Keeper of the King's Secrets (13 page)

She brought her lips to his, a whisper away. “I thought you were going out.”

“I will.” He slid his hand deeper inside her gown. “Later.”

Therefore it is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities I have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
chapter 18

T
he nobleman who conducted business on behalf of the French king lived well, Parker observed, as he stood outside the count’s massive stone house.

Like a flickering candle stub, a party fought for life in the large dining room, its window too high off the ground for Parker to look through without the aid of a crate or step. He could hear a few shouts of laughter, followed by long silences, and guessed the guests who remained were holding on to the bitter end at this late hour.

A stablehand brought two bays from the back, their shoes clicking on the gray stone path, and Parker edged deeper into shadows. Perhaps the last of them were leaving, if they’d called for their horses.

The stablehand shivered in the cold, and the horses blew and fidgeted, annoyed with being taken from a warm stable. The boy whispered to them, rubbing their necks and calming them.

Parker wondered if the last guests had passed out, to keep their horses waiting. He lost patience and stepped to the front door. It swung open with a creak and the stable boy’s head jerked up.

Parker gave him a salute before he slipped inside.

The hall was dark and just outside the dining room, an exhausted servant tried to lift a guest up from a pool of vomit. Through the half-open door, voices were raised in heated conversation.

Parker watched the servant lift the man’s head, then drop it back in the puddle of sick. He seemed unaware of Parker, his eyes deeply shadowed. He turned and shuffled down the passage, small and stooped.

The smell in the hallway was choking, and Parker stepped over the prone man, angled through the door, and entered the room beyond.

Two men turned in his direction. Another guest lay sprawled across the long table, his cheek nestled in a dish.

“Which of you owns the horses outside?” Parker saw their eyes widen at the question. It was not what they were expecting.

One of the men standing moved slightly, as if in confirmation.

“They are taking a chill.” Parker pointed in the direction
of the courtyard. “I wouldn’t want to keep such fine horses waiting; it isn’t good for them.”

The man held a hand over one eye, as if to see Parker better, then sidled toward the door, muttering under his breath as he weaved his way out.

Parker turned to the one who was left. “Are you the Comte, or is he?” Parker pointed to the man passed out on the table.

“C’est moi.”
The man pulled himself up, then staggered to the side. “I am he.”

“You have someone working for you. A man who favors a crossbow.”

The Comte put out a hand and grasped the back of a chair, his knuckles white with effort. “
Non.
”

“Yes. In the last three days he has killed a man, and tried to kill a few more. My betrothed is on his list.”

The Comte shook his head, the movement making him dizzy enough to need a second hand on the chair to steady himself. His lips worked as if he were trying to find the words to deny it, but he said nothing.

“I would have a word with your man. Immediately.”

The Comte shook his head again, winced, and began to edge away.

Parker moved, adder-quick. He still had the feel of Susanna on his skin, the deep green scent of rosemary, the smooth curves of her body. He would not have her threatened another moment.

In two steps he had the Comte lying across the table, his head resting on the lip of a plate of roast pheasant.

“Where is he?”

“He is dangerous, monsieur. You do not want to find this man.”

“You are wrong. I want to find him very badly.”

The Comte looked up with flat eyes. “I cannot tell you. I know him. He will kill you, then he will kill me. And if by some miracle you manage to kill him first, then my king will kill me when I return.”

“I will make this easy for you.” Parker lifted his knife and placed it just below the Comte’s right eye, so he could see it if he looked down.

“You will not get the Mirror back. You do not wish for a war with England while your king is a prisoner of the Emperor. But you will get one if you continue this madness.”

“You can arrange a war all on your own, can you?” The Comte’s mouth turned in a sneer, and his gaze was no longer on the blade against his cheek but on Parker’s face.

“Aye. I can do just that.” Parker spoke with quiet conviction. “It will not be difficult to convince my king to do that which he is already considering.”

The Comte looked away, down the table to where the last guest lay snoring into a dish of pastries.

“Perhaps the clever thing would be to make sure you don’t get the chance?” The Comte turned back, his eyes blazing with triumph.

The smug look of victory was a mistake.

As Parker heard the crack of glass smashing, he lifted his arm and threw his knife at the guest who had risen, cake
mashed into his cheek, a jagged wine bottle drawn back to throw.

He dived left, too late, and the thud of the jagged bottle into his flesh was the only sound he could hear. White-hot pain seared down his arm, and then the shouts of the Comte pierced the thrumming of blood in his ears. A man screamed in agony, and something dropped to the floor with a clatter.

His knife?

Parker gritted his teeth and snaked under the table to retrieve it, sliding in blood.

It was not all his.

He rose cautiously, gripping the table. The assassin stood at an open window, panting, his face white against the night sky. He pressed a hand to his upper shoulder, blood staining his fingers, and Parker looked down and saw the bottle still buried high on his own right shoulder.

He pulled it out by the neck, refusing to make a sound, then lifted his gaze to the window again, knife ready. But the assassin was gone.

Parker looked after him, swaying. Then he blinked to clear his vision and turned to the door.

“Where are you going?” The Comte was still crouched by the table, his words a whisper.

Parker glanced at him. “Perhaps to start a war.”

He threw the bottle, dripping with his blood, at the Comte’s feet.

H
e looked like a Viking from the old sagas. Wild-eyed, blood stiff in his hair, caking his clothes.

A dark stain sat high on his shoulder.

He held his knife in one hand, as if he’d carried it across London, expecting immediate attack.

Susanna had run into the hallway when she heard him on the front steps, and she stumbled to a stop, staring, as he closed the door behind him.

He watched her, waiting to see what she would do. A spray of blood, fine as the pattern on a butterfly’s wing, decorated the ridge of his cheek.

She felt a cry well up within her chest and she fought it, fought the way it wanted to twist her face, her mouth, and fill her eyes with tears.

She went to him, gentle, careful, and he bent his face to hers. She kissed his lips lightly. She was too afraid to put her arms around him.

“Can you walk to the study?”

He nodded and she expected him to use her shoulder to lean on, but he walked under his own power, then sank down beside the fire.

“I will get Peter Jack to call Maggie.”

He started to protest, but she ignored him and walked out of the room to the kitchen.

Peter Jack was already yawning and stumbling out of his room, roused by the sound of voices at the door.

“Fetch Maggie.”

He froze mid-stretch and his gaze went to the passageway. “Bad?”

“Bad enough.” Susanna went straight to the hearth and took a jug to scoop up some hot water from the pot in the embers.

Peter Jack had his boots on and his cloak about him by the time she had stoked the fire.

“Bolt wound?” he asked.

She shook her head, viciously stamping down the wail inside her, pressing her lips together and gulping as it tried to claw its way up.

“Broken bottle.”

The door slammed behind Peter Jack as he ran out, and she took a deep breath, trying to still her hands as she fumbled through a drawer for some clean cloths.

Then she picked up the jug of water and walked carefully out of the room, watching to make sure she did not spill.

There would be no more spilling tonight. No water, no tears.

No blood.

Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges by the result.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
chapter 25

I
t was like old days, Parker thought. He would get into trouble, and Maggie would patch him up.

She glared at him now, stirring something with a little pestle. “I thought this kind of thing was over, when you became a fine gentleman for the King.”

Parker looked down at his shirt lying on the floor, cut to ribbons, and at the deep cuts in his shoulder. “The King’s business is not all courtly dances and days at the joust.”

Maggie snorted. Her tiny sylph of an assistant stepped forward with a jug of water, and Maggie held the mortar out for her to pour in a splash.

“Will it heal well?” Susanna sounded as though she were fighting something when she spoke. Every word was measured.

“Aye.” Maggie looked disgusted, as if she’d hoped it were otherwise. “Nothing important was damaged, and he can feel down his arm to his fingertips, so he should make a full recovery if he keeps it clean.” She lifted up some of the mixture in the mortar with a spoon and dropped a little onto Parker’s shoulder.

It was hot and it stung, and Parker swallowed a curse.

“Keep putting this on every few hours,” Maggie told Susanna. She packed her things in quick, deft movements. “I get far too much business from this house.” She sniffed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Lock him up if you have to.” Then, with her assistant in tow, she sailed from the room.

Parker closed his eyes, riding out the sting of the herb paste on his wound. He heard Maggie go through the kitchen and have a word with Mistress Greene, who’d woken when Peter Jack had returned with the healer. The house was a blaze of light, and it was not yet matins. The bells of St. Michael’s would not ring for a few more hours.

The room was silent. The small sounds Susanna made as she gathered the jug of water and cloths she’d used to mop the blood from his shoulder had ceased, and he opened his eyes.

She stood in the middle of the room, her hands full, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He felt his heart rip.

“My love.” He pushed out of his chair, forgetting his shoulder and staggering under the sudden stab of pain.

Susanna dropped the jug with a clatter, pressing her hands to her mouth as if to still the trembling of her lips.