The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [15]

I was about to step forward when someone gave a shout close by. ‘Halt! Halt you dogs!’

A shot rang out, exploding in the night air with a bright flash. I spun around in time to see a figure surge through the gun smoke. In my shock it took me a moment to realise this was the same man who had cursed me from his sedan chair near the Mall. Now he was sprinting towards the carriage, his face wild with rage.

‘Run, damn you!’ he snarled at the driver, who was trying to calm the terrified horses. ‘Run – or by God I’ll shoot you dead!’

The driver almost fell from his perch in terror, sliding to the ground and racing off into the darkness. Two of the footmen ran too, without a backward glance. Only the guard closest to the assailant stood firm – an older man, with a scarred face.

‘For shame,’ he called down. He gestured into the carriage. ‘Would you attack an innocent woman?’

‘Innocent?’ The man with the pistol laughed nastily. ‘She’s a whore. The whole world knows it. Stand aside.’

With a great cry the guard leaped down from the carriage, landing heavily upon the other man. He shoved him to the ground and punched him hard in the stomach.

I sprang forward. By the time I had passed around the horses, the two men were rolling in the mud, punching and tearing at each other in a violent struggle. The horses had begun to rear up in fright, hooves thumping into the ground, knocking the carriage from side to side until the door slammed open. I caught a glimpse of a woman trapped inside, wrapped in a black velvet cloak, her face frozen in terror. As her clear blue eyes met mine, I realised with a jolt that I knew her.

Henrietta Howard. The king’s mistress.

The guard was losing ground. I hesitated, not sure who to help first, then jumped onto the carriage step and held out my hand. Mrs Howard looked at me in a daze.

‘Hurry,’ I said. The horses were whinnying with fear, ready to bolt at any moment. I leaned into the carriage. ‘Madam – please. Your hand!’

She started, as if waking from a nightmare, and slid towards me. As the carriage jolted forward she fell into my arms and I pulled her by the waist to the ground. A second later the horses took off, dragging the carriage behind them at a deadly pace.

I had saved Mrs Howard at the expense of her guard, who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and swaying on his feet. He lifted his fists, but there was no strength in him. His attacker struck out with one last, fearsome punch and the guard thudded to the earth. He didn’t move again.

Mrs Howard put her hands to her mouth. ‘No,’ she said, softly.

The man heard her and grinned, full red lips gaping wide. He looked half-mad, eyes gleaming with excitement. In the confusion of the attack, I had thought he must be a highwayman, but now I was not so sure. Highwaymen did not travel by sedan chair. From his clothes I thought he must be a nobleman, but he had an old rake’s face, blotchy and ruined by years of debauchery. There was blood pouring from his temple down his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice it. Too drunk, no doubt – but my God he was fierce with it. He gave the guard a vicious kick to the ribs then staggered back, panting hard.

A cloud drifted apart and the moon shone bright, flooding us in silver light. Something gleamed bright by the man’s boot, a glint of metal. The breath caught in my throat. The pistol. I drew my sword and prayed to God he didn’t look down.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he slurred.

‘Nobody. I heard shouts.’

‘Well, Sir Nobody. That whimpering bitch belongs to me.’ Mrs Howard gave a low sob and he leered at her. ‘What – did you think you were free of me, slut?Did you think you were safe?’ He laughed. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten paces.

Mrs Howard gripped my arm. She was shaking with fear. ‘Please, sir, I beg you. Don’t let him take me.’

I pushed her behind me.

In a flash he was on me, knocking me down and dashing the blade from my hand. He was fearsome strong, despite his age and the drink – and he knew how to fight. I kicked out in panic, but he swung his fist hard, catching my jaw. My head smacked against the ground and my vision blurred. I slumped back, stunned, as the world spun about me.

In an instant he had pounced on me, fingers tearing at my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to struggle free, but he was too strong. I thought of the guard lying a few feet away, knocked senseless but alive. I might not be so lucky.

The man let go of my throat, raising his fist for another blow. This was my chance. I pushed up with all my strength, twisting and kicking at him in a fury. There was no grace or strategy to my blows, but I was bigger than him, half his age, and sober. As we rolled in the mud, my hand hit something hard. The pistol. I snatched it and aimed the muzzle at his head, pinning him to the ground with my free arm.

He fell still, staring at the barrel pointed an inch above his face. Then smiled. ‘There’s no powder.’

He was right – there’d been no time to reload it. I turned it around in my palm, felt the heft of it. Then I raised it high and slammed it against his temple. He gave a grunt of pain, and lay still.