Game Of Seduction

Chapter 10

Lord Burghley's apartments, daytime

"What do you see, Ray? Can you decipher it ?"

There's no sound except for the frenzied scratch of the stylus on Ray Person's slate as he tackles the secret message revealed by the heat of the flame.

"Wait a minute, Lord Burghley, I'm nearly there." He lays his stylus down and hands it to Brad. "Done."

Brad looks carefully at the translation. "You're sure about this?" he questions.

"Of course I'm sure. Went over the translation twice. That's what it says."

He gives a slight nod. Whatever else he might think of Ray and his incessant tongue, one thing is not in doubt. The man knows his stuff, and Brad trusts his judgement.

"Lord Burghley? We need to act now, before they have a chance to carry out their plan. I vote we intercept them and find out what they know."

"You're just going to question them, aren't you, Brad? No torture unless I say so!" Burghley urges.

"Of course, Sir."

"I know Walsingham and his liking for torture." Burghley fusses.

He feels the need to set the record straight. "Lord Burghley, that's not strictly fair. You know that Lord Walsingham only uses torture as a last resort. There is no question of his loyalty towards the queen, or how seriously he takes his counter-insurgency duties. We are fighting a war against traitors and terrorists. We cannot be afraid to strike."

Burghley frets, even as he acknowledges the truth in Brad's words. After all, the man has just foiled an attempt on his life this very evening.

"I just don't want any trouble. You understand, don't you? I trust you to do the honourable thing, the right thing." He runs his hand through his silver hair. "I have her Majesty on my case, almost daily. Every move we make I have to justify to her. She doesn't seem to understand that we exist to keep her safe in a dangerous world and that sometimes involves participating in some questionable activities. Would that we could live in a peaceful kingdom, but that is not our fate ."

"Leave it to me, Sir. My team and I shall deal with the problem, if you provide the warrants."

Burghley sighs in relief. "I knew I could trust you, Colbert." He hands over the scrolls. "Make sure you bring them in for questioning. We need answers, and we need them fast."

Thirty Minutes Earlier...

The man slides down the darkened alleyway heading toward the house of William Cecil, Lord Burghley. He plasters himself against the wall, breathing in and out; preparing for the final push.

His masters had planned out what he should say if he is questioned by any curious countrymen and relayed the information to him in the tavern under the hubbub of a crowd intent on getting drunk as swiftly as possible. The orders still ring in his ears.

Be swift, silent, yet deadly, for you will not get a second chance to eliminate this man.

The element of surprise was bound to have worked in his favour. In and straight out like an arrow from a longbow. Fifteen seconds to garotte Lord Burghley, wrap the strap firmly round his wizened neck, squeeze the life out of the man and make a getaway. By the time his servants notice there is anything amiss he will be well gone, and there will be nothing to prove that he or his masters had anything to do with this. Bushels of foreign gold if he succeeds. A new prosperous life for his family, new identities, how could he fail to carry out such orders. He doesn't dare think of the consequences of failure...

Distracted by the thought of incipient riches, he stumbles into a tall dark shadow which holds him fast. He starts to struggle, kicking and squirming but it's impossible, muscle straining hard against the tension. Whoever is holding him must have uncommon strength and cunning too. He hadn't even realised that he was not alone in the alleyway, and now his potential failure becomes almost tangible. This can't be happening!

In desperation, he lashes out with his dagger; striking his captor by sheer blind luck in the thigh. A lesser man might have been given pause; loosened his grip for a crucial second, but his captor doesn't let up, pressing a forearm against his throat and making him choke on his words

"What do you want? Let me be!" he squeaks, struggling futilely within his bonds.

There's two of them. The tall man, who appeared like some supernatural being and captured him and another man, a foreigner. Corbache would swear that he looks Latin.

"There are some questions we would like answered, if it would please you." says the cool polite voice of the first man."Be so good as to not waste my time with lies." He feels a dagger prod against his ribs. Not hard enough to pierce the flesh, but enough to underline the intent.

"I'll tell you nothing!" he squeals, before realising he's just admitted his own guilt in the affair and given away any power.

The faint light from a lamp falls on the interrogator's face, gilding his short cropped gold hair and ice cold eyes. Corbache's eyes widen as he realises the identity of his captor. He's heard vague tales of this man and he is savvy enough to fear him : L'Ange de la Glace. Walsingham's right hand.

"I was afraid you'd be fool enough to say that." He lowers his voice confidentially, yet clear enough he can still be heard. "We know everything. Heard you and your accomplice talking in the tavern. Scheming to retrieve a certain document, were you not? Did you really think that you'd get away with your plot to harm Lord Burghley?"

Corbache gulps, his guilt written clear on his face like a illuminated manuscript. "There must have been some mistake, Sir. I didn't-"

"Oh, but you just admitted that you did, Sir. Try for a little consistency in your story." Brad prods the reluctant captive forward, the stern carved lines of his face utterly implacable. "Move."

They lead him back into the building through a side entrance. Burghley waits for them.

"You do understand, don't you? No hard feelings..." Brad cannot quite resist from quipping.

Corbache just scowls from beneath heavy dark brows. There's a scar across his face which pulls his features into a menacing sneer.

"This is the man? Well, let's find out what he knows, if anything." Lord Burghley turns to his man. "Brad? Are you hurt? He stabbed you?"

Brad is already binding the wound, efficient as always. "Flesh wound, Sir. Little more than a scratch. Pass me that bottle of brandy." He dabs a little onto the wound, hissing as the alcohol meets the flesh.

"That'll be a new pair of hose, Colbert. I'll put it in a claim on expenses for you."

"I'm sure the Colbert finances will stand to a pair of hose, Sir?" he remarks with a quirk of his mouth.

His boss raises his eyebrow at him. Though his tone is stern and authoritative, there is a twinkle in his eyes that belys it. "Don't quibble, Colbert. You get injured in the line of duty, we compensate you for your hose. No arguments-"

"Who sent you?" Brad asks, polite as ever. The glint of knuckledusters gleam on his large well shaped hands.

Corbache refuses to talk, shaking his head furiously.

"Still nothing?"

"He's stubborn, Lord Burghley."

Brad looks to Lord Burghley. "Your call, sir?"

Burghley gives him a curt nod as if to condone what is coming next.

The older man shakes his head almost sorrowfully, the very slightest shrug of his dark wool clad shoulders. "Very well."

Brad drives his metal clad fist into Corbache's side. The Frenchman grunts obviously in pain, but still remains silent for now.

"You haven't answered the query. I asked you a question: Who sent you? Do attempt not to try my patience."

"There's nothing to tell." He gasps, hand flying to his side.

"You truly expect me to believe you were working alone?" Lord Burghley says with a dash of dry humour. "Perhaps we should leave him to Trombley. See if the rookie can get anything out of him."

Corbache's eyes widen as he see the shudder that the rest of the team gives at that suggestion. He's intelligent enough to realise that this is a fate to be avoided, even through the blossoming pain in his bruised side.

Brad removes the garotte from the hapless captive and holds it up so the rest of the group can see the weapon clearly.

"Why would you have this on you and be headed towards Lord Burghley unless you had some evil intent? You meant to catch him unawares, did you not?" A grim smile spread across that face. "I suggest you start talking, sir. It will be far better for you."

"There's a plot-" he gasps, still trying to get his breath back. Corbache doubts he will live through the night, what does it matter now if he spills a few secrets? After all, he's still owed the last installment of his reward.

"On the life on Elizabeth," Burghley confirms to himself. "Have you got any details for us, Monsieur Corbache?"

Slowly Corbache starts to nod.

"We require details." He presses.

"A man named Funteyn. Symond Funteyn. He's executing the plot. He and his group are situated on Cheapside. Near the docks. All I was hired to do was deal with you."

The two men exchange a glance, sharing their assessment of him: low-level scum, a mere hack and s***h assassin, ill-informed about any wider plot. "And this is the purpose of the message you were so keen to guard?"

"What are you going to do to me?" Corbache asks.

Brad considers his options. "You're too much of a risk for us to release you. You'll be taken into custody until further notice while we check the veracity of your statements."

"But I gave you the information you wanted!" the wretched man's voice rises in panic, realising that he was not going to be finished off that night. If his masters ever found out of his failure to kill Lord Burghley, his life would not be worth a sou. He may as well beg them to put him out of his misery and slit his guts now.

"Right now you're lucky to still be alive and in one piece, Monsieur Corbache. I wouldn't push my luck too far, frankly."