The Blackthorn Key

“Did he.” Oswyn scratched his cheek. “And?”


“I . . . I thought you’d want to see it.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Well . . . this is what Stubb killed my master for. This is what the Cult wants.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

I blinked, and floundered for something to say.

Oswyn laughed. “You were hoping I’d jump for that recipe.”

“No, I—”

“And then what? You’d trick me into revealing it was I who wanted the Archangel’s Fire all along? I suppose you’d like me to confess to Benedict’s murder while I’m at it.”

I felt my face grow hot.

“Christopher.” Oswyn shook his head. “You’re trying to play the game, but you don’t even know how to move the pieces.”

“I—I didn’t—” I began.

“If you want to win, you need to think several steps ahead. Here, let me show you.” Oswyn raised his voice, so it echoed from the walls. “Yes, I killed your master.”

I couldn’t move.

“I killed Nathaniel Stubb, too,” he said. “And his apprentices, and Henry Mortimer, and Oliver Pembroke, and many, many others. Not by my own hand. But I sent the agents who did it.” His voice went back to normal. “Will that do?”

My breath caught in my throat. No, I thought. It won’t.

The door to the mansion banged open behind me. Lord Ashcombe burst out, flintlock pistol in hand. Four footmen clomped after him, spears at the ready, two of them the same King’s Men who were always by his side.

“Hello, Richard,” Oswyn said. He smiled. “What a surprise.”

“Oswyn Colthurst, you are under arrest,” Lord Ashcombe said.

Oswyn took a step backward. “I can see that.”

That was too easy. I looked past Oswyn, past the gate, to the brick wall of the maze beyond. “Lord Ashcombe—” I said.

“There’s nowhere to run, Puritan,” Lord Ashcombe said.

Oswyn took another step back. “Why is that, Richard? If I flee into the maze, I’ll . . . what? Meet the guards you hid in there to cut off my escape?”

Lord Ashcombe’s eyes narrowed.

“My lord, wait—” I began, but Oswyn cut me off.

“Several steps ahead, Christopher,” he said. Then he ducked behind the mausoleum.

And from the maze poured Oswyn’s army.





CHAPTER


33


THERE WERE SEVEN OF THEM on Oswyn’s side. Each held a pistol. Other, more wicked weapons hung from their belts. The Elephant was there, his neck red, skin peeling. Martin was there, too, with torn cheek and missing teeth. Wat led them, his face peppered with scabs, a flintlock in each hand.

Lord Ashcombe reacted like lightning. He fired his pistol on the quick, a sharp crack and a puff of smoke. One of Oswyn’s men fell back, his throat ripped open.

Oswyn’s troops responded. Six bangs, like firecrackers, and lead shot flew from a dark gray cloud. A musket ball tore at my hair as it punched into the window frame behind me, sending out a shower of splinters. Three more shots whistled past, one shattering the glass, the others chipping stone. Two found their mark. One soldier’s knee blew backward, toppling him to the ground. A second man’s eye became a mash of red pulp.

I dived to the grass and covered my head, as if my hands could stop screaming lead. Lord Ashcombe ducked as well, but too late. Wat fired his second pistol. The King’s Warden jerked back with a grunt. He dropped his flintlock and grabbed his right arm, just above the elbow. Blood oozed through his fingers.

Oswyn’s men threw their pistols away, ammunition spent. Then they rushed in. I scrambled out of the way, but they weren’t charging at me.