Henshaw gasped and staggered backward a step, startled. He stared first at Henry and then at the pistol in his hand.
“Take me to Richard,” said Henry, aiming the pistol at Henshaw’s breast.
Henshaw swallowed, but he swiftly regained his composure. “As I said, His Lordship is poorly. He is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
Henry frowned. “Which will my brother find more disturbing, Henshaw? Speaking to me or seeing your blood spattered across the wall?”
Henshaw regarded him with loathing. “His Lordship is in his study, sir. I will take you to him.”
He led the way through the silent house with noiseless tread. Henry followed, keeping the pistol aimed at Henshaw’s back.
“A visitor, my lord,” Henshaw said, opening the door.
Richard was asleep in an overstuffed chair. He looked very gray and haggard. One arm was done up in a sling. He woke at the sound of Henshaw’s voice.
“I told you, I am not seeing anyone,” Richard said testily.
Henry shoved Henshaw aside and strode through the door, slamming it against the wall. “By God, you will see me, Richard!”
Henshaw made a swift movement, reaching for something in his pocket. Henry lashed out with his cane, striking Henshaw on the wrist.
Henshaw cried out in pain and clutched at his wounded wrist.
“Remove the pistol, Henshaw,” said Henry, keeping his eyes on his brother. “Slowly. You would not want my pistol to go off accidentally. Good. Now place your weapon on the floor and then go stand by your perfidious master, where I can keep an eye on both of you.”
“I am sorry, Sir Richard,” said Henshaw, crossing the room to stand protectively at his master’s side. “Your brother caught me unawares.”
Richard saw the pistol and heard the anger, and looked into Henry’s eyes. He faintly smiled. “As it happens, I have been expecting you, Henry. I am glad you have come. I need to speak to you—assuming you don’t kill me first.”
Henry was discomfited. Richard had always been fastidious about his appearance, as became a successful businessman and member of the House. He did not emerge from his bedchamber in the morning until he was shaved and his sparse hair neatly brushed, fully dressed in snow-white cravat and snuff-colored jacket with every button buttoned down to the last button on his vest.
Today, he was unshaven. His graying hair straggled about his face. He was still in his nightclothes and dressing gown, his bare feet thrust into slippers. His eyes were red and rheumy. He was only in his fifties, but he seemed suddenly ancient. Yet he regarded Henry quite calmly, facing death with the Wallace family courage.
“God knows I should kill you,” said Henry gruffly. He lowered his pistol and reached down to pick up the pistol Henshaw had relinquished. “God knows you deserve killing. I was the one who found Her Majesty’s body. She lay in a pool of her own blood. Would you like me to further elaborate? Describe the gruesome scene?”
Richard raised his hand to his face as though to deflect the terrible words.
“Stop tormenting him, my lord!” Henshaw said, his face flushed in anger. “Your brother is not well.”
“He is no brother of mine,” said Henry. He paused, then asked, “What is wrong with him?”
Henshaw cast a questioning glance at Richard, who nodded and waved his hand in acquiescence.
Henshaw faced Henry. “His Lordship is suffering from a bullet wound in his shoulder.”
Henry was astonished. “Who the devil shot him?”
“Jonathan Smythe, my lord,” Henshaw replied.
“Ah, the old adage. Thieves fall out. Smythe is not his true name, by the way,” Henry added. “His real name is Crawford. Isaiah Crawford.”
Richard looked at him in bewilderment. Henry, watching closely, realized his surprise was not feigned.
“But why would Colonel Smythe lie about his name?” Richard asked. “I don’t understand.”
Henry drew a chair near to that of his brother’s.
“I will brew some tea,” said Henshaw, starting to sidle out of the room.
“Stay where I can see you, Henshaw,” Henry ordered. “I don’t want you rushing out to summon a constable. Your master needs something stronger than tea. Make yourself useful and pour him a brandy. He is going to need it.”
Henshaw walked noiselessly across the room to the sidebar. He poured the brandy and carried a snifter to his master. Richard drank a little and some color returned to his haggard face. Henshaw took his place behind his chair.
“Colonel Jonathan Smythe is in reality a retired marine named Isaiah Crawford,” said Henry. “He is responsible for the murders of at least four people, including the queen, the noble dragon Lady Odila, and another dragon named Coreg, a criminal mastermind who was in league with Smythe. He attempted to murder Mr. Sloan; after you recognized him and informed on him, the colonel shot him.”
“Oh, God! No!” Richard sank back with a groan. “I am sorry, Henry. When I recognized Mr. Sloan, I thought you were plotting to harm Prince Thomas and I warned Smythe. I had no idea he would try to kill him. Is he all right?”
“Mr. Sloan is recovering or I would have shot you. But never mind about that now. What did you know about the assassination of the queen?” Henry demanded. “Were you and Thomas Stanford aware of the plot? Answer truthfully, Richard, for I will know if you are lying.”
“I did not know, Henry, and neither did Prince Thomas,” Richard said earnestly. “I swear to you on the lives of my wife and children. Smythe assured me that Her Majesty would be confined to a cell in Offdom Tower on the palace grounds until I and other members of the Faithful could speak to her, convince her that it would be in her best interest to renounce the throne in favor of Thomas.”
Richard sighed. “As it happened, our plot was unnecessary. Queen Mary came to meet the prince in the Rose Room the night of her death. She gave His Highness the ring of King James and named him her heir. I was present. I was a witness. I was pleased, though confused. I did not know why she chose to name her heir at that particular time.…”
Henry regarded his brother grimly. “The queen was dying. She had months, perhaps only weeks to live. She did not know how much time she had left. If you only would have waited, there was no need to kill her.”
Richard flinched and sloshed brandy onto his dressing gown. Henshaw gently removed the snifter. Richard did not even seem to notice it was gone.
“I was going to inform the Faithful and that would have put an end to the plot. Again I swear to you, Henry, by all I hold dear, we had no knowledge Smythe intended to assassinate her. We would have been content to know that Her Majesty had named an heir. I need you to believe me. If not, you may as well kill me here and now.”
“As it happens, I do believe you,” said Henry. “Or rather, I believe Simon. Tell me what is going on in the palace. I can only assume Smythe has seized power.”
Richard shook his head; his lips tightened. “The man is the Evil One incarnate! He has made Thomas a prisoner in his own palace. Smythe intends to be the true ruler of Freya. He must be stopped, Henry!”
“Is this Stanford so weak that he allows Smythe to pull his puppet strings?” Henry asked, his lip curling. “Why didn’t he refuse him? Renounce the throne?”
“You do not know Thomas Stanford or you would not accuse him of being weak!” Richard stated, his cheeks flushed. “Smythe is forcing Thomas to do his will. He has imprisoned his dearest friend, Phillip Masterson, in Offdom Tower and threatens his torture and death. He has taken Thomas’s parents hostage and threatens them, also.
“Even then, I think Thomas would have defied him for the sake of the country,” Richard added proudly. “I advised him to appear to go along with Smythe. Or rather, you advised him.”
“I did?” Henry demanded, taken aback.
Richard faintly smiled. “When His Majesty and I had a moment alone together, I told him I would give him the advice you would give him. ‘My brother would tell you to dance a
t the end of the puppet master’s strings until the day comes when you wrap those strings around his neck and strangle him.’”
Henry regarded his brother a moment in silence. “And here I always thought you never knew me, Richard. What will young Stanford do?”
“I believe he will take my advice,” said Richard. “Rather, your advice. You must save Thomas and our country, Henry. I told His Highness you were the one person who could help him.”
“Smythe sent his soldiers to my house. My wife and children were forced to flee in the night and his troops are searching for me as we speak,” said Henry bitterly. “I will be lucky to save myself, Richard, much less an embattled king. How do you propose I rescue a man who is imprisoned in his own palace?”
“You will find a way. You loved our queen, Henry,” Richard said. “She met with Thomas. As I said, I was present for the interview. The two became immediate friends. She gave him the ring of King James and told him she believed in him. Help Thomas for Her Majesty’s sake.”
Henry thought back to his last conversation with Her Majesty, the final words Queen Mary had ever spoken to him.
You have served us well and faithfully for many years, dear friend. We could not have asked for a more loyal and devoted servant. I ask you as a friend … Be the same devoted servant to your new monarch.
“Why did Smythe shoot you?” Henry asked abruptly.
“I spoke out against him. I tried to stop him.” Richard spoke with quiet dignity. “I may have been a great fool, Henry, but I am not a coward.”
Richard’s eyes now glinted with the fierce Wallace spirit. He sat up straighter and impatiently threw off the blanket.
He risked everything to place Thomas on the throne, Henry reflected. Wealth, title, his very life.
Henry relented. “I will do what I can, but I will need your help, Richard. What is more important, Thomas Stanford needs your help. He needs someone he can trust by his side, not languishing about in a rocking chair. When you are well, you should return to the palace—”
“You cannot be serious, my lord!” Henshaw protested. “Sir Richard dare not go back! That man, Smythe, tried to kill him! He missed the first time, but he will not miss again.”
“On the contrary, Smythe is a crack shot. If he had wanted to kill Richard, he would already be dead,” said Henry coolly. “The bullet was a warning, intimidation. Richard is a leading force in Parliament and Smythe needs the backing of the members. He will be conciliatory toward you. You counseled His Highness to act a part. You must do the same. Fool Smythe, as you fooled me.”
“I am sorry,” said Richard. “I had no choice—”
Henry waved off the apology. “You must be obsequious, fawn and cringe in Smythe’s presence. Do nothing overtly to cross him. Promise to accomplish whatever he asks of the House, but make certain his measures get bogged down in committee,” said Henry dryly.
“I was already planning to do so, Henry,” Richard said. “I suppose one could say that devious minds think alike.”
He started to rise from the chair, but fell back with a gasp of pain, clasping his shoulder.
“I said ‘when you are well,’” said Henry, smiling.
“You should leave now, my lord,” Henshaw stated coldly.
Henry ignored him. He had more questions to ask, information he would need if he and Richard were going to try to help his new young monarch. Then he remembered that Smythe had planted spies outside the house and they would start to grow suspicious if Pastor Johnstone overstayed his welcome.
Henry rose to his feet. Walking over to his brother, he placed his hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Richard. I will provide Henshaw with information on where you can reach me.”
“Be careful, Henry,” said Richard. “God save our king.”
“God save us all,” said Henry.
As Henshaw escorted him to the door, he asked, “What do the physicians say?”
“His Lordship refused to allow me to call a physician or a healer,” said Henshaw. “He fears they will talk.”
“He is probably right,” said Henry. “I will send a man I trust to treat him. His name is Wilkins. He has removed a bullet or two from me in my time. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Henshaw.
He was still cold, still obviously disapproving. He fetched Henry’s hat and cloak and cane. Henry paused in the entry hall to loop the wire-rimmed spectacles over his ears.
“I did not tell my brother, Henshaw, but you should know that the house is under surveillance. Smythe is having Richard watched.”
Henshaw was shocked. “Sir Richard is a member of the House of Nobles! Smythe would not dare—”
“Smythe dared murder a queen,” said Henry grimly. “Do you trust the household staff?”
“We keep only a cook and a housemaid at present, my lord. I can vouch for their loyalty. The remainder of the staff are with Lady Wallace in the country.”
“Do not admit any stranger into the house. If anyone asks, tell them that Sir Richard is suffering from a heart condition. He is confined to the house, and may not receive visitors.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Henshaw. He handed Henry his broad-brimmed hat.
“Take care of my brother,” said Henry.
“I will do so, my lord,” Henshaw replied.
He opened the door and stood waiting impatiently for Henry to leave.
Henry picked up a card, scribbled down a name and address, and handed it to Henshaw. “If you need to reach me, you can find me at the Weigh Anchor.” He put on his hat and departed.
Pastor Johnstone went tottering down the street, clutching his Scriptures and smiling beneficently on all he met.
* * *
Henshaw stood in the doorway, holding the card in his hand. After a moment’s silent deliberation, he tucked the card in his pocket, shut the door, and returned to his master.
He found Richard sitting up in his chair. “I believe I will get dressed, Henshaw. Lay out my clothes.”
“My lord, it is much too soon for you to be up and about!” Henshaw said worriedly. “I will fetch some warm milk.”
“You will do no such thing!” said Richard. “I am not a child in need of a nursemaid. Bring me another brandy.”
Henshaw poured the brandy and placed it at Richard’s hand. “I was about to tell you, my lord, before the arrival of your brother, that we are running low on the ’87 tawny port. I was planning to step around to the wine merchant’s.”
“We can’t have that,” said Richard, smiling. “Yes, go along, Henshaw. When you are back, you can help me dress. Hand me the book I was reading and place the brandy bottle near me.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Henshaw.
He put the brandy bottle within reach and gave Richard the book. He started to withdraw, then paused and turned to address his employer.
“My lord…”
“Yes, what is it, Henshaw?”
“I hope you know, my lord, that your welfare is my paramount concern.” Henshaw spoke with some emotion.
“You have been with me a great many years, Henshaw. You and I have been through a lot together and you have always been most loyal,” said Richard. “I rely on you implicitly. What is this about? Are you angling for a raise in your salary?”
“No, my lord,” said Henshaw, dutifully smiling at the jest. “I should not be away long.”
Richard gave an absent nod and returned to his book and his brandy.
Henshaw put on his hat and coat and departed. Mindful of those watching the house, he left by the servants’ entrance.
His path took him nowhere near the wine merchant’s.
TWELVE
Amelia Nettleship, journalist for one of the leading newspapers in the world, the Haever Gazette, sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea, eating toasted cheese, and jotting down notes regarding the momentous events of the previous night, while they were still clear in her mind.
The hour was no
on and she had only just awakened. She was accustomed to rising at dawn and would have generally considered such laziness a mortal sin, but she had been awake all night, pursuing what she believed to be the true story regarding the assassination of the queen.
The people of Haever had been told by officials from the palace that Her Majesty had been killed by a bomb planted by a Rosian assassin. Amelia knew that wasn’t true. She had been in the carriage with Sir Henry when Kate had warned them that a black ship armed with a green-beam weapon was planning to attack the palace.
Henry had sent Amelia to alert Captain Northrop and Admiral Baker to the danger, hoping they might somehow be able to act to stop it. He had told her they might be dining with Simon at Welkinstead. If not, try the Naval Club.
Amelia had decided to start at Welkinstead, which meant she had to find a wyvern-drawn cab to take her to the floating house. Cabs being difficult to find at that hour of the night, she had been searching when she had heard a frightful explosion, and she realized that she was too late, the assassins had struck.
She had, of course, attempted to enter the palace grounds, but the soldiers—mindful of Henry’s warning about assassins and not knowing what was going on—had threatened her at gunpoint and she had been forced to retreat.
She had eventually found a wyvern-drawn cab to take her to the floating house. As they drew near, she saw green flaring light and the fiery traces of rocket fire and realized that, once again, she was too late.
Amelia had promised to pay the driver any amount he named to take her to the house so that she could cover the attack firsthand. The driver had flatly refused and had basely fled.
“Coward!” Amelia muttered, still angry.
She had then ordered him to take her to the offices of the Haever Gazette. She found the office in a state of inky confusion trying to rush a special edition to press. The printing machines clanged and clattered, and a crowd had gathered out front, impatiently waiting for the latest news.
Amelia told her editor the story of the black ship and a green-beam weapon.
“I was with Sir Henry Wallace at the time I received the report of this ship,” Amelia had stated. “His Lordship can corroborate my account.”
Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs) Page 13
