Suzanne Robinson (29 page)

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“You will not.”

“I will.”

“You will not.”

Derry chuckled. “I tried to refuse to bring her to London, and she’s here, Fitzstephen. Mayhap you should surrender with grace.”

“I don’t surrender to fey little witches who have no more sense than to desire to place themselves in the middle of a fight.”

“He’s my cousin. And besides, did I not save you from those thieves who were going to kill us?”

“You did not. You risked your life when you should have waited for me to save you. I knew what I was doing, but you nearly got yourself killed, and I had to slice my way through a pack of highwaymen to prevent it.”

“You’re just angry because I was the one who saved us.”

He thought his head would burst from the futility of the argument. “God’s blood, you’ll do as you’re commanded, for once.”

Vaulting toward her, he bent and shoved his shoulder into her stomach and lifted her. She gasped as she lost her breath, and then started kicking.

“Blade Fitzstephen, release me!”

“When I return.”

He went out of the dining chamber and climbed the stairs. Derry had covered his ears when Oriel began to shout, and René stood aside, impassive. He was halfway up the staircase when something clawed his buttocks. He yelped, but managed to keep his grip on Oriel’s legs.

He entered his chamber and dumped her on the bed. She bounced and scrambled off. Realizing his mistake, he raced her to the doorway, bounded through it, and shut her in as she caught up with him. He heard her pound on the door and shout at him. Taking a key from the pouch on his belt, he locked the door. René joined him, and he handed the key to him.

“Don’t release her.”

“Oui, mon seigneur.”

He raised his voice. “Forgive me,
chère
, but I can’t have you so near danger.” He listened, then turned to René. “What did she say?”

“I fear, my lord, that I cannot repeat it.”

Blade heaved a sigh. “I’d rather face Jack Midnight than her. Don’t leave her until I return.”

It was a short ride to the house occupied by Leslie Richmond. He and Derry left their horses in the care of a servant in the next street and made their way to the corner of the road on which Leslie’s house lay. Vendors hawked their wares up and down the street. Carts of hay and produce fought their way down the narrow, cobbled street and liveried servants jostled each other and gave way to gentlemen when they passed.

Blade led the way down the street and paused to look at the wares of a vendor selling perfumed pomanders. The man was a tall stick figure who had great trouble not tripping over his own feet. Blade picked up a silver pomander ball and studied it.

“Well, Inigo, has he returned from the tavern?”

“Just now,” said Inigo.

Blade sniffed the pomander, discarded it, and picked up another. “How many went in?”

“Only two. Frenchmen I’ve never seen before. They’re in his chamber.”

Derry picked up a pair of scented gloves and waved them under his nose. “One is the wielder of the tool?”

“Yes,” Blade said. “Or a messenger. Whatever the case, we must catch the lot of them now. Inigo, you come with me. The others will watch the house.”

A high stone wall surrounded Leslie Richmond’s abode. Blade climbed on top of it with a boost from Inigo and Derry. He helped the others to join him, then jumped into the branches of a tree near the wall and climbed down into a deserted garden. Slinking into the house, he led the others in search of Leslie Richmond. Neither he nor his guests were on the ground floor. Indeed, there was no one there except two guards.

Since arriving in London, Leslie had kept only the two guards and no servants in the house. The first guard was stationed at the foot of the stairs in the entryway. Inigo produced a cudgel, tiptoed up behind the man, and smacked him on the head. Blade and Derry caught him as he fell, and they dragged him back to the kitchen. The second guard stood outside at the front door. Inigo and Derry flattened themselves on either side of it while Blade scratched at the wooden panels. He jumped back as the guard opened the door.

“Bon jour,”
he said as the man stuck his head inside.

Inigo plied his cudgel once more, and Derry caught the falling body.

“Bon nuit,”
Blade murmured and closed the door as
his companions carried the guard to the back of the house.

Once the man had been disposed of, they crept back to the entryway.

Drawing his sword, Blade whispered to Derry, “Richmond’s chamber is the third to the right of the landing.”

Taking the stairs quickly but quietly, he approached the room. The darkness and silence of the house oppressed him, but the quiet allowed him to hear the muffled voices of the chamber’s occupants. He put his ear to the closed door, then tested the handle of the lock. It moved easily. He nodded to Derry, and gently opened the door a crack. There was no pause in the conversation within. He stood back, glanced at Derry and Inigo, and rammed his boot at the door.

The portal crashed open. He and the others leaped into the room, swords at the ready. Within, three men turned from the table where they had been studying a document by the fading light of the afternoon sun. Their hands went to their swords, but Blade palmed his own dagger and hurled it at one of the Frenchmen before any of them could draw. The Frenchman cried out and fell to his knees. Leslie moved, and Blade jumped at him, touching his sword point to the man’s throat.

“You’ll be dead before you draw.”

Leslie and his companion raised their hands away from their swords. Blade jerked his head to the side, and they moved away from the table. While Inigo and Derry held the two at sword point, Blade strode over to the table and glanced down at the paper. To his relief, it was the confession.

“Fitzstephen,” Leslie said. “How discourteous of you to have survived. And I suppose my dear coz lives, as well?”

“If she weren’t alive, you would be dead.”

“I shall complain to Jack Midnight. He’s failed me again.”

“Not Midnight,” Blade said. “Samuel. But I haven’t come for your conversation. Inigo, light that candle. I’ve a paper to burn.”

“Stay!” Leslie reached for his sword, but Derry prodded him and he stilled. “Fitzstephen, you could claim riches beyond imagining for that piece of paper. I have an ally—”

“Marry, sirrah, you’ve a master. The Cardinal of Lorraine doesn’t make allies of minnows such as you.”

“How do you know who—” Leslie whistled. “I bow to your skill, Fitzstephen. I never suspected you of being more than an interfering fool. It seems I’m in more trouble than I thought.”

“Consorting with foreign spies is madness and treason,” Blade replied. “Trouble hardly describes your plight. I marvel that you would gamble so recklessly with your life.”

Leslie slowly lowered his hands and shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand, being firstborn. An accident of birth cast me in the role of beggar. How would you like to wait upon the whim and charity of brothers whose wits wouldn’t fill a comfit box? Year after year coddling their fancies, cringing under their censure, condemned to rot in that mold-ridden heap in the north country.”

“Fear not,” Blade said, “I’ve arranged for you to rot in a mold-ridden cell in the Tower until your execution. Inigo, if I mistake me not, has brought manacles.”

As Inigo approached the two prisoners, there came a shout from below and the explosion of fighting. Everyone looked through the open door at once, but Leslie recovered first and kicked at Derry’s sword hand. The weapon flew out of Derry’s hand and slid across the floor. Blade dashed for Leslie, but was too late to prevent him from drawing his sword.

Swinging his manacles like metal whips, Inigo attacked the Frenchman, Derry dived for his sword as Blade thrust at Leslie. There were more shouts from the first floor. Evidently more Frenchmen had arrived and
Blade’s men had tried to prevent them from coming upon him unaware. He parried a thrust from Leslie, but was distracted by a cry from Inigo.

The manacles had twisted around the Frenchman’s sword and the man had taken the opportunity to dash Inigo against a wall. As Inigo sank to the floor, Derry rushed at the Frenchman, who quickly freed his weapon, swinging around to meet this new attack.

Leslie had taken advantage of this diversion to leap for the table and the confession upon it. Blade plucked a dagger from the sleeve of his doublet and hurled it. The weapon sank into Leslie’s hand as he reached for the paper. He cried out, pulled the dagger from his hand, and, snarling, raised his sword and rushed toward Blade.

Blade grasped his weapon in both hands and bent his knees. Leslie charged at him, putting the full force of his momentum behind the attack. Blade raised his sword, and their weapons clashed, sending off sparks. As he rammed into Blade, Leslie brought his knee up and tried to jam it into Blade’s stomach. Blade leaped aside, turned, and parried a second thrust from Leslie’s sword.

Derry swept by him on a charge at his own opponent. Blade now stood between Leslie and the confession on the table. Knocking Leslie’s weapon aside, he backed toward the table with Leslie matching every step. Without taking his eyes from his opponent, Blade picked up the confession. Stepping to the side, he approached the candle. Using one hand, he rolled up the paper.

“You’ll have to take your gaze from me to put it to the flame,” Leslie said. “It will cost you your life, and I’ll get the cursed paper anyway.”

Blade moved so that he could see the flame in the corner of his eye while holding Leslie at bay with his sword. In one corner of the room Derry still battled the Frenchman. Blade lifted the roll; it wavered near the flame. The paper flared, and in that instant Leslie pounced. The two weapons clashed, and Leslie’s sword
slithered down Blade’s until their hilts locked. Leslie grabbed for the confession with his free hand, but Blade threw the burning paper out of his reach.

Leslie cried out in dismay as he saw the confession consumed by flames, then looked back at Blade. “You bastard.”

Breaking free of Blade’s sword hilt, he jumped backward. Rage burning from his eyes, he took his sword in both hands.

Holding Leslie at bay with his sword, Blade retrieved a dagger from his boot without taking his gaze from his opponent. “You don’t want to continue this fight, Richmond. I’ve earned my name, believe me.”

“I want to bathe in your blood,” Leslie said. He raised his sword high and charged.

Blade held his ground, crossed the hilts of his sword and dagger, and thrust them at Leslie’s sword as it soared down at him. The impact filled the chamber with the ringing of metal against metal. Roaring his frustration, Leslie pulled free and sent his weapon slicing at Blade’s neck. Blade whirled and met the blow with a backhanded parry. As he turned, he brought the dagger underneath his sword arm.

Intent on his own charge, Leslie impaled himself on the dagger. As the weapon sank deep into his chest, he sank to his knees. Leslie gaped at Blade in surprise, then slowly closed his eyes and fell to the floor.

As Leslie died, Blade heard a scream from the Frenchman. Derry had sunk his weapon into his enemy, but as he pulled his sword free, a club sailed through the doorway and smashed into his head. Dropping his sword, he collapsed.

Blade scrambled to his feet, sword raised, but as he did so, five swordsmen rushed into the room and surrounded him. He lowered his sword and glanced at the confession. Only a few ashes remained. He had succeeded, in part.

As he stood in the middle of a circle of steel, a sixth
man entered the room, his sword still in its sheath. Cloaked and clad in black velvet, he was tall and skeletal, giving the appearance of a body that had been placed in a crypt nigh onto three days. He walked without making a sound, and the circle of men around Blade parted for him. He stood surveying the fallen men, glanced at the burned paper and then at Blade.

“Salut, mon seigneur.”

“Who are you?”

“Your sword,” the man said.

Blade glanced around the circle of men, then dropped his weapon. One of them kicked it away.

His captor bowed to him. “I am Alain Le Brun, and you are the Sieur de Racine.”

“What you came for has been destroyed, Le Brun.”

“Non, mon seigneur
, only part of it has been destroyed.”

Dread filled him, and he glanced about the room for signs of other documents.

Le Brun made a noise that sounded like a devil laughing. “It is you, Fitzstephen. I came for you. You see, there is someone who wishes to speak with you, someone whom you have annoyed. And when he hears that you’ve interfered with his plans in such a devastating manner, well, shall I say that minstrels will compose laments about your untimely death.”

As he listened, Blade felt a tremor of apprehension crawl up his spine. Then he stopped breathing, for behind Le Brun, in the doorway, a small white hand crept out to grasp the hilt of Derry’s sword. He could have sworn he felt his hair turning white. He hastened to keep Le Brun’s attention. If he survived, he was going to lock Oriel in a high tower for at least a year.

“By now the watch has been summoned. You’ll leave this house as a prisoner, Le Brun.”

“Bind him,” Le Brun said.

Two men grabbed him, but he dared not resist, for the little hand had grasped the sword and was raising it
unsteadily. His hands were bound in front of him with leather straps. As the last knot was tied, Oriel jumped into the room and bashed one of the swordsmen with the flat of the sword blade.

The man plummeted to the floor, and Blade jammed his elbow in the chest of another. Kicking a third in the ribs, he snatched the man’s sword. Lifting it, he swung around to meet Le Brun, who stood with the tip of his sword touching Oriel’s breast. She glared at him, her own sword wobbling in her hands.

“Look what you’ve done,” Blade snapped at her as he dropped his weapon.

She transferred her glare to him. “Someone had to try to save you.”

“Where is René?”

“Putting out the fire in your chamber. He thinks I’ve fainted on the landing.”