Charles regarded me a moment, then nodded. He’d always held great affection for horses. “I’ll send a man to search for her. But tomorrow. We have wounded to care for tonight.”

Tom found Lightning, who’d stomped his way out of the circle near the end of the battle and was now calmly munching on shoots of grass in the field. One of the King’s Men helped me up on his horse; he said his name was Chuff.

Chuff tilted his head a little so he could see me on his back. He snorted, pawing the earth, ears pricked in my direction. Then we were off.

We rode at full gallop back to Whitehall, His Majesty in the center. Lord Ashcombe had been right: My arm hurt now, throbbing with a vengeance. If I’d had the time, I’d have made some willow bark infusion, maybe even poppy. Instead, I had to make do by swallowing bitter willow powder dry.

For Lord Ashcombe was on the warpath. As we rode through Holbein Gate, he ordered six of his men to take the king and lock him in his quarters. “Let no one in,” he said, his one eye burning. “No one.”

Sally was there, waiting nervously by the stables. When she saw us, she nearly cried in relief. She sprinted toward us, dress flapping about her legs. Her look turned to horror as she saw the blood.

I had so much I wanted to tell her. But we didn’t have time to explain. “Wounded are coming,” I said. “Gather anyone you can. And find the king’s surgeon.”

Then we were riding again. Lord Ashcombe galloped ahead, and we followed him, all the way to Hatton Garden, a street near Clerkenwell Green.

We were going after the Scottish traitors.

We pulled up, four doors down from a house built of pink brick. “One man on each corner,” he said quietly to the soldiers accompanying him. “No one escapes. Cut them down if you must, but I want them alive.”

“Where are we?” Tom whispered to me.

I didn’t know, but Lord Ashcombe heard him and answered. “Niall Ramsay’s house. The man you saw with Domhnall Ardrey outside the palace.” And presumably, the N who’d written the traitorous letter we’d found in Ardrey’s quarters.

“Stay with the horses,” Lord Ashcombe commanded.

His men began to spread out, two going round to cut off any runners from the back. Lord Ashcombe only got a few steps away.

Then Niall Ramsay’s house exploded.

CHAPTER 51

THE WALLS BURST OUTWARD WITH a terrible whump.

Brick, timber, and glass sprayed everywhere. Debris rained down on the road and the houses nearby. We ducked and covered our heads. The horses grunted and shied away in alarm.

I stared at the burning wreckage, mouth agape. Lord Ashcombe glanced at me—so did Tom—but I just shook my head. For once, an explosion wasn’t my doing.

People rushed from their homes, panicked and stunned. “Fire! Fire!” someone shouted, and a chorus took up the echo.