Phoebe stared, confused, asking, “And what service do you render me? I am to die, by order of the king.”
“I am to ensure that justice is done.”
His voice was without emotion, but for some reason, Phoebe felt a stab of hope as the vessel was navigated into the middle of the current. Softly, she repeated, “Sir Gawain? Of the Round Table?” Then she giggled, shocked at the hysteria she heard in the sound. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to focus into the gloom of the bridge underpass that was coming up.
He stooped a little, and she glanced up to see his lips close to her ear. “Whisking hapless maidens from the very depths of despair is my job. You are not the only one but you must trust me if I am to help me.”
A shiver ran through her. “Is that what you’re doing now? Helping me?”
The temperature had dropped several degrees now that they were beneath the bridge. The sluggish river lapped at the embankment against which the ferry now abutted as it drew into a landing stage. An official in red and black was waiting to hand her onshore, and Phoebe leape
d nimbly onto the quay to avoid her shoes getting wet, slipping a little so that the man hurried forward to grip her elbow, holding it a moment longer than was seemly, and whispering, “Saving hapless females from danger is not only Sir Gawain’s job today.”
“Hugh!” Phoebe gasped, but he shook his head, indicating the prison guards.
`“Nearly came a cropper, m’lady,” he said loudly, “but never fear, I’ve got you safe now.”
Phoebe glanced from Sir Gawain, now conducting an official handover of his prisoner to Hugh, before turning back towards the road while the unquestioning guards returned to their ferry and pushed back into the current.
In the grey light, Phoebe stared at Hugh, unable to believe her eyes. They were alone at last.
And she was free? A strange feeling, half disbelief, half hysteria, clawed its way up her throat, releasing itself in a great sigh of relief.
Behind Hugh, the riverbank sloped downwards, to meet the landing stage and fast-flowing water. Dozens of vessels bobbed upon the river. It would be so easy to slip away and disappear into the seething metropolis on either bank. She had nothing to lose, after all.
But what about Hugh? He’d come to save her but she couldn’t let him risk or even sacrifice his future for her.
Tears stung her eyelids as he stepped towards her, his arms outstretched, joy lighting up his face. When he registered her retreat, the hurt in his eyes cut her to the quick.
“You saved my life, Hugh, but I must leave you, now,” she said, brokenly. “Please…you know there is no future happiness for us together if my only guarantee of safety is to live in exile. I would not ask that of you.”
He dropped his arms. “You’ve asked nothing of me, Phoebe—beyond a new gown… Do not presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t sacrifice. Do you love me?”
“You know it very well.” She exhaled on a sob. “Too much to let you sacrifice your ambitions.”
“And I love you too much to let you go.”
Phoebe brushed away a tear. The wind off the river was cold and she shivered. “You protected me when I needed protection. I used you and I abused your trust. Surely you see I am not a woman who should be trusted? If you don’t think it now, the time will one day come when you will. And I can’t bear that!”
She took a step backward up the incline. No, this would be her moment of sacrifice when she’d show Hugh how much he really meant to her. He might not thank her now, but he would.
“Phoebe! Please!” he entreated.
She shook her head, opening her mouth to deliver the terms that would sever them; she, by leaving and he by offering her the final proof of his love: the means to begin a modestly independent life somewhere on the Continent.
But instead of dry, emotionless business matters issuing forth, she exhaled upon a shrill scream. Danger! She’d been primed for it all these long weeks she’d been poised to flee for her life. Now, the coiled up energy she’d stored found expression in a swift lunge forward.
Behind Hugh, stepping out of the boat that had just drawn up at the landing, was the man she loathed and feared above all others: the murderer Wentworth. How could she not have noticed him approaching? But she had not amidst the general traffic on the river.
He was straightening up, one foot still in his boat, the other upon the landing, and Hugh, with his back still to him, registered only confusion as Phoebe leapt forward, pushing him out of the way just as Wentworth extended his arm to curl around Hugh’s neck.
Such was the force of Phoebe’s battering ram action that even her slight body had enough momentum to knock Wentworth off balance so that his legs parted and before he could right himself, either in the boat or on dry land, he came crashing down.
Hugh swung round, arm outstretched, but not within range to catch either of them before they plunged into the water with a shared scream of terror and rage.
“Phoebe!” he cried, so loudly it hurt his lungs, as he ran to the water’s edge.
They were wedged between the boat and the landing but Wentworth had the advantage. With one hand clinging to an iron spike, his other held Phoebe’s head below the surface of the water. As he watched Hugh loom above him, his lips curled up into a rictus of a snarl.