The Crown Conspiracy - Michael J. Sullivan (good books to read for adults .txt) 📗

order her to marry me.”

“So, this is why you coerced me into coming here? I’m sorry, Archibald, but you have wasted your time and mine. I refuse to force her to wed a man she doesn’t want. She would hate me for the rest of her life. I care more about my daughter’s feelings than the political implications of her marriage. I happen to cherish Alenda. Of all my children, she is my greatest joy.”

Archibald took another sip of brandy and considered Victor’s remarks. He decided to approach the subject from a different direction. “What if it were for her own good? To save her from what would be certain disaster.”

“You warned me of danger to get me here. Are you finally ready to explain, or would you prefer to see if this old man can still handle a blade?”

Archibald disregarded what he knew was an idle threat. “When Alenda repeatedly declined my advances, I reasoned something must be amiss. There was no logic to her rebuffs. Look at me. I am a rich and handsome man. I have connections and my star is rising. The reason for your daughter’s refusal is quite simple: she is already involved with someone else. She is having an affair—a secret affair.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Victor declared. “Who is this man? Why would she not tell me?”

“It is little wonder she’s kept it from you. She is ashamed. You see, the man she is entertaining is a mere commoner without a single drop of royal blood in his veins.”

“You’re lying!”

“Perhaps you’ve heard of him. His name is Degan Gaunt. A troublemaker I hear, part of the Nationalist movement out of Delgos. They rendezvous at Windermere near the monastery. They meet on nights when you are away or occupied with matters of state.”

“That is ridiculous. My daughter would never—”

“Don’t you have a son there?” Archibald inquired. “At the abbey, I mean. He’s a monk, isn’t he?”

Victor nodded. “Myron. He is my third son.”

“Perhaps he has been helping them. I’ve made inquiries and it seems your Myron is a very intelligent fellow. Perhaps he is masterminding liaisons for his beloved sister and carrying their correspondence.”

“You are insane,” Victor shot back, suppressing a bitter laugh. “I sent Myron to the abbey when he was barely four years old. He hasn’t set foot outside its walls in thirty-two years. All he is good for is scribbling books. To my knowledge, Alenda has never even spoken to him. This whole story is obviously a pathetic attempt to have me pressure Alenda into marrying you, and I know why. You don’t care about her. You want her dowry. The Rilan Valley borders ever so nicely against your own lands. Not to mention, marrying into my family would be quite a boost for you, socially and politically.”

“Pathetic, am I?” Archibald set down his glass and produced a key on a silver neck chain from inside his shirt. He rose and crossed the room to a tapestry depicting a Calian prince on horseback abducting a fair-haired noblewoman. He drew it back revealing the hidden safe, and inserting the key, opened the small metal door.

“I have a stack of letters written in your precious daughter’s hand that proves it. They tell of her undying love for her disgusting peasant.”

“How did you get these letters?”

“I stole them from her. I knew she was seeing someone and wanted to know who y rival was, so I had her followed. Once I discovered she was sending letters, I arranged to have them intercepted.” From the safe, Archibald brought forth a stack of parchments and dropped them in Victor’s lap. “There!” he declared triumphantly. “Read what your daughter has been up to, and decide for yourself whether or not she would be better off marrying me.”

Archibald lifted his brandy glass victoriously; he had won. In order to avoid political ruin, Victor Lanaklin, the great Marquis of Glouston, would order his daughter to marry him. Finally, he would have the borderland, and perhaps in time, he would control the whole of the marchland. With Chadwick in his right hand and Glouston in his left, his power at court would rival that of the Duke of Rochelle.

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