The Crown Conspiracy (2 page)

Looking down at the old, gray-haired man in his fine traveling clothes, Archibald almost felt sorry for him. Once long ago, the marquis had enjoyed a reputation for cleverness and fortitude. Such distinction came with the title. The marquis was no mere noble, nor was he a simple sheriff of the land like an earl or a count. He was responsible for guarding the king’s borders. This was a serious duty, which required a capable leader, an ever-vigilant man tested in battle. However, now that the frontier was no longer under threat of attack, the great guard had become complacent, and his strength had withered from lack of use.
As Victor opened the letters, Archibald contemplated his future with relish. The marquis was right. He was after the land that came with his daughter. Still, Alenda was attractive, and the thought of forcing her to his bed was more than a little appealing.
“Archibald, is this a joke?” Victor questioned.
Startled from his thoughts, Archibald set down his drink. “What do you mean?”
“These parchments are all blank.”
“What? Are you blind? They’re—” Archibald stopped when he saw the empty pages in the marquis’ hand. He grabbed a handful of letters and tore them open, only to find still more blank parchments. “This is impossible!”
“Perhaps they were written in disappearing ink?” Victor smirked.
“No…I don’t understand…these aren’t even the same parchments!” He rechecked the safe but found it empty. His confusion turned to panic. He tore open the door and called anxiously for Bruce. The master-at-arms rushed in, his sword at the ready. “What happened to the letters I had in this safe?” Archibald shouted at the soldier.
“I…I don’t know, my lord,” Bruce replied. He sheathed his weapon and stood at attention before the earl.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Have you left your post at all this evening?”
“No, sir, of course not.”
“Did anyone, anyone at all, enter my study during my absence?”
“No, my lord that is impossible; you hold the only key.”
“Then where in Maribor’s name are those letters? I put them there myself. I was reading them when the marquis arrived. I was only gone a few minutes. How could they disappear like that?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, I—”
“Shut up. Shut up, you imbecile! I need to think.”
Archibald’s mind raced. He had them in his hands only moments ago. He had locked them in the safe; he was convinced of that fact. Where had they gone?
Victor drained his glass and stood up. “If you don’t mind, Archie, I’ll be leaving now. This has been a tremendous waste of my time.”
“Victor, wait. Don’t go. The letters are real. I had them!”
“But of course you did, Archie. The next time you plan to blackmail me, I suggest you provide a better bluff.” He crossed the room, passed through the door, and disappeared down the stairs.
“You had better consider what I said, Victor,” Archibald yelled after him. “I’ll find those letters. I will! I’ll bring them to Aquesta! I’ll hold them up at court!”
“What do you want me to do, my lord?” Bruce asked.
“Just wait, you fool. I have to think.” Archibald ran his trembling fingers through his hair as he began to pace around the room. He re-examined the letters closely. They were indeed a slightly different grade of parchment than the ones he had read so many times before.
Despite his certainty of placing the letters in the safe, Archibald began pulling out the drawers and riffling through the parchments on his desk. He poured himself another drink and crossed the room. Ripping the screen from the fireplace, he probed the ashes with a poker to search for any telltale signs of parchment remains. In frustration, Archibald threw the blank letters into the fire. He drained his drink in one long swallow and collapsed into one of the chairs.
“They were just here,” Archibald said, puzzled. Slowly, a solution began to form in his mind. “Bruce, the letters must have been stolen. The thief could not have gotten far. I want you to search the entire castle. Seal every exit. Close every door, every gate, and every window. Do not let anyone out. Not the staff, not the guards—no one leaves. Search everyone!”
“Right away, my lord,” Bruce responded and then paused. “What about the marquis, my lord. Shall I stop him as well?”
“Of course not, you idiot! He doesn’t have the letters.”
Archibald stared into the fire as he listened to Bruce’s footsteps fading away as he ran down the tower stairs. Alone, he had only the sound of the crackling flames and a hundred unanswered questions. He racked his brain but could not determine exactly how the thief had done it. Still, it was the only answer.
“Your lordship?” the timid voice of the steward roused him from his thoughts. Archibald glared up at the man who poked his head through the open door, causing the steward to take an extra breath before speaking. “My lord, I hate to disturb you, but there seems to be a problem down in the courtyard that requires your attention.”
“What kind of problem?” Archibald snarled.
“Well, my lord, I was not actually informed of the details, but it has something to do with the marquis, sir. I have been sent to request your presence—respectfully request it, that is.”
Archibald descended the stairs, pondering if perhaps the old man had dropped dead on his doorstep, which would not be such a terrible thing. When he reached the courtyard, he found the marquis alive but in a furious temper.
“There you are, Ballentyne! What have you done with my carriage?”
“Your what?”
Bruce approached Archibald and motioned him aside. “Your lordship,” he whispered in the earl’s ear. “It seems the marquis’ carriage and horses are missing, sir.”
Archibald held up a finger in the direction of the marquis. With a raised voice, he replied, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Victor.” Then he turned his attention to Bruce and whispered, “Did you say missing? How is that possible?”
“I don’t know exactly, sir, but you see, the gate warden reports that the marquis and his driver, or rather two people he thought were them, have already passed through the front gate.”
Suddenly feeling quite ill, Archibald turned back to address the red-faced marquis.

Chapter 2: Meetings

Several hours after nightfall, Alenda Lanaklin arrived by carriage at the impoverished Lower Quarter of Medford. The Rose and Thorn Tavern lay hidden among crooked-roofed hovels on an unnamed street, which to Alenda appeared to be little more than an alley. A recent storm had left the cobblestones wet, and puddles littered the street. Passing carriages splashed filthy water on the pub’s front entrance, leaving streaks of grime on the dull stone and weathered timbers.
From a nearby doorway, a sweaty, shirtless man with a bald head emerged carrying a large copper pot. He unceremoniously cast the pot’s contents, the bony remains of several stewed animals, into the street. Immediately, half a dozen dogs set upon the scraps. Wretched-looking figures, dimly lit by the flickering light from the tavern’s windows, shouted angrily at the canines in a language that Alenda did not recognize. Several of them threw rocks at the scrawny animals, which yelped and darted away. They rushed to what the animals had left behind and stuffed the remnants into their mouths and pockets.
“Are you sure this is the right place, my lady?” Emily asked, taking in the scene. “Surely Viscount Winslow couldn’t have meant for us to come here.”
Alenda re-examined the curled thorny branch with a single bloom painted on the warped signboard above the door. The red rose had faded to gray, and the weathered stem looked like a coiled snake. “This has to be it. I don’t think there’s more than one tavern called The Rose and Thorn in Medford.”
“I just can’t believe he’d send us to such a…a…place!”
“I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is what was arranged. I don’t see how we have a choice,” Alenda replied, surprised by how brave she sounded.
“I know you’re tired of hearing this, but I still think this is a mistake. We shouldn’t be dealing with thieves. You can’t trust them, my lady. Mark my words: these people you hired will steal from you just like they steal from everyone else.”
“Nevertheless, we’re here now, so we might as well get on with it.” Alenda opened the door and stepped out onto the street. As she did, she noticed with concern that several of those loitering nearby were watching her intently.
“That’ll be a silver tenent,” the driver told her. He was a gruff, elderly man who had not shaved in days. His narrow eyes were framed with so many wrinkles that Alenda wondered how he could see to drive the carriage.
“Oh, well, you see, I was expecting to pay you at the end of our journey,” Alenda explained. “We’re only stopping here for a short while.”
“If you want me to wait, it’ll cost ya extra. And I want the money ya owe me now, in case ya decide not ta come back.”
“Don’t be absurd. I can assure you we will be coming back.”
The man’s expression was as pliable as granite. He spit over the side of the carriage at Alenda’s feet.
“Oh! Well, really!” Alenda pulled a coin from her bag and handed it to the driver. “Here, take the silver, but don’t wander off. I’m not exactly sure how long we’ll be, but as I told you, we will return.”
Emily exited the carriage and took a moment to adjust Alenda’s hood and to ensure her ladyship’s buttons were secure. She brushed the wrinkles out of Alenda’s cloak and then repeated the procedure on herself.
“I wish I could tell that stupid driver who I am,” Alenda whispered. “Then I’d tell him a few more things.”
“Don’t even think that way. Maribor forbid your father should ever learn you came here.”
The two women were dressed in matching woolen cloaks, and with their hoods up, little more than their noses were visible. Alenda scowled at Emily and brushed her fidgeting hands away.
“You’re being such a mother hen, Emmy. I’m sure women have come into this establishment before.”
“Women, yes, but I doubt any ladies have.”
As they entered the narrow wooden doorway of the tavern, the pungent odor of smoke, alcohol, and a scent that Alenda had previously smelled only in a privy assaulted them. The din of twenty conversations fought each other for supremacy while a fiddler worked a lively tune. Before a bar, a small crowd danced, hammering their heels loudly on the warped wooden floor, keeping time to the jig. Glasses clinked, fists pounded on tables, and people laughed and sang far louder than Alenda thought dignified.
“What do we do now?” Emily’s voice emanated from the depths of her woolen hood.
“I suppose we look for the viscount. Stay close to me.”
Alenda took Emily’s hand and led the way, weaving through the tables and dodging the dancers and a dog that was gleefully licking up spilled beer. Never in her life had Alenda been in such a place. Vile-looking men surrounded her. Most were dressed in rags, and more than a few were shoeless. She spotted only four women in the place, all were barmaids dressed indecently in tattered gowns with plunging necklines. To Alenda, their manner of dress invited men to paw at them. A toothless, hairy beast grabbed one of the barmaids around her waist. Dragging her to his lap, he ran his hands along the length of her body. Alenda was shocked to see the girl giggle instead of scream.
At last, Alenda spotted him. Viscount Albert Winslow was dressed, not in his typical doublet and hose, but in a simple cloth shirt, wool pants, and a neatly tailored suede vest. His vestige was not entirely without noble adornment, sporting a lovely, if not ostentatious, plumed hat. He sat at a small table with a stocky, black-bearded man dressed in cheap work clothes.
On their approach, Albert Winslow stood and pulled out chairs for them. “Welcome, ladies,” he said with a cheerful smile. “So glad you were able to meet me this evening. Please sit down. May I order you both something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Alenda replied. “I was hoping not to stay very long. My driver is not a considerate man, and I would like to conclude our business before he decides to strand us here.”
“I understand and, might I say, very wise of you, your ladyship. But I am sad to say your delivery has not yet arrived.”
“It hasn’t?” Alenda felt Emily give her hand a squeeze of support. “Is there something wrong?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know. You see, I am not privy to the inner workings of this operation. I don’t concern myself with such trifles. You should understand, however, this wasn’t an easy assignment. We have taken days to prepare, and any number of things could have transpired that might create delays. Are you sure there’s nothing I may order for you?”
“Thank you, no,” Alenda replied.
“At least take a seat, won’t you?”
Alenda glanced at Emily, whose eyes were awash with concern. They sat down, and as they did, she whispered to Emily, “I know, I know. I shouldn’t deal with thieves.”
“Make no mistake, your ladyship,” the viscount said in reassurance. “I would not waste your time, money, or risk your station if I didn’t have the utmost confidence in the outcome.”
The bearded man seated at the table chuckled softly. He was dark and seedy with skin as tan as leather. His huge hands were callused and dirty. Alenda watched as he tipped his mug to his lips. When he withdrew the cup, droplets of ale ran unchecked through his whiskers and dripped onto the tabletop. Alenda decided she did not like him.
“This is Mason Grumon,” Winslow explained. “Forgive me for not introducing him sooner. Mason is a blacksmith here in Medford’s Lower Quarter. He’s—a friend.”
“Those chaps you hired are very good,” Mason told them. His voice reminded Alenda of the sound her carriage wheels made when traveling over crushed stone.
“Are they?” Emily asked. “Could they steal the ancient treasures of Glenmorgan from the Crown Tower of Ervanon?”
“What’s that?” Winslow asked.
“I once heard a rumor about thieves who stole treasure from the Crown Tower of Ervanon and replaced it the very next night,” Emily explained.
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Alenda asked.
The viscount chuckled softly. “I’m sure that’s merely a legend. No sensible thief would behave in such a way. Most people don’t understand the workings of thieves. The reality is that most of them steal to line their pockets. They break into homes or waylay travelers on the open road. Your bolder variety might kidnap nobles and hold them for ransom. Sometimes, they even cut off a finger of their victim and send it to a loved one. It helps to prove how dangerous they are and reinforces that the family should take their demands seriously. In general, they are an unsavory lot to be sure. They care only about making a profit with as little effort as possible.”
Alenda felt another squeeze on her hand. This one was so tight it caused her to wince.
“Now your better class of thief, they form guilds, sort of like masonry or woodworkers guilds, although far more hush-hush, you understand. They are very organized and make a business out of thievery. They stake out territories where they maintain a monopoly on pilfering. Oftentimes, they have arrangements with the local militia or potentate that allow them to work relatively unmolested for a fee, as long as they avoid certain targets and abide by accepted rules.”
“What kind of rules could be acceptable between officers of a province and known criminals?” Alenda asked skeptically.
“Oh, I think you’d be quite surprised to discover the number of compromises made to maintain a smoothly functioning kingdom. There is however, one more type of malefactor—the freelance contractor or, to put it bluntly, thief-for-hire. These rogues are hired for a particular purpose, such as obtaining an item in the possession of a fellow noble. Codes of honor, or fear of embarrassment,” he said with a wink, “require them to seek out a professional as their only recourse.”
“So, they’ll steal anything for anyone?” Alenda asked. “The ones you hired for me, I mean.”
“No, not anyone—only those who are willing to pay the number of tenents equal to the job.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if the client is a criminal or a king?” Emily chimed in.
Mason snorted. “Criminal or king, what’s the difference?” For the first time during their meeting, he produced a wide grin that revealed several missing teeth.
Disgusted, Alenda turned her attention back to Winslow. He was looking in the direction of the door, straining to see above the tavern patrons. “You’ll have to excuse me, ladies,” he said, abruptly standing up. “I need another drink, and the wait staff seems preoccupied. Look after the ladies, won’t you, Mason?”
“I’m not a bloody wet nurse you daffy old sod!” Mason shouted after the viscount as he left the table and moved off through the crowd.
“I’ll…I’ll not have you referring to her ladyship in such a way,” Emily declared boldly to the smith. “She is no infant. She is a noble woman of title, and you had best remember your place.”
Mason’s expression darkened. “This is my place. I live five bloody doors down. My pa helped build this infernal pub. My brother works here as a ruddy cook. My mother used ta work here as a cook too, up until she died being hit by one of yer fancy noble carriages. This is my place. You’re the one who needs to be remembering yours.” Mason slammed his fist down on the table, causing the candle, and the ladies, to jump.
Alenda pulled Emily close. What have I gotten myself into? She was starting to think Emily was right. She should never have trusted that no-account Winslow. She really did not know anything about him except that he attended the Aquesta Autumn Gala as a guest of Lord Daref. Of all people, she should have learned by now that not all nobles are noble.
They sat in silence until Winslow returned without a drink.
“Ladies, if you’ll please follow me?” the viscount beckoned.
“What is it?” Alenda asked concerned.
“Just please, come with me, this way.”
Alenda and Emily left the table and followed Winslow through the haze of pipe smoke and the obstacle course of dancers, dogs, and drunks to the back door. The scene behind the tavern made everything they endured so far appear virtuous. They entered an alley that was almost beyond comprehension. Trash lay scattered everywhere and excrement, discarded from the windows above, mixed with mud in a wide-open trench. Wooden planks, serving as bridges, crisscrossed the foul river of slime, causing the ladies to hold their gowns above their ankles as they shuffled forward.
A large rat darted from a woodpile to join two more in the sewage trough.
“Why are we in an alley?” Emily whispered in a quivering voice to Alenda.
“I don’t know,” Alenda answered, trying desperately to control her own fear. “I think you were right, Emmy. I should never have dealt with these people. I don’t care what the viscount says; people like us simply shouldn’t do business with people like them. I can just imagine what my father would think.”
The viscount led them through a wooden fence and around a pair of shanties to a poor excuse for a stable. The shelter was little more than a shack with four stalls, each filled with straw and a bucket of water.
“So good to see you again, your ladyship,” a man out front addressed them.
Alenda could tell it was the big one of the pair, but she could not remember his name. She had only seen them briefly through an arranged meeting by the viscount, which had been on a lonely road on a night darker than this. Now, with the moon more than half-full and his hood thrown back, she could make out his face. He was tall, rugged in feature and dress, but not unkind or threatening in appearance. Wrinkles, which may have come from laughter, tugged at the edges of his eyes. Alenda thought his demeanor was remarkably cheerful, even friendly. She could not help but think he was handsome, which was not the reaction she expected to have about anyone she might meet in such a place. He was dressed in dirt-stained leather and wool, and was well armed. On his left side, he had a short sword with an unadorned hilt. On his right, was a similarly plain, longer, wider sword. Finally, slung on his back was a massive blade, nearly as tall as he was.
“My name is Hadrian, in case you have forgotten,” he said and followed the introduction with a suitable bow. “And who is this lovely lady with you?”
“This is Emily, my maid.”
“A maid?” Hadrian feigned surprise. “For one so fair, I would have guessed her to be a duchess.”
Emily inclined her head and for the first time on this trip, Alenda saw her smile.
“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long. The viscount tells me he and Mason were keeping you company?”
“Yes, they were.”
“Did Mr. Grumon tell you the tragic tale of his mother being run down by an insensitive royal carriage?”
“Why, yes, he did. And I must say—”
Hadrian held up his hands in mock defense. “Mason’s mother is alive and well. She lives on Artisan Row in a home considerably nicer than the hovel where Mason resides. She has never been a cook at The Rose and Thorn. He tells that story to every gentleman or lady he meets to put them on the defensive and make them feel guilty. You have my apologies.”