“Oh, I know why you did it.” King moved aside to allow an older woman to pass. “You were worried not all of Ferryman’s girls got out.”
“Just because they’re whores, doesn’t mean they should burn up.”
“I agree completely, but that’s why we made every effort to clear the tavern before the fire spread. I watched the whores leave with the rest of the crowd.”
Joshua stopped and lowered the pail, turning to face King. “You couldn’t be sure they all got out. I just needed to check.”
King paused and lowered his own pail. His wet hair was stuck to his forehead, and he slicked it back. “A word of advice, Master Joshua. Think more with this head.” He tapped Joshua’s temple. “And less with the other. Take it from someone who thought too much with the other on occasion and wants to save you the same grief.”
“Did you have a sweetheart, King?” Joshua asked. King shook his head and lifted both pails to give Joshua a moment to breathe. “Was she pretty?”
“No, I didn’t have a sweetheart.” At least, he hadn’t ever thought of the women who passed through his life for a night or two in that way.
“Is Vi your sweetheart?” Joshua asked. “I know you like her.”
“I doubt she would appreciate being referred to as mysweetheart.”
“Oh, she’d hate it. But you do like her, don’t you?”
King jerked his head toward the tavern. “Here. Carry these inside. When I get back, you’d better be so clean you squeak.”
“Where are you going? You aren’t coming in with me?”
King shook his head. “I have something important to do. I’ll be back before the tavern is busy.”
“But King—”
He turned and began to walk away. “We’ll talk about it later, Joshua. I’ll be back.”
But when he looked over his shoulder, Joshua was still watching him, his gaze fixed, as though he feared he’d never see King again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
King had visitedthe Tower of London once as a child. He’d been seven or eight, and he remembered the visit for two reasons. Firstly, because he’d seen lions and other amazing creatures. He thought he might have seen an elephant. He’d told all his friends he did. But he’d probably just embellished the story with that detail, because now he didn’t remember the elephant. But he did remember the lions. They’d been lying about in their den, sunning themselves. One, a large male, had yawned, and his teeth had been yellow and enormous.
The second reason he remembered the visit was because he’d gone with his father. For a period of a few months when King was seven or eight, his father had seemed to take an interest in him. He’d taken King to Astley’s Amphitheater and a boat race on the Serpentine, and to the menagerie at the Tower.
Then King had been sent to Eton, and his father seemed to forget him. His life for the next ten years seemed to be one long effort to make his father remember him. It hadn’t worked, and King had gradually stopped caring. Thenhe’dbeen the one to forget.
Except that was a lie. He’d never forgotten his father or stopped wanting his love. He had just learned to stop trying to earn it.
So it was fitting that the first time he returned to the Tower in over twenty years, it was to visit his father. He didn’t rememberhow he had arrived for his first visit, but he was quite certain he hadn’t come by barge through the Traitor’s Gate, as he did now. It was a beautiful day for a ride on the Thames—if one didn’t breathe too deeply. The sun was shining, and the spring air felt pleasantly mild. The barges sailed along at a good pace, passing under London Bridge, until the arched stone entrance of the gate came into view. They floated underneath as a guard swung the metal doors open. The interior of the entrance was dark and cool, the water below green from the moss growing on the stone.
The guard called out to King, who replied, “Visitor to see the Duke of Avebury.”
“Former Duke of Avebury,” the guard replied. “Who are you?”
King let out a breath. “His son.”
The barge came alongside the stone steps, and King looked at them a long moment before ascending. He knew the history. He’d either accidentally learned it at school or been told when he visited the menagerie all those years ago. The Traitor’s Gate was where the prisoners entered—Sir Thomas More, Queen Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey. Had his own father been brought to the Tower this way?
King didn’t know. At least, it was no longer the practice to display the heads of executed prisoners on the pikes beneath the bridge. His father wouldn’t be put to death by beheading, at any rate. Hanging was the preferred method in these times.
“This way,” the guard said as King climbed the stairs. He followed the guard into the Tower complex, a sprawling but organized walled fortification. He saw other soldiers moving about, all looking quite busy and important.
“Bell Tower,” the guard announced, pointing to a tower on the edge of the inner wall, not far from Traitor’s Gate. It was obviously an old structure, and Norman in style, though howKing knew that, he couldn’t have said. “This is the duke’s son,” the guard told the soldier standing at the Bell Tower.
“This way.” The soldier opened the door and led King up a set of stairs to a room at the top of the tower. He paused outside the door. “Your name?”
