Matchlock and the Rebel: A Thirty Years' War Story, #2

By Zack Twamley

February, 1623.

 

Nine months after Matthew Lock established his legend – and avenged his family – sinister forces are once again on the move.

 

The Raven has expanded his powers, and seems hellbent on seizing Lock for his insidious ends. Meanwhile, from the shadows, the enigmatic Black Prince watches and waits, his Masks never far away.

 

To unravel the complex mystery surrounding his family, Captain Lock enlists in a new army, loyal to Frederick, the outlaw who was once the second most powerful man in the Holy Roman Empire.

 

But in this Thirty Years' War, trustworthy allies are difficult to find, and treacherous Rogues lurk where they are least expected.

 

Matthew Lock must answer for his crimes.

 

He must confront the sins of his father.

 

He must channel the rebel within.

 

Matchlock and the Rebel is the second instalment in a historical fiction series, brought to you by Zachary Twamley, host of When Diplomacy Fails Podcast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: When Diplomacy Fails Publishing
• Release date: Jun 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781919629841

Book preview

Matchlock and the Rebel

A Thirty Years’ War Story – Book Two.

When Diplomacy Fails Publishing,

Wicklow, 2022.

image-placeholder

Though based on history and historical characters, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Matchlock and the Rebel and the Matchlock logo are the intellectual property of the author.

Copyright © 2022 Zachary Twamley.

All rights reserved.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by copyright law and fair use.

This One's For You, Dad.

Revenge springs not always from hatred or from a cruel disposition, but is sometimes necessary, to the end that others may be taught by example to beware how they injure us.

FRANCESCO GUICCIARDINI (1483-1540).

The Netherlands, 1623

image-placeholder

Contents

Prologue

1. One

2. Two

3. Three

4. Four

5. Five

6. Six

7. Seven

8. Eight

9. Nine

10. Ten

11. Eleven

12. Twelve

13. Thirteen

14. Fourteen

15. Fifteen

16. Sixteen

17. Seventeen

18. Eighteen

19. Nineteen

20. Twenty

21. Twenty-One

22. Twenty-Two

23. Twenty-Three

24. Twenty-Four

25. Twenty-Five

26. Twenty-Six

27. Twenty-Seven

28. Twenty-Eight

29. Twenty-Nine

30. Thirty

31. Thirty-One

32. Thirty-Two

33. Thirty-Three

Matthew Lock Will Return...

Historical Note

Only a Rogue Fails to Leave a Review!

Character Index

Glossary

Prologue

London, England.

14 February 1613

His orders were simple.

Kill Frederick, the Elector Palatine.

Kill him at his wedding, and cripple the anti-Habsburg cause before any fruits, political or otherwise, might be produced by this union.

The quest was straightforward, yet the location had posed some problems.

The assassin did not know London particularly well, but he had fought hard to be considered for this mission. It was a quest which would make his name, so long as he was successful.

If, on the other hand, failure and infamy greeted his efforts, the Black Prince would proclaim ignorance of any mention of his name.

The assassin’s cue was several minutes away, but there was no harm in being prepared. He moved closer.

The revellers were relaxed, the celebrants joyous. Even London’s unreliable weather had cooperated, and the February sun was high in the cloudless sky.

Allusions had been made to the bright future which awaited the couple, and the blessings which God would bestow upon them.

These predictions drifted towards the assassin over the covered heads of the crowd, and the assassin snorted aloud. Surely only God knew what the future held?

Did God see him now, on the verge of violating his commandment not to kill?

Perhaps, but then the assassin had been assured by the most passionate of confessors that God made exceptions when so much was at stake.

The assassin exhaled, as the Archbishop of Canterbury waved his hand over the Elector Palatine’s head.

This was the final blessing. Soon, the couple would be on the move.

The assassin moved closer. He descended gradually down the wooden steps, hastily erected for the poorer public. The area was crowded, as expected.

For a moment, the royal couple vanished out of sight, as the assassin turned a corner, and then made for the well-guarded front entrance to Whitehall Palace.

Fortunately, he merely had to wait outside, behind the barricades and among the crowds that wished for a glimpse of the newlyweds as they exited the palace.

In good time, Frederick would come to him.

Patience. It was a virtue his master had instilled within him from the beginning, and it had not come naturally.

The assassin exhaled once again.

Every instinct told him to attack now. To push past the thick, unruly crowd, deliver his shot, and slip away.

But that was not what his master had demanded.

The assassination had to be public, and committed at the entrance to this royal palace, to send a particular message.

The assassination of royals was not an unknown phenomenon; less than three years before, the King of France had been murdered as he exited his carriage.

Sure enough, his patience had been rewarded. The final words had been said, and the applause rang out.

Now, in this great din of noise, was the moment to move to the right place.

The plans of Whitehall had been seared into his memory. His studies had revealed that a perfect blind spot existed.

He eyed up his destination; an alcove obscured by a large granite column perhaps twenty feet away. It was slightly elevated, and would grant the assassin an unequalled perspective of what was happening on the ground.

The assassin made for the spot gingerly, but quickly. No reveller was disturbed, though they were prevailed upon to let him through.

He was only a few feet from his position, when the assassin froze.

A burly fellow with a thick moustache stood in his spot, and he showed no intentions of moving.

How had this happened? Did he work for the Black Prince? Was this a final test?

Mercifully, the questions required no answers. After looking around for a few moments, the moustachioed figure moved off, disappearing into the crowd.

And just in time.

A creeping cheer rising towards him suggested that the Elector and the Princess were approaching.

The assassin made himself comfortable in his spot. It was even more perfect than he had imagined.

The cheer grew closer, mere feet from him now, but still within the heavy stone walls of Whitehall palace itself.

The revellers outside joined in with the cheering, as the royal couple loomed into view.

This, and the increasing crush of people, provided perfect cover for what he was about to do.

A parade of smartly dressed guards marched ahead of the couple, announcing their arrival, and warning the citizens of London to clear the way.

The guards passed by without giving a moment’s thought to the assassin.

Clad in black trousers, with black boots and a grey buff coat, the assassin could have been anybody, which was precisely the point.

The cheer grew louder, almost deafening.

A trumpet sounded, loud enough to make the assassin flinch.

The trumpet was the signal, though the trumpeter did not know it.

The assassin exhaled. He would only get one shot. That was all the wheellock pistol allowed, before it required reloading again.

If he missed, if the pistol misfired, or if he was intercepted, the only other means of striking down the Elector Palatine was with his stiletto.

King Henry IV of France had been stabbed to death, but hopefully, it would not come to that.

The assassin exhaled. He’d been holding his breath.

And then they came into view, like a sudden eruption from a cannon.

The newlyweds. They were even more splendid close up.

The assassin gritted his teeth.

The target was within range, and would be for five seconds at the most.

Anxious guards hurried along the procession, but couldn’t move a royal couple against their will. Gloved hands were waved at urchins and well-wishers, a greater societal contrast than the assassin had seen for some time.

But the assassin was finished sight-seeing.

With a quick reach of his hand, the assassin placed a black mask on his face.

He was now exposed, and outed as an agent of the Black Prince.

Paradoxically, he was also protected, as no witnesses would be able to describe him.

This was the second most delicate part of the mission.

The most difficult part would shortly follow.

The target was within range.

The assassin held up the pistol, level with the back of the Elector Palatine’s frame.

His finger moved up the trigger, just as the Elector turned towards him.

The Elector’s eyes widened in horror; his face barely ten feet from the pistol’s barrel.

Any shout the Elector had prepared would not escape his mouth before the lead ball escaped the barrel, and splattered his brains on the steps of Whitehall.

The assassin grimaced, then pulled the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the day’s peace, and the assassin grunted.

He was under attack.

He swore as his arm was knocked to the side, and his body was pressed against the wall by another. Where had this person come from?

Screams emerged from onlookers, who began fleeing in all directions.

The assassin craned his neck from his predicament, and swore aloud.

The Elector Palatine was still alive, and was now surrounded by a phalanx of guards, who ushered the newlyweds away.

A complete miss! Failure! Blasted failure!

But how?

Who had intervened?

And at just the right moment?

The assassin struggled and cursed.

Whoever it was, they still pinned him against the wall.

The assassin smacked the back of his head off the bystander’s nose, and twisted around.

"You?" the assassin gasped.

It was the burly, moustachioed figure who had previously been standing in his place.

The assassin swore once again. The complication had not been a mere coincidence.

He had been watched this whole time. He had been careless.

But worst of all, he had failed his master.

A fearsome fate awaited him, but first he needed to escape.

The moustachioed figure understood this as well.

His sword had been unsheathed, and he mouthed a challenge which was impossible to hear above the screams and shouts of the crush of people.

The Elector’s defender was clearly a professional, but there was no time to engage with him.

Fleeing was the only option. But how? A distraction was essential.

The moustachioed man lunged for him, but the assassin was quicker.

He leapt over a waist-high wall, and located a riderless horse.

Unsheathing his stiletto, the assassin cut the rope anchoring the beast.

Without hesitation, he stabbed the animal in its front shoulder, and smacked its rump.

The horse screamed and reared up, before tearing ahead, trampling all in its path.

A panicked stampede began, and the assassin smiled for the first time that day, before diving into the frenzied crowds.

He wiped the blade off his trousers as he ran. It would not do to misplace such a weapon.

If everything goes wrong, make for the Thames River. That was what his handler had said.

It was not an attractive prospect. The river’s stench was legendary, and one was unlikely to emerge from its flow without some ailment.

But an ailment was better than the alternative.

The distance could be covered in a few minutes of sprinting, if one could manage it.

The assassin risked a glance behind him, and saw the moustachioed man recovered, and pointing in his direction. Their eyes connected.

No time could be wasted.

The assassin bored his way through the crowds with unrestrained violence.

People yelped and tumbled to the ground, as the assassin made his relentless beeline towards the river. He had to be getting close.

Its smell grew more potent, and it loomed into view after a few moments.

The generous rays of a February sun glinted off its brown, churning depths.

The assassin shuddered as he got closer to it.

Could he really throw himself into this open sewer?

He could. He had to. The choice had been made for him.

It was penance for his failure. The first of many steps on his road to atonement.

A shot sounded behind him, accompanied by several shrieks.

The assassin risked another glance behind his shoulder, and swore again.

The moustachioed figure was gaining on him, and had not lost him even among the chaos.

The assassin scrambled forward, skirting past a handful of bewildered salesmen, who had yet to hear the news.

And there it was, the low wall which demarked the edge of the street.

A harsh, raspy curse moved the assassin to flinch. The moustachioed pursuer was barely a few feet away.

It was now or never.

He climbed over the low wall, and prepared one final breath before taking the plunge.

He tried not to think too long on the fifteen-foot plunge into the river’s murky depths.

The assassin mouthed a prayer, and propelled himself off the wall.

Even as he fell through the air, a frightful thought occurred to him.

In spite of recent rains, this patch of the river seemed lower than it should have been.

A splash, followed by a horrific taste, followed then by a terrible stabbing in the ankles, caused the assassin to let loose a foul cacophony of swears.

The water level barely reached his neck.

As soon as he was spotted, the guards would fish him from the water, and the truth would be tortured from him.

There was nothing to do but end it all.

Reaching into the scummy water, he retrieved his stiletto, and exhaled, before pressing it to his throat.

Could he do it? Truly?

A whistle interrupted his dilemma.

It was a familiar sound, in a pitch practiced only by the Black Prince’s agents.

A quick glance to the left revealed another masked figure, standing by the entrance to a tunnel – perhaps once used by traders along the Thames – which had been cut into the riverbank.

The assassin did not hesitate. His ankles protested relentlessly, and the assassin cried out several times. Yet he powered on, pushing through the strong current as quickly as he could.

Shouts from the street above confirmed he had been spotted, but the assassin did not dare look up, and for the moment, nobody dared brave the rancid river.

He focused only the outstretched hand of this other Mask.

Finally, the assassin’s filthy hand was seized, and he was hoisted from the cloying mud of the riverbed.

Get up you fool, remember who is watching! his saviour hissed.

The assassin struggled to his throbbing feet, as agony surged from his ankles and up both his legs.

"Faster ye limp bastard, move!"

After some agonising progress, they had moved deeper into the cave, and encountered a black iron gate.

The gate was unlocked with a low creak, the assassin was pulled within, and a screen of wood and dirt was erected in front of it.

Still the rescuer continued, ignoring the assassin’s stumbles, and pulling him deeper into the darkness.

Then, finally, they came to a halt, and the assassin was effectively thrown into a wooden chair.

A candle was lit, illuminating the rescuer’s masked face, but little else.

The assassin prepared to speak, but winced instead at the agony in his legs.

Do not say a word, the rescuer whispered, giving the assassin a brief inspection. Dear me, he tutted. It seems Flynn O’Toole’s luck has finally run dry.

***

One

The Hague, Dutch Republic

22 February 1623

Matthew, are you listening?

Lock blinked heavily and turned his gaze away from the dinner plate. Sorry, Harry, I was miles away.

You mentioned the Swedish ambassador, lad? Is there something you need me to look at in those papers?

Papers? Lock mumbled.

They’re right there, beside you, Sir Horace Vere scoffed, before his eyes narrowed at his godson. Are you getting enough sleep these days? I know the life of an apprentice is not easy, but—

No, no, Lock half-whispered. It’s not that.

Vere's expression softened. They’re always on your mind, aren’t they?

Lock nodded gravely. Nine months since they were laid to rest, but I still feel trapped.

You long for justice, Vere said, matter-of-factly.

You heard I talked with the Dutch authorities this morning then?

Vere nodded once.

"They claim the cause of my parents’ death was inconclusive. Inconclusive. That’s what I’ve been waiting nine bloody months for. Lock thrust his cutlery onto the plate, before standing up from the table. Sorry, Harry, I hope you won’t mind if I return to my duties."

Vere stood up as the question was being asked. His mouth had become a flat line. Before you go back to work Matthew, there’s something you must know.

Lock squinted at his godfather’s solemn expression.

It’s not a matter of life and death, but you should know my presence has been requested. Soon enough, I’ll have to leave The Hague for an extended period.

Where are you going? Lock walked gradually towards Vere.

Frankenthal, Vere said with a smirk. It seems the mission is finally at an end. I am to officiate the surrender of the town into Spanish hands.

Lock sighed deeply. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, though it seems a shame after everything the garrison has been through.

It simply can’t be helped. With Mannheim back into Spanish hands, there’s little point in maintaining such a thankless, expensive enterprise.

And His Majesty has a marriage to arrange, Lock said acidly.

True, Vere allowed. Although I dare say the long-suffering residents of Frankenthal would not object to the end of their ordeal, so long as they can march out with full colours, of course.

Will the Spanish permit it?

It is as you said Matthew, with the Prince of Wales’s marriage in the air, Spain is doing all it can to facilitate a quick resolution. Oh, and one more thing.

Lock frowned at his godfather, who produced a letter adorned with a red wax seal from his breast pocket. This came for you this morning.

Lock squinted at the letter as he closed the distance. He walked briskly to Vere’s side and took it gently from his hand. This…this is from the Elector Palatine. Lock’s hands shook slightly.

Before I leave I want to know what he has planned for my godson.

Oh Harry, you do not need to protect me. Lock ignored Vere's slight scoff, and held the letter tightly in his hands. Somehow, the paper felt distinctive, even regal. With a flick of his index finger, Lock worked the seal open, and unfolded the letter. Several paragraphs written in stylish French cursive greeted his eyes. Breathing heavily, Lock scanned the letter, as Vere stared at his reaction.

Well? Vere said, his fists clenched in front of him.

He… Lock re-read the passage again. He wants to meet with me, Frederick says he’s heard tales of my prowess, and wishes to employ my services for his next campaign.

Vere held his chin. A campaign? Hmm. Does he say when his forces intend to depart?

Yes, the campaign will take place during the summer.

Anything else?

Lock scanned the final paragraph of the page. Rudolf Macht, Lock gasped.

What of him?

Frederick knows we’ve been looking for him, Harry. He says that Macht is a good friend of his, and that if I help him, he’ll facilitate an introduction between us.

Your service for Frederick, it will take you away from The Hague, and out of your apprenticeship. Vere had turned away from the table, and he now spoke to the window, where recent storms had cast several streams of rain.

Harry, surely you understand, I must at least meet with Frederick and see what he says. Macht's name is the only connection we have to James' murder. Lock squinted at the letter again, before sighing. Perhaps Macht might know more about my parents' fate than the useless Dutch.

Yet it seems Macht does not want to be found.

Lock shook his head. Neither Flynn nor myself have had any luck tracking Macht down. Frederick's offer could be our only chance.

Hmm, Vere grunted, just as a pall of thunder boomed nearby.

What’s the matter? You don’t think I should meet with him?

I’ve heard whispers, Matthew. About the danger Frederick now finds himself in, and his lack of allies.

Do you think he’s leading me to ruin with the promise of royal honours?

Vere scoffed. Make no mistake, they only call Frederick the King of Bohemia when he’s in earshot. In reality, he is barely holding onto his Imperial titles.

Lock nodded. I’ve heard of the correspondence. They say the Emperor has paid for Maximilian of Bavaria’s men and money by transferring Frederick’s title of Elector Palatine, but—

But is the Imperial constitution not sacred? Will Emperor Ferdinand not pause before making such a risky move?

Lock nodded slowly. Vere’s grasp of German politics was second only to his knowledge of Dutch politics.

Things have changed in recent months, Matthew. The Emperor seems determined to make the year of our Lord, 1623, the year when he crushes Frederick’s rebellion once and for all. Since he can’t reach Frederick in The Hague, it seems he has elected to delegitimise him instead.

If the Emperor does this, and nobody stops him, what will happen then?

Vere shrugged his shoulders lightly, and turned away from the window. Hard to say lad. But if he gets away with this unconstitutional rearrangement, then I fear there will be more rearranging in the future. If the constitution does not stop Emperor Ferdinand, nothing will.

At least he remains dependent on Maximilian, Lock said, making for the door. The Emperor has no army of his own.

True, Vere conceded with a single nod. I suspect you’ve been speaking with Flynn about the Bavarian Duke?

Flynn says he met Maximilian. He says the Duke is less radical than most, and is more likely to respect the constitution than his Emperor.

That may be true Matthew, but never underestimate the power of ambition. How long will Maximilian keep his honour, when such titles are dangled in front of him? If he accepts his elevation from a Duke to the Elector of Bavaria, I fear Maximilian will be in too deep to retreat from the abyss. He may drag all of us with him.

But not England?

Vere sniffed. Not England, no. Unless something happens to change our King's mind, and interrupt this Spanish Match, which seems unlikely.

The King's mind has not changed, even after what the Spanish have done to the realm of his son-in-law?

Vere shook his head gravely. Our King fancies himself a peacemaker. He married his daughter to Frederick, the most Protestant German he could find. Now, he insists on balancing this by marrying his son to the Most Catholic Spanish Infanta. His Majesty believes it will be worth it, but I am not confident such an association is to England's benefit.

Will you have any role to play in the negotiations, at least?

No, lad. That’s Sir John Digby’s duty.

Sir John is still in Madrid?

Yes, Matthew, as of now, Sir John remains England’s ambassador. We used to be good friends, but I have not heard from him in some time. You know the family, do you not? I don't suppose he wrote to you?

I did not know them that well, Harry, though Digby's family live a half hour’s ride from Locksville. You'll recall I met his mother, Lady Jane, last year, when she was en route to Madrid.

Ah, Vere clicked his fingers. I knew you had some connection. Did you hear any news of how she fared?

Lock shrugged. I did not. But Lady Jane was quite vexed over her son’s wellbeing. Do you suspect foul play?

Vere smiled mischievously. I always suspect foul play. If a woman like Lady Jane Digby can’t get answers about her son, us mortal men should take that as a sign that something is amiss.

The door into the hall opened, and Redding appeared.

Pardon me Sirs, Redding said with a slight bow, before adjusting his spectacles. Mister Lock, a Frenchman by the name of… Redding cleared his throat. Cardinal Richelieu, is waiting for you.

Vere scoffed. "Richelieu? Dear me Redding, I fear you’ve been duped."

Redding glanced between Vere and Lock, his face flashing bright red. That blasted Irishman, how in—

Lock cleared his throat. Perhaps it is time to seek a pair of replacement spectacles.

Redding paused, but then bowed his head and spoke through gritted teeth. It seems that a Mister…O’Toole is waiting for you in the reception room, Mister Lock.

Vere smiled at Lock, as Redding walked briskly out the door. Have you seen Flynn since—

The funeral? No. Though he has written to me.

Well, Vere said, gathering some papers that had rested near his plate. You best go to him and see what he wants. I am sure he has a good reason for interrupting your work. The last word was delivered with a wink.

Harry, about Frederick’s offer—

Go, Matthew, yes. You must go. Whatever we may say behind his back, Frederick is worth seeking an audience with. He doesn’t request the presence of just anyone. All I ask is that—

That I return before the end of the working day?

Vere held his right hand to his heart. "That you be careful, Matthew. Keep your wits about you, and keep your eyes wide open. Vere then paused for a moment. Perhaps I have been working you too hard. I did intend for your position to be more exciting."

Lock shook his head eagerly. Think nothing of it, Harry, please. You’ve been far too good for me to have any cause for complaint.

Then you can return the favour by giving me no cause to complain now. Meet with Frederick, and report back to me when you can.

Do you really think Frederick will know where Macht is? Could the Elector be bluffing?

Vere looked up from his papers and sighed. I think if we are to find someone that does not wish to be found, we must draw on any help we can find, whether that help comes from rebels or not. I only ask that you be cautious.

I wonder if Flynn would be interested in meeting the Elector.

I doubt it, Vere scoffed, before waving his hand at Lock's frown. Go now, meet with the Irishman. Administrative duties mean I must travel to Amsterdam shortly, but I will be back in The Hague by tomorrow afternoon.

Redding will remain here?

Naturally, Matthew, Vere grinned. Who else would hold the fort?

Two

Lock walked briskly down the hall, his feet nearly catching on the edge of the thick rug by the door. Lock opened this door and stepped into the reception room.

It was a small rectangular space which hosted a plush red sofa and a small oak table. This was Vere’s reception room, where guests were ushered in to engage in urgent discussions. The walls had likely seen several clandestine conversations over the years.

It was also homely, and remarkably comfortable. A roaring fire cast a warm glow over the interior, providing a sharp contrast to the bleak outdoors.

Lock saw the fire, and his eyes then landed on Flynn, who sat at the edge of the sofa.

You took your time, Flynn’s said, his eyes still trained on a slim pamphlet in front of him.

Lock bowed as low as he could manage. Well, dearest Sir, when I heard His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu had requested my presence, I came as quickly as I could.

Redding needs new spectacles, Flynn said, a grin forming gradually in the corner of his mouth.

You should be careful, who knows what he might do to you.

Flynn scoffed.

Never mess with a man that has the power to ruin your food.

Flynn looked up from the pamphlet and smiled broadly. Speaking of which, when do I get to sample some of this food Sir Horace gives you?

Lock sighed. I told you, if you want to dine here, you must show up. You haven’t graced us with your presence since I started my apprenticeship.

As far as you know, Flynn said with a wink.

Lock rolled his eyes and walked towards Flynn’s seated figure.

Careful, Flynn urged, pointing to Lock’s feet.

Lock glanced down to see two dark glass bottles, filled to the brim with a clear liquid. Lock gestured at the bottles incredulously.

"Poitín, Matthew," Flynn said, with a slightly disappointed sigh.

You carry it by the gallon now?

I did not come here to propose a bender, I brought it because it needs to be stored somewhere safe.

"Somewhere safe? What’s wrong with your grotty lodgings?" The image and smell of Flynn’s unassuming bolthole was still burned into Lock’s mind.

Flynn grunted, as he parked the bottles on the table. I think I may need to move soon enough, Lock. I noticed too many people giving me odd stares.

Lock kept his eyes trained on the liquid as he spoke. Perhaps the odd looks come because you tend to be part-rats most of the time.

"Part-rats? Come Matthew, I’m no de la Barca, you can give me some credit."

The mention of the Spaniard’s name moved Lock to glance up from the bottle. I read your letter. It said you’re in possession of some news?

Aye, but you go first.

Me?

Yes, you write so bloody quick I got your letter in reply yesterday. You said you had something to show me.

Very well, I will go first. Lock presented his back to the Irishman. The gesture had a purpose, and Flynn’s low whistle moved Lock to smile.

A back scabbard? Who knew the Strassers were so dextrous with their leather?

It is remarkably intuitive. See the handle, there?

I see it, Matthew.

The stiletto can be withdrawn and used within seconds. No one will see the blade until it’s in my hands. Lock turned back to the Irishman with an enormous grin on his face.

Can you give me a demonstration?

Now? In this room? Lock glanced to the left and right. There was just enough space.

I assume you’ve been practicing? I never knew you to be idle when a new toy comes into your hands.

Lock smirked. As you wish, but stand back. I had the blade polished, so it’s even sharper than when I first got it.

Flynn nodded grimly.

Lock turned his back to Flynn once again. With a swift flick of his wrist, he grasped the stiletto’s handle, and then jerked the thin, twelve-inch blade from its scabbard with a dull whoosh sound.

"You have been practicing." Flynn offered light applause.

Lock turned while bowing. It took some time, but it was worth it. Those Rogues will be in for a cruel surprise.

Speaking of cruel surprise, Flynn said quietly, his mouth now pursed into a grim smile.

Lock’s face fell. I despise surprises, particularly when preceded by an expression like that.

Flynn sighed and nodded slowly. I’m afraid it is as we have feared, Matthew. My sources have confirmed it. De la Barca has escaped.

Lock’s arms fell by his sides. He groaned, and rubbed the corners of his eyes. "How? God sakes, he was in Frankenthal’s dungeon. He was supposed to be locked away for good."

A gold sovereign says de la Barca made his escape by bribing his jailers.

Lock glanced in the direction of Vere’s study. I just spoke with Sir Horace. He’s on his way there to officiate Frankenthal’s surrender.

Then that explains it,’ Flynn held his arms open wide. Word of the planned surrender must have reached the garrison."

What do you mean?

Flynn scoffed. Think on it Matthew. A soldier has little reason to resist a tempting offer when his campaign is near an end, and his income will likely end with it.

I thought they’d have more honour, Lock said sadly.

Honour can’t buy a man dinner to feed his family, Matthew. What is right and what is possible is not always the same.

You speak from experience?

I speak from wisdom.

"Then I suppose you know who would waste good money on de la Barca?"

Flynn pursed his lips and sighed lightly. I do, Matthew. Who else would sink so low?

Don’t say it.

I know you don’t like to imagine it—

Do you really think the Raven could be interested in such a fallen star as de la Barca?

The storm reminded the two men of its presence, as a pall of thunder released its fearsome groan. Flynn reached for the roaring fire, and shivered involuntarily.

"I think that’s precisely who he’d be interested in. Look at me. I was languishing in a Brussels jail when the Black Prince’s Masks found me."

The Black Prince won’t touch de la Barca with his record, surely?

I do think it is more likely that he’s in the Raven’s clutches, but we should never rule out the Black Prince’s involvement.

Sounds like the situation is even more dangerous than last year.

Flynn turned away from the fire. Wisps of his black hair lazily followed his turning head. Along with a shave, he needed a haircut as well, but the Irishman was not perturbed by his appearance. The Raven has become too powerful, Flynn said, his steely blue eyes piercing through Lock’s own.

"Too…powerful?"

Flynn nodded, and gestured to the pamphlet he’d recently been reading. That correspondence, which was recently uncovered. You recall the scandal?

Lock nodded. The cache of letters, proving the Emperor’s intention to transfer Frederick’s lands and titles to the Duke of Bavaria.

Yes, but in among that cache of letters, several were signed by Rogues, and were addressed to senior officials in Emperor’s command, and in Bavaria.

You’re not serious?

I’m afraid I am, Matthew. I can only assume the author of this pamphlet didn’t write of it because he did not know.

Lock squinted at the Irishman for moment. "Then how do you know?"

Flynn smiled, and rose from his seat. Perhaps I saw the cache of letters. Perhaps I did not.

Flynn, you cannot just—

You should know that none of the Black Prince’s Masks were implicated.

Really? Lock crossed his arms. Do you mean to tell me that in the original cache of letters, which only you seem to have seen, your master was conveniently absolved of all wrongdoing and suspicion?

Flynn dramatically crossed his own arms. Well, now you make me sound rather suspect.

Lock gave him a knowing look.

Alright, alright, signatures of some of the Black Prince’s Masks were found. Just a few, they were far outnumbered by the signatures of Rogues, so it doesn’t matter.

Does it not? Lock balked.

No. We’re not here to stop a war, Matthew, we’re here to kill Rogues. We’re not here to bring justice to Frederick’s cause.

I know that Flynn, Lock said quietly. You must know I have thought of little else in the last few months.

In better news, there is no earthly or heavenly chance that the Black Prince and the Raven will ever work together, and that’s what matters.

You can assure me of that, can you? It seems to me they each wish to see the Habsburgs triumph, and will each engage in underhanded schemes to bring that about. They seem perfect for each other.

Flynn nodded earnestly. "Trust