The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3)

by Stella Riley

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Francis, passing him what was left of his own mug of ale. ‘You’re tired, hungry and your throat’s full of dust. Where’s Jem?’

  ‘Busy.’ Ashley downed the ale in one swallow, reached for the last remaining piece of cheese and subsided on the edge of the bed. ‘We were followed all the way from Paris. The fellow’s here somewhere, lying in wait. Jem’s gone to find him.’

  ‘And then?’ It was Cyrano who asked.

  ‘I thought you and I might have a little chat with him.’

  ‘Ah. I take it we’ve no intention of letting him follow us on to Honfleur?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Cyrano rose, stretched and cracked his knuckles. ‘And in the meantime, while we wait for your man to return … am I going to meet this King I’m to impersonate?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know if it’s from gratitude or curiosity … but he’s already asked for you.’

  * * *

  Jem came back a couple of hours later.

  ‘The cove’s stabled his mare in a deserted barn at the far end of the village. There’s a flea-pit of a tavern down there and he went in for a bite. But I reckon he’s planning on bedding down with his horse. Means he don’t have to talk to nobody and it’s as good a place as any for seeing what passes on the road out of here.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Ashley. ‘Find some food and get some rest. Monsieur de Bergerac’s men are watching the doors downstairs so there’s nothing else for you to do tonight.’

  ‘And the tail?’ asked Jem.

  ‘I’ll deal with him. One way or another.’

  Having armed themselves, Ashley and Cyrano made their way through the dark to the barn Jem had described. They spoke only once.

  Cyrano said, ‘If this man doesn’t appear in Honfleur, can we be sure anyone else will?’

  ‘No – but there are ways round that. And I don’t want to pass up the chance of any useful information. Also, there’ll be one less for us to face at the other end.’

  Hanging drunkenly from its sole remaining hinge, the door to the barn was unlocked and illuminated within by the dismal light from a lantern hooked to a beam. In the far corner, their quarry lay asleep on a pile of straw with his saddle-bags under his head. Cyrano’s teeth gleamed in a grin. Ashley pulled the knife from his boot and strolled noiselessly across the floor.

  The first thing the sleeping man knew was the sensation of an ice-cold blade lying gently against his cheek. His eyes flew open in a wild stare and he made an involuntary choking sound.

  ‘I’d advise you against shouting or making any sudden movements,’ said Ashley, withdrawing the knife just a little. ‘We’ll begin with your name.’

  The man swallowed hard and said, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  He spoke French but Ashley and Cyrano exchanged a swift glance, aware that it wasn’t his native tongue.

  As much to avoid revealing his own nationality as to allow Cyrano to follow the conversation, Ashley chose not to switch to English. He said, ‘Who I am is of no consequence. I want to know who you are.’

  With more nerve than good sense, considering his current situation, the fellow told Ashley to perform a feat that was anatomically impossible.

  Sighing, Ashley rose and stepped back. Then, gesturing to Cyrano, ‘Get him on his feet, will you?’

  Cyrano did so and bounced him into the wall for good measure.

  Handling the blade with casual expertise, Ashley moved in and said softly, ‘You should know that I’ve no scruples about hurting you if it gets me what I want and that I can damage you quite a lot without impairing your ability to talk. It should also be clear to you that you’re not going anywhere until my friend and I let you. So, for the third time of asking – and the last one on which I’ll be polite – tell me your name.’

  The look in the man’s eyes suggested that he’d finally realised just how much trouble he was in. He said gruffly, ‘Jack Cardale.’

  ‘Good. Well now, Jack … you’ve been following my coach all day. We’ll come to why later. First, I’d like to know what your orders were and who gave them to you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve just been riding the same road as you. There’s no law against that, is there?’

  ‘None. But we both know that’s not all you were doing. And, since I don’t want this to take all night, I suggest you stop wasting my time.’ Held in apparently playful fingers, the knife edged a little closer. ‘Who are you supposed to report to when you reach Honfleur?’

  ‘Nobody. And report what? I’m not doing anything. If you think I am, you’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘I’m certainly getting the wrong answers.’ This time Ashley brought the razor-sharp tip of his blade to a point against the man’s right shoulder and exerted just enough pressure to prick the skin through his coat. ‘Try again. And bear in mind that I can spot a lie at twenty paces.’

  Jack dragged in several ragged breaths of air. Finally, he said sullenly, ‘Somebody named Guillaume at the Coq d’Or.’

  ‘Guillaume who?’

  He moved as if to shrug and then thought better of it.

  ‘Don’t know. I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Really? Then how are the two of you to recognise each other?’

  Jack clamped his jaws together and said nothing.

  ‘How?’ Ashley leaned very slightly on the blade so that it pierced flesh, causing the breath to hiss between Jack’s teeth. ‘If I press this knife home, your right arm will be paralysed – so don’t be an idiot. How will you know each other?’

  ‘Red feather,’ mumbled Jack reluctantly.

  ‘Oh God,’ groaned Ashley. ‘I might have known. How stupid are you people?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘All right. Let’s move on. I know you’re involved in a plot to assassinate His Majesty, the King and His Grace, the Duke of York. I also know that the plan was hatched in London. I intend to make sure it fails and you’re going to give me the information that will help me do it. Now. I’m presuming you’ve been following us in order to inform Guillaume that Charles and James have arrived as planned. Correct?’

  Jack had no more colour to lose. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Elucidate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me what I’m missing.’ Again, Jack didn’t reply. Ashley prompted him by increasing his pressure so the knife slid in another half-inch. ‘Quickly.’

  Past a grunt of pain, Jack said unevenly, ‘I’m checking up on him.’

  ‘Ah.’ The knife remained steady, neither advancing nor retreating. ‘London doesn’t trust him?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ muttered Jack. ‘All I was told is that he’s new and they wanted to be sure he’d done what he said.’

  Ashley looked across at Cyrano.

  ‘Using an untried tool for a task of this magnitude? What does that suggest?’

  ‘That Guillaume can do something their usual fellows can’t,’ came the calm reply. ‘Would you like me to shake this bastard up a bit and see what falls out?’

  ‘Not just yet.’ Ashley returned his attention to Jack, now looking increasingly alarmed. ‘My friend is getting bored. For myself, I’ve always made it a principle not to kill anyone I didn’t have to … but for a potential regicide, I’m prepared to make an exception. So why don’t you just save yourself some pain and tell us everything you know.’

  ‘Why should you care?’ asked Jack, bitterly. ‘You two are bloody French.’

  ‘We have a peculiar aversion to cold-blooded murder,’ returned Ashley, pleasantly contemptuous. Then, ‘I assume that, like you, your fellow plotters are English. How many of them are there? I’m losing patience – so think carefully before you answer. How many?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I don’t --’ The knife twisted slightly as it bit further into his shoulder and he yelped. ‘Five, I think. Five others, sailing from Dover.’

  Leaving the knife buried an inch deep in Jack’s flesh, Ashley fli
cked a glance at Cyrano and said, ‘Six. Five without this one – unless Guillaume joins the party.’

  The Frenchman nodded and, using all of his considerable weight, pinned Jack to the wall by his throat. He said, ‘They’re not already here, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So they’re due to arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘The next day.’ Blood was soaking Jack’s coat and Cyrano’s hand was almost but not quite cutting off his air supply. ‘Didn’t … didn’t want to be in France longer than necessary.’

  Cyrano relaxed his grip and his eyes locked with Ashley’s as they both thought, Somebody’s got the wrong day. Us – or them?

  ‘And the place and time of the attack?’

  ‘Just – just off the harbour-front. After dark. Late.’ And when the knife moved again, he cried, ‘Don’t! I don’t know. If I knew I’d say.’

  ‘Do we believe him?’ murmured Ashley.

  ‘Probably,’ replied Cyrano. And dragging a moan of fear from Jack, ‘If we don’t, there’s always tomorrow. But in the meantime, what do you want to do with him?’

  Ashley withdrew the knife and stepped back.

  ‘You want some fun? Knock him out.’

  So with one massive punch and no warning whatsoever, the Frenchman did. Jack slithered down the wall and lay still. Cyrano grinned, flexed his fist and said, ‘So now I suppose we truss him, load him on to his horse and take him with us.’

  Ashley nodded. ‘We can hide him overnight in the carriage you came in and leave your fellows on guard. But first we’ll find his damned red feather.’

  ‘Red feather?’

  ‘Don’t ask. Suffice it to say, we need it.’ Ashley dropped on one knee and began searching Jack’s pockets. ‘As for this inept fellow … we’ll send him back to Paris for Hyde to play with.’ He located the feather and held it up in triumph. Then, with a grin, he said, ‘Charles wanted a role in all of this. So I’m sure he and James won’t mind a rather cramped journey home.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  THIRTEEN

  With his usual good-humour, the King accepted the addition of a bound and gagged English spy to the floor of his carriage. The Duke of York was less happy with the arrangement but relapsed into silent sulkiness when he found his objections carried no weight.

  At first light on the following morning, therefore, two coaches left the Fleur de Lys, travelling in different directions. The shabby hired one took a road that would eventually lead to Paris … while the more elegant of the two, with Jack Cardale’s roan tied to the back of it, set off for Honfleur. Inside it, Cyrano and Francis congratulated themselves on having made a change for the better and wondered how Charles and James were enjoying the smell of stale sweat.

  Since, if Mr Cardale’s information was to be trusted, they were now destined to arrive at their destination a day early, Ashley kept to a steady pace and used the time to give Jem his instructions.

  Mr Barker listened incredulously and then said, ‘I can’t do that. I ain’t bloody French.’

  ‘Neither is the fellow we intercepted.’

  ‘But he parlays the old Fronsay. I don’t.’

  ‘I think we can assume that Guillaume understands English. In fact, for all we know, he may actually be English.’

  ‘That don’t make it any better,’ grumbled Jem. ‘He’ll smell a rat. Bound to.’

  ‘No. He won’t. As yet, he doesn’t know anyone was checking up on him – though if he’s got half a brain he won’t be surprised. You know his name and where to find him and you’ll be sporting their idiotic feather so he’ll have no reason to question your identity. All you have to do is let him know Charles has arrived and find out if this thing is happening tonight or tomorrow. Claim that you’ve replaced someone else and your orders weren’t clear. Then come back and let me know what he says.’

  ‘If I ain’t walked into a knife, you mean.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Ashley drew an impatient breath. ‘If it’s scaring you into a jelly, I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘I ain’t scared!’

  ‘That’s not how it sounds. Your nerves must be shot.’

  ‘They’re as good as yours,’ snapped Jem, cut to the quick. Then, ‘Oh bugger it. I’ll go. And if I wind up dead, on your head be it.’

  ‘If you wind up dead,’ replied Ashley grimly, ‘you can be fairly sure you won’t be the only one. Now stop complaining and let me think.’

  * * *

  They pulled into Honfleur in the late afternoon and headed for an inn as far as possible from the pungent smell of salted fish that seeped up from the harbour. As soon as they were settled in, Ashley despatched Jem to the Coq d’Or. Then, while Francis and Cyrano settled down to a game of dice, he waited.

  Jem returned just over an hour later – alive and unharmed but looking decidedly unsettled.

  ‘What?’ said Ashley tersely.

  Jem huffed and shook his head.

  ‘You ain’t going to like it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Guillaume. He ain’t French.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he’s the bloody eye-patch,’ said Jem bitterly.

  There was a sudden abrupt silence, broken only by the sound of the dice Francis had been about to roll hitting the floor. Then Cyrano said disbelievingly, ‘William Brierley?’

  For a seemingly endless moment, his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes locked with Jem’s, Ashley didn’t speak. Then, in a voice like splintering ice, he said, ‘He didn’t recognise you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said it’s set for tonight, at the Two Pigeons by the harbour, an hour after midnight.’

  ‘Something’s not right about that,’ remarked Francis, frowning.

  ‘Clearly,’ snapped Ashley, reaching for his sword. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, the whole thing stinks.’

  ‘Perhaps the fellow we caught had it wrong?’ suggested Cyrano.

  ‘And perhaps he didn’t.’ Ashley snatched up his hat and headed for the door only to be stopped by Francis’s hand on his arm. He said, ‘Get out of my way. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to discuss this now.’

  ‘So I see,’ replied Francis, tightening his grip. ‘But you should at least think.’

  ‘You think.’ Ashley dislodged the restraining hand with a swift, savage chop to the wrist. ‘I’m going to get some get some answers.’ And, wrenching open the door, he went clattering down the stairs.

  ‘Hell,’ breathed Francis, nursing his throbbing arm. ‘Shouldn’t somebody go after him. You? Me? All three of us?’

  Cyrano leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

  ‘No. He won’t appreciate it. And, from what I saw last night, he’s more than capable of dealing with this on his own.’ He paused. ‘Why didn’t you mention that there’s a cold-blooded bastard lurking behind that pretty face?’

  * * *

  By the time he arrived outside the Coq d’Or, Ashley had his temper under some sort of control. He was still mind-blowingly furious but he knew better than to let that rule him. He wanted the truth. And, one way or another, he intended to get it.

  A coin in the right palm gained him the location of Monsieur Guillaume’s room, to which a tray of food had just been delivered. Another coin assured him that there would be no interruptions. He climbed the stairs, found the door he wanted and walked in without bothering to knock.

  Caught with a mouthful of chicken, Sir William Brierley shot to his feet, choked and spat. Then, still coughing, he managed to say, ‘Ashley? What in God’s name --?’

  ‘Am I doing here?’ Ashley dropped the bolt of the door and leaned against it. ‘Take a wild guess. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ He paused for a moment, as if trying to think. Then, ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘None, I suppose. I just hadn’t expected it.’

  ‘Is that all you can say
?’ Ashley tried and failed to steady his breathing. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Will looked back warily. He noted the pulse hammering in the tight jaw and fact that the look in the green eyes spoke of violence, barely held in check. These signs, coupled with Ashley’s mere presence were sufficient to answer most of his questions so he said wearily, ‘It’s not how it appears.’

  ‘Isn’t it? You’re saying you haven’t turned your coat and involved yourself in a plot to murder the King and his brother?’

  ‘In the sense you mean it – no. I haven’t.’

  ‘What other sense is there?’ Ashley gave a sharp, insulting laugh. ‘Not that I’m likely to believe a word you say.’

  ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Ashley. Perhaps you should hear me out first.’

  ‘Oh – I’m sure you’ll manage to make it sound convincing. You’re an even better liar than I am. But unless you can provide me with proof that you’re not working for Cromwell, you aren’t going to leave this room in any condition to prosecute your damned plot.’

  ‘I suspect,’ sighed Sir William, ‘that my damned plot is already redundant. Are Charles and James really here in Honfleur?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That they’re not. In one sense, I suppose that’s probably for the best. In another, it’s going to make things a trifle … awkward.’

  ‘Awkward?’ Ashley detached himself from the door, strode forward and, with one hard shove to the chest, deposited Will back into his chair. ‘You’re up to your neck in Christ knows what … you’re putting the King’s life on the line … and you call that awkward? What the hell is the matter with you?’

  Sir William ran his hands over his face, dislodging his eye-patch and then re-adjusting it. He said, ‘That fellow who was here earlier. Yours, I presume?’ And when he received no reply, ‘Of course he is. I won’t ask what you’ve done with the fellow he replaced. I’m sure it was something creative. Since you’ve saved me a job, I suppose I should be grateful. And, back at your inn I suppose are a couple of men you’ve brought along to pass as Charles and James. Yes?’