Chantress Fury

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  “I’ll do my best.” The young woman turned, and as she scooted past, I saw to my surprise it was Lady Clemence. Both she and Norrie were wearing iron crosses.

  “Lucy!” Norrie’s face lit up. “I’m so glad to see you, child.”

  “And I to see you.” I offered up my bracelet so that she would know for certain that it was me. “But what’s happening here?”

  “Oh, we’ve been busy for hours, ever since the evacuation started. Some poor souls have nowhere to go, or couldn’t be moved far, so the King opened up the Great Hall to them. And the Queen thought we ought to see what could be done for them. Who’d have guessed she’d be such a dab hand at setting up a hospital? But she is. Has the whole place running like clockwork.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “She’s somewhere about, I expect.” Norrie looked about the crowded hall. “Mind you, I’m not sure just where at the moment. Come to think of it, she may be off talking the King and the Royal Steward into giving us some more supplies. I expect she’ll get them too. She’s the one who dug up these crosses for us, you know. Packed away at the back of the chapel, they were.”

  Before she could say anything more, a hollow-cheeked man stumbled up and asked for help for his wife.

  “In pain, is she?” Norrie asked. “Well, let’s do what we can to set her at ease.” She motioned for me to come with her, murmuring, “Chances are, the poor dear’s suffering as much from shock as anything else. Sometimes a reassuring word does a world of good. All the more so if it comes from the Chantress, I should think.”

  I followed without protest. Although I needed to find Sybil, surely this wouldn’t take long, and the man’s wife did indeed appear to be in great distress. Lying still on a pallet, staring with glazed eyes at the ceiling, she was as gaunt as he was, and at first she took no notice of me.

  When Norrie made a point of introducing me, however, the woman glanced fearfully in my direction and shrank away. “You’re the one who’s calling up the monsters.”

  “Calling them? No, I’m fighting them—”

  “Magic calling to magic. I heard it. Yesterday on the Thames, I did.” She scrabbled at her kerchief and pulled out an iron cross. “Leave me alone!”

  She held the cross in front of her, but when I moved to touch it, she jerked back and shrieked louder. “Begone!” She raised the cross, as if seeking to exorcise me.

  Didn’t she understand what the point of wearing iron was? “There’s no need to fear me.” I showed her my bracelet. “See, I’m wearing iron too.”

  She yelped again and cowered back “Get away!”

  Her cries were attracting attention now, as her neighbors looked to see what was wrong.

  “Maybe you should go, Lucy dear,” Norrie whispered into my ear. “She’s obviously quite disturbed, and it’ll only upset her more if you stay.”

  “But she—”

  “Never mind.” Norrie gave my hand a squeeze. “You go on. I expect you have more important things to do. I’ll let the Queen know you were looking for her, shall I?”

  As I turned away, it felt as if everyone were watching me. Although some of the people smiled or bowed, I saw others step back. Did they, too, harbor suspicions about my role in all this?

  Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. They have worries of their own, that’s all. You’ve had the people’s goodwill ever since you freed them from the Shadowgrims. That woman’s just a troubled soul who deserves your sympathy.

  But as I made my way through the crowded hall, I saw at least a dozen people quietly reach for their own crosses and hold tight to them as I went by.

  Outside the Great Hall, it was growing darker, and for once I was glad of the gloom. I pulled my hood up high; I didn’t want to be recognized. Ignorance, that was all it was, I told myself. Ignorance and superstition. But I still felt hollow inside when I thought of those crosses.

  Scrying, I reminded myself. That’s what you should be thinking about. And Sybil. I still needed to find her. Norrie had mentioned she might be with the King and the Royal Steward, but I had no idea where they were meeting. The relocated State Rooms, perhaps? Should I go back to the chapel and ask for directions again?

  While I stood deliberating by a puddle, I caught sight of a familiar silver-bearded figure shuffling past one of the smoldering torches—Penebrygg. Perhaps he would know where the State Rooms were. Pleased to have spotted him, I rushed over to greet him—but as I came closer, my pleasure vanished. The velvet cap he always wore was gone, and his black robes were stiff with mud, while he himself looked as if he’d added a decade to his already considerable age since I’d last seen him.

  He started when I addressed him. “Oh, my dear. I didn’t see you.”

  With a faltering hand, he touched my iron bracelet. Only then did I notice that his spectacles—so carefully fashioned and almost part of the man, with lenses he had ground himself—were missing.

  I reached out to steady him. “Dear Penebrygg, what’s happened to you?”

  He blinked as if trying to clear his vision. “The wall by old Bridewell Palace gave way. My house is not far from it, you know.” His voice sounded as battered as the rest of him. “I stayed perhaps a little too long, trying to find a book I wanted. But I’m afraid most of my library is beyond recovery now. And Nat’s books as well, and all his papers besides. He will be so distressed—”

  “He will be very relieved that you are safe,” I said firmly. “As am I. Tell me, do you have a place to sleep?”

  Again he blinked, owl-like. “I’m not quite certain, my dear. A guard directed me to the Great Hall, but I didn’t like to take a pallet when there were so many in need. Nat has rooms here now, you know, and I thought I might stay with him. I’ve done so before, from time to time, and I have a key—but I’m so blind without my glasses that I can’t find his staircase.”

  I remembered how Penebrygg had offered me refuge during my first days in London, when very little had stood between me and a terrible death. Surely I could spare the time to help him find shelter now.

  “Come with me,” I said.

  Finding Sybil could wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TRESPASSER

  I hadn’t realized that Nat had rooms of his own in Whitehall, but Penebrygg remembered enough about where they were located that I could find them easily. Deep inside the palace, they did not have a view of the river—which meant they were still accessible.

  As we walked over there, I saw several people shy away from us. Was it me they were avoiding? Were they holding iron crosses?

  Ignorance and superstition, I told myself again. Don’t take it to heart. But still they unnerved me.

  Once we reached Nat’s rooms, Penebrygg had trouble with the key, so I handed him the lantern and unlocked the door myself. Penebrygg went straight in, but at first I held back, standing self-consciously on the threshold. Given where I stood with Nat, I wasn’t sure he would want me in such a private place. But when Penebrygg looked back at me, his weary face heavily shadowed in the light of the lantern, I cast aside any reservations.

  “I’ll get a fire going,” I said.

  A half hour later, the coals were burning merrily, and I had Penebrygg tucked up in a chair close by them. I’d made free with Nat’s possessions, grabbing a counterpane from his bed, pears from a basket, and cider and cheese from a well-oiled cupboard. Penebrygg was looking more like himself now.

  And I? I was caught between warring emotions. It felt like trespass to be here when Nat hadn’t invited me in—and yet it felt perfectly right too, especially since I was ministering to a man who meant so much to both of us.

  Nat’s role as the King’s special envoy meant that he was often on the road, so it made sense that his rooms were neat but plain; they had an air of a place that wasn’t much used. Yet here and there I saw the stamp of his presence: books on astronomy, microscopes, and philosophy; a treatise on the potato; a letter addressed in his incisive hand. And when I’d gathered up th
e counterpane, I’d caught the scent of him in it, as immediate and fresh as an embrace.

  Penebrygg finished his pears and cheese and set the plate on the small table next to him.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

  “No, no, my dear.” He rubbed the place on the bridge of his nose where his spectacles usually sat. “I’ve had as much as I care to, thank you. And in any case, you must have plenty of other things to do than look after one rather doddery old man. Where were you off to when we met?”

  Worried about all he’d been through already, I started to deflect the question, then realized I was doing him a disservice. Without his spectacles, he looked fragile and unfocused, but his mind was still as sharp as ever, and his spirit as curious. So I told him not only that I’d been looking for Sybil but why.

  “Scrying? How fascinating, my dear.” A bit of color came into his cheeks. Magic had always excited him. “I remember you mentioning that you had done something of the sort before, but I’m afraid I know very little about how it works. What kind of pictures did you see, exactly—if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I didn’t mind at all. In fact, it was possible that Penebrygg would be able to cast some light on them. Although he didn’t have Sybil’s deep knowledge of Chantress magic, he was a keen researcher and reader, and his interest in magic meant that over his long lifetime he’d consulted all kinds of rare books—some of which no longer existed, having been burned in Scargrave’s time. I sat down on a bench by the fire and carefully described what I’d seen, hoping he might have a clue as to what it all meant. For good measure, I told him about Melisande, too—about her necklace, and what she’d said about a wall and the Mothers.

  “And now here you are seeing a wall with a hole in it, and a green light on the other side.” Penebrygg stroked his beard, something he did only when troubled. “I wonder . . . could it be the wall between the worlds?”

  “The what?”

  “Didn’t I once tell you about it? Years ago it would be, back when we first met, when you asked me what I knew about Chantresses. It’s how your kind came about, you see. So the old stories say. I’ve heard a few different versions, but it boils down to this: There is—or was—a wall between the faerie world and ours, and both we and they used to cross it now and again, and to mingle. And those men who took faerie wives had Chantress daughters.”

  If he had said something about this, I’d forgotten it in my rush to understand more about the threat posed by Scargrave and his Shadowgrims.

  I said slowly, “The old stories? You mean it’s only a legend?”

  “A legend, yes. But that doesn’t mean there’s no truth in it, my dear.”

  My godmother had warned me that Penebrygg’s stories about Chantresses weren’t necessarily to be believed, and she herself had never mentioned any kind of wall. Still, I was curious. “You say people used to cross it? They don’t anymore?”

  “So the stories go. Something sealed us off from each other; I’ve never heard anything about how or when or why. From what you say, I gather Melisande believes it was Chantress magic of some sort, though why Chantresses would want to cut themselves off from the faerie world, I don’t know. I seem to remember reading once that Chantresses used to cross the wall to renew their powers. Apparently visiting that world strengthened them, though, it was said that they had to be careful never to take their stones off while they were there, or terrible things could befall them.”

  I couldn’t help shaking my head. I’d never heard of such a thing before—not from Lady Helaine, not from anyone else.

  “Well, all that’s by the by,” Penebrygg said. “My point is this: I wonder if what we are dealing with now is a hole in the wall—and some kind of terrible magic from the other side. You said the light coming from the hole was green?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the old stories, green is the color of the faeries. Who, it is also said, can be held off with iron.”

  “But it’s not faeries we’re seeing,” I objected. “It’s sea serpents and kraken.”

  “For all we know, that’s what they look like.” Penebrygg stretched his hands toward the blue-orange flames of the fire. “The trouble is, you’re thinking of faeries as tiny winged creatures who dance around the woods. But that isn’t what they are at all. You should think of them instead as masters of illusion. The old stories say the creatures of faerie can be anything they want to be.”

  I thought of the moment when I’d seen two kings. Maybe there was something in what Penebrygg was saying.

  “And here’s something else for you to consider.” He fished in his sleeve and pulled out a bedraggled scrap of paper. “I’ve been doing a bit of research about ondines, and I found something I thought you would want to see. It’s based on an old Norman manuscript from the time of the Conquest, but I’ve translated the passage for you.” He pulled the paper close, then stopped and blinked, looking bereft as he missed his spectacles again. “Well, I can’t read it properly now. But perhaps you can, my dear?”

  I took the paper he held out to me and spoke the words aloud: “It is well known that the ethereal spirits of air were never very strong, and the spirits of earth and fire have long since been weakened by humans, who have done so much to tame their elements. But water spirits by nature are nimble and strong and ambitious, and their domain includes the oceans, which cover most of the globe. They take many forms, and they are by far the most dangerous kind of elemental, greatly feared even by Chantresses.”

  “For ‘elementals,’ ” Penebrygg said, “I think you could perhaps substitute the world ‘faeries.’ Or perhaps even Melisande’s ‘Mothers.’ ”

  I stared down at the tattered paper. Was that the explanation? Were we at war with a whole host of watery beings? If so, was Melisande their agent—or their leader?

  “What about the two snakes?” I asked. “The ones I saw, and the ones on Melisande’s necklace. How do they fit into this?”

  “Ah, yes, the snakes.” Penebrygg stroked his beard again. “They would appear to be a version of the ouroboros. A very ancient symbol, most often used to signify immortality and eternal rebirth. It was known to the Greeks and even the ancient Egyptians. You see it in alchemy, too.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “In alchemy? Why?”

  “Because immortality is one of the great goals of alchemy, my dear. Some also say the ouroboros embodies the mingled acts of destruction and creation that are part of the alchemist’s work.”

  I sat up straight, the scrap of paper forgotten. “Then maybe it’s not magic we should be worrying about. Maybe it’s alchemy.” I told him about my conversation with Gabriel.

  “How interesting,” Penebrygg said, clearly intrigued. “I suppose the green light you saw could represent the first stage of transmutation.”

  I tried to remember what I’d learned about alchemy last year. “The first stage—that’s what you call the Green Lion, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And in alchemy, the Lion devours the sun, you know.”

  “Does it?” As always, the arcane terminology of alchemy made little sense to me, but Penebrygg sounded very sure of himself. “Well, it’s true we haven’t seen the sun for days. But what about iron?”

  “There, I must admit I’m less certain.” He was stroking his beard again. “But iron is important to alchemy. When you combine it with sulfur, you get sulfuric acid, the destroying fire. So it’s possible it has a destructive force that interferes with power over water.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw how weary he was. This discussion was taxing him.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I should leave you now, but can I first help you to bed?”

  “No, no.” He waved me away but couldn’t help yawning as he did so. “Must leave the bed for the boy.”

  “He’s so busy, he probably won’t come back tonight. And even if he does, I’m sure he’d want you to have it.” I tugged at the counterpane. “Com
e, let’s make you comfortable.”

  He really was exhausted, which made it easier for me to persuade him to do as I directed. I’d barely gotten him tucked into the bed before he was fast asleep.

  Making as little noise as possible, I closed the door to the bedchamber before banking down the fire in the main room. My hand was on the latch of the outer door when I remembered my lantern. Looking back, I saw Penebrygg had set it down on a desk strewn with papers.

  I was reaching for it when I heard quick footfalls outside. My pulse picked up as I recognized the tread.

  The door swung open, and Nat walked in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  BROADSIDE

  Nat stopped short when he saw me. In the dim light, it seemed as if his face were covered with bruises, but as he came closer, I was relieved to see it was only mud.

  “Lucy?”

  “It really is me,” I assured him, holding up my bracelet. As he briefly touched his iron-ringed hand to it, I swallowed hard. What must he think, finding me here in his rooms?

  “I brought Penebrygg here,” I told him quickly. “His house is flooded, and he had nowhere to sleep except your rooms. I hope I did right—”

  “Of course you did.” His face was full of concern. “Is he still here?”

  “Yes, fast asleep in your bed. But he’s heartsick about the flood, Nat. He couldn’t save your books and papers—”

  “No matter. As long as he’s safe.”

  It was exactly what I’d thought he would say, but it warmed me all the same. It seemed he hadn’t changed that much after all, at least not in the most important ways. “And what about you?”

  “I’ve just come back for a change of clothes before I have a quick word with the King.” He set some sodden papers down on the desk and shucked off his dripping coat. Draping it over a chair by the banked fire, he added, “There’s more bad news, I’m afraid. You know Westminster’s flooded, and I expect you’ll have heard about Bridewell from Penebrygg. And now St. Katharine’s is underwater too, and most of Southwark and Lambeth.”