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

I told Tom everything that had happened yesterday. Sally, who’d stayed up all night helping care for the wounded, came by to see us, exhausted, and I told her everything, too. They were horrified at the death of the Templars, and the collapse of the London chapter, and just how close our enemy had come to blaming everything on them, and Lord Ashcombe, too. We didn’t talk about who the enemy was. They already knew.

After a short nap in our chair, Sally returned to the tiltyard, leaving Tom and me once again in idle conversation. Until the evening, when we were roused by a knock on the door.

I answered it, every muscle howling at being asked to move. It was a servant with a folded note. “You’re requested, sir,” he said, and left.

I’d just about opened the note when I saw the name on it. The servant had mistaken me for Tom. “It’s for you.”

Tom was still in bed. When he read the note, he sat up, eyes widening.

“What is it?” I said.

“Oh… I’m supposed to give a report on yesterday. All the fighting. To the captain of the Horse Guards.”

Wincing, he got dressed, stuffing the note in his pocket. My heart sank. I’d have known he was lying, even if he hadn’t made it so obvious. He looked so sad again.

And suddenly I knew. I knew what Lord Ashcombe had offered him. What gift the king had given.

You’ve changed, Dorothy had said when I’d returned to Blackthorn. Maybe she’d been right. But I wasn’t the only one.

Tom had changed, too.

Not in the most important ways. Inside, he was still the kind, gentle, innocent best friend I’d met on Clerkenwell Green, all those years ago. But being out from under his father’s thumb, learning the sword, finding his courage when the people he loved were in danger, it had changed him, the same as it had me.

He was still the nervous sort—I don’t think he’d ever lose that—but he was growing into a great man. When we were smaller—or younger, really; had Tom ever been small?—he’d dreamed of becoming a knight. He was, at least, now a soldier. Of course Lord Ashcombe would see that. And of course he’d tell His Majesty.

It’s hard to say no to a king, Tom had said.

And so I finally understood: He was leaving.

Tom finished buttoning his doublet.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” I said, “you can. I won’t be cross, or upset.”

“What’s there to tell?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

He left, limping badly on his wounded leg. I sat on the bed, despairing. Tom was the only person I had left from when I’d lived with Master Benedict.

I called to my master in heaven. What do I do?

Wait for him, Master Benedict said.

It was good advice. But if Tom was leaving… I didn’t know how I’d get by with him not around.

So I did something I’d never done before: I ignored what Master Benedict said. I threw on some clothes as quick as I could and snuck after my friend.

His path away from our room told the tale. The Horse Guards were quartered beside the tiltyard, which was to the west. Tom limped through the palace toward the south. When he entered the Privy Garden, I hurried up the stairs.

There was a balcony over the Stone Gallery. I crouched there, hidden behind the balustrade, peeking down into the garden. Tom approached the men he’d been called to meet.

Lord Ashcombe, Walsingham, and the king.

“Thomas!” The king greeted him warmly. “My brother in arms. Some fight last night, eh?”

Tom flushed, pleased. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The way you and Christopher rode in on that horse—I thought it was Saint George himself, come to slay the dragon. Richard had already told me the men speak your name with respect. You couldn’t have proved yourself better last night. To them, and to me, as well.”

I don’t think I’d ever seen Tom more proud—or more tormented.

“So, what do you say?” the king continued. “Will you accept my offer and join my army?”

I laid my head against the rail. I’d guessed right. How I wished I hadn’t.

Tom struggled for an answer. “May I ask a question, sire?”

“Anything.”

“What would it mean if I accepted?”

Lord Ashcombe answered him. “You’ll leave immediately for the camp at Gravesend. You’ll train for a year. Then His Majesty will request you back, where you’ll become part of the King’s Men, under my command.”

“And… what about Christopher? Could he come with me?”

Lord Ashcombe regarded him. “He’s free to join,” he said slowly, “but you’re aware His Majesty has other plans for him. Besides, I think you know: Christopher isn’t meant for a soldier’s life.”

“No,” Tom said miserably. “In that case…” He struggled to get the words out. “I’m sorry, sire. I can’t.”

My heart leaped.

Tom turned to Lord Ashcombe, pleading. “Christopher needs me. You know what he’s like. Always getting into trouble. It’s not always his fault… well, not most of the time… well, not some of the time. But he’d have died in Saint Paul’s without me. I can’t abandon him.”

And now my heart broke. Tom looked so stricken.

“Come here, child,” Charles said, and he clasped Tom’s hands.

“You’re not angry?” Tom said.

“Of course not. I know what such friendship is worth.” The king nodded toward Lord Ashcombe. “Christopher is blessed to have you. As am I.”

“Does this mean I won’t…?” Tom bit his lip.

“Go on. Ask.”

“Er… could I still train with Sir William Leech?”

“That monster? Odd’s fish. I think I still have the bruises he gave me when I was your age.” The king looked amused. “What do you say, gentlemen? Should I permit it?”

“My apprentice,” Walsingham said softly, “does appear to find himself in places he shouldn’t. A well-trained guard would be prudent.”

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “If Your Majesty wills it.”

“My Majesty does. Go on, Thomas, rest. All is well.”

Tom bowed and left. They watched him limp away.

“What an extraordinary young man,” Charles said, wistful. “Come,