And make the carriage of steel, instead of wood, so it wouldn’t crumple. But then it occurred to me: What if you had two cannons? One on either side. “Right… um… well… Tom and I were talking, and… and I said wouldn’t it be amazing if… if you could mount a cannon on a carriage? And fire it.”

He looked like he was ready to add me to the blaze. Then he grabbed me by the collar and pulled me close. His pearl-handled pistols, polished to a fine sheen, hung off his belt, grips forward.

An embroidered patch covered his left eye, an angry scar tracing from under it to the side of his mouth, which turned upward in a permanent half scowl. He was dressed, as usual, in black, wearing fur to keep out the cold. Lord Ashcombe, the King’s Warden, dismounted. His horse, a veteran of many battles, seemed unfazed by the bonfire. Slowly, the man maneuvered his mount through the mud. Or, more probably, when he saw the king’s carriage burning in front of the supply wagons. Riding ahead of our escort, he’d come back when he saw his men had stopped outside this farm. And everyone would be happy, and we could say, ‘An honor to see you again, Your Majesty,’ instead of ‘Goodness, Your Majesty, I hope you didn’t want your carriage back, because it’s sort of on fire!’?” “Why wouldn’t you listen? Why? Just another couple hours and we’d be back in London in a nice dry room, meeting the king.

A pair of them had dismounted and were now soothing the four draft horses they’d cut loose from our carriage. “Now there’s a thing I never seen before,” he said.Īhead of us, twenty of the King’s Men waited, stunned, atop their warhorses. Their father, chewing absently on a piece of straw, considered the flames. “Oh, Christopher.”īehind us, a farmer, his wife, and two young daughters leaned against a wooden fence, cattle watching nervously from a distance. Sally stood next to him with her head bowed, palm covering her eyes, auburn curls falling across her face. The heat drove away the late winter’s chill, but I wouldn’t have felt it anyway. “I told you,” he said, staring at the slowly crumpling carriage, our boots sinking in the mud. The frame turned charcoal black, while inside, the stuffing in the seats gave bright flashing bursts as buttons popped off the upholstery. Fire raged across its body, the silk curtains fluttering through the windows in smoking tatters to the road. The carriage burned with a bright orange flame.

Kevin sands the traitor's blade