Jorgen made his way to Thornbeck Castle. It was time to tell Lord Thornbeck the whole truth about the poacher. His two days were up.
He entered the castle and followed the servant to the margrave’s library. Ulrich was sitting at his own desk a few steps away from the margrave’s. They both appeared to be writing something.
Lord Thornbeck motioned with his hand for him to come forward. “I hope you have information for me today.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Before you tell me who the poacher and black-market seller are, tell me what happened yesterday. You said someone came to you, a messenger. What did he say?”
“He said you wanted to speak with me.” Jorgen glanced at Ulrich. He was staring down at his paper, but from the look on his face, Jorgen was certain he was listening. “And after I left here and was nearly home, someone shot at me. The arrow just missed. Then, near my home, someone shot at me again.”
“What did this person look like?”
“He was wearing dark clothing, and a hood covered most of his face.”
“Were you able to shoot back at him?”
“No. He was aiming at me when someone else—Odette Menkels—shot at him. I think she nicked his arm . . . his right arm.” Jorgen stared hard at Ulrich, whose face was red. Sweat ran down his cheeks, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand.
The margrave was also looking hard at Ulrich. “Do you have any idea who this person is who is trying to kill my forester?”
Suddenly Jorgen knew. He stepped to Ulrich’s desk, forcing him to look up, and took hold of Ulrich’s right arm.
Ulrich cried out, a mixture of fear and pain. “Let go of me!”
Jorgen squeezed harder, making Ulrich cry out again.
Lord Thornbeck was standing beside Jorgen now. The margrave took Ulrich’s arm and, with a knife, split Ulrich’s sleeve all the way to his shoulder. A white cloth was wrapped around his upper arm. Lord Thornbeck slashed it off as well, drawing a tiny line of blood with his knife point.
There, on Ulrich’s arm, was a bloody cut, like someone might get from the tip of an arrow grazing his skin, nearly identical to the one on the top of Jorgen’s shoulder.
“It is not true, my lord.” Ulrich’s voice was pleading. “Jorgen is lying. I never tried to kill him.”
“Then where were you yesterday after your nephew delivered that message to Jorgen?”
Ulrich opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“Guards!” Lord Thornbeck’s face was dark and dangerous.
Two men appeared in the room, swords drawn.
“Take this man to the dungeon.”
“No, my lord, please!” Ulrich fell to his knees, putting his hands out in supplication. “Please!”
But Lord Thornbeck turned and stalked back to his desk, thumping his walking stick on the floor with every step. He sat down and folded his hands in front of him. “Now, Jorgen, I believe you were going to tell me something.” He spoke as Ulrich’s pleas for mercy were still ringing through the corridor outside the open door.
Jorgen’s mind was reeling. “My lord, why? Why would Ulrich want to kill me? I know he never liked me. He always seemed to hate me when we were boys at school, but why now?”
Lord Thornbeck gave a little shrug. “I suspect he was jealous of you when you were boys and was still jealous of you, afraid you would somehow end up besting him. He saw the reports you wrote and gave to me every three months, which were very well done and showed intelligence, diligence, and organization that was lacking in Ulrich. And I complimented you on more than one occasion.”
Lord Thornbeck pushed back from his desk a bit and stretched out his bad ankle, wincing slightly, before continuing. “I began to see a lot of weaknesses in my chancellor that I did not like. I was thinking of giving you Ulrich’s position, before all this trouble came up with the poacher. Ulrich suspected as much. But I never imagined he would try to kill you until you came yesterday and told me his nephew had given you a false message. I could not find Ulrich anywhere, and now, of course, you have solved the mystery of where he was.”
The margrave quirked a brow at Jorgen, then gave him a more piercing look. “And now, I believe you have something to tell me.”
“Oh yes, my lord. You wish to know the identity of the poacher. I have discovered some very interesting information. But first, I will tell you—the poacher is Odette Menkels.” Even as he said the words, his heart crashed against his ribs as he felt as if he was betraying her. But he had no choice. Lord Thornbeck could find out fairly easily who had been injured and staying at his cottage for two days, if he didn’t know already.