"Lee Edgar - Plot 03 - Plot For A King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Edgar Lee)

ale flowed free that night and it was not long before all three soldiers had buxom wenches on their
knees. So far, Andrew had managed to dissuade any advances from loose women. He had eyes
for only one, though for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why. Eventually, he rose and made his
way to his room, turned the door handle and then drew back; there had been a movement inside
the room.
His weapons were still in the custody of Sergeant Briggs, so he slipped off his leather belt and
wrapped the end round his hand, the buckle end hanging free, and gently pushed open the door
with his left hand, ready for anything. All was still as he stepped cautiously across the threshold,
looking carefully behind the door as the candle on the dresser flickered in the draught. Had he
imagined it? A slight shuffle behind the curtains reassured him that he was not going mad so he
carefully stepped over and threw the curtain aside. Behind them was a teenager who cowered
against the cold window, his cap pulled down and his coat rolled up at the collar. He tried to slip
past but Andrew caught him by the ear and prevented his escape. ‘Now then, young fellah, what
are you after? Trying to steal, no doubt.’
The lad shook his head furiously and winced. ‘I have a message for Mr Bosvile. That is you, sir,
isn’t it?’
Andrew’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. ‘Yes, boy. I’m Andrew Bosvile.’
‘Sir. My apologies, but I was asked to be sure I found the right person.’
 The boy wriggled to be free and Andrew let go of his ear. He sat on the bed while Andrew looked
down at him for a long time. How did anyone know he was there? The overnight stop had not
been pre-arranged.
Watching the lad carefully, he reached into his own cape pouch and pulled out his Bible. ‘Can
you read?’
The youth nodded so Andrew opened the fly leaf and showed him the writing which read: “To my
dearest son, Andrew, from your loving mother, Sarah Louise Bosvile - December in the year of
our Lord sixteen hundred and forty”.
The youth reached into his pocket and brought out a dirty scrap of paper which Andrew unfolded
and read carefully in the candle light.

Dear Master Bosvile
I know of your loyalty to the King and my heart is firmly with
yours. It is too late for me now to help young Charles and by
the time you get this letter, my execution will have been carried
out. I was able to help King Charles once. Perhaps his son
will help my own hour of need. I beg and pray that your heart
will let you take my child with you to safety.
Your faithful servant,
SirAnthony Grenville.
Andrew read the letter twice and then looked down at the lonely, lost child. ‘By what name do
they call you?’
‘Sam, sir.’
‘Well Sam. How did you know I would be here?’
‘I have been waiting for you almost a week. I knew you would take the coast road in winter
because Dere Street across The Cheviot is impassable.’
‘You put me in a difficult position, young man. Although I am here, I am not free. In fact, I am a
prisoner of the Roundheads in a sense. They are travelling with me to verify the story I gave
them.’
‘You must take me with you, sir,’ the youth pleaded. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’
Andrew looked at him long and hard. He was filthy and had obviously kept up his vigil for days,
never daring to leave the main road in case he missed his contact. He deserved something for