Continues where Part One left off, the heroine now one of the king's mistresses, the hero virtually his prisoner, on a journey north towards Lincolnshire and the inevitable showdown with the rebels. Romance blooms in subplots involving other characters, intertwining with the central romance, like strangling vines, yet the seven viewpoints in Part One are now trimmed down to two, putting the sufferings of hero and heroine under a microscope, for the reader's greater enjoyment or angst. Towns and characters encountered coming south are revisited going north, a mirror that distorts and amplifies the tragicomic aspect of a world coming unstuck and going round the bend, while a rising tide of evil summons every man, woman, child and pet to the crucial moment of courage or cowardice. Chapters are presented as consecutive days in March 1471, all divided into two, evolving viewpoints, where mutual understanding is an impossibility, only negotiated through the triumph of hearts . Tenderness bridges craziness, and banality disrupts power. It's a long journey. Don't go there if you want just another book.
Continues where Part One left off, the heroine now one of the king's mistresses, the hero virtually his prisoner, on a journey north towards Lincolnshire and the inevitable showdown with the rebels. Romance blooms in subplots involving other characters, intertwining with the central romance, like strangling vines, yet the seven viewpoints in Part One are now trimmed down to two, putting the sufferings of hero and heroine under a microscope, for the reader's greater enjoyment or angst. Towns and characters encountered coming south are revisited going north, a mirror that distorts and amplifies the tragicomic aspect of a world coming unstuck and going round the bend, while a rising tide of evil summons every man, woman, child and pet to the crucial moment of courage or cowardice. Chapters are presented as consecutive days in March 1471, all divided into two, evolving viewpoints, where mutual understanding is an impossibility, only negotiated through the triumph of hearts . Tenderness bridges craziness, and banality disrupts power. It's a long journey. Don't go there if you want just another book.
Saturday 3rd of March 1470
Tomâs eyes opened in total darkness. Where was he?
It was a confined space. The close atmosphere, amplifying a manâs least stir and most intimate noises, suggested something like a tiny prison, where captives could be kennelled while decisions about life and death were settled somewhere else. The angular jut of someoneâs knee, lying on Tomâs right, felt familiar: Easy. Someone else lay snuggling up on Tomâs left side, exuding the faint whiff of foreign perfume: Peter. Timber walls were within comfortable reach of exploring fingertips.
It was a box bed in the Mandeville house.
Tom leaned over Easy and slid the door open. Flames were stretching and yawning in a nearby fireplace, roused by a middle-aged woman introduced to him last night as Cookâher name or her title? She was soon prowling about one of the kitchenâs darker corners, getting things ready for the day, and he had just started dozing off again when some distant bells tolled four, five, six times, marking hours of the clock. Many other bells began chiming soon after, these ones in the irregular rhythm of church towers. The rest of the staff began stirring, rising from makeshift beds. One was a man Tom had first encountered on the journey south, the Mandevillesâ ancient retainer, Old Will; two were junior servants, too low in the household hierarchy for names as yet; and three were hired labourers, engaged in some kind of repairs to a nearby church. Cook helped them to a quick ale and they gradually headed off to their various tasks and errands, leaving Tom, Peter and Easy still keeping warm in their bed opposite the fire, while Wakefield dozed on the floor nearby.
There are worse jobs than loafing about as sergeant-at-arms for two shillings a day but Tom couldnât get comfortable again. An overcrowded bed didnât help, and neither did his surroundings, powerfully reminiscent of his worst fear: water. This houseâhome to Aquarius, Cancer and Piscesâwas once a warehouse for the fishing fleet. Noahâs menagerie and a wrecked boat were moored out in the hall, just a few lanes from the mighty river Thames, whose enormous tides loitered between the city and the sea, coming and going like a giantâs breath. He sat up and furiously scratched his head, coming to terms with his predicament. Events were moving quickly, he recalled. The horrors of yesterdayâs dance were still fresh in memory, and the horrors of the Friendship Tour were due to get started tomorrow. That didnât leave much time to escape. His broken fingers still ached and he looked at his bed-mates to see how they were faring. The fire was bright enough now to shed light on them. Only one of Peterâs eyes was closed, the other being swollen shut by yesterdayâs punch. Easy looked to be in a blissful state between asleep and awake, eyelids slowly opening and closing like a stationary butterflyâs wings. Tom gave him a prod.
âItâs getting late.â
Easy was paid sixpence a day out of Tomâs wages. It was a fraction of what a skilled archer might earn anywhere else but Tom couldnât afford more, having wasted most of his income on Peterâs education abroad, and on the familyâs estate, crumbling under the management of their drunken eldest brother, Ebbtide George. Fortunately, Easy was like the wood of the longbow: though stubborn by nature, he was pliant in the right hands. He rose from his slumbers with barely a murmur of complaint, and dressed himself for all the little errands and chores no day could start without. Meanwhile Peter was making fretful, little noises. He had been dreaming of heroic martyrdom yesterday, the king dead at his feet, thrust through with the pointy end of a candlestick. The discomfort of a black eye gave him other things to dream about this morning. Tom gave him a nudge, and the would-be assassin sat up with a start, as if he had been assaulted.
âWhat did you do that for?â he complained, resting a sheltering hand on the swollen eye.
âWhen?â
âNow. Yesterday. Always.â
âJust bringing you to your senses.â
âLeave me alone.â
He lay down again so as to resume his dreams. Tom half dragged him from bed and soon they were fully clothed and sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table, getting used to the sight of each other again after six years on opposite sides of the North Sea. Nothing more was said about their dispute yesterday. Peter had never been one to hold grudges for long, unless they were political, and Tom wasnât inclined to apologise. A fool like Peter needs a firm hand, and there could be no relaxation in discipline till they were safe out of the kingâs reach.
Where was safe out of the kingâs reach?
The Mandeville house was safe for the moment, or at least as safe as a prison. Easy had reported seeing armed men taking up billets in the neighbourhood yesterday. Their numbers, armaments and deployments still had to be ascertained but, just supposing three fugitives managed to escape whistling arrows, bristling swords and thundering hooves here in Southwarkâwhere next? Home was the Wharfe Valley, whose woods and meadows must be brightening with the yearâs first wildflowers about now, but there could be no safety even amid those tranquil scenes if, as Tom suspected, the so-called Friendship Tour was the kingâs plot to avenge himself on rebels for last yearâs humiliating defeat.
What about Scotland or France? Enemies of an English king have often taken refuge in those lands, but finding a path or a ship not watched by the kingâs agents or not overrun by villains was a hazardous enterprise. Besides, Scotland was a frozen wilderness and even France set Tomâs teeth on edge, thinking of all the water in between. He soon began to feel hot, however, remembering all the wasted letters of credit he had shipped there for Peterâs education. What angered him most wasnât the loss of money, paid out of his own savings; it wasnât even the fact that Peter had deceived him for years with elaborate letters detailing university life in Paris; what made his blood boil was the betrayal by old allies, the Lancastrian exiles who had intercepted Peterâs money, spending it on themselves and their lodgings in Lorraine. But why be surprised! The rebel cause had always been littered with betrayals.
Betrayal wasnât unique to the Lancastrians. The Yorkists were just as addicted to it. If the duke of Clarence and earl of Warwick betrayed the king this year, same as last year, the Friendship Tour could end up another victory for the rebels, and then Tom might once again have the satisfaction of escorting His Yorkist Majesty to prison, hopefully for a longer term of confinement than last time, though a short trip to the scaffold might be just as satisfying. War however is seldom so tidy. If the rebels ever overran the Yorkist camp, they might mistake Tom and Peter for the kingâs friends indeed, and butcher them as traitors. Somehow Tom must get word to them, explaining his predicament: he was only the kingâs friend because Peter was the kingâs hostage.
Meanwhile what about the Mandevilles? Surely Farthings was aware of the dangers to his daughter up north, if the rebels ever caught her in the kingâs retinue. Maybe Tom could work on the fears natural to a father and talk him into leaving her behind. She was such a rabid Yorkist, her knack of being in the wrong place at the worst possible time was so uncanny, she was the very last person Tom wanted hanging about while trying to engineer an escape with his daft-arsed brother. Only a woman born to be a nuisance could have managed to fight a stray goshawk just as Tom was walking past in search of it, and only a pest, destined to cause trouble, would have visited the ruins of Huntingdon Castle on the very night he had chanced to be a guest there! What business was it of hers, dancing with the king just when Tom happened to be dancing with his brother, and what right did she have to cast doubts on Peterâs other dancing partner, the scriptorium candle, even before Tom himself had understood its real significance! What further opportunities to be in the wrong place at the worst time would that fault-finding busybody create for herself during the Friendship Tour? If anyone foiled their escape, it was that creature.
There were footsteps on the floorboards overhead. Hers? It was difficult to think of her waking like other people. Tom could imagine her rising every morning like a marsh mist, the mattress dank with condensed spite. According to information Easy had obtained yesterday, their box bed, so conveniently located near the fireplace, used to be shared by the previous sergeant-at-arms and the head carpenter, but they had resigned with half a dozen others as soon as they had learned of her imminent return from Bourne. She had the Plagueâs talent for creating vacancies but was there some way to be friends with her?
Or was there some way to be friends with her, enough at least to buy some peace for a while, or even an uneasy truce? She had struck Tom in the face twice now, first with a slap in her auntâs house and yesterday with a closed fist. That wasnât good progress so far. On the other hand, she had seemed to accept his presence in the house last night. It was in the suspicious but measured way a cat accepts the arrival of a collared watchdog but could it be the beginning of something friendlier?
Lord Hastings wanted her trained. What exactly did this entail? Tom was too experienced a warrior to act on vague orders that could end in disgrace. Orders like those leave a warrior to take all the blame when things go horribly wrong or, worse still, horribly right. Should he warn her about the Lord Chamberlain? Would she be grateful? It was best to tell her nothing. If she went on the Friendship Tour as entertainment for some priapic Yorkists, those Yorkists would have less time for the serious business of war. And it would serve them all right.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew Tomâs eyes to the passage from the hall. It was Square, the melancholy brother, and he treated Tom to a bow that would have done justice to a duke.
âGood day to you, oh Knight of the Lost Sabaton!â
A legend gets used to being greeted with exaggerated respect, though not quite like this, and Tom managed a courteous nod in reply. The brother was clearly a bit crazy but that was no reason to despise him. In fact, he had the look and manner of some of Tomâs most trusted comrades: his stolid jaw, his chronic air of gloomy patience, his occasional air of enthusiasm and wild hopeâit was a very Lancastrian look these days, after long years of empty promises, betrayals and defeats. No doubt he had suffered all that at the hands of his sister and father, and maybe he was as close to an ally as Tom could hope for in a house such as this. Or was Square getting too close? He had begun making friends with Peter yesterday.
Unlike his domineering sister, Square was no admirer of the Yorkist king. She must have starved him of political discussions or he wouldnât have swallowed all Peterâs prattle last night. Peter was always happy to talk politics, especially now that he was no longer an Italian dance instructor, and Square had quickly forgiven him for the earlier pretence, just as he had forgiven Tom for the false beard. Their talk yesterday had outlasted the fire, edging so close to blatant treason that Tom had finally told them both to shut up so that everyone could get some sleep. Now Square was already awake and so eager to continue their friendship that he volunteered to help Easy organise poultices for Peterâs black eye and Tomâs broken fingers. The pantry supplied the ingredients, mainly herbs, rendered sticky with butter. Easy was bandaging the concoction around Tomâs hand, and Square was packing it around Peterâs swollen eye, when conversation already began to grow careless.
âYou would make a good physician, My Friend,â said Peter, looking comfortable in spite of his buttered black eye. âYou have the healing touch.â
âI have enough trouble just being a carpenter,â Square responded, gingerly poking mint leaves and groundsel under the would-be assassinâs eyebrow. âI was working on Noah the other day, when the chisel slipped and I broke off his nose. I couldnât see my way to fixing it, so I cut the head off and replaced it. Now the new head looks to be turning out even worse. It just wonât sit right.â
âThen your Noah is like our England,â said Peter, tilting his face backwards to stop the butter sliding off. âThe new head has turned out even worse than the old one. Put the old one back, God willing, and youâll soon see an improvement.â
They were lucky nobody else was listening. Cook was near enough to overhear but too busy punching dough to detect political innuendo, and maybe politics never bothered her. Their luck couldnât last, so Tom gave Peter a cautionary glare, and yet that didnât stop him and his new chum once again airing treason as openly as if it were mint and groundsel.
âI often include our old king in my prayers,â Square revealed as he tied a bandage around Peterâs head, clamping a flock of wool to the swollen eye, âand then I think maybe an angel will unlock the Tower someday, so that he might walk out a free man once more.â
âIt is our duty as Englishmen to release him ourselves, not wait for miracles!â declared Peter, banging a Lancastrian fist on the table. âGod expects courage, My Friend, not wishful thinking.â
More steps were making themselves audible overhead, so Tom gave Peter a sharp kick under the table, in case the sister was getting ready to join them. Her suspicious mind hadnât missed the treasonable significance of yesterdayâs candlestick, and she would have no trouble detecting sedition brewing in her own kitchen. The next one downstairs however turned out to be the fancy maid, Matilda, dressed as elegantly as if she were the real lady of the house, but soused in so much perfume, it was as if Spring and Summer had arrived all at once. Easy had spent a lot of time in her company yesterday and his efforts were already bearing fruit. Here was another pair getting too close for comfort.
âIs that a buttered poultice I smell?â she opined as she drifted around the kitchen. Her perfume drowned out every other odour in the vicinity yet she would have been blind to miss the visible evidence still on the table, or the bandages on Peterâs face and Tomâs hand. âIs someone hurt? I cannot abide anotherâs pain, poor, gentle woman that I am.â
She rested a hand against her poor bosom, emphasizing and exaggerating its gentle swell.
âA womanâs nature is like her body: all softness,â Easy cooed, happy to take the bait. âMake me a poultice for my broken heart!â
âYou look respectable enough this morning, minus your devilish helmet,â was her coy reply, âand I might suffer your impertinence to continue, if you leave it off.â
âI have a salve for anything that ails you, Sweet Rose, if you will let me take off more than just my helmet,â he continued lewdly.
âCome here!â Tom ordered him.
He led Easy out to the privacy of the hall, midway between the boat, awaiting repairs, and the Ark, still awaiting a complete Noah.
âI canât help it, Squire,â Easy pleaded when they turned to face each other. âWhat is a man without a woman?â
âSomeone without baggage.â
âIâm not getting any younger.â
âA bit of fun before Lent? Forget it.â
âI really like this one. Sheâs hot for a romp and we could go a long way together.â
âQuit the drivel. Itâs time to prepare our escape, so start scouting around the neighbourhood. Find out who is keeping watch and how many.â
He lent Easy his own bonnet to hide the tell-tale baldness, and the reluctant scout went off in the dapper manner of a man about town. He was no sooner out the door than Farthings appeared at the top of the hall stairs, limping but smiling.
âMy daughter kicked me in the shins yesterday,â he revealed with a grimace of discomfort, gingerly taking a step down. âI think it could be infected but no matter. Everything is looking up. Friends to His Majesty! Heâll soon be the master of Lincolnshire, and thereâll be deals aplenty just begging to be made once those rebels are driven out.â
Here was a topic Tom was ready to explore.
âThe Friendship Tour could get a little too friendly, if your daughter isnât careful.â
âI am not sure what you mean by that.â
âRespectable women donât traipse after kings, especially not this one.â
âYour job is protecting our bodies, not out morals.â
âHer body is more easily protected if she stays home.â
âYouâre getting a bit above yourself, arenât you?â
âI am your sergeant-at-arms. It is my job to speak plainly.â
Farthings grimaced again.
âI never discourage initiative in an employee,â he declared, meanwhile leaning on Tomâs shoulder, the better to support his injured leg. âSo, here is what you can do: prepare me a plan, detailing how best to defend ourselves, not just against rebels, but also against the likes of Will Terrumber and his friends here in Southwark. You can brief me on it later this morning. Meanwhile, what preparations are you making for tomorrowâs departure?â
âFor myself, not much, but Peter needs to pick up some things from his Italian boss. Iâll go with him later today, if thatâs alright.â
âSignor Antonio Della Bosca owes me eightpence for the hire of the hall. Frighten him, if you have to.â
Tom helped Farthings into the kitchen, and Square assembled another poultice. By the time it had been tied to the fatherâs leg, they were all helping themselves to a rare treat. The pantry was overstocked for a household on the eve of Lent, especially with so many departures scheduled for tomorrow, and Cook had brought out a hearty breakfast of bacon rolls and buttered wastrel bread, all chased down with malmsey wine. The mood became quite cheerfulâdespite the broken fingers, the blackened eye and the wounded shinâand even Wakefield shared in the fun, Tom throwing some of the breakfast on the floor for him. The dog still hadnât finished bolting it down when a noise of wooden pattens brought a chill to the festivities.
âThat isnât your dog,â said the daughter as she came into view around Tomâs shoulder, âso stop feeding it.â
âIt wasnât my bacon,â he responded with a shrug.
âYou will return Dog to the boy you stole it from, as soon as we reach Lincolnshire.â
âYou said he belonged to a poacher and I could keep him,â Tom reminded her.
âLearn to speak proper English or donât bother speaking,â she decreed before disappearing into the pantry.
âA dumb statue would make a poor sergeant-at-arms, My Girl,â Farthings pleaded when she came back out. âSit down and join us.â
âI hope he chokes on his Yorkshire accent. Meanwhile I have better things to do.â
âSheâs off to feed her donkey,â her father explained as she departed with a handful of dried herbs. âWe keep it in the bishopâs stables.â
âThe white one,â Tom recalled. âItâs a mule.â
âMules are working animals. Lady Lorna is a pet.â
âSo that turns her into a donkey?â
âWhat My Girl wants, My Girl gets.â
Her arrival had irked Tom but her departure soon began to irk him even more.
âDoes she always go off like this?â he couldnât help wondering. âNo respectable woman leaves home without an escortâespecially not in a neighbourhood like this.â
âThatâs conversation for another day. We leave tomorrow.â
âA proper father wouldnât allow it.â
âThat is a disloyal thing to say,â Farthings complained.
âA dumb statue would make a poor sergeant-at-arms,â Tom reminded him, meanwhile reaching for the pitcher of wine.
âThis is not the first time this morning you have spoken out of turn,â Farthings protested, grabbing the pitcher from Tomâs fingers and pulling it nearer himself. âI asked you to prepare a plan: a safer future and a safer familyâsafer for our bodies. Inspecting the house might be a good place to start. So, donât just sit here. Get on with your duties.â
A manâs home is his castle and it wasnât in Tomâs nature to be disrespectful, especially in front of his brother, unless it happened to be important. This was important. It was time to assert his independence, before Farthings got into the habit of interfering so often that it spoiled their escape plans later.
âI have already started my duties here in the kitchen,â he said then grabbed the pitcher back, helping himself to the last of the wine.
Farthings rewarded him with an indignant stare, a statue dumb with outrage. Cookâs mouth gaped like the holes she had been punching in her dough, and Square flushed with embarrassment. Not everyone was shocked at Tomâs insolence and he soon received a sly kick under the table. Peter claimed credit for it with a conspiratorial smirk and a wink of his good eye. This must have been his answer to the kick Tom had handed out earlier, as if his treasonable talk and Tomâs strategic insolence were in any way comparable! Tom chose to ignore him, and meanwhile Farthings chose to ignore Tom.
âCook!â said the merchant, getting to his feet. âLock the pantry door.â
He departed with a dignified limp. Awkward silence dominated the kitchen for a short time and then Square got to his feet, announcing his intention of visiting the local church. Peter offered to go with him but Tom shook his head against it.
âYou donât trust your own brother?â was Peterâs wry response.
Tom bit back an ironic rejoinder. Some measure of trust was necessary if they were ever to manage an escape together, and they had to start sometime.
âAlright but get back early,â Tom cautioned him, âand donât do anything stupid! The king is holding me responsible for your behaviour.â
The two friendsâif they could be called friends, when Peter had been a foreigner up until yesterday afternoonâdeparted for church, leaving Tom alone with Cook. She was in no mood to talk, being too busy with her duties, or too offended by Tomâs disrespect to her lord and master, so he decided he might as well inspect the rest of the house, starting from the top. This turned out to be a mysterious loft, the door opening onto a bright set of glass windows, including a casement. The casement in turn opened onto sweeping views of the local manors, the river and the city beyond. Expensive windows like these were more appropriate to a noblemanâs solarium than a merchantâs loft, yet the place still evoked its origins as a warehouse, the floor being crowded with timber frames, canvass sheets and broken lumps of plaster, the walls festooned with pageant masks, paintings and sketches in various stages of completion. These included a portrait that Tom had seen already, peeping at him from Lady Lornaâs panniers on the road between Stamford and Fotheringhay Castleâa boy without a face. The loft must be the shrewâs personal space. He resisted the temptation to slam the door behind him, and calmly proceeded down to the next floor. This was the location of Farthingsâ office, which Tom had already visited a few days ago and which he decided to bypass now, since the merchant could be heard inside, shuffling papers. The remaining rooms on that side of the corridor were all locked, probably storerooms. The opposite side was reserved for bedrooms. The one furthest from the stairs included a bed almost buried under merchandise and bric-a-brac: obviously the fatherâs. The room next to it was a gloomy space overshadowed by a life-size crucifix, towering over the bed in an imperious but menacing fashion, thankfully minus Jesus. Obviously the brotherâs. The room nearest the stairs must be hers, and it turned out to be a large, well-organised space that nevertheless seemed dwarfed by Matilda and her perfume, the maid brushing her hair by the light of a little mirror. Thankfully minus Pisces.
By the time Tom returned downstairs, Easy had already returned from scouting the neighbourhood. Maybe he was in a hurry to resume flirting with the shrewâs oversexed and overly perfumed maid.
âBack already?â Tom wondered. âLook smart and letâs hear it!â
Easy handed back the bonnet, gave a military-style nod of the head and then proceeded with his report.
âMission accomplished!â he explained. âYou made it simple for me, Squire, sending your brother off to church. The neighbourhood guards all followed on his heels, and then I counted them as a shepherd counts sheep. There were forty-seven, five of them archers. Murderer and the Red Knight were leading them. Youâll be dancing with those two for some days yet.â
This news wasnât unexpected but still came as a heavy blow. The Red Knight even on his own was more trouble than Tom could manage in a fair fight, and so was Murderer. Together, with many other eyes and hands to do their bidding, they were as inescapable as an iron chain bolted to a dungeon wall.
âAll the guards?â he wondered after some thought. âThey all followed Peter?â
âYou arenât going anywhere without him, and they know it.â
âA smart use of resources! But how did he react?â
âI donât think he even noticed.â
âHeâs only got one good eye.â
âHis new best friend didnât notice anything either. Two infants after burping wouldnât be as daft as that pair.â
âWeâll escape somehow.â
Tom was still brooding over Easyâs report when Farthings appeared on the balcony above them, wearing a disapproving look, like a merchant who thinks he isnât getting good value for money. Tom mollified him with the news that he had now formulated a plan for a safer household, and then it was his own turn to give a report. This was a familiar routine. His fame as a warrior had long made him an authority on architecture.
âFirst, the bad newsâ he declared boldly after Farthings had come downstairs to be briefed. âI have already seen the manorâs own defences. Theyâre useless. This house isnât much better but it has potential, if you spend big fixing it. Brick out front looks nice but so does silk. Replace it with dressed stone. All access points must be reinforced. External doors, front and back, require three layers of oak. Put arrow slits around and above them, and get rid of the porch: it shelters attackers. Internal doorways are best low and narrow: intruders are easier to kill that way. The weakest structure of all is the loft window: it can be reached from the neighbouring roof with just a rope and grappling hook. Remove and replace it with oak shutters. This hall is your best feature. A single archer can dominate it from the balconies. Keep some crossbows up there, ready to shoot at short notice. Finally, all members of the household need training in the use of weapons, with a clear strategy for co-operative defence.â
He thought Farthings was his only audience but the daughter suddenly appeared at his elbow, muddy pattens in hand.
âListen to him!â she cried, waving the pattens about in annoyance. âThis is our family home, not some castle in the Scottish Marches.â
âHis ideas are challenging,â Farthings conceded, meanwhile brush- ing a lump of mud off his shoulder, âbut some training in weapons wouldnât hurt. Letâs do that now.â
âI can defend myself without training from him,â she snarled.
âEnglandâs foremost warrior? Itâs too good a chance to let slip.â
âIâll introduce you to the crossbow,â Tom offered.
Tom had given the same crossbow lesson to raw recruits many times over the years and he could manage it even in his sleep. It involved a brief lecture, long since committed to memory, a simultaneous demonstration, preferably by an assistant, and a practice session, whose length depended on the numbers and abilities of his students. It was too formal an arrangement for the small group he was coaching today but the Mandevilles were certain to be difficult, a familiar routine might be helpful, and the usual assistant was already on hand: Easy.
They began with four students, all scheduled to join the Friendship Tour: the shrew, her father, her maid and Old Will. However, Old Will was clearly too old for archery, and Tom ordered him back to his household chores. The balcony was the best place for an archer to defend the hall and that was the obvious place to practise from, so the front door was bolted shut, then trestle tables were upended as a kind of barricade, shielding it and the adjacent wall from stray shots. The target was the responsibility of the daughter and her maid. They stuffed a tattered old doublet with firewood and set it on a dilapidated chair in front of the tables. A wooden sphere, about the size of a hedgehog, served for a head, the target now resembling a small guest rather than an intruder. Someone had to stay below to guard against servants straying into the line of fire, and Farthings volunteered, since he already had some other business with Cook. That left only two students for the first round of instructions. Easy collected his loading belt, crossbow and a bolt from their baggage in the kitchen. Tom reminded him to adjust the stringâan underpowered bow is usual for beginnersâand then the class assembled on the balcony.
âThe archer has three primary tasks,â said Tom, immediately settling into the flat tones of the familiar routine. âFirstly: ensuring no obstacles or hindrances interfere with a clear shot. Secondly, arming the bow with its projectile. Thirdly, taking aim and firing. Now let us attend to the first task.â
Easy removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves then waved his hands in clear space, emphasising the absence of obstacles and hindrances.
âThe arms of a Samson!â said the maid.
âDelilah will never cut off these flowing locks,â came the reply, Easy passing a hand over his balding scalp.
Banter between Easy and students was nothing unusual and Tom rarely discouraged it, because Easy was a seasoned man-at-arms, never letting the fun interfere with the safety and education of the group. If anything happened to be unusual this time, it was the gender of the two students.
âNow letâs proceed to the second task,â Tom resumed: âarming the bow. Today we will be practising with the crossbow, a weapon soon mastered even by a beginner, yet it is important to understand how it differs from the longbow, ordinarily a superior weapon. Watch and listen while we demonstrate, first, how we arm the longbow, and next the crossbow.â
âLongbow?â queried the shrew.
âThey didnât bring one,â observed the maid, glancing around the balcony and peering over the rail.
âI always mime this bit,â Easy explained.
There were two good reasons why Easy always mimed the longbow
during crossbow lessons. Firstly, the English longbow is too glamorous for raw recruits to handle, since they always imagine themselves at Agincourt, famously annihilating the French with a storm of arrows, when they should instead focus all their ambitions on mastering the humbler weapon. The shrew spotted the second reason.
âHe doesnât have enough fingers to pull the string,â she advised her maid.
âHa!â came the maidâs response. âA man lacks his natural gifts, so a woman must use her imagination instead?â
This sounded like a lewd comment. Tom wondered if his authority was being challenged. Afterall he was the man in charge. However, she wasnât his servant and he already had enough to do, just training women in archery, without also correcting the sluttish ways of a Southwark household, so he let it pass without rebuke.
âArming the longbow requires exceptional strength,â he continued, quickly slotting back into the usual routine, âbecause the power of the longbow rests in the stubborn nature of the bow itself: the archer must overcome its strength with his own, pushing against the wood with one hand, pulling back the string with the other, simultaneously thrusting his body between wood and string to achieve the full spread, when the arrow may be released with maximum force. Only after many years of training does an archer build strength enough and stamina enough to arm the longbow with the rapidity and frequency needed in battle.â
During this speech, Easy flexed his prodigious biceps, notched an imaginary arrow to an imaginary string, then thrust his body into the imagined gap between the string and wood, at which point he departed from the usual routine and continued the thrusting movement with his hips several more times before finally releasing the supposed shaft.
âIt looks real to me,â said Matilda.
âNow observe the crossbow in action!â Tom hurried to say, since the disturbing image that Easy had just planted in everyoneâs mind was best put behind them as soon as possible. âArming this weapon is a slower and more cumbersome routine than the one we have just seen, yet anyone can manage itâthanks to an extra piece of equipment, which we call the loading belt.â He paused while Easy began strapping on his loading belt. âNow observe the stirrup at the front end of the crossbow, which the archer rests on the ground, and into which he inserts his foot. Note next how he draws back the metal arms, using a hook and rope attached to the belt, taking the strain with his thighs, until the bowstring reaches its locking position.â
Easy set one foot in the stirrup of his crossbow then suggestively dangled the rope between his legs. Bending his knees, he engaged the hook with the bowstring, taking the strain with his thighs, gradually rising with a broadening smile as the metal arms slowly bent upwards. Reaching the locking position, he sighed with satisfaction.
âThere are such things as locking positions?â Matilda wondered.
The smut didnât look like ending anytime soon, but at least the shrew seemed not to have noticed, and Tom decided not to notice either, in case he merely drew attention to it.
âThe arrow in this instance is called a bolt, and he is now ready to insert it into the appropriate groove,â he went on, âat which point we have reached the archerâs final task: aiming and firing. This is where things get really dangerous, so listen carefully. The fingers on the foregrip must be placed with particular careâbelow the level of the stringâotherwise the archer could lose them.â
Easy demonstrated the danger by holding up the stubs of his missing fingers. It was a dramatic gesture and it had always made a powerful impression on students, but not today.
âYou didnât lose those on the crossbow,â the maid objected. âYou lost them using your hand as a shield. Thatâs what you said at Ware.â
âHe had the other hand on the front end a moment ago,â noted her mistress. âHe swapped them over just now.â
âIâm good with both hands,â was the smug rejoinder.
âThe crossbow is usually fired from the shoulder, Tom continued, âthe archer keeping it up long enough to concentrate on a target or, if strength is lacking, he may fire from the chest or hip, or from some position of rest, such as a parapet.â
âKeeping it up is no problem for me,â Easy added.
âCut out the damned smut and just concentrate on the lesson!â Tom snapped.
Easy hung his head in shame, or the travesty of shame. He licked his lips and slowly, indecently slid the bolt into its groove. He should then have demonstrated the proper stance, resting the crossbow against his shoulder, or propping it on the balcony rail, but he suspended the weapon over the rail one-handed, glued his eyes on Matilda, winked and simultaneously squeezed the trigger. The tense, metal arms released their explosive power with a sharp twang, which was immediately followed by a loud thud and crash in the hall below, the bolt splitting the wooden sphere in two, simultaneously shattering the edge of an upturned table, where it continued hanging amid a tangle of splinters. Matilda shrieked for glee and clapped her hands. Yes, it was a brilliant stunt but this was a lesson for beginners, no time for foolery, and Tom grabbed the crossbow in a fit of annoyance. Easy didnât stop for a tongue-lashing, instead hurrying downstairs to help Farthings get the target back in order. Matilda hitched up her gown and followed close on his heels, an unfortunate move since it left Tom alone on the balcony with her mistress.
The last time they had been alone together was late afternoon at Huntingdon Castle, on the rampart overlooking the river. The balcony wasnât a rampart, and afternoon was still a long way off, but somehow it reminded Tom of that awkward moment, made all the more awkward by the fact that he was now her sergeant-at-arms. The lewd meanings Easy had put on the crossbow still lingered in the mind, as unignorable as Matildaâs perfume, so he began inspecting some timber posts and studs in the adjacent wall, even testing the wood with his fingernails, looking for he hardly knew what, anything to avoid conversation. However, the shrew chose this moment to be curious.
âWhat are you doing?â
âItâs a good place to stick a few pegs,â he decided as he half-turned to face her. âWe can hang some crossbows here later.â
âYou are not to touch this house.â
âIâll drill the holes myself with the lend of an auger. Itâs no problem.â
âNothing, absolutely nothing of you, your ideas or your existence is to remain in this house after you leave here tomorrow.â
âIâm not coming back?â
âDonât make any special effort on my account.â
âThis household is not my kind of outfit,â he conceded. âIt lacks self-discipline.â
âDis ousehowd is not mah kin of ahtfit,â she scoffed, sounding remarkably like a Yorkshire lass. âWho do you think you areâafter your man has just treated us to such a lewd displayâlecturing us about discipline?â
âYour woman started it.â
âHe started it.â
âShe made a play for him in the kitchen first thing this morning.â
âHe was already at it in Ware a week ago.â
âA bit late to complain now.â
âThatâs your excuse for him?â
There was no time for further banter. Farthing was already limping up the stairs, bringing the retrieved bolt and Easyâs loading belt. Nobody was following him and the target was still in disarray from the last shot.
âWhere ...â Tom wondered.
âThey wonât be long,â said Farthings. âThey have gone to the kitchen for more bolts.â
Tom and Easy had left their horse, mule and riding gear in the Smithfield stables, but all their other things were now stored in and around the box bed, including armour and weapons. However, they already had the only bolt they needed. Whatever attraction awaited the two servants in the kitchen, it had nothing to do with archery. The Mandevilles seemed not to suspect the worst, however, and Tom decided not to make a fuss either. He was well versed in the discipline of the front rankâwhen one man falls, another man steps up to take his placeâso he strapped on the loading belt, determined to continue the lesson as before.
âThe archer places one foot in the stirrup at the end of the cross- bow,â he declared, acting out the lesson for Farthings. âNext he draws back the metal armsââ
âWe have already been through this,â the daughter objected.
âNot with me,â her father reminded her.
âIâll keep it short,â Tom promised, inserting the bolt already.
âIt is my turn,â she said, reaching for the weapon.
âNot till I say,â he insisted, keeping it out of her reach.
âI can show Papa without your help!â she cried and next somehow managed to get a hand on the weapon.
âItâs loaded!â
Not to be denied, she wrenched the crossbow from his bandaged fingers. He still held onto the stock with his good hand but lost control of the trigger. There was another loud twang and another loud thud and this time the bolt buried itself deep in the floorboards, midway between Tomâs feet. Safety had always been his number one priority in weapons training, his own not least of all, but it mattered little to her.
âClose enough!â was all she said by way of apology, before withdrawing to her nearby room and slamming the door shut.
âShe has always been highly strung,â Farthings observed. âFortunately, this is a carpenterâs house, so no lasting harm done.â
It looked lasting to Tom, the bolt being stuck in the floor as fast as a rivet. However, his employer had the skills, the men and tools needed for the job, so Tom left him to it and took himself down to the kitchen, determined to give Easy some barrackâs discipline. It was long overdue. He had been insubordinate and difficult almost since the day they had left Lincolnshire, always questioning Tomâs decisions, always wanting to go back north, always dragging his heels, always balking at obstacles, always lacking initiativeâexcept now, when he was flirting with the very woman he had been ordered to forget! Yet he wasnât in the kitchen, and neither was Matilda. Cook was still on hand, her preparations for tomorrowâs feast momentarily forgotten while she stood with a plucked duck in hand, gazing in embarrassment at the rear door. It had been left wide open, like the mouth of an astonished witness. They must have left in a hurry. Tom inspected Easyâs belongings, stored with his own things, under and above the box bed. Everything looked to be in order. Easy wouldnât be going far and there was nothing to be done about his poor discipline till he got back.
By the time Tom returned to the hall, Farthings was raiding a box of tools near the wrecked boat, adding a chisel to the mallet and pincers already nursed in one arm. The boltâs removal from the balcony floor was going to take a while yet, and Tom decided he might as well tidy up the target. The damage to the upturned table was unfortunate and he reproached himself for not checking Easyâs adjustments to the bowâit had functioned at full powerâmeanwhile pulling off some larger splinters. He patted down some other splinters and then began a search for the wooden sphere. Half of it had rolled under the stairs. The other half had shot off under the bench, where Noahâs Ark and its cargo of animals were on display. Reuniting the two halves produced a human head that Tom found shockingly lifelike. It lacked only a nose. Squareâs conversation that morning left little doubt whose face was staring from his hands.
Tom wasnât a particularly devout man but using Noahâs severed head for target practice, only two weeks out from the annual commemoration of the Flood, seemed to be just asking for trouble, maybe even another deluge. He had had enough of the Mandevilles for one morning, he decided, so he respectfully rested the two hemispheres on the bench, between a pair of horses and a pair of rabbits, then pulled a trestle table from the door, drew back the bolt and quietly left, taking his dog with him.
Tom went in search of Peter and had no trouble finding him, the local church being as big as a cathedral, now ringed by armed guards watching every door, buttress and gargoyle. The hymns for Sext had finished and the former Italian was helping Square and some lay brothers sweep out an aisle when Tom grabbed his arm and led him towards the door.
âWhere are we going?â
âSignor Whateverâs apartment for your things.â
âWhy the hurry?â
âWho says I am in a hurry?â
âYou just interrupted my conversation with Square.â
âYes, heâs a Mandeville. Have as little to do with him as you can.â âHe thinks well of you.â
âCompared with the people he has to live with?â
âThis has something to do with his sister.â
âShe nearly skewered me to the floor with a crossbow bolt just now!â
Tom explained, because it was his first time alone with Peter in years and he could do with a bit of brotherly sympathy.
âCan you blame her?â
âWhat?â
âCan I have my arm back?â
âNo dawdling,â Tom warned him before releasing his hold. âSquare has just told me everything about you and his sister,â Peter explained as they stepped from the church porch. âYou kissed her when you were at Huntingdon. The result: uproar! Lord Hastings ended up getting involved, you ended up in a cell, Square ended up at a chapel dedicated to King Arthur, and that was how you ended up indentured to the Mandevilles, or you would still be locked up. A woman like that will defend her chastity to the death, so anything you suffer at her hands is all your own fault, Tom, isnât it! You should never have kissed her.â
âI didnât kiss her. She kissed me.â
âYou donât fool me with that story.â
âIt happens to be the truth.â
âOh yes, and what about your fianceĚ, Alice?â
âAlice? What about her?â
âDid she get herself pregnant? Your lechery was to blame for that, and it caused another uproar, didnât it, because you never married herâyou were imprisoned at Middleham Castleâand that was how you ended up indentured to the earl of Warwick, the most untrustworthy man in England, just so you could get yourself out of prison again. But by then it was too late, because she was dead. You might as well have killed her yourself. Really Tom, you should have learned your lesson by now.â
âI suppose there is some similarity,â Tom realised, âexcept the Mandeville girl isnât my fianceĚ, she isnât pregnant and she certainly isnât dead. She almost killed me.â
âLechery is what causes these problems. Acknowledge the sin and then forgiveness can follow.â
Among Peterâs many faults was a sanctimonious streak that might have fitted him for a career in the Church, if he hadnât squandered all the money Tom had sent abroad for his education. However, nobody is perfect, and Tom was ready for some mutual tolerance.
âAlice was a long time ago.â
âEven a thousand years ago is only a moment in Godâs memory. It is our duty to keep ourselves pure in body and in spirit.â
âThere are no women in France?â
âIf the Lord had wanted us to be lechers, he would have given us the wings of flies.â
âMore prude than assassin!â Tom observed.
âMore knave than knight!â came the retort.
They continued on in silence for a short time. Peterâs company was usually best enjoyed in silence but they might have few chances to be alone together in the coming days, and some confidential talk was essential. They were hardly alone even now. Easyâs forty-seven sheep were flocking after them, through and around the church, some almost running to catch up. Tom decided to glean important information as soon as possible, while they still enjoyed some privacy.
âWere you acting on your own initiative yesterday,â he asked as he grabbed Peter by the arm again, âor do you have friends here who can be relied on to help us?â
âYes and No, and No.â
âQuit playing stupid games and just answer the damned question!â
âYou asked two questions and I answered them both. Yes and No, I was acting on my own initiative, but No, there is nobody to help us. You are hurting me again, Tom.â
âSo, supposing you killed the king yesterday,â Tom responded, tightening his grip some more, âwhat did you think was going to happen next? Your ascension to Heaven, with choirs of angels singing Hallelujah?â
âI believe it is normal, in acts of courage, not to consider the personal consequences of oneâs own actions,â came the noble reply, âbut if I had to consider the outcome for me personally, I am certain things would have turned out just as the queen and her entourage said they would during our discussions at Lorraine. Their reasoning was sound, or I would not have agreed to act for them.â
âHow did they think your courage would end?â
âLet go of my arm first.â
âKeep talking,â Tom insisted, after releasing his grip once more.
âIt is all quite logical, once you accept two premises: first, when a king is assassinated, the assassin must be kept alive for interrogation, and second, another king must replace the dead one as soon as possible, for the sake of good order. Now consider this fact: another king is already available, locked in the Tower. Conclusion: he must be released and returned to the throne. Corollary: I am now a liberator and must be released also. Indeed, if I had to consider the personal consequences, Tom, I might even say I would be mad not to risk everything for such a windfall as would certainly have come my way, if I had assassinated the Yorkist usurper, as indeed I would have done, if you had not interfered yesterday. His Majestyâs gratitude, once released from the Tower, would have been boundless. I am already friends with his son. The prince has been my daily companion in Lorraine these past six years, always urging me to attempt something great. So, even if I had died yesterday, at least I would have done my duty to God and to England, as you yourself acknowledged just now; and if I had succeeded ...â
He left Tom to imagine the life of a successful assassin while they made their way through a mob of beggars, all offering themselves as guides to any visitors heading for London. Tom in particular seemed to catch their attention, maybe because he felt more than ever like a stranger, not just to London but even to his own brother.
âThen this is where all your talent leads, and what all our familyâs faith in you has come to at last!â he raged as soon as they had brushed aside the beggars. âMurder! Because that is what assassination amounts to. And killing a man is not like doing sums, you fool. Itâs an ugly business even for a proper man-at-arms. You left that out of your logic.â
âNo, I gave it a lot of thought. Our Lord is earnest in his commandment not to kill. Then again, it would be spiritual pride to think God always spoke to one personally, so I was prepared to break that particular commandment, in the conviction that He has reserved me for a higher purpose.â
âI am not talking about the ethics of killing, but the practicality of it.â
âOh that. I am not a complete idiot, Tom. I rehearsed with candlesticks against straw effigies of the king countless times, even before I left Lorraine. And it wasnât just candlesticks. There are some other bits of furniture that will do just as well, once you get to know them all.â
âYou are trying to frighten me,â Tom concluded. âTake my advice: killing is best left to men who have had some experience of it.â
âMen like you.â
âOr the ones following us.â
The Red Knight, Murderer and their company were barging a path through the beggars. Tom indicated them with a nod and Peterâs Italian swarthiness grew pale.
âWhat do they want?â he wondered. âDo they mean to kill us?â
âTheyâre just following us for now, but the one out front, with the longbow and stalking mannersâhis name is Murderer. Heâll put an arrow through your blackened eye from a hundred yards without even trying. His friend with the Red Hand calls himself Red Knight. Heâs no knight. He reminds me of myself a few years ago, when I was hungry for glory, except heâs faster, stronger and more skilful than I ever was. The rest of them are just ordinary cut-throats, straight off the shelf.â
âIf this is your attempt to frighten me, you have nearly succeeded.â
âYou are safe for now,â Tom assured him. âWeâll try to give them the slip in the next few days. Our chances arenât bad. The archer must be the far side of forty: too long in the tooth to be drawing the longbow. The Red Knight is not much older than you, which is too young to be giving cheek to your elders, you damned ingrate. We can out-run and out-think the pair of them, and all their companions, if we are luckyâif you do as I say.â
âWhat are your plans?â
âA career in the Church is no longer an option now that youâve thrown away the education I was paying for. But at least now there is nothing to stop you getting married. A wife might even do you some good, if we can find someone suitable. Meanwhile wealthy households are always looking for teachers and clerksâI know some important families that will give you that chanceâand there you can advance yourself little by little, using the brains you were born with.â
âA safe existence,â Peter observed. âBut what are your plans for our escape?â
âIâll let you know when I think of one.â
Arriving at the bridge, Tom paused to gather his nerve for the crossing. The Thames had haunted his dreams and surprised him with unwanted glimpses for too many days now, and he would dearly love to put it behind him forever. Now he must somehow find the courage to cross it at least twice again today and one last time tomorrow. The Heart was no good to him here, so he pulled out the pendant with the river pebbles in it and tried drawing strength from that.
âThe Beast of Ferrybridge still terrified of water!â Peter marvelled.
âEverything terrifies me, Peter. Thatâs what has made me the Beast of Ferrybridge.â
âI almost drowned in the Wharfe too, you know, but you donât see me cowering like you do at every puddle you come to. Have faith in God, Tom, and then everything else follows naturally.â
âDo you know what your worst fault is, Peter?â
âFor a man of such little faith as you? My faith!â
âIt is your damned cheerfulness, and maybe thatâs the same thing. It makes you brave when you shouldnât be, and it leaves you blind to human frailty, your own and everyone elseâs. All your lessons were learned from books, so of course you never grew up. Until you do, you are a burden I must simply bear as best I can.â
Having got that off his chest, Tom felt ready to cross the Thames. He put the pendant away and led his brother into the great tide of bodies streaming in and out of the city. Arriving at the other side, it was Peterâs turn to lead, since he knew the shortest way to Signor Whateverâs apartment. It happened to be in Cripplegate, the same ward where Tom and Easy had lodged.
âNo wonder I had trouble recognising you!â Tom said as he followed Peter into a narrow lane, meanwhile admiring his broad shoulders. âYou look like a man these days.â
âYou mean my moustache,â Peter supposed, speaking over his shoulder. âMy Italian was never good enough to fool real Italians, so it was decided I should be half Italian on my motherâs side, and half Spanish-Sicilian on my fatherâs.â
âThat explains the dark complexion.â
âNo, I only dyed my skin and hair when I arrived in England, after somebody recognised me up in Lincolnshire.â
âI heard about that. An old acquaintance of mine: Midge Mason. He remembered you from Bamburg Castle, though he didnât say anything about a moustache, or the extra muscles either.â
âThe exiles put me to work in the gardens around their chateaux, growing food,â Peter explained over his other shoulder. They are poor in everything but noble resolve.â
âWatch where youâre going or youâll trip over your own feet. But can you un-dye your skin and hair in a hurry?â
âYou are thinking about our escape,â Peter concluded. âI used tannerâs dye for my skin, and that doesnât come out even with a good scrub, though it will fade in time. My hair is treated with crushed charcoal and resin, diluted with cider, and that should come out with a wash, though I havenât tried it yet.â
âDonât wash till I say.â
Tom took the opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. The Red Knight had quickened his stride so as to reach the lane ahead of Murderer. Obstructing an archer is the sort of mistake trained warriors never make yet it was typical of this braggartâs swaggering self-confidence. Tom wondered if it could be significant, or if he was just clutching at straws.
The lane opened onto the cobbles of a handsome square, where locals loitered and played Saturday games. It was here that Signor Whatever had his second-floor apartment. He was at home but he refused to unlock the door. Tom banged on it with his good fist and shouted through the keyhole, advising him that he had come for Peterâs belongings, Peterâs wages and Farthingsâ rent. If these werenât soon forthcoming, he would personally take Signor Whateverâs door and insert it up his Venetian gondola, if he had one. Whatever replied through the door that he wasnât a Venetian, and Tom assured him that he would soon turn him into one, if he delayed much longer. He then returned downstairs with Peter, giving the dance master time to collect all the said items, while they watched the windows to prevent his escape. They had not been waiting in the street long when some shutters were flung open and Whatever stuck his head out.
âHey Pietro!â he called down. âYou wanna your things? Then-a catch!â
Items of clothing began wafting out the window, and coins dropped like hailstones. Peter rushed to claim his clothes and Tom hurried to the money. They were too slow for one bold thief, who snatched a cloak out of the air and plucked some coins from the cobbles before haring off towards the lane, almost blocked by Murderer, Red Knight and their men.
âHolla thief!â Tom shouted, raising the hue and cry.
âHolla thief!â the neighbourhood immediately resounded, whereupon two bystanders attempted pursuit.
Tom had supposed there could be no brazen thieves in London, only sneaking ones, because the hue and cry in a city this big should have made escape nearly impossible. This brazen thief however had two things in his favour. One was the Red Knight, Murderer and their men, all laughing too heartily to prevent him slipping through their ranks, and the other was Tomâs dog. Wakefield nipped and darted at the heels of the two pursuers. The thief got clean away but the men chasing him were sent sprawling over the cobbles, before Wakefield finally returned to Tom, wagging his tail.
âAn unusual dog,â Peter observed.
âHe used to belong to a poacher,â Tom recalled.
âTrained to stop lawful pursuit! How quaint. Except he has cost me a good cloak and some money too.â
âIt could cost us a lot more if we donât get moving,â Tom added, because Wakefieldâs antics had aroused the neighbourhoodâs resentment and suspicion, with dark looks multiplying on all sides. âBut whatâs the matter, Peter?â
Peter was turning surprisingly pale again.
âThere was a letter of introduction sewn in the cloak,â he whispered. âI was to present it to anyone I thought could assist me in my mission.â
âIs your name on either of them?â
âNo, but the exiled queen signed the letter.â
âThen you are better off without it.â
I love a thrilling book that is so absorbing I canât stop turning the pages, eager to find out what happens next. The Mirrored Sword Part Two is one of those books. I could not stop reading, even long after I should have turned out the lights and gone to bed. But the lack of sleep was worth it as I thoroughly enjoyed this exciting conclusion to the story first introduced in Mirrored Sword Part One. I was already addicted to the funny, humorous characters introduced in the first book and this same humor was carried into this book, along with more adventure and romance.
The characters were so real and so engaging that I was pulled into their world instantly and experienced all the highs and lows of the book right along with them. They were so well written that at times I wanted to punch or slap some sense into the heroine Susanna because of the choices she was making in her naivety. And I am not embarrassed to admit, I am half in love with the bookâs hero, Tom, and my heart broke right along with his when his love felt unrequited and hopeless.
I ran the gambit of emotions while reading this book â there were moments when I laughed out loud at the witty banter between characters, when I got teared up, gasped out loud in surprise, or even screamed in frustration at the inexplicable behavior of some of the characters at times. I was on the edge of my seat as the book drew to its thrilling conclusion, so caught up in the danger and adventure of the last few chapters I could not put it down. This book was like a fun roller coaster ride with many twists and turns, and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride the whole way through.
My only disappointment is that the story is done and there is no more to read. But I am hoping that the author has more books coming, especially if they involve the continuing adventures of Susanna and Tom. This is a must read for historical fiction fans â you will not be disappointed.
Note: I recommend reading the books in order as Mirrored Sword Part One definitely builds a foundational story and sets up most of the characters and intrigue found in Mirrored Sword Part Two.