They began to carry the corpse. “Come,” Lord Ashcombe said to me. “There’s still work to be done.”

I sat there for a moment, just a moment longer.

Then I pushed myself to my feet and followed the King’s Warden into the fire.

MARCH 6–7, 1666

The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence.

CHAPTER 53

IT WAS THE EARLY HOURS of the morning before we returned to the palace. Tom wobbled, half-asleep in his saddle, covered in soot, dirt, and blood. I steadied him as we rode, feeling much the same.

We dismounted at the stable. “Leave the horses to the groom,” Lord Ashcombe said. “See to your wounds.”

His command reminded me of the groom we’d caught earlier, the secret Covenanter. I would have asked what happened to him, but I was simply too tired to care. It could wait.

We trudged over to the tiltyard, where the wounded from the ambush at Barnham Wood had been arriving all night, carried on horseback. Many of the King’s Men had died from their injuries; the bodies lay untended near the jousting rail. The rest had largely been cared for, which was a blessing. I don’t think I could have borne any more screaming.

Men and women worked under the soft light of the torches staked around the yard. From the blood that drenched their aprons, at least two were surgeons. Master Kirby walked among them, offering remedies and poultices to cover gashes against infection.

He’d already prepared an infusion of poppy; I could smell the cauldron from here. It had allowed the worst of the wounded to doze, to steal a few hours of peace before they awoke once more to agony.

Sally was there, too, gathering rags, bandaging wounds, administering potions, offering comfort. Her dress, like everything else, was covered in blood and dirt, ruined. Her cheeks were smudged. Her hair, tied back, had come loose on one side, auburn curls tumbling past her ear. She pushed them away absently as she worked. And, in the glow of the torches, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

She saw us and hurried over. “Are you all right?”

We lowered ourselves to the ground and nodded, too tired to speak.

“I have to tend to the others,” she said. “There’s an order to seeing the wounded.”

She squeezed our hands, then hurried back to finish dressing wounds. Wings flapped at me, salt-and-pepper speckled, as Bridget came to land on my lap. I’d thought she was locked in my quarters; had Sally let her out? I’d have figured she was too busy to bother.

As glad as I was to see Bridget, I was too tired to even stroke her feathers. I just let her walk all over me, fly to my shoulder, my head, then back again to my feet.

Master Kirby passed by, a cup of poppy in his hands, and glanced at the pigeon. When he finally noticed whom Bridget was climbing over, he stopped and stared.