“Why not?” a voice shouted from the back.

“Why not? Because, you bastards,” Harries was angry again, “she was tried for witchcraft and murder, but no one thought to ask about the damned crucifix she was carrying. Suppose it came from Rome or Spain. Do you want to be fighting the Pope’s armies as well as the damned King?” The soldiers listened reluctantly. Harries tried to placate them. “She’ll be back for her warming, but first we want to ask some questions. We’ll help her answers out with a little torture.” He twisted about. “Shut those gates!”

Harries’s promise of torture and the undoubted veracity of the seal of the House of Commons which had been passed to Colonel Prior, seemed to mollify the troops. They grumbled, but Harries promised she would be back within the week, and that would mean a second holiday for them. Faithful Unto Death Hervey demanded to see the warrant, but when Harries scowled at him he swiftly backed down.

“Sir! Boat’s here, sir!” Harries’s trooper had returned.

“Bring the girl, Mason,” Harries swung easily off his horse. “You two! Take the horses and meet us at Westminster.”

“Sir!”

Suddenly all was activity. Two of Harries’s men turned their mounts, took the other horses by the reins and spurred toward the closing Tower gates. The crowd’s fury was filling the air. Wellings lifted Campion down, trying to be gentle, and his solicitude earned a sneer from Colonel Harries. “You fancy the witch, Wellings?”

“Her hands are tied, sir.”

“She can jump, can’t she? Christ! You new soldiers couldn’t fight a damned elf. Come on, girl.” He took her shoulder, pulled, then looked at Colonel Prior. “Is Ebenezer Slythe here?”

Colonel Prior frowned, but Faithful Unto Death knew the answer. “He’s on the ramparts.”

“Making sure of the best view, eh?” Harries laughed. “I can’t wait. Move, witch!”

Harries and Mason took her under the Bell Tower and down to the slopping, smelly Water Gate. The Traitor’s Gate. A large boat was floating amid the rubbish that was trapped inside the tunnel leading to the steps. Six oarsmen waited in the boat, their faces nervous, for these steps led only to the axe, noose or fire. Harries pushed her down the stone steps. It was low water and the bottom of the stairs was treacherously slippery. “Get in.”

Colonel Prior had followed them. He frowned. “You’ll not clear the bridge, Colonel.”

“Of course I’ll not clear the bridge!” Harries snapped. London Bridge’s narrow archways could only be passed by boats at high water, and even then the passage was dangerous. “We’ve got a damned coach waiting at Bear Wharf. Do you think I was going to take her through that bloody mob?”

Mason, the trooper, sat her in the stern thwart. Colonel Harries dropped beside her, his scabbard rasping on the boat’s planks. He nodded at the oarsmen: “Go!”

They shoved off, using their oars to pole the boat through the dark, dripping tunnel of stone and beneath the great portcullis that could slam down to bar the gate. Campion saw the bow go into the sunlight, then the warmth was on her face and the oarsmen were turning the craft upstream. They leaned forward into their stroke, pulled, and the boat left the Tower wall behind.