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

his club shoved me back until I stepped on Sally’s foot. “Ow!” she said.

“Que faites-vous ici?” the brute growled.

“Je suis chez moi,” I said, startled.

A voice called weakly from upstairs. “Qui est-ce, Henri?”

“Simon?” I called back.

“Oh. Laisse-les passer.”

The brute grunted and lowered his club. We sidled past him warily, then went upstairs to my bedroom.

Simon lay on his stomach, stripped naked. Dr. Kemp sat calmly on a chair he’d moved from one of the spare rooms, watching as his apprentice finished wrapping Simon in a fresh bandage. The doctor reached over to cover his patient in a bedsheet as Sally appeared, then grinned when he saw me rubbing my chest. “Charming fellow downstairs, eh?”

“Who… what… is that thing?” I said.

“Sorry,” Simon said into his pillow, grimacing at the pain. “That’s—ow!—Henri. My bodyguard. He’s a bit overzealous, I admit—ungh! Must you make it so blasted tight?”

The apprentice looked to his master. Dr. Kemp rolled his eyes and motioned for the boy to continue. “You could have an infection instead, if you like.”

“I loathe you, Doctor, as I do all your kind.”

Dr. Kemp smirked. “As long as you pay the bill.”

“I brought Henri with me when I came to England,” Simon explained. “Found him in a tiny hamlet—argh!—near Calais. He was carrying a bale of hay, all by himself.”

I believed it. “Where’s the guard Lord Ashcombe left?”

“Gone with the marquess. Ashcombe stopped by this morning, and was good enough to send a man to the rooms I’ve been renting to collect Henri. No offense to His Majesty, but I trust my own security better. Though the devil knows why someone would want to murder me.”

“You’re French,” Dr. Kemp said. “That’s reason enough.”

“Can you see how many fingers I am holding up, Doctor?”

The physician laughed. “As you can see,” he said to me, “the vicomte will be fine. I’ll drop by each morning and night, and send Jack”—he indicated his apprentice—“to administer the poppy if you’re not around. But just a few days more. I assume you know its dangers?”

I did. Though the poppy was unrivaled at fighting pain, it was extremely tricky to deal with. Give too much, and the patient would stop breathing. Give it too often, and the patient would become dependent on it, with terrible cravings. I assured Dr. Kemp we could move to willow bark extract whenever he ordered, and he and Jack left.

“Finally, some peace.” Simon sounded drained. “I’m glad to see you again—Tom! Sally! You’re well.” Painfully, he held out a hand for the others to grasp. “What on earth happened to you all? Why weren’t you in London?”

“Didn’t you get my letters?” I said.

“What letters?”

I glanced over at Tom. “I sent you two while we were on the coast. One from Southampton, the other from Brighton, weeks ago.”

“I received neither.” Simon winced as he twisted, and Sally laid a hand on his shoulder for him to lie still. “That’s why I’m in England. I sent you letters of my own, but never heard back. I was worried. So I decided to come and check on you.

“When I arrived, three weeks ago, I inquired at Whitehall, and was told you were off south with Ashcombe, though they wouldn’t tell me why. I’d have gone to meet you, but they said you were already on your way back.”

That had been the plan. We were supposed to have returned to Whitehall when the king did, in February, but another terrible storm kept us holed up in Brighton, irritating Lord Ashcombe to no end. “How did you know we’d arrived yesterday?”

“I was sent word the marquess had returned to the palace. I went there, but was told you hadn’t come with him. I assumed you’d gone home. I’d just turned onto your street when I was attacked.”

“By whom?” Sally said.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them. I just stumbled, and felt a sharp pain in my back, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was about to faint.”

“You were in shock,” I said.

“Was that what it was? All I could think was: get to Blackthorn. Master Benedict will help. Stupid, isn’t it? It’s not like I didn’t know he was gone.”

I didn’t think it was stupid. How many times had I called out, when I’d needed him?

“So you didn’t see anybody?” Sally said. “Did the attacker say anything?”

“Ashcombe asked me the same question.” Simon hesitated. “I told him no.”

“That wasn’t true?” I said.

“Well…”

“What was it?” Sally said.

“I must have I imagined it,” Simon said, sounding embarrassed. “Or dreamed it, afterward, under the poppy. Because it doesn’t make sense.

“I could have sworn I heard someone whisper, just before I was stabbed. They said… ‘For the convent.’ ”

Tom’s eyes went wide. “You were attacked by nuns?”

Simon made a face. “You see why I didn’t want to mention it.”

“You must have misheard them,” Sally said.

“No doubt. But I don’t know what else they could have said.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill you?”

“Not in London,” Simon said. “Not even in Paris, really, although you never know with those worms. But seriously, all my time in England, I lived in Nottinghamshire, not here. No one has any reason to murder me.”

“The Raven does,” I said slowly. “But you said he’s dead.”

“He is.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the Raven was Rémi, wasn’t he?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Then he’s definitely dead,” Simon said, “because I saw Rémi’s corpse.”

CHAPTER

21

MY CHEST WAS TIGHT. “HOW did you find him?”

“After you left,” Simon said, “I spent a great many livres trying to track Rémi down. I contacted several old associates of Uncle Marin’s, who were in the business of finding Templar artifacts for him. The information they provided was not always acquired… ethically. You understand my meaning?”

I nodded.

“I’d rather not have used them, but ordinary channels were getting me nowhere. Still, who better to catch a crook than a bunch of crooks themselves? You see, they’d heard of someone calling himself the Raven. By reputation, he was a man whose specialty was pretending