The Traitor's Blade

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 3, 1666

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

CHAPTER 1

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT,” I said.

The carriage burned with a bright orange flame. Fire raged across its body, the silk curtains fluttering through the windows in smoking tatters to the road. The frame turned charcoal black, while inside, the stuffing in the seats gave bright flashing bursts as buttons popped off the upholstery.

Tom clutched his cheeks in horror. “I told you,” he said, staring at the slowly crumpling carriage, our boots sinking in the mud. “I told you.”

The heat drove away the late winter’s chill, but I wouldn’t have felt it anyway. My face was burning with shame. “It was an accident.”

“I told you.”

Sally stood next to him with her head bowed, palm covering her eyes, auburn curls falling across her face. I’d never seen her so disappointed. “Oh, Christopher.”

Behind us, a farmer, his wife, and two young daughters leaned against a wooden fence, cattle watching nervously from a distance. The girls gawked in wide-eyed amazement. Their father, chewing absently on a piece of straw, considered the flames.

“Now there’s a thing I never seen before,” he said.

“It was an accident,” I said.

He nodded. “Would almost have to be.”

Ahead of us, twenty of the King’s Men waited, stunned, atop their warhorses. A pair of them had dismounted and were now soothing the four draft horses they’d cut loose from our carriage. The road smelled like smoke and cows.

Tom moaned. “Why wouldn’t you listen? Why? Just another couple hours and we’d be back in London in a nice dry room, meeting the king. And everyone would be happy, and we could say, ‘An honor to see you again, Your Majesty,’ instead of ‘Goodness, Your Majesty, I hope you didn’t want your carriage back, because it’s sort of on fire!’ ”

Sally shook her head. “Oh, Christopher.”

I didn’t have time to answer. The leader of our band had arrived. Riding ahead of our escort, he’d come back when he saw his men had stopped outside this farm. Or, more probably, when he saw the king’s carriage burning in front of the supply wagons.

Slowly, the man maneuvered his mount through the mud. His horse, a veteran of many battles, seemed unfazed by the bonfire.

Lord Ashcombe, the King’s Warden, dismounted. He was dressed, as usual, in black, wearing fur to keep out the cold. An embroidered patch covered his left eye, an angry scar tracing from under it to the side of his mouth, which turned upward in a permanent half scowl. His pearl-handled pistols, polished to a fine sheen, hung off his belt, grips forward.

He regarded the carriage for a moment. Then he grabbed me by the collar and pulled me close.

His voice was like gravel. “Explain.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

He looked like he was ready to add me to the blaze. I spoke quickly.