The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

abruptly, he spun on his heels and stalked from the Banqueting House. The door creaked and slammed behind him.

“Come on,” I whispered to Tom. I ran to the windows, barely peeking my head above the sill, trying to see where the man had gone.

He strode across the courtyard, toward the main palace buildings. Suddenly he turned, looking up at the Banqueting House, eyes narrowed.

I ducked down, heart thumping. Had he spotted us?

I waited a moment. Then I crawled to a different window, farther along the gallery, and peeked out again.

I didn’t know if he’d seen us, but he wasn’t coming back. One of the guards had started a small fire near the entrance to the courtyard. The Scotsman was already there.

He held the letter in the flames. One corner caught fire. The man watched it burn for a moment, then dropped it.

He went inside the palace as the letter turned to ash.

CHAPTER

19

TOM LEANED AGAINST THE WALL. “What was that about?” he said.

I wished I knew. The man had a letter, like us. Did it say the same thing? Had it told him to search the Banqueting House?

Or was it something else?

The thing that worried me most was that, unlike us, he hadn’t bothered to look around. If anything, he’d acted like he was being lured into a trap.

“Maybe he’s the murderer,” Tom said.

“I don’t know about that.” I explained how I’d seen the man yesterday, outside the palace gate.

“He still could have done it,” Tom insisted. “He kills Mary Brickenham, then leaves the palace right away. So he’s already gone by the time she’s found, and he’s outside for the lockdown. That way, no one suspects him.”

It was possible. Still, we couldn’t be sure. The man had behaved oddly, yes, but that didn’t make him a murderer. I remembered the spymaster’s warning about jumping to conclusions. When there are no patterns, we invent them to fill the gaps.

The fact was, we didn’t know anything about the Scotsman. We didn’t even know who he was. I wished he hadn’t burned that letter. If we knew what was in it, I had the feeling we’d understand what was happening a lot better.

Well, we could at least learn the man’s name. “Lord Ashcombe saw him, too,” I said. “He might know who he is.”

We went looking for the King’s Warden but were told he’d left Whitehall for a meeting at the docks. Probably the same one Walsingham was going to, about the war with the Dutch.

“Should we check with someone else?” Tom said.

I shook my head. “I don’t want word getting around that we’re asking about the man. It’ll have to wait until Lord Ashcombe’s back. Besides, we’re supposed to be solving this riddle.”

“But if he’s the killer—”

“All he did was walk into the Banqueting House. Are we supposed to tell the king that makes him guilty?”

Tom made a face. “I guess not.”

“Lord Walsingham ordered me to follow the messages,” I said. “I can decipher this puzzle at the shop. Besides, I want to check on Simon.”

And ask him about the Raven, too, I thought.

We stopped by the stables to get our horses. Both were animals largely retired from service, the groom’s apprentice told us. Tom’s mount, Lightning, was an old, midnight black warhorse with a meandering blaze down his face, which looked a bit like a lightning strike—no doubt how he got his name. Lightning perked up as soon as he was taken from his stall, stamping the mud with excited energy.

I got a former carriage horse. I think the groom’s apprentice was making fun of me. Not just because mine was a carriage horse—the story of my fiery accident had made its way around Whitehall, it seemed—but because my horse was a mare, a docile old girl by the name of Blossom, the farthest thing from a warhorse in the king’s stable.

The apprentice smirked at me, and Tom looked embarrassed. Yes, the stable hands were definitely making sport. I sighed and checked out my new mount.

Blossom’s coat was chestnut, with white socks on her hind legs. She had a star on her forehead and was going slightly gray around her lips. She looked at me with curious, intelligent eyes as I approached.

I took her reins and breathed softly into her nostrils, the way Lord Ashcombe had taught me to say hello to a horse. In return, Blossom lowered her head and nuzzled my hand with her nose. I rubbed her withers, and she stretched her neck, enjoying the scratch. So the joke was on everyone else, because I loved this gentle girl from the start.

She kept a placid pace, enjoying the walk out of Whitehall, not champing at the bit to go faster, like Lightning, who snorted as if he was ready to charge into battle. I wasn’t exactly the greatest horseman, so a slower pace suited me just fine.

It was strange to see how people moved out of our way. And not just because they didn’t want to get stepped on. There was a deference from the crowd, who clearly thought I must be some kind of noble, with Tom my personal guard. Some women even curtsied as I passed, which was mildly embarrassing.

As for Tom, he did look impressive up on Lightning: broad-shouldered, wearing the king’s hat, Eternity strapped to his back. Though his talking to his mount somewhat ruined the effect.

“Who’s a good horse? You are. Who’s the best horse? You are!”

“We should get Sally,” I said. I wanted her to see me up on Blossom—and, well, I wanted to see her, too. “I’m sure she’d like to come with us.”

Tom grinned. “I bet she would.”

“Don’t you start,” I said, flushing. “Or I’ll begin pointing out palace girls to the king.”

That sobered him up. “Do you think His Majesty was serious about finding me a wife?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “Would it be so bad, though? I mean, you do want to get married someday.”

“Of course. But not to a court lady.”

“Why