Read Online Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) by Sarah Woodbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Woodbury
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might have worked if everything wasn’t already soaked and the crowd had remained within the palace.” I shook myself. “I have an idea: everybody strip off your livery.”
Justin didn’t hesitate to obey, and as he disrobed, the rest of my guard followed. In turn, I tightened my black cloak around myself, making sure I was completely covered. My breeches and boots were that of a nobleman, which couldn’t be helped, but I wanted to hide that I was the king of England, up until the moment I revealed it.
“Callum and Carew are going to get me to the heretic,” I said. “The rest of you must disperse through the crowd. When I reach wherever they intend to hang this man, I’m going to throw off my cloak and raise my hands above my head. That is your cue to shout, ‘the king, the king’ until the crowd listens. I will start to speak, and at the end of every sentence, you need to cheer me on.”
“Of course, sire,” Justin said, and there were nods all around.
Callum looked darkly at them. “Regardless of what he says.”
I hoped Callum’s words weren’t necessary, but faith was a funny thing, and while everyone in my guard was an excellent fighter, not all were thinkers or leaders. Fortunately to them, I, not Acquasparta, was the highest authority after God. They would obey.
“Let’s go.” I headed back to the front door and down the steps. While we’d been inside, the sounds of the crowd had diminished, which had me a bit worried we’d be too late. Once outside again, however, I could hear them farther down the street.
“They’re by the cathedral,” Carew said.
“They’re probably looking for a tree,” Callum added.
We sprinted through the gate, which the guards had left open, and across the road towards the cathedral grounds. Bounding through that open gate, we entered the graveyard on the south side of the cathedral.
The crowd had grown since it had left the palace courtyard. What had started out as a hundred people had become more like two or three hundred, with people streaming towards the commotion from all directions, though all had to fit a few at a time through the gateway. Canterbury was a Benedictine monastery, and a few of the monks were just realizing that something was amiss and starting to appear too.
The ringleaders had found a tree near the east end of the graveyard past the well. One of the ringleaders had thrown one end of the rope over a branch of a great oak tree that overhung the monastery wall. The other end was looped around the young man’s neck.
I hung back for a moment while my guard dispersed into the crowd ahead of me, and then I loped forward, Carew and Callum on either side of me. Taking a page from Justin’s book, Carew put his fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle that was so loud it might have scorched the leaves on the tree. My ears rang, and I had to restrain myself from putting my hands over my ears.
“Sorry, sire,” Carew said, with a glance at me.
“No apologies,” I said.
Carew’s whistle had managed what Acquasparta’s feeble protestations could not. The jeers and shouts among the crowd didn’t exactly stop, but a good third were now paying attention to us rather than to the imminent hanging. The hangman stopped too, which was the most important thing, and there was a second of silence in which Callum inserted, “Make way for the king!” as he began to shove his way through the crowd.
I threw off my mantle—a little earlier than I’d intended since I was still stuck in the middle of everyone—but the people needed to see that I was, in fact, the king.
My guard had slipped in among the crowd such that I couldn’t distinguish more than a handful of their faces anymore. At Callum’s shout, they took up the call as I’d asked. “The king!” “It’s the king! “Make way for the king!”
“Kneel before the king!”
I knew that voice. It belonged to a Welshman in my guard named Rhys, whose barrel chest was more than broad enough
Justin didn’t hesitate to obey, and as he disrobed, the rest of my guard followed. In turn, I tightened my black cloak around myself, making sure I was completely covered. My breeches and boots were that of a nobleman, which couldn’t be helped, but I wanted to hide that I was the king of England, up until the moment I revealed it.
“Callum and Carew are going to get me to the heretic,” I said. “The rest of you must disperse through the crowd. When I reach wherever they intend to hang this man, I’m going to throw off my cloak and raise my hands above my head. That is your cue to shout, ‘the king, the king’ until the crowd listens. I will start to speak, and at the end of every sentence, you need to cheer me on.”
“Of course, sire,” Justin said, and there were nods all around.
Callum looked darkly at them. “Regardless of what he says.”
I hoped Callum’s words weren’t necessary, but faith was a funny thing, and while everyone in my guard was an excellent fighter, not all were thinkers or leaders. Fortunately to them, I, not Acquasparta, was the highest authority after God. They would obey.
“Let’s go.” I headed back to the front door and down the steps. While we’d been inside, the sounds of the crowd had diminished, which had me a bit worried we’d be too late. Once outside again, however, I could hear them farther down the street.
“They’re by the cathedral,” Carew said.
“They’re probably looking for a tree,” Callum added.
We sprinted through the gate, which the guards had left open, and across the road towards the cathedral grounds. Bounding through that open gate, we entered the graveyard on the south side of the cathedral.
The crowd had grown since it had left the palace courtyard. What had started out as a hundred people had become more like two or three hundred, with people streaming towards the commotion from all directions, though all had to fit a few at a time through the gateway. Canterbury was a Benedictine monastery, and a few of the monks were just realizing that something was amiss and starting to appear too.
The ringleaders had found a tree near the east end of the graveyard past the well. One of the ringleaders had thrown one end of the rope over a branch of a great oak tree that overhung the monastery wall. The other end was looped around the young man’s neck.
I hung back for a moment while my guard dispersed into the crowd ahead of me, and then I loped forward, Carew and Callum on either side of me. Taking a page from Justin’s book, Carew put his fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle that was so loud it might have scorched the leaves on the tree. My ears rang, and I had to restrain myself from putting my hands over my ears.
“Sorry, sire,” Carew said, with a glance at me.
“No apologies,” I said.
Carew’s whistle had managed what Acquasparta’s feeble protestations could not. The jeers and shouts among the crowd didn’t exactly stop, but a good third were now paying attention to us rather than to the imminent hanging. The hangman stopped too, which was the most important thing, and there was a second of silence in which Callum inserted, “Make way for the king!” as he began to shove his way through the crowd.
I threw off my mantle—a little earlier than I’d intended since I was still stuck in the middle of everyone—but the people needed to see that I was, in fact, the king.
My guard had slipped in among the crowd such that I couldn’t distinguish more than a handful of their faces anymore. At Callum’s shout, they took up the call as I’d asked. “The king!” “It’s the king! “Make way for the king!”
“Kneel before the king!”
I knew that voice. It belonged to a Welshman in my guard named Rhys, whose barrel chest was more than broad enough
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