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

“Well?” Lord Ashcombe said.

I was still in a bit of a daze, so he looked me over.

“You’re wounded,” he said.

I was?

I looked down to see my coat sliced open on the left, below my shoulder. It was stained with blood. When I took the coat off, I saw more blood, wet, and the gash in my shirt. Someone’s blade had got past Tom and cut me.

“I don’t even feel it,” I said, amazed.

“Give it a minute. You will.”

Lord Ashcombe himself had countless cuts and bruises, though none looked serious. Tom also had a few, the worst of which was the spear wound in his lower thigh, but he could stand, so I hoped it wouldn’t be any trouble. The king had a shallow cut across his chest, and his hair was shorter by four inches on one side. Someone’s sword had cut it off.

Charles thought that was incredibly funny. “Odd’s fish. Better than both sides, if you catch my meaning,” he said, and I couldn’t argue with that.

I learned, then, that Lord Ashcombe had spotted my warning. He told me the king’s escort had pulled up within a hundred yards of Barnham Wood when my first firework flashed behind them. For a moment, he’d thought it was lightning, until he realized there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

He’d called for a halt, waiting, frowning.

“Saw your second firework then,” he said. “You were either celebrating or trying to warn someone. And I didn’t think you were celebrating.”

Lord Ashcombe had pulled the king from the carriage, and arranged his men on the ridge, the most defensible position he could see. “The Covenanters must have realized their ambush had failed. They came pouring from the trees and fired their volley. We shot back, and then they charged. You arrived soon after.” He frowned. “Why are you here?”

I told him what had happened, what we’d discovered. When he read the letter I’d found in Domhnall Ardrey’s desk, his face darkened, and he shouted for our reinforcements to return.

As for me, I was relieved. It was certain now that Lord Ashcombe couldn’t be the “man in black” mentioned in the letter, and not merely because I didn’t want him to be. He’d defended the king with the ferocity of a lion. This man was no traitor.

The king read the letter as Lord Ashcombe turned back to me. “Was Ardrey in the palace when you found this?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then I know where he is.”

As the King’s Men galloped up to the ridge, Lord Ashcombe barked out orders. “Ten of you with me. The rest see to the wounded.” He turned to me. “Where’s your horse?”

“We were attacked,” I said. “She ran away.”

He ordered one of the King’s Men who’d relieved us to lend me his. As I waited, I said, “Could someone please look for Blossom?”

“There’s no time for that,” Lord Ashcombe said shortly.

“I know. I don’t mean now. But… please.” What had happened to Blossom was my fault. “She’s hurt, and she’s scared, and she’s out there somewhere, all alone. I wouldn’t have made it in time without her.” I looked at the king. “Please.”

Charles regarded me a moment, then nodded. He’d always held great affection for horses. “I’ll send a man to search for her. But tomorrow. We have wounded to care for tonight.”

Tom found Lightning, who’d stomped his way out of the circle near the end of the battle and was now calmly munching on shoots of grass in the field. One of the King’s Men helped me up on his horse; he said his name was Chuff.

Chuff tilted his head a little so he could see me on his back. He snorted, pawing the earth, ears pricked in my direction. Then we were off.

We rode at full gallop back to Whitehall, His Majesty in the center. Lord Ashcombe had been right: My arm hurt now, throbbing with a vengeance. If I’d had the time, I’d have made some willow bark infusion, maybe even poppy. Instead, I had to make do by swallowing bitter willow powder dry.

For Lord Ashcombe was on the warpath. As we rode through Holbein Gate, he ordered six of his men to take the king and lock him in his quarters. “Let no one in,” he said, his one eye burning. “No one.”

Sally was there, waiting nervously by the stables. When she saw us, she nearly cried in relief. She sprinted toward us, dress flapping about her legs. Her look turned to horror as she saw the blood.

I had so much I wanted to tell her. But we didn’t have time to explain. “Wounded are coming,” I said. “Gather anyone you can. And find the king’s surgeon.”

Then we were riding again. Lord Ashcombe galloped ahead, and we followed him, all the way to Hatton Garden, a street near Clerkenwell Green.

We were going after the Scottish traitors.

We pulled up, four doors down from a house built of pink brick. “One man on each corner,” he said quietly to the soldiers accompanying him. “No one escapes. Cut them down if you must, but I want them alive.”

“Where are we?” Tom whispered to me.

I didn’t know, but Lord Ashcombe heard him and answered. “Niall Ramsay’s house. The man you saw with Domhnall Ardrey outside the palace.” And presumably, the N who’d written the traitorous letter we’d found in Ardrey’s quarters.

“Stay with the horses,” Lord Ashcombe commanded.

His men began to spread out, two going round to cut off any runners from the back. Lord Ashcombe only got a few steps away.

Then Niall Ramsay’s house exploded.

CHAPTER

51

THE WALLS BURST OUTWARD WITH a terrible whump.

Brick, timber, and glass sprayed everywhere. Debris rained down on the road and the houses nearby. We ducked and covered our heads. The horses grunted and shied away in alarm.

I stared at the burning wreckage, mouth agape. Lord Ashcombe glanced at me—so did Tom—but I just shook my head. For once, an explosion wasn’t my doing.

People rushed from their homes, panicked and stunned.