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

moment, remembering what Tom had said he wanted in a wife. A kind girl, who’d make a kind home.

She looked so pretty in the torchlight.

“Thank you,” I said, and she left for the night. I avoided Tom’s grin all the way back to our room.

Tired of lying in bed and not sleeping, I decided to go back to Blackthorn early, before the sun rose. Tom woke as I stuck my pistols in my belt.

“Hnh? Wazzuh ngh?” he said.

“Time to go.”

“Mnnnghh,” he said, but he did get up. Bleary-eyed, he followed me to the stables. Even the groom on duty was snoozing, sitting on a barrel, slumped against a post.

Blossom nickered as I called her name. She stuck her head out of her stall to greet me and Bridget, snuffling at both of us. Bridget flew to the top of the stall, then down to land on the horse’s back, near her mane.

Blossom turned her head to get a good look at her new rider, decided this was all right, then began nibbling the buttons of my doublet. I rubbed her neck and fed her a pear I’d swiped from last night’s dinner. She really was an amazing animal.

“You said first light,” Tom complained.

“I know.”

“I don’t see any light.”

“I know, I know. Let’s just go.”

“Odd’s fish.”

“You have the king’s hat,” I said. “I don’t think you can take his curses, too.”

Tom looked guilty, like he’d been caught dipping his hand in the sweets.

We rode quickly, carrying lanterns to light our way. The streets were quiet, too early for traffic, so it took us no time at all to reach Blackthorn. Even Henri, Simon’s bodyguard, was sleeping, flat on the counter, arms dangling down. We could hear his snoring from outside.

Simon was already awake, lying on his stomach as usual, chest bandaged. He squinted at our lanterns as we entered my bedroom. “What is it—oh. Christopher,” Simon said. “I thought you were Dr. Kemp.”

“Does he usually come this early?” I said.

“No. You had me worried for a second. Why are you here at this hour?”

Tom slumped his head against the doorjamb. “Yes, why?” he said.

“I needed to arrange a few things,” I said. “And I wanted to check on you.”

“Thoughtful of you. I’m all right, other than not sleeping. And being bored out of my mind.”

I regretted not being able to be here for him. He wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping on the poppy, but once it wore off, the pain would keep him up. “Must be hard, being stuck in bed.”

“Even rising to use the chamber pot is an adventure in pain. What’s happening at the palace?”

“I’m not really supposed to say.”

He rolled a bit, to look at me. “Aha. A secret— Ow!” He rolled back, thinking better of it. “In Paris, that would make you the most interesting man in the room.”

“I’d rather be the most boring,” I said.

“Take it from me, you wouldn’t. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you could find me something among these books, could you? The ones in arm’s reach are all apothecary business and philosophy, and while I find it fascinating, I’d rather read something that lets me escape this lovely prison.”

I knew just the thing. I scrounged around in the spare room for a moment before I found what I was looking for. By the time I got back, Tom had sat at the desk, head down. I think he was already asleep.

I placed the books on the bed beside Simon. There were two volumes, squat but thick. “Here you go.”

Simon stared at them, not moving.

“Something wrong?” I said.

He reached out, touched one of the volumes. His fingers traced over the spine. When he opened the book, he turned to the title page. Homer’s Odyssey, in Latin and Greek.

“Master Benedict gave this to me,” he said quietly.

“He did?”

Simon saw my confusion. “Not this copy. A different set, back in Paris, so many years ago.” He cleared his throat. “I told you how I used to hang about his workshop, in Uncle Marin’s cellar, when I was eight. I was always pestering him with questions. Well, one day I begged him to tell me a story. He gave me this. No doubt he thought it would keep me out from underfoot for a while.”

He stayed quiet for a moment. Then he whispered, “Dream of Odysseus, child. Dream of coming home.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“Nothing,” Simon said. He sounded sad and a little bit angry. “Just something Master Benedict said to me, once. Thank you for bringing this. It’s a nice memory.”

I was slightly confused by his reaction, until I remembered that his uncle, Marin, whom Simon had lived with as a child, was dead—murdered by the Raven. Simon had never got his revenge.

Which reminded me: I had another job to do here. In the spare rooms, I gathered what I could find of Master Benedict’s old journals and piled them in the workshop downstairs, setting water to boil for Simon’s poppy.

While rooting around, I found the old chessboard Master Benedict had taught me to play on, tucked away among his other old things. All the pieces were there, so I left it out in the workshop next to the journals. If Walsingham really meant to play me, I should probably refresh my memory of the rules. Maybe Simon would like a game, too, when all this was over.

But that would have to wait. Finished, I collected Bridget and roused Tom. It was time to go back to Whitehall; gathering the journals had taken longer than I’d planned. We said our goodbyes to Simon, who’d already begun to read the Odyssey. His good cheer returned; he drank the poppy I’d made gratefully. Then we hopped on our horses and rode back to the palace.

And so, as the spymaster had commanded, we waited. Tom flopped on his bed while I lay on mine, playing with Bridget, worried about everything. The morning passed, and then the afternoon, until Sally arrived.

She reported both