My Lady Jane(73)

She dropped a set of keys at his feet and nudged them as if she were in a hurry.

He snatched them up and wondered if her getaway wasn’t exactly clean.

It wasn’t. He heard footsteps charging up the stairwell.

Only, there were at least ten keys on the ring.

“Which one?” he muttered. He shoved the first one in the lock and jangled it about. No luck.

As he tried the second, Jane climbed up his pants and shirt and traversed across his arm as if to add urgency to the situation.

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

Third key. The lock didn’t budge.

The footsteps got closer and closer.

Fourth key. Nothing.

Jane dug her tiny claws into his wrist.

“You’re not helping,” G pointed out.

The guard was just outside the door. “Where are you, ye little rat!”

Jane dug her claws in again.

“Don’t worry, my sweet. He didn’t mean it.”

The fifth key did the trick. The lock clicked. All three of them heard it. Just as the guard charged the heavy wooden door, G pulled it wide open. The guard fell in and G struck him on the head with the bedpost. The guard crumpled to the floor, unmoving, but breathing.

“Quick!” G whisked Jane up to his shoulder and grabbed the guard’s sword.

As he crept down the stairs, it occurred to him that as a weasel, she could’ve saved herself and left him to die. Again.

But when the time came, she didn’t. Again.

This was the perfect time of night to escape the Tower of London, mostly because it was the time with the fewest number of guards, and the ones on duty were either exhausted or sneaking sips from a hidden flask.

Nevertheless, G and Jane ran into three guards. After all, they were royal prisoners. They couldn’t expect to make it to the stables completely unhindered.

The first guard G dispatched quickly in a move that Jane would probably describe as elegant swordsmanship, but he knew was really the result of the sword slipping from his sweaty hand. As he lunged to retrieve it before it hit the ground, he plunged the sword through the heart of a guard who was just rounding the corner.

The second encounter was not so graceful. The guard raised his sword and his other hand in a fighting stance, and G did the same, hoping it wasn’t obvious he’d skipped out on half of his childhood fencing lessons in favor of playing his favorite rhyming game with one of his nannies.

The two stood there for a long time, staring, preparing for what? G wondered. Attack/counterattack? Someone to give the go-ahead?

Jane, impatient with the stare down, scampered off G’s shoulder, across the floor to the guard, up his leg, and inside his shirt.

The guard did some strange jerky motions, not unlike a young child learning the famed estampie dance from Spain. G used the distraction to dispatch the man, making sure to aim his sword away from any bulky parts where Jane might be.

The third guard came along, saw the bleeding second guard, looked at Gifford with his sword raised (a formidable sight, if one wasn’t aware of his sword skills), and took off running.

G scooped Jane up and sprinted away as well. He started toward the stables where he’d first been held.

“We must hurry,” he said, trying not to imagine what he looked like, talking to the hedgehog on his shoulder. “That one will probably sound an alarm. We need a horse.”

The little rodent dug her claws into his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, but we need one that stays a horse. Especially if soldiers will be chasing us soon.”

He opened the stable door as quietly as possible, backed inside, looking for any pursuers, and when there were none, he shut the door, turned around, and nearly ran into the pointy end of a man’s sword.

The sword’s owner was a tall man with a beard and a uniform, but not the soldier kind of uniform. More like the hired-help kind.

G put his hand on his rat in an automatic protective motion.

“Please,” he said. But before he could go on, the man lowered his sword.

“Are you Gifford?”

G didn’t know if he should try to deny his identity, but there was no point. He nodded.

“Where’s the queen?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man pushed by him and opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then shut it again.

“Where’s the queen?” he said again.

“I’m afraid you won’t believe me if I tell you,” G responded.

“Try me.”

G took Jane off his shoulder—she was trembling—and cradled her in his arms. “She’s here.”

The man’s scowl softened, and he leaned forward with a smile. “Ah! She’s a wee ferret. She’s a beau’iful thing.”

“Ferret!” G exclaimed. “That’s what you are, my dear, a ferret.” He’d heard of the creatures, but he’d never seen one. “See? So much better than a rat.”

The man grabbed G’s arm and pulled him toward the stables. “We’d best be getting you on your way, if you have any hope of escaping.”

“Who are you?” G asked again. “Are you the one who slid the letter under my door?”

The man nodded. “Name’s Peter Bannister. I’m the royal kennel master. I was loyal to King Edward. Sent my daughter to protect him, but a lot of good that did.”