London, somewhere near Lambeth, after dusk, January 3^rd , 1642

The three horsemen, muskets ready, pursued him relentlessly, but he was still ahead of them. Je dois me rendre à Pym, même si c'est mon dernier acte dans cette vie ! The rider urged his mount on; they raced through the woods, hearts beating, breath quickening with every beat of the hoof. Ahead of him, he could see the fields of Lambeth; the Timber Yards were nearby. He looked back briefly ; three shadowy figures still in pursuit, he could barely make out a dim flicker of a flame as one of them readied his musket.

En avant, Hercules ! he whispered to his mount, who lunged forward, pouring all energy he could muster into the last half-mile. Nous sommes presque arrivés ! A shot rang out, and he felt a sharp stinging sensation below his left shoulder. As he slumped forward, Hercules slowed briefly, but the rider would not surrender. N'abandonne pas maintenant! The stallion threw himself forward ; another shot rang out. It clipped the horse’s ear, but Hercules thundered on ; just as they reached the house of John Pym, a final shot hit the rider. He slid off, the letter in hand, and stumbled forward, hammering on the door as hard as he could ; then he fell to the ground, dead.

Suddenly, the whole house erupted in gunfire. The horsemen, now too close to escape, stood no chance, and silence fell quickly again in the early hours of the morning. Despte the brief gunfight, no neighbours had emerged in fear of their lives. John Pym, having reassurance from his guards that all was now safe, joined them where they stood around the dead young messenger. He could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen years of age.

"He had this with him, sire," Blackmore said, as he held out a bloodstained note. John Pym took it, and read it silently.

Mon ami John Pym,

The King plans to arrest you and the other four members ; you must not attend Parliament, if you want to keep your heads ! 

J. de Montereul

“Send word to Hampden and the others, Blackmore; the French ambassador believes us to be in danger from the King. We shall take refuge in the City for now.”

Pym looked at the dead boy.

“And see to it that the ambassador is informed of this boy’s death; his family may want blood money; we will take it from the Treasury.”

He peered a bit further along the street; the light was only beginning to emerge through the receding night, and he could see the three dead horsemen clearly.

“Are they the King’s men?” he asked.

“Aye, sire, assassins. They must have gotten wind of the ambassador’s warning- I fear there may be spies among us, sir!”

John Pym smiled wrily.

“Of that I have no doubt, Blackmore; no doubt at all!”