Kingslayer's Daughter

by Markland, Anna

  Twelve years confined to a prison hadn’t diminished her ardor, though they’d never been wed.

  “Tea’s ready,” Giles shouted.

  Sarah laid out the new frock at the foot of the bed. “Thank you, Munro Pendray,” she whispered.

  She tiptoed downstairs, now keenly aware of the emptiness her mother must have felt facing life without the man she craved.

  “How is she?” Giles asked.

  “Not well,” she answered, fearing she might later find her mother had died, but more terrified of being present when she passed.

  They drank their tea, then set about cleaning, dusting and washing utensils. The activity occupied her hands, but worry for her mother and regret for Munro lay like a lead weight on her heart.

  Giles kept up a steady stream of chatter, clearly intent on taking her mind off things.

  Late in the afternoon, she fished in her pocket for the sixpence and handed it to Giles. “Go to the market and buy bread and cheese.”

  As if sensing the dilemma, he offered, “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are,” she countered. “We must eat to keep up our strength, and bread is all I can afford. Make sure the grocer gives you change. It will have to last a while. We’ll definitely have to reopen on the morrow.”

  “What about Mrs. Ward?” he asked.

  She tousled his black curls. “You’re a thoughtful lad. We’ll simply have to leave her in bed and hope she’ll recover.”

  “I can pop up to check on her once in a while. Mr. Pendray might help.”

  Shaking her head, she smiled her thanks as she unlocked the door. “Go now. Bring food. I’ll be upstairs.”

  Despite her assertion, she lingered in the shop, putting off the inevitable, and was still puttering when he returned after a quarter hour. He counted out the change into her hand. “You did well,” she said, breaking off a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese for him. “Enjoy your supper in the workroom.”

  He nodded and left, probably relieved he didn’t have to face whatever she might find in the apartment, but he came back momentarily with a lit taper.

  Grateful again for his perception, she climbed the stairs wearily and paused at the top, peering into the gathering gloom in an effort to ascertain if the pale woman in the bed still breathed.

  Relieved when the usual soft snoring drifted to her ears, she put the food on the table, then set about lighting candles.

  The glow of the flickering flames made her mother look even more like a cadaver. Helplessness flooded her. Downstairs lay the makings of a thousand remedies for all kinds of ailments, but she knew in her heart nothing would prevent Mary Ward from rejoining her beloved Harry. She had never felt so alone. “Munro,” she sobbed, filled with regret for what might have been.

  “He loves thee,” her mother rasped.

  Too exhausted to engage in an argument, Sarah asked, “Are you hungry? There’s bread and…”

  “Nay. Tell Pendray thou art in love with him.”

  Tears rolled unbidden down Sarah’s cheeks. “I can’t.”

  She expected a retort but Mary had drifted off. She nibbled half-heartedly at the bread and cheese for a while, listening to her mother’s labored breathing.

  On the point of falling asleep in the chair beside the bed, she finally disrobed, blew out all the candles, save one, and crawled between the sheets.

  Poison

  After fleeing St. Martin’s, Munro slumped against the wall of the church, contemplating scuff marks on his boots he hadn’t noticed before. When his thoughts threatened to drift to the terrible reality of Sarah’s parentage, he turned his attention to examining his fingernails, making sure they were clean, noting which ones needed paring.

  Then he tried to hum a tune he’d heard in the market, but the melody kept escaping him.

  Evening shadows crept over the wall. He shivered as the cold seeped into his backside and thence into his bones.

  “What ails thee, sir?”

  He squinted up at a watchman looming over him. “A wee bit under the weather,” he lied, scrambling to his feet.

  “Thou’s a Scot. A visitor?”

  “Aye, and nay. I’m staying at The Swan. I’ll be fine.”

  In a fog, he shuffled toward the inn, aware of the watchman’s eyes on him. “Probably thinks I’m drunk,” he muttered.

  He acknowledged the landlord’s hearty greeting with barely a wave and retreated to his room where he collapsed into the upholstered chair. He sat in the dark for hours, unable to get one name out of his head—a name that had destroyed his hopes for the future.

  Henry Marten.

  He’d paid scant attention at court when news of the traitor’s death was brought to the king. Perhaps if he had, Sarah’s secret might have dawned on him before he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. He snorted at the folly of that notion. He’d been smitten the moment he set eyes on her in Gloucester.

  When the first streaks of dawn stole under the door, he supposed he must have dozed. Yawning, he began to consider how to survive until Thursday’s coach. Luke could take down his laundry and bring him food so he wouldn’t be obliged to face the crowded dining room. With any luck, he might make it to Shrewsbury, though he’d lost sight of the reasons for going there in the first place.

  * * *

  When she finally awoke from a fitful sleep, Sarah reached across to touch her mother’s arm, relieved she was still warm.

  However, the snoring had turned to an ominous rattle.

  She rose from the bed, shrugged on a wrapper and went downstairs. Giles stopped whistling when she entered the workroom. He had already banked the fire in the wood-stove and put the kettle on to boil. “I drew water for you,” he said, pointing to the pail.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” she replied, hoping he realized she meant it. The boy was the one bright spark in a sea of despair. “I’ll see to our meal.”

  A half hour later, washed and dressed, she called him up for breakfast. “There’s only oatmeal or bread and cheese,” she told him, “but customers will hopefully come back today.”

  He glanced at Mary. “Is she dead?”

  She swallowed back threatening tears. “No, but I fear the end might come today.”

  “I can stay upstairs and call you right away if it happens,” he assured her. “You’re certain you don’t want me to fetch Mr. Pendray?”

  It was tempting. Munro would know just what to say and do to ease the pain. But then she’d have to send him away again. “Finish your food. I’m off to open up.”

  “You’ve not eaten,” he said.

  “Not hungry,” she answered, pecking a kiss on her mother’s forehead for the first time in her life.

  Mary remained in a stupor, so Sarah went downstairs, unlocked the door and changed the sign to indicate she was open for custom.

  The first hour brought several minor complaints. She sold oil of cloves for a toothache and a few small jars of salve she’d prepared for chapped hands and lips. She prescribed ginger root for steeping to make tea for a headache, though she felt it necessary to hint that forgoing strong liquor might be a better cure. Three people needed onion paste for chilblains, and she made a note to teach Giles how to make more. That was a noxious task she’d willingly hand over.

  A poorly-dressed and unpleasant smelling woman took lavender oil for lice, claiming her children were “infested with the little buggers.” Sarah kept a goodly distance between them, but felt itchy just the same after the woman left.

  Mrs. Tisdale, a regular, waxed loud and long on how relieved she was the shop was open again. She turned down the suggestion of ginger root for her headaches and left with copious amounts of peppermint leaves and a vial of lavender oil.

  Sarah began to relax, confident the garrulous Mrs. Tisdale would quickly inform everyone she met of the shop’s reopening. She had coin in her pocket and she’d helped people with their ills. If only she could do something for her mother, but Mary Ward wanted to die. And there was nothi
ng to be done for the ache in her heart. Time would heal the wound. She snorted at the folly of that notion. She’d never forget Munro Pendray if she lived to be a hundred.

  She was contemplating sending Giles to the market for food when the Beadle from the Apothecary Guild bustled through the door, accompanied by a constable. By rights, her apprentice should be in the shop with her, but she could claim she’d sent him upstairs for a moment. It hardly seemed worthy of a constable’s attendance.

  “We’ve come to arrest you,” the red-faced Beadle declared.

  She stared at him, her heart doing somersaults. “Arrest me?”

  He thrust a partially-open brown cone wrapper at her. “For the attempted murder of Nathaniel Battersby.”

  She immediately recognized the broken seal. A thousand thoughts swirled in her head, none of them making any sense. “What?”

  “You poisoned him,” the constable accused. “We’ve got the proof.”

  “There are poisonous toadstools in this remedy,” the Beadle charged. “You’ve made a deadly mistake. I always said allowing a woman…”

  “There was no mistake,” Giles shouted.

  No one had heard him come downstairs. The startled constable grabbed the boy’s arm when he tried to seize the wrapper.

  Giles struggled to be free. “Me and Mrs. North made the remedy together. She showed me how. We didn’t put any toadstools in it.”

  The Beadle rolled his eyes. “How would you know?”

  Sarah took deep breaths in an effort to stay calm, but several passers-by had poked their heads into the shop to see what was going on. “May I see the toadstools you claim I added?”

  The knot in her belly tightened when she instantly recognized bits of the deadly red and white fly agaric scattered in the wrapper the Beadle held out. “I carry a small stock of amanita muscaria. Steeped in milk it’s an effective fly killer, but I would never add it to a remedy,” she protested. “It must have been introduced later.”

  “But it bears your seal,” the constable replied. “Who else could have done such a thing? And why?”

  “I did it,” Giles shouted. “I hated the old bugger. He beat me. I wanted to kill him.”

  “No,” Sarah shrieked, realizing the boy was lying to protect her. “That’s not possible.”

  The Beadle ignored her outburst, nodding to the constable. Giles was dragged into the street amid the jeers of onlookers who collectively expressed the opinion the lad should swing for it.

  “The Headmaster must be given…” she began.

  “Already done,” the Beadle replied with a sneer. “He was delirious until I prescribed mustard water. He should survive, once he stops retching.”

  * * *

  By eleven o’ the clock, Munro had come to the conclusion he might lose his mind if he sat staring at the walls of his chamber much longer. He couldn’t spend his life pining for Sarah. He’d thought Destiny had brought them together, but obviously the Fates had played a cruel joke.

  There must be other things to see in Birmingham. He decided to seek the landlord’s advice as to points of interest situated in the opposite direction to St. Martin’s.

  He washed and dressed quickly before he could change his mind, then sauntered to the front door of the inn to fill his lungs with fresh air. He collided with a breathless Luke who came running in from the street. “Whoa, laddie. Ye’re in a hurry,” he said, taking hold of the boy’s quivering shoulders.

  “I beg thy pardon, sir,” Luke panted. “I was rushing to tell my master what’s going on outside the apothecary shop.”

  Despite a determination not to care, he asked, “What’s amiss?”

  Luke swallowed hard. “The constable’s dragging a lad off to the magistrate.”

  Munro reasoned it could be any boy—an urchin caught stealing from Sarah, or from the church, or… “What’s he supposed to have done?”

  “Poisoned the headmaster of King Edward’s school.”

  A thousand thoughts tumbled through his head as he rushed into the street without retrieving his cloak and hat. Giles hated Battersby, yet Munro doubted he had a malicious bone in his body. Had there been an error with a remedy? Knowing Sarah, he doubted it. But she was in trouble and it was no use pretending he didn’t care. He’d do everything in his power to help her, no matter who her father was.

  He became alarmed when he easily gained entry to the shop, but couldn’t find Sarah. Deafened by his own heartbeat, he took the stairs two at a time, slightly dizzy with relief when he saw her sitting at Mary’s bedside, sobbing.

  Her mother had died, or so he thought until the old woman opened her eyes for a brief moment and smiled at him weakly.

  One thing he knew for sure. He had to take Sarah into his embrace.

  She turned to look at him, gasping as she struggled to get out of the chair.

  The desolation on her face broke his heart. He pulled her to his body and held her tightly as she wept.

  “They’ve taken G…G…Giles,” she stammered.

  He stroked her hair. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She struggled for breath. “The Beadle has closed the shop.”

  It was a devastating blow, but he needed to know about Giles. “Why have they arrested him?”

  She swallowed hard. “He confessed to poisoning Battersby.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect me.” She eventually managed to babble out what had transpired since the morning.

  “Ye’re saying the Headmaster himself broke the seal, then gave the remedy to one of the boys?”

  She lifted her head and stared at him, blinking rapidly. “I’m stupid. Why didn’t I tell the Beadle that?”

  “Ye were no doubt in shock. ’Tis easy to become muddled when ye’re taken by surprise.”

  He came close to laughing at his own stupidity. He’d handled the unexpected truth of Sarah’s parentage badly. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it didn’t matter; he loved her anyway, and always would. However, he’d promised Mary not to reveal that he knew. “We must go to the magistrate. Explain. Point the finger at the real culprit.”

  She gestured to the bed. “I can’t leave. She’s dying.”

  If his own mother lay at death’s door, nothing would pry him away from her bedside. “I’ll go then.”

  “It isn’t your responsibility,” she replied.

  He took hold of her trembling shoulders and looked into red-rimmed eyes. “Everything about ye is my responsibility, Sarah. I love ye.”

  “I told thee,” Mary croaked without opening her eyes.

  Sarah nodded woodenly. “Take Reverend Grove. He’ll show you the way.”

  In Pursuit Of The Truth

  Reginald’s death was sudden. He’d keeled over and died instantly. There’d been no sitting at his bedside, listening to the rattle getting steadily worse.

  Sarah wavered between grief and terror as she kept vigil. If Munro couldn’t convince the magistrate of Giles’ innocence, the blame would ultimately fall on his employer.

  She and the boy would be hanged, even if Battersby recovered. The irony that her father had killed a king yet cheated the noose wasn’t lost on her.

  She implored God to spare her mother, then prayed fervently Mary Ward might be granted her dearest wish to be reunited with Henry Marten.

  From the miasma of grief and worry, one reality became clear. “I’ll tell Munro I love him,” she whispered, “and reveal my secret.” If she was to face death, she wanted him to know the truth.

  When there was no reply—not even a hint of a smile or a wink—Sarah knew Mary had entered another realm.

  “Godspeed,” she said when the rattle ceased abruptly. “Pray for your little girl.”

  She sat for a long while, letting the tears flow. It was another of life’s ironies that both she and her mother had fallen in love with unsuitable men. Perhaps that was the reason she was grief-stricken by the death of a woman she barely knew and had every reason to resent.


  She carefully peeled off Mary’s prison garb while waiting for the water to heat. When she deemed it hot enough, she poured a quantity into the ewer, and tested it with her finger. Rolling her eyes at the absurdity of worrying if the water was too hot for a dead woman, she set about sponging the pale face and frail body. When she was done, she eased her mother’s skeletal frame into the new frock and buttoned it up to the neck. Finally, she drew a comb through thin wisps of grey hair. “I’ll speak to Reverend Grove,” she promised, once she was satisfied her mother had been laid out properly. “He’ll arrange for the gravediggers.”

  Exhausted, she let her gaze wander around the tiny apartment, the tears welling again when she noticed her mother’s satchel on the table. “My inheritance,” she said sarcastically, reaching for the worn strap. “What was so precious to you?”

  She opened the flap and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. The bold, well-formed handwriting was unfamiliar, but she knew instantly she was holding treasured letters from Henry Marten, written during the years spent apart.

  Her immediate instinct was to toss them into the fire as a protest for the torment the man had caused. But Mary wouldn’t have approved.

  She moved to sit at the table and began to read.

  * * *

  Munro nigh on bumped into Reverend Grove on the steps of the church.

  “I heard what happened,” the cleric said. “The courthouse isn’t too far.”

  Birmingham might be a growing town, but news spread quickly in this tight-knit neighborhood. In normal circumstances, Munro might have remarked on it, but he was simply relieved to have saved time.

  For an older man, Grove walked with long strides, and they covered about ten streets in short order. Out of breath, Munro was glad when they arrived at the courthouse.

  Recognizing the minister, the constables at the door allowed them inside, but they were ushered into the spectator’s gallery.