She turned her head to the right. There were only gaping strangers.

"Over here!" the voice whispered again.

Honor looked to the left. A young woman was leaning forward over the rope, holding out a small wooden cross, offering it. Honor stared at the face. It seemed vaguely familiar.

"Take it, mistress," the young woman entreated with bright eyes, thrusting out the cross. "And take heart! Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved!"

The dull words clanged through the stupor in Honor's brain. The platitude seemed grotesque. Must I bear this, too? she thought. Are these whimpers about God to dog me to the last moment of my life? Are mindless pieties to be the last words I'll ever hear? It seemed the final humiliation.

The crowd hushed. At the edge of the circle the executioner was striding forward with his flaring torch. Its smoke snaked up into the still air. Two officers flanked Honor and grabbed her elbows. She took a step, but her legs seemed dead as logs already.

A bunch of violets fell at her feet. She looked to the right. Samuel Jinner's leathered face stared across the rope. Tears glistened in his eyes. Honor gasped as if wounded, for the sight of him brought Thornleigh's face blazing into her mind, and then Isabel's, the rosebud mouth sucking at her breast. The images unstopped a violent surge of regret, a torment that drained more of the precious energy she was clinging to for strength. It was not dying she feared. She had died once before, in the hold of the Dorothy Beale, and she knew that death was no more than a stopping of her body's motions. But this torture of regret, of loss, of beloved faces she would never see again was overwhelming. Her body slumped. The officers had to drag her the last few feet to the stake.

A priest came to her side and began a sermon. "Though our pious King strives to burn heresy from his realm . . ."

"Step up!" An officer was prodding her. She realized he wanted her to go up onto a narrow, wooden shelf tacked to the base of the stake. It would hold her higher so that all the onlookers would have a clear view.

She stepped up. The shelf was cut from rough lumber. A splinter gouged the skin between her toes.

"Yet still," the preacher went on, "the heretics run under the fouled skirts of Luther, or to the bosom of the painted whore of Rome . . ."

A young guard strode toward Honor carrying a heavy chain. It was black with soot. Soot streaked his sleeve. He took his place behind her at the stake and waited while the officer tied her hands behind her back with twine.

Honor's eyes blurred over the heads of the crowd, then focused on one. The face was staring straight into her own eyes, as still as a rock-a woman, tall and stern, with iron gray hair under a starched cap and a face of fretted bone. Bridget Sydenham.

Again, regret stabbed Honor's heart. This woman's sweet-natured husband she could not save, and her friend, Brother Frish, she had lured home to his death. In so much, she had failed. Yet on Mrs. Sydenham's solemn, unmoving face she read no blame. In fact, at the corners of her mouth there was the slightest motion-was there not?-yes, the merest smile was forming on those thin lips. It was a smile that spoke of understanding, of respect, even of love. Honor's tears spilled, grateful for this final, generous gift.

". . . in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost . . ."

The priest was fidgeting the sign of the cross over her. When he had finished he walked away. The officers who had brought Honor to the stake left, too. From behind her, the young guard's sooted hands thrust out the chain. His hands met in front of her waist to pass the chain around her body and the stake.

There was an explosion. Honor knew it must be in her head-her own mind screaming, or letting go. But then she heard a woman cry out. And she saw the chain slump into the soldier's right hand, unfastened.

There was a second blast. Another scream. The sound of fear eddied through the crowd like wind riding through a forest.

"It's St. Bartholomew's!" someone cried. "Look! Up there!"

All heads turned to the church, Honor's as well. People were pointing up to the lantern tower. A cloud of black smoke was boiling along its flat top. From its billowing center a form sprang out.

"A devil!" a woman screamed.

And so it was. A black-furred monster like an ape. Its grotesque face was as bleached as a skeleton except for coal-red eyes. Its skull sprouted massive antlers, and under them long, black witch's hair streamed. The creature danced and leapt on the tower, its scarlet cloak flashing like flame. Its claws, like long knives, lashed at the smoky air. When it flung wide its arms, fire erupted at its feet, fire as white as the sun that blazed at its back.

"Satan himself!" a man bleated. "He's come for the heretic! Come to claim his own!" He thrashed his way out of the crowd. Several women fell to their knees. People crossed themselves or buried their faces in their hands.

The Devil shrilled a long, blood-freezing wail. When its beastly arms jerked out again, a ball of fire hurtled down from the tower. It exploded at the feet of some people, sparking skirts, igniting fear. The creature cast out more missiles-some were tarry globs of flame, some were sulfurous blasts. They flared inside the pit. One hit the fuel wagon. The straw roared into flames.

Panic swept the crowd. The wagon was close to the rope around the pit, and people standing in the front ranks whirled and tried to push their way out, but the ones behind stood dumbly gaping up at the monster, blocking the way. The frenzied front ranks turned back and crashed through the rope and stampeded across the pit. Monks were now streaming from the church doors, craning up at the fire-throwing demon on their tower. The mayor and aldermen were on their feet in the stands, shouting. Some were clambering down the tiers. Under the Devil's hail of fireballs the square soon seethed with fleeing men and women, monks and children, all zig-zagging around the growing pools of flame.

A cold hand snatched Honor's arm. She gasped at the creature before her-a man's body with a fox's face. He drew a dagger. She froze as it whipped by her throat. But he bent and slit the twine binding her wrists. As people rushed past, screaming, two more demihumans appeared at Honor's side. These were women's forms, one with the face of a horned goat, the other a hawk, tall and fierce. They sprang at the guard behind the stake and knocked him to the ground. The chain clattered from his hands.

The fox-man yanked Honor from her death-perch.

"Flee!" the hawk-woman commanded. And in the wildness of the moment Honor thought it was the voice of Bridget Sydenham.

Two officers were running toward Honor. Suddenly, white-faced devils appeared and danced like savage monkeys in front of the officers, barring their way.

The fox-man seized Honor's hand. Disoriented, she stumbled after him. No one stopped them; even in the mindless swirl of panic, people were staying clear of his swiping dagger. He and Honor reached the trampled rope. A horse and rider appeared. The fox-man threw his cloak around Honor, then hoisted her up behind the rider-another apparition, this one a man with the head of a lion. With Honor barely aboard he whipped the frightened horse into the sea of scattering men and women. He was heading east toward the dignitaries' stands.

Honor saw Bastwick hurrying down the last steps. He was pointing at her, his face red with fury. "Stop her!" he screamed.

His officers were already at their horses, shouting at the young grooms, but there was confusion there-a jumble of children around the horses-and Honor saw that none of the men were mounting.

The Devil atop the church kept up its hail of fire, but Bastwick ignored it. He was striding straight for Honor, lurching with his limp but closing the gap, for the horse was making little headway in the crowd. With eyes fixed on her he moved through the panicked people like a rolling prow splitting waves. The lion-headed horseman could not break free of the melee.

Bastwick burst through and reached the horse. He snatched the bridle. The horse danced on the spot. A fireball spewed down from the tower onto Bastwick's back. He gasped and let go the bridle and clawed over his shoulder. But the flaming tar stuck to him. Fire swept across his back and jumped to his hair. Screaming, he dove to the ground and rolled. People staggered back, opening a space. The horse, sensing escape, whinnied and strained. The horseman gave it its head, and they bolted forward.

Honor glanced back. A wave of running people had reached Bastwick. In their terror to escape, they were trampling him.

As the horse capered past the stands, the horseman jerked his lion's mask up onto his forehead. Its gold mane tumbled down his shoulders over his own long, silvery-black hair.

"You don't recall me, mistress!" he shouted exuberantly back at her. "Legge's the name. You offered to do me a kindness once. Remember?"

"Bastwick's man!" she cried. She let go of his coat and prepared to jump.

But Legge was a hardened soldier, and it was a strong hand that whipped backwards around her waist and held her tight, even as the horse galloped on. "Was his man, but no longer," Legge said, and Honor suddenly recalled how in those moments of crisis on London Bridge Legge had given her his fast horse. He released her and grappled the reins again with both hands. They were at the edge of the square.

Clutching Legge's coat, Honor turned for a last look at the monster atop the lantern tower. Shouting monks were hurling stones at it, but even as it held up its arms to deflect the blows it lurched to the edge as if to watch her go, and she saw, as it came forward, that one of its feet turned inward. Her breath stopped. Her heart recognized that awkwardly lovable gait before her mind could grasp the truth.

"It's Richard!"

"None other," Legge cried. "For a year and more I've served him. No, don't faint away, my lady, for I promise you it's God's truth!"

Richard's alive! "But how-?"

"Later! I'm sworn to him to get you safe away. Hold on!" He bent over the horse's neck and dug his heels into its flanks.

They cannoned into an alley, sending pigs squealing, then galloped down narrow streets, zig-zagging into one after another until Honor was as lost as in a labyrinth. Legge's riding was sure and swift, as if he had had much practice in evading the law.

They gained Cheapside and quickly merged with the bustle of the thoroughfare. Honor could hold back no longer. "But on London Bridge I saw Bastwick's archers kill him. I saw him plunge into the river. How-?"

"Oh, the arrows hit him alright," Legge said. "And he plunged alright. From the downstream shore I watched him bob over the rapids like a speared perch. But when the priest's men rode into Southwark after you, I scrambled down the bank and fished him out. For many a week he lay in my house, and my wife swore that with all those wounds he'd sink again, and that would be into his final sleep. But Master Thornleigh's a tough bugger. Ha! I knew as much that night at Mrs. Sydenham's when he told you to watch out for me!"

Honor could not speak. To have life and love handed back in the same heartbeat was almost too much joy. Then, suddenly, questions burst from her. "But how has he managed this? And who were those others?"

"Did you not know Sam Jinner when he snatched you?"

"The fox-man!" she cried.

"He insisted he'd have none other take the job of plucking you away."

"And the hawk-woman? Was that really Bridget Sydenham?"

"Aye. And with her, a game young widow-"

"Alwyn! I knew I'd seen that face before! She and her grandfather, old Master Paycocke, were on the Speedwell's maiden voyage. But she lives in Amsterdam-"

"She came home when the old man died. Said she couldn't change to foreign ways."

Honor was trying to digest the flurry of information. "And the others?"

"All those silly, painted devils? More of your friends. Some of them started the show by shouting, 'Look! The Devil!' " He shook his head as if amazed by the success of the rescue. "Can you credit the fear of folks?"

"Friends?" she asked, at a loss.

"Some, men you've saved. Mostly, relatives of men you've saved. All mustered gladly at Master Thornleigh's call, for he'd arrived at Mrs. Sydenham's just after she heard of your fate."

Honor was overcome. Her brain was smothered under the avalanche of shocks. "But, he'll . . . they'll all be in danger now."

"No. They'll slip off the masks and no one will be the wiser in that mad crowd. Even if one or two are nabbed, well, what's the crime in a body being in possession of a fool's mask?"

"But, Sam stabbed at an officer-"

"Oh, Jinner'll make it away, never fear. To collect his wager from me, if for nothing else. He was proud as a peacock about that fox get-up of his, so just to rile him I bet him a shilling that you'd know him straight away. But," he growled, "it's clear you didn't." He glanced back at her and his gravelly voice softened. "You wouldn't consider telling him a small mistruth, my lady?"

She laughed. "Master Legge, I have done forever with lies and deception!"

She glanced back at the normal bustle of the street behind them. "It's incredible. No one has followed us."

Legge chuckled. "The children saw to that."

"Children?" The tale was becoming more fantastic at every turn.

"Aye. When we heard your fate three days ago, Mistress Sydenham sent her little granddaughter, Jane, to skip out to Smithfield and make a friend of the boy who grooms there. When we saw you drawn up to the pit, that imp and her band of cousins set about their work. Some of the officers' horses they hobbled. Some they fed horse-bane. So when the men went to mount 'em, they came upon swooning, useless beasts. All I needed was a head-start."

Honor threw her head back and laughed. Bastwick had been outwitted by a pack of children!

They were trotting into Thames Street, and Honor smelled the river and glimpsed the traffic of ferries plying around the wharves. She had already guessed that the river would be their destination.

"Now, Master Legge, tell me of your master. Tell me all. I am hungry to hear of him. What is his plan for escaping from the Smithfield tower?"

Legge edged the horse towards Paul's Wharf. "My wife's brother's a fishmonger," he said brightly. "He has a barge waiting."

This was no answer. Honor tensed. "Master Legge, tell me."

He sighed. "I warn you now, my lady. Master Thornleigh may have a rough time getting quit at Smithfield."

They had reached the wharf and had to trot in silence past a handful of ferrymen and lounging customers. Legge halted the horse, swung his leg over its neck, jumped down and tethered it. He turned to help Honor, but she was already sliding off on her belly, her bare feet stretching for the ground. Legge grabbed her elbow and spoke in a gruff whisper. "His orders were we should not wait for him above a quarter hour." He saw her blanch, but without waiting for a reply he hustled her towards the barge.

It was a grimy, patched affair, with two shipped sets of splintered oars. A low cabin of woven-reed mats tacked onto a wooden frame took up half its stern, and a flap of sackcloth was slung across the cabin's entrance. As they approached, the craft appeared deserted. Then, a hand threw up the flap and a dark, tousled head popped out.

"Adam!" Honor cried, and covered her mouth too late. One or two of the men on the wharf glanced over. But Honor noticed nothing but Thornleigh's bright-eyed son beaming out at her.

Legge pushed the two inside the cabin, then followed. As Honor and Adam embraced, Legge flopped down on a heap of nets and peered out through a puncture in the reed walls. "Now, we wait," he growled. It was clearly the part of the plan he loathed and mistrusted.

The other two could not speak fast enough. Clasping hands, they breathlessly compared stories.

"And so," Adam finished, "my aunt Joan and her husband have had the care of my father's business all the while he searched for you."

"Searching abroad all these months!"

"We feared you were dead."

"I thought it safer for you to think so. I was so sure that he was dead."

"He wrote us that he'd followed your trail to Amsterdam, then lost it. He kept searching southward. He even went to France. In a hill-town there he had to fight a highwayman who almost stole his horse."

"And all the while I was safe in Freiburg."

"The name of Erasmus never crossed our minds."

"Of course not. Why should it? An old scholar I had never even met."

"Finally," Adam said, "Father found friends of the people who had taken you to Munster, and he said he knew then that you must be inside that place, a prisoner. And then, just weeks ago, he wrote us again from Munster. The Prince-Bishop's army had routed the city, and all the inhabitants were killed. My father wrote us he was coming home."

Honor felt a pang for the poor Deurvorsts. Then her eyes darted to Legge. He was still peering out between the reed mats. Where was Thornleigh?

Legge got up. Adam took the cue. His young face settled instantly into that of a man of action. He pulled his hands from Honor's. "Pardon me, madam," he said, "I must see to the charts."

She gazed at the boy, now a sturdy young lad, and for his sake she forced down her fears. There was time yet, she told herself, for Thornleigh to reach the barge.

Adam busied himself with the charts. Legge prowled the small cabin, his fighting hand twitching near his sword. The nearby bells of Blackfriars and St. Paul's clanged in angry discord.

"That's it," Legge growled. "I'm sorry, my lady, but we must be gone if any of us is to see another day."

"No!" she begged. "We cannot leave him. Another quarter hour, please!"

Legge set his jaw, uttered a low oath, then paced again. The quarter hour passed.

Outside, there came the thudding of horse's hooves.

"Richard!" Honor's hands flew to her mouth to muffle the cry of happiness. But when she caught the gleam of Legge's drawn sword and the dagger that quivered in Adam's hand she realized that it was not Thornleigh they expected.

The hooves halted. Footsteps, solid and hurried, thudded in their place. The three in the cabin watched the swaying sackcloth flap. No one dared to breathe.

The flap was wrenched up.

"Sam!"