“We will all hang,” Mary said, disgusted.
“His Grace won’t,” Walter added helpfully.
They stayed back on the road, where they could lurk unnoticed for the time being. “Perhaps if we go around back,” John murmured, calculating. They could pretend they were serving boys. Except everyone recognized Henry . . .
The king swung off his horse. “Never mind. I’ll take care of this. Walter, can you walk?”
“Yes, sire.” The clerk slid down more cautiously, and wonder of wonders, once on the ground, he stayed upright.
“Lord John, follow my lead,” Henry said. “Whatever anyone asks, tell them I ordered you.” John blinked at the king, nonplussed. Maybe the boy knew what he was about after all. Henry then turned to Mary. “Lady Mary, you and your sister must keep out of this mess.”
“Not at all,” Mary said vehemently. “I’ve got to keep you lot out of trouble—”
John looked at her. “He’s right. Whatever happens, it’s best if you aren’t tangled up in it. You should wait here with the horses.”
The implication was clear, even if his sister didn’t want to admit it: the ladies had their reputations to think of. Mary locked her mouth shut and glared. She took one set of reins, Eleanor the other.
“Lady Mary, Lady Eleanor—thank you. I hope to see you again soon.” King Henry beamed at them. Well, at least someone had had fun this night. The sisters bowed in return.
“I’ll be back in a moment, once we’ve cleared this up,” John assured her, and hoped it was true.
On foot then, like vagrants, the king, the clerk, and young lord entered the courtyard. It didn’t take long for them to be noticed.
“Sire!” one guard exclaimed, then all fell silent and every face turned to them. At Henry’s right shoulder, John held himself straight through an act of will. At the king’s left, Walter wilted but kept his feet at least.
Chin up, imperious, King Henry III marched to the palace doors, where the Bishop of Winchester, the Chief Justiciar, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and a half dozen of the most powerful men in the kingdom waited. If John thought about it too much, he would be horrified, but he kept his gaze on Henry. He’d made his oath to the king, not these men. And Henry actually seemed to know what he was doing.
“My lords,” Henry said. “What’s all this?”
After a nervous conference between the councilors, made with glances and frowns, Peter des Roches was the one who stepped forward. “Your Grace! You . . . you were missing.”
“Yes. We had business. But we were well protected.” He glanced at John, who tried very hard to look like someone who could protect the king on the road, at night, single-handed.
“Your Grace, I must protest—”
“We met one of your clerks on the way,” Henry continued. “He was set upon by attackers, right here in Westminster.”
The Bishop of Winchester stared as if poleaxed.
“My lord bishop,” Walter murmured apologetically, keeping his gaze on the ground.
“He nearly died,” Henry added ominously.
Des Roches studied them. Walter had begun to sway again. “Walter, perhaps you should go to the abbey’s infirmary to be looked at.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Walter said, and managed one more bow to the king before fleeing.
Hubert de Burgh appeared to collect himself in the face of a situation he probably was not expecting and stepped ahead of the bishop to take control. “Your Grace, if there are outlaws abroad, you should have immediately summoned help.”
“We are not sure this is a case of outlaws so much as politics,” Henry said.
Meanwhile, John had time to scan the courtyard, which had enough shadows for a group of dark-cloaked men to hide in. He had worked hard to note them, to mark what features he could in case he might find them again. And . . . there, standing by a brazier, the original three who’d dragged off Walter. They were burning a letter.
“There they are, Your Grace,” he said to Henry, but the others heard, and everyone looked.
The king said, “Lord Justiciar, we heard tell of a letter that was meant to incriminate certain of our servants. Would you have any idea what such a letter might say?”
De Burgh, his expression steady, glanced at his men, one of whom was stamping out the last ashes of the burned page. John watched de Burgh for the least flicker of a reaction, and stood behind his liege lord as if behind a shield.