The Accidental Bride Read Free

an error? Dolts, the lot of them.
    He moved forward again, hunching into his cloak. As he approached the doorway, Brian Morse stepped out in front of him. The man was aware first of a pair of small brown eyes, cold and flat as a viper’s. Then he saw the flash of steel. He reached for his own poignard but was somehow paralyzed by the icy recognition of the hopelessness of his position.
    The tip of the swordstick entered his breast, sliding through cloak and shirt and flesh with the ease of a knife through butter. The pain was acute, a piercing cold intensity in his vitals. He slid down the wall, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the wet stones, and crumpled in on himself, inert, blood spreading beneath him, mingling with the dark rain puddles on the cobbles.
    Brian Morse turned him over with the tip of his boot. The eyes, glazing now, stared up at him. A thin smile touched Brian’s mouth. Leisurely, he drew back his arm and drove the point of the sword deep into the man’s belly. He drove it down and up and a gray and crimson mass of viscera spilled to the cobbles.
    Brian looked down at the bleeding lump of meat for a second, then with a contemptuous grunt and a curl of the lip, he turned away and continued his journey up the alley.
    At the top, he turned to the right. This street was broader than the lane and light spilled from the upper windows of a cross-timbered inn. The sign of the Black Tulip creaked and swung in the wind.
    Brian pushed open the door and entered the crowded noisome space. The reek of stale beer, unwashed humanity, and boiling pigs’ feet hung heavy in the smoke-filled air. The lime-washed walls sweated great gobbets of moisture and tallow candles burned in the sconces that hung from the massive rafters.
    Brian pushed his way through the raucous throng, making for a low door behind the bar counter where a red-faced man was drawing ale with steady, unbroken movements, setting the filled tankards in a line on the counter. A harassed tavern wench retrieved them, carrying them on a tray held high above her head as she dipped and dodged the grasping fingers and the slapping hands of the tavern’s customers.
    The man at the counter looked up as Brian edged past. He gave him a curt nod and gestured with his head to the low door behind.
    Brian raised the latch and entered a small, low-ceilinged room. A man sat at a small table beside the fire, nursing a pitch tankard. The room had a damp chill to it despite the sullen smolder of the fire and the man still wore his cloak and hat. He glanced up as Brian entered the room and gave him one sweeping appraisal.
    “You were followed,” he stated, his voice curiously flat and nasal. His eyes rested on the swordstick that Brian still held unsheathed. Blood dripped from the point and clotted in the sawdust strewn across the wooden floor.
    “Aye,” Brian agreed. He raised the swordstick and scrutinized the rusty stains with the air of one examining and approving his handiwork. Then he thrust the blade back into its sheath with a decisive thud and pulled out the chair opposite the man at the table.
    “One of Strickland’s agents?” the man asked, picking up his tankard.
    “I assume so. I didn’t take the time to inquire,” Brian returned. “It was not a social occasion.” He reached for the jug of ale on the table and in the absence of a tankard tipped the jug to his lips and drank deeply.
    “Killing’s thirsty work,” he offered. His tongue flicked over his lips as he set the jug back on the table.
    The other made only a noncommittal grunt and reached inside his cloak. He withdrew a paper from a pocket in his woolen jerkin and tapped it thoughtfully on the stained planking of the table.
    Brian’s small brown eyes watched the man’s hands, but he said nothing, containing his impatience.
    “So,” his companion said after a few long seconds. “His majesty has been most generous.”
    “His majesty’s son and heir is married to King Charles’s