“Can you decode the second word?”
The king’s brows pulled together in a deep furrow. What took Grey less than a few seconds to decode took the king another long expanse of soundless, painful minutes. Something was not right with His Majesty, and it wasn’t Grey’s imagination. Lines of worry creased Stratmore’s forehead, and his gaze darted continuously from the king to Grey. Damn him to hell if Madelaine’s father wasn’t assessing him to see if he’d figured out there was a problem with the king.
“The next word is my name.” The king’s voice held surprising asperity. Grey rubbed at the back of his neck to rid himself of the prickly sensation assaulting him.
Stratmore reached a hand toward the paper on the table. “Perhaps we should continue another day, Your Grace.”
The king slammed a hand down on top of Stratmore’s. Grey held still as stone, unsure what to do or say. “Don’t. Touch. The. Scroll.” Each word was a harsh, clipped command. “We’ll finish now.”
Stratmore slid his hand away from the paper. Wise choice, considering the king fairly foamed at the mouth. His wild gaze locked on Grey. Grey’s first instinct was to put distance between himself and his suddenly unpredictable sovereign, but that would be cowardly and unworthy of his station. “Your Majesty?”
With confusion apparent in his eyes, the king shook his head. “I feel a spell coming on. It’s muddling my thinking, but I’ll manage.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” A spell? The whispers were of sudden spells of madness. The prickling sensation was back, but now the tingling covered Grey’s entire body.
“Bring me the quill from my desk,” the king demanded.
Grey glanced at Stratmore who nodded agreement. The outer chamber was deserted as the king had earlier commanded, yet a whisper of air moved through the room. Had someone just been here? The king’s guards stood some ten feet away at the outside of the door. They wouldn’t foolishly disobey the king and trespass where they’d been expressly told not to, yet the feeling someone was here, watching and listening enveloped Grey. He glanced around him as he moved toward the king’s desk but noted nothing unusual. The fire burned in the grate casting twisted shadows on the wall, but they were just shadows. Still, his heartbeat picked up speed.
Making quick work of it, he retrieved the quill and brought it to the king. When he sat, he positioned himself so he could see into the outer chamber. If someone was there he’d catch them. As the king worked, Grey stared, unmoving, into the other room and counted each noisy inhalation of Stratmore’s impatient breathing. Finally, the king set his pen down and wiped a distracted hand across his brow. “I’ve mastered it. I’m sure of it. Check my work, Stratmore.”
Madelaine’s father hunched over the list silently, but after a minute a hiss of breath filled the room. When he looked up, his protruding eyes worried Grey. What the hell had the king written down to make Stratmore look ill? A sheen of sweat covered Stratmore’s forehead. The man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his skin with a shaking hand. “You do have it, Your Grace.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “But let’s destroy this immediately.”
“Not yet.” The king turned his glassy gaze on Grey. Grey’s fingers convulsed spasmodically against his leg. He didn’t like this strange situation, but he was good and trussed to his vow. “Decode what I’ve written. I’ll see that you can do it as well.”
At once, Grey scanned the first sentence the king had written.
An angel of the lord came to me with eyes like stars and clothed in fire. The angel revealed to me a plot of the most insidious nature. My appointed Administration is trying to overthrow me and must therefore all be executed.
Grey swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. Now he knew what had taken the king so long. Before he’d decoded what Stratmore had written, the king had written this message, his own message. Despite himself, Grey glanced around the room. No angels. The king was bloody mad. Or he had been for the minutes the spell had taken him. Sweat broke out on Grey’s forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. Stratmore was right to want to destroy this immediately.
“Get on with it man,” the king barked.
Grey’s cheek ticked rapidly. He cleared his throat. “An angel of the lord—”
The king slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “I’ve heard of your humor, Lord Grey. But I’m not amused. Read only what’s on the paper.”
Grey’s darted his gaze to Stratmore. The man looked like he was on the verge of a fit. His face was pasty and his eyes were bulging. Stratmore nodded. “Yes, Lord Grey. Simply do as your told.”
Grey lowered his voice, wary to read any of the contents aloud but aware if he didn’t comply, the king might very well lose his temper and read the translation in a voice loud enough to be overheard by someone besides Grey and Stratmore. “Here,” Grey said, pointing to the first line after the mad accusations the king had written, “you’ve written that my father is to deliver a message to Nelson regarding the movement of Napoleon’s fleet across the Atlantic. And each proceeding line regards a new mission and who is to carry it out. Except I’m not on this list.”
The king smiled. “Very good. I need to add you.”
A distinctive clanking noise came the outer chamber. Grey sprang out of his chair at the same moment Stratmore grabbed for the paper.
Behind him, the king exclaimed, but Grey didn’t pause to look back. Instead, he moved into the outer chamber. The chambermaid Constance leaned over the fire with a poker raised high in the air.
“Who let you in here?”
She whirled around and dropped the poker to the ground with a clatter. “The guard. It’s time to stoke the fire. The king requires it special every two hours, so he doesn’t take chill. The guard said I could enter as long as I was quiet and hurried.”
Grey curled his hands into fists. He’d bloody well kill the idiotic guard. The swollen redness of the wench’s lips and her half-unlaced bodice told Grey exactly why the guard had made such a foolish choice. “Get out.”
He held still as she scrambled out the door, but the minute she was gone he stormed out of the room and jerked the guard toward him. “If you ever disobey the king’s orders again I’ll see you hung before I eat my evening meal. Understood?”
“Yes, milord,” the young guard sputtered without questioning who Grey was or what authority he had over him.
Disgusted, Grey released the man and strode back toward the king’s room. He paused at the voices of Stratmore and the king raised in argument inside the chamber. No doubt Stratmore was arguing to destroy the paper immediately. Grey was in hearty agreement, but the thought of disagreeing with the king did not sit well. Still, if he was to protect the king, disagreement was necessary.
