he asked.
“As much as we may give,” came the cryptic response. “Now we must depart.”
“You cannot leave,” another voice objected, as Lord Sussex came swaggering forward. “Not whilst there can be any doubt.”
From the deep shade his hat afforded, Arvel eyed the man warily. Sussex trusted no one and he searched for ways of placating him. All that mattered now was for Bosco-Uttwar and himself to escape this place with their great harvest.
“There are medicines we must bring before daybreak,” he said quickly.
“Does it require the pair of you to fetch them?” asked the suspicious Sussex.
“Indeed it does,” Arvel insisted. “There is a great deal of preparation involved. Four hands may barely have sufficient time.”
Sussex fingered his neat little beard. His instincts told him that something was amiss but, before he could speak again, Sir William Cecil came to the physicians’ defence.
“Let the gentlemen be,” the Queen’s adviser demanded. “You seek for conspiracy and treason in every corner.”
Scowling, Lord Sussex backed away and Cecil escorted the cloaked strangers towards the long gallery which led to the main staircase.
“Till before the dawn then,” he said. “Let us hope the new day will bring us glad and hopeful news.”
The physicians bowed, but in that instant there came a terrified scream from the Queen’s bedchamber.
“Mary!” Lord Robert cried. Forgetting Arvel’s false warning, he flung the door open. “God’s blood! What is this?”
Rousing from the effects of the incense, Lady Mary Sidney was staggering around the room, shaken and afraid.
Leaping into the chamber, Dudley rushed to the bedside where the Queen appeared as pale and as near to death as ever. With a glance at Mistress Ashley who was still lying upon the floor, Lord Robert flew out of the room, tearing his sword from its sheath. “Hold those men!” he yelled.
Arvel and Bosco-Uttwar were already running down the long gallery, fleeing for their lives. Their cloaks flapping about them and their large, booted feet scattering the rushes, they charged past astonished courtiers, desperate to reach the stairs.
“Assassins!” Lord Robert roared, haring after them, while Sussex and the other nobles fell in behind. “Stop them! Guards! Seize them!”
Battling through the gallery, Arvel thrust blustering officials and shrieking ladies-in-waiting aside, and his assistant did the same. The stairs were not far now, but even if they managed to elude capture long enough to get outside, their lives were surely forfeit.
“It’s no use, Arvel!” Bosco-Uttwar cried. “We’ll never escape this place. There are too many – they will hunt us down.”
His superior said nothing. A stout, florid-faced man suddenly stepped into their path and threw his arms wide to catch them. Not checking his pace, Arvel lashed out and grabbed the front of the man’s doublet.
Exhibiting incredible strength, the physician lifted the wailing obstacle off the ground and hurled him high over his head. Up into the ceiling the flailing man went rocketing, cracking the moulded plaster when he struck it with a crash. Then down he fell. Accompanied by a shower of white dust, he went spinning to the floor, just in time for Lord Robert to hurdle over him.
The way to the stairs was clear now and the cloaked strangers went bounding down them, jumping three at a time. Soon they would be out into the grounds, where the dark, drenching night might hide them. With only ten more steps to freedom, their hope was shattered when a company of guards came bursting into the hall. Swords and spears raised, they swarmed up to meet them.
Clutching hold of the banister, Arvel and Bosco-Uttwar slithered to a halt.
“Back!” Arvel shouted, retracing their galloping strides. “Back, up – up!”
Hard on his heels, his assistant was panicking. He had never known such fear before. He understood too well what kind of barbaric punishments these creatures meted out to those they considered their enemies. He had witnessed countless executions and afterwards seen the spikes of London Bridge adorned with the victims’ heads and limbs.
Lunging on to the topmost step he whirled wildly around. They were trapped. Dudley and the others were already streaming from the gallery to the right, and the stairs seethed with armed guards.
“Where now?” he gasped.
But Arvel was already hastening down a narrow corridor away to the left. “After me!” he called back. “There may yet be a chance, if we can only reach it!”
Bosco-Uttwar did not wait to be told a second time. Up from the stairs the palace guards came surging to join forces with Lord Robert and, as one fearsome column, they rushed after the terrified physicians.
The corridor was dimly lit by solitary candles, their thin flames wavering in the chill draughts. By this poor illumination Bosco-Uttwar saw several doors lining the passage, but Arvel ignored each of them and hurried on.
Ferocious shouts were trumpeting behind him and, to his horror, the assistant saw that the corridor led nowhere. They were running headlong into a blank wall. It was a dead end and they were cornered by a savage mob. There would be no time to explain, these creatures were too ignorant to believe or comprehend them anyway. He knew that they would both see only the gleam of metal and feel thirsty steel plunging into their flesh. In a frenzy of primitive hate, they would be torn to pieces.
“We have them!” Lord Robert’s furious voice bellowed.
Even as the words echoed through the corridor, Arvel threw himself into a doorway which his assistant had not seen. Before Bosco-Uttwar knew what was happening, a gloved hand came reaching out and he was dragged in after.
“Secure the entrance!” Arvel barked, slamming the door and staring frantically around.
The room beyond was small and lit by a single rush light. In that paltry glow he could see a long, low table standing against one wall and he ran to it at once. In a moment the table had been flipped on its end and rammed up against the door.
“There’s no way out of here,” his assistant blurted. “No window and no other exit. We’re trapped!”
The table juddered violently as their pursuers began to kick and heave. “Come out of there! Craven filth!” Lord Sussex demanded.
Holding the table in place, Bosco-Uttwar shook his head in misery. Arvel was still pulling every stick of furniture he could find to fortify the barricade, but it was all in vain.
“Just like one of their rat creatures caught in a hole,” the assistant snivelled as the pounding blows increased.
“A musical hole,” Arvel noted, for he had discovered a number of instruments in the far corner. But there was no time for him to admire their quality.
Discordant jangling interrupted Bosco-Uttwar’s despair as Arvel began dragging a clavichord across the room to prop against the upturned table. From then on, every hammering blow inflicted upon the door was accompanied by a clangorous riot of notes.
The din was unbearable but Arvel merely laughed and ran to pick up the rush light. Bearing the petty flame aloft, he dashed to the fireplace.
“Did I not tell you that it pays to be thorough?” he cried. “For twenty-nine years this has been here, waiting for such an emergency. Behold, Bosco-Uttwar, here is our escape route.”
The relief which flooded over his assistant was overwhelming. Beneath the high collar of his cloak, a wide smile spread across his long face when he gazed gladly upon the mirror which hung above the mantel.
In the passageway, Sussex and Dudley had stepped aside to allow the burliest of the guards to throw their