“Thank you, M—” I kept wanting to call him Master. It struck me that maybe it was because, for the first time since Master Benedict had died, I truly felt like an apprentice again. “My lord. I think we have a good plan.”

“It will never work.”

That surprised me. “Why not?”

“Nothing around the king remains a secret.” Walsingham stared at the portrait that hung over the mantel. “His Majesty moves with an entourage. Nobles, guards, servants. The staff at Hampton Court will be alerted; they will need to prepare the house for his arrival.”

“Can’t we just not tell anyone until the last minute?”

“I can wait to give instructions to the servants. Ashcombe can handle the guards. But no one will silence the nobles. Or the king, for that matter.”

“He’s not taking this seriously.”

“Don’t judge him so harshly,” Walsingham said. My face grew hot; I hadn’t meant to criticize the king. But the spymaster wasn’t taking me to task; he was explaining. “His Majesty must be a king not merely in name, but in deed. He cannot appear frightened. If he does—ever—he may as well throw away his crown.”

I suppose I understood. “So… do we go with His Majesty tomorrow night?”

“No. Ashcombe will escort the king. I will remain in London. You will wait.”

“For what?”

“I will task an agent to watch Domhnall Ardrey, Niall Ramsay, and the rest of his Scottish friends,” Walsingham said. “Whether they are Covenanters or not, there is a traitor in the palace. As for you, I suspect whoever has been sending you letters is not finished. Do you play chess?”

He had a knack for throwing me off guard. “I—not really. Master Benedict showed me the rules, but we didn’t play much, and Tom’s never been interested.”

“I will play you, when this game of poisons is finished. But it is not finished, apprentice, not yet. Mark my words: The final move will be made tomorrow. Let us pray we do not lose our king.”

FRIDAY, MARCH 5, 1666

Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar!

CHAPTER 38

I COULDN’T SLEEP.

My mind kept running through the meeting I’d just had: first in the king’s parlor, then with the spymaster, alone. It was mad to think such powerful people were relying on me.

The choices weren’t mine; I understood that well enough. But the Templars had still used me to warn His Majesty.

Like a tool, I thought, and I remembered something Master Benedict had once said. It was the first real lesson he’d ever taught me. It’s never the tool that decides. It’s the hand—and the heart—of the one who wields it.

Now I was the thing being wielded. By the Templars, by Walsingham, by the king. Master Benedict would argue that, as the tool, I wasn’t responsible. The spymaster had already said the same. Yet I couldn’t shake that weight from my shoulders. What I’d got myself involved in was not just important, but IMPORTANT; the kind of events they write about in the histories.