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

“Ordered by whom?”

“The captain. Think the order came from the chamberlain, though.”

Lord Ashcombe didn’t like what he was hearing. Fortunately, the rules didn’t apply to him. “With me,” he said. I followed him inside, sticking as close as I could, Bridget tucked in the crook of my arm.

The Scotsman at the gate was outraged. “Why does he get to go in—Ashcombe! Ashcombe! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

I looked up at Lord Ashcombe as we strode into the court.

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I just don’t care.”

Lord Ashcombe appeared to know where we were going, which was good, because with the way the palace corridors twisted and turned, I was completely lost.

“Remove your pistols,” he said.

“My lord?”

“Only guards enter the king’s presence armed.”

Right. I unbuckled my belt. “What do I do with them?”

“An attendant will take them. The bird, too.”

We finally reached our destination: a somewhat overdecorated antechamber, walls plastered with portraits, the tables layered with Oriental rugs. I was relieved to see Tom and Sally were already there. They’d changed out of their traveling clothes and now looked rather fine: Tom in a sharp blue doublet, black breeches, and hose, and Sally in a reddish gown that matched her auburn hair rather prettily.

As for me, I suddenly felt self-conscious. Still dirty from the road, I smelled of mud, smoke, and horse. And was that Simon’s blood on my breeches?

Behind the others were a pair of guards, both with halberds, and another pair near the door. Three servants hovered against the wall; one of them stepped forward to relieve me of my pistols, and, with a slight look of distaste, my pigeon as well. I felt a pang of regret as the man hurried from the room. I’d get Bridget back, of course. I wasn’t so sure about the guns.

A second servant brushed as much of the dirt off me as he could, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He positioned me next to Tom, who looked nervous, sweating.

“What took you so long?” he whispered, voice cracking.

I hardly knew where to begin. But I didn’t want to say anything in front of all these strangers. “Why is the palace locked down?” I whispered back.

Sally spread her hands. “We don’t know. But soldiers are everywhere.”

Then there was no time left to say anything. The guards slammed the butts of their halberds against the floor and opened the door.

And the king entered the room.

CHAPTER

6

WE’D MET CHARLES II BEFORE—TWICE, actually—but I still felt the thrill of meeting our sovereign. Sally smoothed her gown nervously, then clasped her hands to keep them still. Tom, who loved His Majesty the most, stared straight ahead, trembling and sweating. I shrank a little, embarrassed by my ragtag appearance.

Charles, flanked by four of the King’s Men and a pair of servants, cut an imposing figure. Except for Tom, he was much taller than anyone else here, around six-foot-two, with a curly wig that fell past his shoulders. He wasn’t the most attractive fellow: long face and heavy brow with a dark complexion and sagging cheeks. But he carried himself with extraordinary grace, and his smile, always ready, made you feel like you were the most important person in the room.

He smiled at the three of us now, striding our way. “My friends,” he said warmly. “My dear, dear friends.” And he offered me his hand.

I was almost too startled to take it. Bending down on one knee, “Your Majesty” was all I could mumble.

He gripped my shoulders as I stood. “Christopher. How worried I was for you all when I heard the news of your shipwreck. How I prayed for your safe return.”

Tom’s eyes bulged. “You… prayed for us?” he said. He was so stunned, he forgot to say “Your Majesty.”

“Every night,” Charles said seriously, and he offered Tom his hand next.

Tom kneeled, positively glowing. But being a couple of inches taller than the king had its drawbacks. Charles was wearing a feathered, wide-brimmed, silver-trimmed hat. As Tom rose, his forehead bumped the hat’s brim and knocked it from the king’s head.

Tom was mortified. “Sorry, Your Majesty,” he said as he scrambled to retrieve it.

Charles just laughed. “Odd’s fish, how can you be so tall? No, you keep it.” The king placed his hat on Tom’s head. “A gift.”

Tom’s embarrassment turned to awe. He looked at me with the widest grin.

Then the king moved on to Sally, who curtsied. “Such loveliness returned to Court,” he said. She blushed furiously.

More serious, he said, “And your hand. Is it better?”

Sally had nearly been killed in Paris. As it was, a head injury had rendered her left hand almost immobile. Then, in Devonshire, she’d injured it further when she got run through with a knife. She seemed surprised the king even knew about it.

“Uh… yes, Your Majesty. It’s improving.”

“Excellent.” He patted her hand. “On to business. First—Christopher.”

“Y-yes, sire?” I stammered.

“I can never repay the service you have done me, nor compensate you adequately for the dangers you have braved. Nevertheless, I must insist you not set fire to any more of my things.”

My face grew hot. “Sorry.”

I’d been trying not to think about what punishment he’d dole out for what I’d done. But he apparently considered the matter settled, because he moved on. “Very well. I have gifts for the three of you. I had hoped to give them today, but something else must occupy my time.”

He glanced at Lord Ashcombe, whose gaze suddenly sharpened. I guessed he was talking about why the palace was locked down, but he didn’t say anything more about it.

“Regardless,” the king continued, “I have one gift with me, so I may as well offer it. Sally?”

He smiled as one of his servants placed a proclamation in his hand, which he read. “ ‘I declare that on this, the day of our Lord, the third of March, 1666, I do accept the care and guardianship of Sara-Claire Adeline Marie Deschamps, of London,