When Henry finally stumbled out of the Cutler’s Hall, it was just coming up to dawn and the streets were as close to empty as they ever are. A few drunks stumbling home past the bakers and other early-morning folk trudging to work. Henry’ bruises were already fading, one of the benefits of his power, but he still felt a deep ache in his bones from the punishment he had endured. More galling was his failure, after all those hours of painful practice, to really grasp how to call on his blood by will alone.

Henry took another long route home, skirting the knot of alleyways where he had been attacked before. He kept his guard up, not wanting to be ambushed again. By the time he reached the Taylors Hall, he was longing for his bed. He nodded at the footman guarding the doors, not trusting his voice yet, though Byford’s curse had started to wear off. The corridors and halls were largely empty. Henry listened to the echo of his boot-heels clicking on the marble floors, and thought about the legion of servants scurrying just behind the oak-paneled walls. Of their lives; of how much they must see through the cracks and knot-holes. It reminded him of his last night at the orphanage, of seeing the wide, terrified eyes of younger boys staring up at him through the gaps in the floor-boards.

He made it to his room, slipping through the door and collapsing on his bed fully dressed. Something crinkled under his chest, and he fished it out. A note, folded and hastily sealed with an italic M. He fumbled it open. It was Maggie’s handwriting, in the simple word replacement cypher that he and Maggie had devised for passing notes during lessons. Henry decoded it easily.

I’ve found F, meet me by the old forge after evening bells.

Love,

M.

Henry read it a second time, and then rolled it up. He struggled up to his feet, crossed to the nearest candle and set one end of the note on fire before dropping it into a silver urn and leaving it to burn up. Henry hurriedly stripped and gathered clothes from his wardrobe. He dressed in a white shirt, a simple riding doublet, hose and boots, then grabbed his sword belt on his way out into the corridor.

He didn’t leave the hall immediately. Instead, he stopped by the kitchen first to grab some leftover pork and a goblet of stout. Since coming to the Taylors’ Hall, he’d always been hungry, but never short of food.

When he left, it was through the service door and into the back-streets of Cheapside. The mews alley of the guild hall was deserted, and Henry quickly snuck past the stables to lose himself in the alleyways that ran parallel to Threadneedle street, then turned up into the markets. He took his time, tracking the passage of the sun as it sank toward the horizon, stopping at shops and food stalls and doubling back on himself until he finally emerged in front of the Soper’s Street Chapel.

The old building seemed even smaller now, greasier and more tumble-down. Now that Henry knew what to look for, the little signs of catholic worship stood out. A crude oyster-shell symbol carved into the lintel was the most obvious. Henry continued past it, and down towards the old orphanage building, only to slip into an alley about half-way there. A narrow filth-strewn gap between two tenement buildings, this place had been the escape route for Henry and the other orphans on their way back from church, a way to avoid a day of fasting and tedious meditations. Now, as Henry squeezed between the wattle walls and picked his way over mounds of stinking detritus, he could see why the priests had never followed them.

Henry stepped inside The Old Forge, ducking under the low beams as he made his way to their usual table at the back. He nodded at the landlord’s wife, who sat by the fire. She clearly didn’t recognise him, but raised a mug of syrupy grog in response, and blew a wet kiss. When he sat down in his usual spot, he saw Maggie emerge from a back room and cross towards him.

“Still mad at me?” Maggie flashed a cocky smile, smoothing down her riding dress before taking a seat opposite.

“Of course, not that it would change anything.” Henry shrugged and smiled back, then put a few coppers down on the table, enough that the beer won’t be too watered down. “What have you got?”

“I found him. I’m sure this time-” They both paused as the drinks arrived, flagons filled with a dark, foamy ale. Henry took a sip and watched the barmaid’s swaying hips as she walked away, his coins jingling in her apron pocket. Maggie watched him in turn, then snapped her fingers in front of his nose. “Don’t make me slap you, Henry.”

Henry scratched the top of his head and blushed. “Err, of course. Go on.”

“He’s at an estate near Tyburn Gallows. It’s a compound for a free regiment.”

“Mercenaries? That makes no sense.” Henry leaned back in his chair, nursing his flagon. “Why would Byford send him to train with mercenaries?”

Maggie nodded. “That’s what I thought. Then I did a little digging around in the Order’s archives under the Bookbinders Guild. There is so much information just waiting down there, Henry! Anyway, the company is called the Richmond Royal Free Company, and they are chartered by Henry Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset.”

Henry leaned forward, the front legs of the chair slapping down and his beer slopping and spilling on the table. “The Queen’s half-brother has an army?”

“Not only that.” Maggie whispered, leaning over the table as well. Henry found himself struggling to keep his eyes on her face. She’d… grown up a lot in the last few months. “It is a company with a… saintly reputation. Many of their officers are like Francis. I imagine that is why Byford sent him to them. The bigger problem is that they are mustering out. The Queen is sending them to Munster to fight the Catholic rebels there, so if we don’t go get him soon we might be too late.”

“Go where? Into the arms of a legion of Saints? Are you insane?”

“Shh! Do you want the whole of London to hear you?” Maggie rolled her eyes as if he was missing something obvious. “Francis could be on a boat to Ireland by tomorrow, to be a messenger, or a drummer-boy, or some other equally suicidal thing. We have to go see him, and make sure that he is safe.”

Henry frowns, and resisted Maggie’s puppy-dog eyes for as long as he could. He didn’t last long. “Ugh, fine. We’ll try and see him.”

An hour later they found Robert and Sybille in the dining room at Cutler’s Hall, demolishing a pile of roasted capons. Maggie sidled up and planted herself opposite them, nabbing one of the thighs and winking at Henry. He groaned and followed her over.

When he got there, Robert is shielding his trencher from her. “Get your own food, hag!”

Maggie laughed at him. “Why, there’s more than enough on that plate for everyone in cheapside!”

Robert turned his wounded expression on Henry. “That’s pure exaggeration, and you know it. Besides, I’ve had a long day.”

“Well,” Maggie laughed, “you’ll need help finishing when I’m done telling you what you’re about to do.”

“Oh?” Robert cocked an eyebrow at that, and then cut a strip of breast-meat from the carcass with his dagger and popped it in his mouth. He talked around it, deliberately crude. “Can’t see that happening.”

“Indeed, you’ll be white with fear, a man of your weak constitution.”

Robert coughed, tried to laugh, and then nearly choked. When he recovered, he swallowed his mouthful, and put down his table-dagger. “You’re in danger of insulting me.”

Maggie puts her hand over her mouth, adopting a shocked expression. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it! I only meant that I had a caper in mind, one for only the stoutest heart.”

Robert stared at her, and the silence drew out. Just when Henry was about to try and intervene, Robert barked with laughter. He picked his table dagger back up, and waves his greasy off-hand for her to continue.

Sybille just rolled her eyes at the display, watching as Maggie began to twist the older boy around her little finger. She looked at Henry, and he just smiled a little and shrugged.

“We’ve found Francis.”

Sybille leaned forward. “What do you mean you’ve ‘found’ Francis?”

“We know where he is! He’s with a group of mercenaries-”

“-near Tyburn Gallows,” Sybille finished for her. “That’s where he’s always been.”

Henry sat up, confused. “You knew where he was?”

“Of course we did. There’s only one place to send him. Richmond’s cronies are the only legal Saints in England. Byford told us not to tell you, or you know we would have said something.” Sybille wagged her dagger like a chastising finger. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

Maggie answered before Henry could even open his mouth. “Break him out, of course.”