Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(64)

Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s the enemy. He’s a liar.

With her hands still tied, Phoebe reached up and wrenched the gag down past her chin. “Hope,” she gasped. “Those bloody bastards stole my bag.”

“What does—”

“The extra bracelet,” she cried over the pounding hoofbeats. “The one we brought for Sarah. It was inside.”

Phoebe’s stricken look made my heart plummet. My mom’s bracelet was gone. Without it, we didn’t have enough lodestones for us all to get home.

“Jesus, Hope, what will we do?”

“I don’t know,” I panted as the horse pounded beneath me. “We’ll figure it out. But first—”

The thud of pursuit sounded on the muddy street behind us. I knew there was only one place we might—might—find refuge.

“This way.” I kneed my horse, jerking the reins to the left. “We’re going to Baynard’s Castle. It’s our only shot.”

We raced, side by side, down one crooked lane after another. At each turn, they gained on us. Cold air that stank of fish and the dank Thames stole my breath as it rushed past my face.

“Good girl,” I called to my horse. “Keep going.”

“Bloody damn! Hope, they’re coming.”

“Go,” I urged.

“Help us,” I screamed to the guards as we thundered toward the gate, playing my only card. “Sister Hectare sent for us, but there are thieves on our tail.”

The guards exchanged a look. One shrugged and stepped aside. We plunged through the gate just as the other shouted for the crew behind us to halt.

“What now?” Phoebe asked as we thundered across the courtyard to the front entrance.

“Now we pray Sister Hectare is here,” I huffed. “And that she’ll help us.”

After dismounting, I quickly untied Phoebe’s hands. It took every bit of breathless coaxing before the stern-faced guard at the front entrance agreed to send a servant to see if Sister Hectare was there.

He allowed us inside the entrance hall but set a pimply guard to watch us. The castle had an empty feeling. Only a few torches, set at intervals, lit the long hallway as the minutes passed.

Come on. Please be here. Please.

I heard a woman’s raised voice just outside the massive front doors.

“Oh crap,” I whispered to Phoebe. “I think they got in the gate.”

“What is your business here?”

I whirled to find a wimpled servant approaching, one I’d seen in Eleanor’s chambers—Was it only yesterday? She was scowling, which didn’t bode well for us.

I assumed what I hoped was an imperious demeanor. “It’s imperative that we see Sister Hectare immediately.”

The servant eyed our soiled, wrinkled gowns. “I assume that the good sister has gone with the queen to the Tower, where she and the king reside until coronation on the morrow. And even if she were here, it is late and I would not disturb her.”

Idiot. I chastised myself. You knew that. Even in our own time, the king or queen traditionally stays at the Tower of London the night before their coronation.

“Thank you, Wilifred.”

My knees went weak as Thomas Becket, still disheveled and out of breath, slithered out from a side door.

Where the hell did he come from? I forced myself not to flinch. Beside me, Phoebe let out a quiet groan.

A malevolent smile played around Becket’s mouth. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, good madam,” he said to the servant. “I’ll see these young ladies returned to their rightful place.”

“Father Thomas.” Wilifred’s age-spotted hand rose to her chest at the sight of the priest. Blotches of red spread across her withered cheeks, and I swear she fluttered her drooping old eyelids at him. “You know I would do anything for you. It is so nice to see a decent English face among all these . . . foreigners.”

With a last glance over her shoulder, the aged servant mounted the steps. Thomas Becket turned to us with a triumphant sneer.

Ignoring Phoebe, Becket reached forward and grasped my chin in a pinching grip. His malicious eyes bored into mine. His breath stank of old meat. “Lady Celia claims that besides being a spy for the loathsome French, you seek the stone as well. I guarantee, however, that I shall learn your secrets before this night is over.” His long fingers squashed my cheeks against my teeth so hard, I tasted blood. “You silly, stupid little girl.”

“And yet,” a vibrant voice spoke from a darkened doorway, “you seem somehow afraid of her, Thomas. Why is that?”

With a wrench, Becket released me. I spun, then sank to my knees as a round, magnificent figure glided toward us.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stuttered, bowing. “What are you doing here? I had thought you abed in the Tower.”

Eleanor of Aquitaine ignored the question. She brushed by Becket and waved a pale hand to Phoebe and me. “Get up, get up.”

Inserting herself between us and the priest, Eleanor turned to Becket. “The better question, I think,” she said, “is why are you here, Thomas? Henry was bellowing for you earlier. Why is it that you are not stuck to his side?”

A shadow rippled over Becket’s face. He glanced over at a set of steps. From the damp, fishy smell that wafted from that direction, I thought they must lead down to the river landing, where boats could transport people quicker from one castle to another.