The Traitor's Blade, Kevin Sands [fiction novels to read txt] 📗

courtyard, I released her. She flapped her wings and flew off into the sky.

The Banqueting House was across the courtyard, between the entry to the palace and the Holbein Gate. Despite its name, it was rarely used for dining. Instead, it was a presence chamber, where His Majesty would receive visiting ambassadors or hold other public functions. I wondered how the king felt about the place; seventeen years ago, his father, Charles I, had been executed right in front of it in the street.

The House was a later addition to the palace, built some forty years ago by one of our greatest architects, Inigo Jones. The outside was simple and elegant, seven windows wide, with three central bays and columns on the upper and lower stories. Its face was a mix of colors: pink, honey, and white, created from three different kinds of stone.

As Lord Ashcombe had said, the Banqueting House was unlocked and empty. Inside was one large room, designed as a perfect double cube, 110 feet long, fifty-five feet wide and high. Along both sides of the hall, pillars rose from the floor up to the gallery overlooking the main space. When Charles did dine here, the gallery was where the commoners would stand, to watch our king as he ate.

Tom’s voice echoed in the emptiness. “So what are we looking for?”

The letter hadn’t said. “I’m not sure.”

I studied the ceiling. Between the gilded beams were nine magnificent canvases, all by the Flemish painter Sir Peter Paul Rubens. The scenes were a celebration of the life of James I, grandfather to our king.

“Look for marks on the walls,” I said, “or something left behind, out of place. Anything out of the ordinary.”

“Everything we’re doing is out of the ordinary,” Tom grumbled, and I couldn’t really disagree with that.

Nothing jumped out at me on the ground floor. Below the hall was an undercroft, but before we delved into the dungeon, I figured we might as well check out the gallery overhead.

We went upstairs. Tom took the left side; I went around to the right. A balustrade ringed the gallery, but other than that, there didn’t appear to be anything up here. I studied the floor below, wondering if I might spot something from a higher perspective. When that offered nothing, I looked up again at the canvases.

Directly overhead was a painting of Hercules, wielding a club, stomping on a woman holding a snake, who was supposed to represent Envy. On the other side, the Greek goddess Minerva plunged a spear into another woman, who represented Ignorance.

I really hoped the paintings weren’t the clue. We’d had enough trouble with one in Paris. And there were nine of them here, hanging a dozen feet over our heads. Lord Ashcombe had said we had a lot of leeway investigating for the king, but I didn’t think anyone would be pleased if we started ripping Rubens off the ceiling.

Well, we still had the grottoes beneath the Banqueting House to search. I was just about to tell Tom I was going downstairs when he called to me. His voice reverberated in the hall.

“Christopher.”

I went around to his side. He was standing at the far end, staring at the railing atop the balustrade, right at the corner. He pointed.

A letter lay folded on top of the rail. I picked it up and saw what was written on the front.

C. R.

Christopher Rowe. Left for me, where no one else was likely to find it.

The back was sealed, a featureless circle stamped in red wax. Just like the letter I’d found in Blackthorn.

I cracked the seal. Then Tom and I huddled by the window to read the message inside.

CHAPTER

18

TOM STARED AT IT, CONFUSED. “What is this?”

Saints defend these ancient walls,

Saints we hope will save,

Visit them in hallowed halls,

And pray upon his grave.

la ruota dell’italiano

B s m v & h c t c q q t d k d & l x

“Another puzzle,” I said, excited. “But I know this one.”

“The rhyme?”

“The code. I know what it is. I need— We have to go back to Blackthorn.”

“Why?”

“There’s a device,” I said. “A cipher device. Master Benedict has one—had one. We need to find it.”

“Oh,” Tom said, pleased. “We’ll get to take the horses—”

I clapped my hand over his mouth.

Below us, the door to the Banqueting House squeaked open. Then we heard the clop of leather heels on floor.

Quickly, I flattened myself behind the balustrade. Tom got down with me, looking puzzled.

Aren’t we allowed to be here? he mouthed.

We were, but what I was doing was supposed to be a secret. I didn’t want to have to explain our presence. What’s more, Lord Ashcombe had said no one should be in the Banqueting House at this hour. It was an awful coincidence for someone to show up just after we’d gone in.

Unless they were here for a similar reason.

Or here for us.

I peeked through the rails. A man stepped into the hall. He was at the opposite end, near the door, but I could make out his face well enough.

I’d seen him before. He was one of the men held up at the palace gate, when Lord Ashcombe and I had arrived at Whitehall during the lockdown. The taller one, with trimmed beard, gold spectacles, and an irate Scottish companion.

He took a step closer, glancing around the hall. A pistol hung from his belt. He held a letter, but this one wasn’t meant for us. It was already open.

He looked around, suspicious. Then he laid his hand on the grip of his pistol.

“Hello?”

Like his companion yesterday, this man also had a Scottish accent. Tom looked at me, eyes wide. I stayed absolutely still, afraid to breathe.

The man frowned. He tried again.

“Is someone there?”

Slowly, he drew his pistol. Then he stepped closer, heels echoing in the hall. He looked around, then up at the gallery. I hoped he couldn’t see us through the balustrade.

He backed away, one step, another. Then,