foot to foot with excitement. “May I look? May I at least look?”

Luke lit the torch. Ignoring the boy’s request, Luke walked past him and peered into the knothole. He adjusted the torch, but even at full light, all he could see was a gray lump at the bottom.

He reached in carefully, hoping it was not a dead animal — or, worse, a live one with sharp teeth.

His fingers closed around a limp, shapeless mass. He grasped as much as he could, lifted the thing out, and spread it onto the forest floor.

Gray pants. A gray shirt. Gray socks stuffed into rough, black leather shoes. A gray woolen face mask. Disgusted, Luke reached back in but extracted nothing more than wood chips, acorns, and a handful of agitated ants.

“Those were her clothes!” Master Winthrop said. “She was wearing these when she robbed the marketplace!”

Luke’s mind reviewed the layout of the market. The fruits, vegetables, meats on the south end — and the cobblers, tinkers, and clothing merchants to the north. “She had stolen a change of clothes …” he said. “She needed something presentable for the interview. She changed her outfit here.”

Winthrop giggled. “She took off all her clothes outdoors?”

“She was hiding only clothing!” Luke said, kicking the garments in frustration.

“Can you let her go, then, Father?” Winthrop said. “She really is lovely. And … well, have you thought of taking a new wife? The king likes to do that, you know—”

Enough. Luke glared at the boy, and he shrank back.

Behind him sounded the clattering of hooves, swift-moving and strong. Luke glanced up to see trees moving near a blind corner behind his son.

“Winthrop!” he shouted, yanking his son off the road with one hand.

As they both dove away, a team of colossal horses thundered by. Luke sheltered his son with his body as soil and branches rained over them. He heard his own driver shouting in shock, followed by the shriek of horses and the crack of splitting wood.

It was over in an instant, but not before Luke had a chance to see the receding carriage.

Its color was black and deep purple, with a gilded V painted on its side like a bolt of lightning. Through the oval of the rear window, Luke spotted a shock of black hair with a streak of silver.

Vesper.

Luke felt his blood rise. Nineteen years had only sharpened his rage at the murderer of his father.

“What was that?” Master Winthrop asked.

Luke’s own carriage lay in splinters at the other side of the road, the horses bolting into the woods and the driver wandering dazedly.

“It is the man who made me what I am,” Luke said between gritted teeth. He grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck. “Follow me!”

Damien Vesper hated the countryside. Too much fresh air led to high spirits. And high spirits made people into idiots.