“All we know so far is this mark isn’t from any blacksmith in London. We’ll have to check with other cities.”
That would take weeks. Far too long to be helpful, I thought. But Lord Ashcombe pointed out that the mark told us something, regardless. If the killer—or killers, no reason to assume there was only one—got their weapons outside the city, they very likely came from somewhere else, as well.
When he was finished with the daggers, I showed him the letter I’d found in my house.
He frowned as he read it. “No idea who it’s from?”
I shook my head. “Tom and I have been trying to decipher the code at the bottom. That might give us a clue. But we haven’t been able to figure it out.”
Lord Ashcombe looked pensive. “Someone may be able to help with that.”
“Who, my lord?”
“You’ll meet him tomorrow. For now, get some sleep. The king rises early, and he wants to speak with you in the morning.”
Sleep well before a private meeting with the king? Not likely. I spent the night dreaming of angry, black-feathered birds.
THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1666
Who cannot be crushed with a plot?
CHAPTER
10
I WASN’T EXPECTING SO MANY spaniels.
Tom and I shuffled nervously as Lord Ashcombe ushered us into the king’s private study, on the second floor of the palace. It was bright and spacious, the rounded window providing a fantastic view of London over the Thames. We could even see the Tower of London’s turrets from here, all the way across the city, peeking through the faint morning mist.
Near the window was a grand desk of mahogany, where a servant stood rearranging several papers into neat piles. By the coal fire were four chairs upholstered in velvet, a second servant waiting behind them with a bottle of wine on a tray. The king sat in front of the fire, looking with bemusement at a letter.
And everywhere, everywhere, were dogs. A dozen spaniels romped about the room, snuffling through the rugs. One pup lay on his back in Charles’s lap, squirming happily and gnawing at the king’s fingers as he scratched idly at the dog’s belly. The others came running from all corners of the room as we entered, tails wagging, weaving playfully through our feet.
“Boys! Welcome. Join me,” the king said, sounding in a pleasant mood indeed.
We hesitated. As commoners, we weren’t allowed to sit in the king’s presence.
Charles waved away our worries. “Sit, sit,” he commanded. “No one will see you but Richard here, and he knows how to keep a secret.”
Tom and I exchanged a glance. The king hadn’t considered the servants, even as the man behind him stepped forward to place glasses of wine on the small tables between the chairs. No one ever pays attention to servants, Sally had said once, a fact that had nearly spelled our doom in Paris.
But we did as he wished. The chairs were awfully comfortable. Two of the spaniels immediately sprang up, front paws on Tom’s thighs; he ruffled their ears in delight. An older dog placed her graying muzzle on my leg and looked at me with hopeful eyes.
“That’s Barbara,” the king said. “She won’t leave until you pet her. Of course, she won’t leave after you pet her either, so there you are.” I scratched Barbara’s neck as Charles turned to Lord Ashcombe and held up the letter. “Guess who wrote to me.”
“The tailor, demanding you pay your bills?” Lord Ashcombe said.
“Odd’s fish, you’ve a cheek this morning,” Charles said, more in amusement than outrage. “It’s from La Grande Mademoiselle.”
Lord Ashcombe looked surprised. “What does she want?”
“How would I know? I’m hardly going to read it.”
“Sire,” Lord Ashcombe said reprovingly.
“Did you boys meet La Grande Mademoiselle in Paris?” When we shook our heads, the king said, “Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, duchesse de Montpensier. Dreadful woman. My mother kept trying to arrange a marriage with her while I was in France. She was annoyingly persistent.”
The king gave me a sidelong glance, a smile playing about his lips. Clearly, he wanted me to ask. “How did you get out of it, Your Majesty?”
He could barely suppress a grin. “Tell him, Richard.”
“Oh, for the love of the holy,” Lord Ashcombe said.
“Tell him, tell him. The boy wants to know.”
Lord Ashcombe sighed. “He pretended he didn’t know French.”
“For two years!” The king burst into laughter, startling the spaniel on his lap. “She would come to me, and I’d just look blankly at her as she tried to make conversation. She thought I was singularly ill bred. Said it right in front of my face! Ha-ha-ha!”
“Didn’t she ever see you talk to anyone else?” I said.
“Of course! I’d be right in the middle of a conversation—then she’d join us and suddenly I’d lose the power of speech. Never figured it out! As dim as a candle in the countryside, that woman. And no conception of humor. Literally couldn’t understand what a joke was.” He shook his head. “Make no mistake, boys: No decision will bring more happiness to your home, or more grief, than whom you choose for a wife. So choose wisely.”
Suddenly he sat up. The dog squirmed from his lap onto the rug, where it gnawed on the king’s shoe instead. “I just had a wonderful idea.” He pointed at me just as I was taking a drink. “You should marry Sally!”
I sprayed wine everywhere.
The dogs seemed to think this was great fun. So did the king. “Wine in the stomach, not the rug, surely,” he said.
Tom slapped both his hands over his mouth. I tried not to look at him.
“S-sire?” I stammered, wiping my lips.
“Why not marry Sally?” he insisted. “She’s brave, loyal, clever—and let’s face it, extremely easy on the eyes.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, as her guardian, it’s my duty to arrange a suitable marriage. I could provide a very reasonable dowry, given the right fellow.”
A sound escaped from Tom, which was either him being strangled, or stifling a laugh.
“I…
