The Crown Conspiracy полностью

With a sudden sweep of her hand, she threw the brushes across the room. Why had it come to this? She cried softly; it did not matter. She had work yet to do. There were things she had started which must now be finished. Braga was getting more suspicious each day—time was running out.

She unlocked and opened her hope chest. From inside, she removed the bundle of purple cloth she had hidden there. How ironic, she thought, for her to have used that cloth. Her father had wrapped the last hairbrush he had given her in it. She laid the bundle on her bed and carefully unfolded it to reveal the rondel dagger. The blade was still stained with her father’s blood.

“Only one more job left for you to do,” she told the knife.

The Silver Pitcher Inn was a simple cottage located on the outskirts of the province of Galilin. Fieldstone and mortar composed the lower half, while whitewashed oak beams supported a roof of thick field thatch, gone gray with time. Windows divided into diamond panes of poor quality glass underscored by heldaberry bushes lined the sides. Several horses stood tied to the posts out front, with still more visible in the small stable to the side.

“Seems like a busy place for so far out,” Royce observed.

Traveling east, they had ridden all day. Just as before, the trip through the wilds proved exhausting. As the evening light faded, they reached the rural farmland of Galilin. They passed through tilled fields and meadows, at last stumbling upon a country lane. Because none of them knew for certain where they were, they decided to follow the road to a landmark. To their pleasant surprise, The Silver Pitcher Inn was the first building they found.

“Well, Majesty,” Hadrian said, “you should be able to find your way back to the castle from here, if that is still your destination.”

“It is about time I got back,” Alric told him, “but not before I eat. Does this place have decent food?”

“Does it matter?” Hadrian chuckled. “I’d be happy for a bit of three-day-ripe field mouse at this point. Come on, we can have a last meal together, which, since you have no money on you, I will be paying for. I hope you’ll let me deduct it from my taxes.”

“No need. We’ll tack it on to the job as an additional expense,” Royce interjected. He looked at Alric and added, “You haven’t forgotten you still owe us one hundred tenents, have you?”

“You’ll get paid. I’ll have Uncle Percy set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure.”

“Of course not,” the prince nodded.

“And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?” Alric stared at him. “One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?”

“Oh please, aren’t you being just a tad bit too cautious now?”

“No such thing,” Royce replied.

“Look!” Myron shouted suddenly pointing at the stable.

All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.

“There’s a brown horse!” the monk said in amazement. “I didn’t know they came in brown!”

“By Mar, monk!” Alric shook his head in disbelief, an expression Royce and Hadrian mirrored.

“Well, I didn’t,” Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement however, was still evident when he added, “What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one.”

Royce went inside and returned a few minutes later. “Everything looks all right. A bit crowded, but I don’t see anything too out of the ordinary. Alric, be sure to keep your hood up and either spin your ring so the insignia is on the inside of your hand, or better yet, remove it altogether until you get home.”

Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer where several cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shelf held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.

Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. “I read about inns,” he said. “In Pilgrim’s Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?”

“No,” Hadrian replied sadly.

“Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?”

Hadrian and the others just laughed.

Myron looked at them mystified then shrugged. “Even so, this is wonderful. There’s so much to see! What’s that smell? It’s not food, is it?”

“Pipe smoke,” Hadrian explained. “It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey.”