The Poison Diaries: Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  Not Jessamine. That name cannot be spoken, not until I am back in Weed’s arms and the world has been put right again.

  I chose the name Rowan for myself, for I have blood on my hands, as red as the berries of the rowan tree. My new companions accept the name, and me, with no suspicion that I can so far detect, save a kind of wolfish curiosity from the men. I feel it in the way their eyes find me and linger appraisingly, as if I were livestock being examined before a sale.

  My disguise has worked even better than I dared hope. The henna and indigo turned my blond hair a rich, dark chestnut that glints ruby red in the sun. My pale skin has been tanned by the cream I prepared. The crimson of my lips owes its tint to the stained beeswax. I look older. Worldly. A woman to be reckoned with.

  Only my eyes are the same. They are my own pale eyes, empty of all feeling, ice blue from within my newly tawny face.

  They are the same, and yet not. For now they are murderer’s eyes. And, may I say, lovely – your eyes have never looked so beautiful.

  With the gaze of my fellow travellers upon me, I must struggle not to react outwardly when the demon spirit whispers these sinister thoughts. The true price of my bargain with the Prince of Poisons remains unknown to me. Have I traded my sanity for his aid? My soul for his protection?

  If I have, so be it. It is too late for remorse. What has been done cannot be undone. My mother’s killer is dead; does it matter that he was my father? And Oleander will keep his promise and deliver me to Weed when the time comes – I believe he will. That is all the salvation I need.

  The stage-wagon journeys on, a slow, jolting ride. I close my eyes and feign sleep, for I wish no girlish tears to betray my anxious heart to these strangers who ride with me. I seek no offers of friendship or sympathy. I am the maker of my own dark fate, and I would have it no other way.

  Beautiful eyes… murderer’s eyes…

  My eyes – I remember the night I let Weed anoint these eyes of mine with the dangerous juice of the belladonna berry. I was blinded with passion. So was he. Both of us flirting with madness, yielding to bliss – in truth, much of what happened that night I am unable to remember. The belladonna and tainted absinthe my father served us made sure of that.

  I wanted to remember, surely – in the days and weeks afterward I taxed my imagination feverishly to relive every touch, every wild urge, every vow of love and murmur of desire, until my memories and fantasies were so thoroughly mixed even I could not tell them apart.

  Now it is the balm of forgetting that I crave. I begin to see how lucky the plants are, to die and come back each year, all hope and innocence restored. How sweet it would be to bury my pain in the earth and start fresh, like a daffodil in spring.

  There is a packet of belladonna berries in my bag, along with many other potent and deadly herbs. It would be tempting to lose myself in some dark, intoxicated bliss – but I must not squander my supplies. Who knows what I might need them for?

  The wagon lurches along the southbound road. We left early, in the dark, loading our goods and luggage by torchlight in the Alnwick town square. In time the cool, rosy sky of dawn turned to morning light, and morning light to a blazing noontime.

  Now the day grows unseasonably warm, with a strange, clear light – the kind of day that comes only after the passage of a storm. Steam rises from the wet earth. Surely the seventh day of creation would have looked no different than this.

  The other passengers shed their wraps and jackets in the unexpected heat. The wise ones have packed food and flasks of water to drink; I have none, nor do I have any wish to eat. I pull my hat low over my face, and hope the sweat I feel gathering beneath the band does not smudge the tinted salve on my forehead.

  “A three-legged mule’d hop faster than this rickety crate on wheels. We’ll be lucky to make our inn by nine o’clock. What I wouldn’t give to be astride my own fine Irish horse! How about you, miss? Are you getting off at Newcastle, or heading further south?”

  I dare not remove the hat, but I tip my face up so I can see who speaks. “Did you address me, sir?”

  “I surely did. Though you’re under no obligation to answer.” The man lets out a sharp laugh. “It’s going to be a bloody long uncomfortable day, is the point I’m making. I’m passing the time with friendly conversation.” He lowers his voice, as if confessing a crime. “That’s the Irish blood in me, I suppose.”

  He is a well-built man, neither young nor old. Handsome in a rough way, and ruddy faced from a life spent out of doors. I start to offer a vague reply but catch a mouthful of dust and find myself coughing until my eyes water. He watches me, almost amused.

  “The road’ll get worse as it dries. The fine dirt gets in your nose and lungs. You might want to tie a kerchief over your mouth.” His eyes drift down and pause for a moment upon my painted lips. “I was christened Zachariah, but I go by the name of Rye. I’m a horse trader, though at the moment I’m clean out of merchandise. I did well at the St. James Fair this year, for sure; sold four of my fine Irish Draught horses and a half dozen Connemara ponies. Leaving me without a ride home, as you can see. How does your business do for you?”

  It takes me a moment to understand his meaning; he assumes I am some sort of merchant, else why would I be travelling with this caravan of trades people? “Well enough,” I answer, my voice curt.

  He steadies himself against the sway of the wagon by leaning forward and grabbing the rail behind me. It brings his face far closer to mine than I would wish. Our eyes meet, and I see what lies in his: easy pleasure in his own male strength, frank desire, a touch of scorn. “And what kind of wares do you sell?” he asks, a sly taunt in his voice.

  Before I can fashion my reply, barks of raunchy laughter explode from a pair of eavesdropping women who ride near us, heaped together with their bundles.

  “Nothing you could afford, I am sure,” I retort. My intent is to make him leave me alone, but my words are heard by all and become the cause of more laughter.

  I fight the anger that rises in me. I wish this man to know what I am capable of – to fear me, even. Rye, indeed, I think, for with one carefully prepared shot of whiskey I could make you suffer. Then you would know the true nature of my wares.

  But even as I think it, I force my rage into hiding. It is safer to act the part my companions have already chosen for me: the lone woman traveller of haughty bearing, flashy looks, and questionable virtue. It is my aloofness that provokes them. I will have to soften my manner, if I have any hope of getting far without drawing undue attention to myself.

  The laughter dies down. My new acquaintance slaps his leg and smirks. “Ah, you’re all right, then. What’d you say your name was, lass?”

  “Rowan,” I answer, risking a tiny smile. “My name is Rowan.”

  As the day grows long and the horses tire, the men are asked to get out and walk each time the wagon climbs uphill. Late in the afternoon, we sink in a pool of mire that spans the rain-rutted road. Then all of us must climb out and wait until the wheels can be freed from the mud.

  I use the time to stretch my legs, and to eavesdrop. I know it is only a matter of time before news of a gruesome double murder spreads through the county. When the dreadful scene at Hulne Abbey is discovered, will anyone suspect the apothecary’s quiet, golden-haired daughter of the killings? Or will they assume she was one of the victims? Slain and the body hidden somewhere, or, perhaps worse, abducted?

  But among my fellow travellers I hear only talk of trade: the rising cost of goods and travel, and the difficulties posed by highwaymen and other roadside thieves. I learn that my companions include weavers, potters, tinsmiths, and other artisans, as well as a few shadier characters, like Rye. Not only horse traders, but smugglers of black-market salt, tea, and tobacco to the grateful subjects of King George who cannot or will not pay the heavy taxes levied by the crown. It seems these outlaws travel with us not only for their convenience, but for our protection as well – they get free passage and lodging in exchange f
or the security of their armed presence.

  The wagon wheels are freed, the journey resumes, and the afternoon passes in relentless heat and cramped quarters. The deliberate clip-clop of unwilling hooves and the grind and squeak of cartwheels on gravelly dirt become our travelling song.

  It feels like a kind of purgatory, save that it does eventually come to an end. Just as Rye predicted, it is pitch dark and nearly nine o’clock by the time we reach our inn at Newcastle. A supper waits for us there. At the meal I sit a little way away from the others, with my small tin plate of potatoes and a chunk of unidentifiable meat, long gone cold.

  The tastelessness of the food does not matter to me. I eat only to preserve my strength. Now that we are at a public inn, where people come and go and gossip of the region has a chance to spread, I once again find myself eavesdropping. And, like a rare hummingbird that will only sip nectar from one particular kind of flower, my ears are tuned to a single word: murder… murder… murder…

  So far, nothing. The men ask for gin and argue about politics, Catholics, the French, and the King. The women stick to small ale and trade complaints of bad business and worse husbands. There is no mention of a double killing near Alnwick or of a missing girl. Good.

  It has been a long day after a sleepless night, and danger has not found me out – at least not yet. My belly is full, and I treat myself to a glass of ale. I could go up to my bedchamber; I have paid extra to sleep alone. But the heat of the day has given way to a cool night, and I know I will be shivering once I leave this great room with the fire burning in its hearth. Still, my eyes grow weary. If I do not retire soon I will fall asleep in my chair.

  “Hello.”

  I startle, for I seem to have drifted off. Before me stands a girl, a chunk of buttered bread in her hand. For a moment I do not know where I am, or if I am dreaming. She is young and exceedingly pretty, but I have not seen her like before, except in a book of Arabian tales I read as a child: olive skin, eyes black as onyx, and long dark hair that hangs straight as a horse’s tail.

  The girl holds me in her frank, unblinking stare. What should I do? The thought of chatting with her as if I were not a murderer, offering the carefully prepared tale of my false self, fills me with the first panic I have felt since leaving Hulne Abbey. I feel caught. Guilty. Where is the remorseless strength of purpose that held me in its grip not twelve hours ago? The innocent gaze of this child has melted it away, just as the frozen lake surface surrenders all its might to spring.

  “Salaam.” I do not recognise the word, but she says it as if expecting some reply.

  It is too late to avoid her. I nod a welcome and move aside on the bench to make room for her to sit. Instead, she stands before me and offers a few sentences of greeting in a strange tongue.

  “I am sorry; I do not speak your language.” My fear turns to relief. If I am lucky she will not speak my language either, and I will be safe from her attentions.

  But she smiles shyly, and answers in perfectly correct, melodically accented English. “Sorry, miss. I thought you might be Persian, like me. I have never met a girl from my country here in England.”

  She tilts her head and lets her dark hair swing to one side, releasing a faint smell of incense. “The Afghan traders sometimes look like you, too. Brown skin and dark hair with light eyes. Beautiful people! They have many fine rugs, though not as fine as ours. But you are English, then?” She seems disappointed.

  “I have some ancestors from Ireland,” I say, thinking quickly. “Dark hair and blue eyes are not uncommon in that country.”

  “Irish? Like Mister Rye. No wonder he likes you. My father says he looks at you like you are a prize Arabian horse, waiting to be broken to harness.”

  “Really?” I should take offense, but it is a novelty to me, to be seen in such a way by a man. “What else does your father say about him?”

  “That he is a smuggler and will hang from a noose someday, if the customs men get him. That, or end up richer than King Croesus.” She says it unselfconsciously and lightly touches the skin of my arm, near the wrist. I have tinted every inch of my skin that shows: my face, my neck, and my lower arms, too. “But you do not look like Mister Rye, either. He is red and freckled. You are brown, like me.”

  “I should have stayed out of the sun.” My smile is unforced now, for I see this girl is no threat. She is simply curious, and in need of another young person to talk to. It is hard to be a lone child among preoccupied adults. I know that all too well.

  I tug my sleeve down lower on my arm. “Why have I not seen you before? You do not ride in the wagon with the others.”

  “My family sells rugs.” She settles herself on the bench next to me. “We have our own cart that travels behind the big wagon. My mother rides on top of the rugs, and I ride behind my mother. My father rides too, sometimes, but mostly he walks behind the mule, cursing at him to go.” She drops her voice low and imitates a man’s angry voice, speaking in her own tongue again. Then she giggles. “It is well you cannot understand what I said. It is bad words in my language.”

  “You are a good mimic. But if you have your own cart, why do you follow us?”

  “It is not safe to travel alone on these roads. The rugs we sell are very beautiful. The women of our village weave them. My grandmother ships the finished rugs to us from Tabriz while my parents and I travel and sell, travel and sell. This year they told me to stay home with Maamaan. Learn to weave, be a good girl. But I refused. I want to see the world! And I am good at selling. Better than my father, even he says so,” she answers.

  Another bite of bread disappears into her mouth. “They take months to weave, these rugs. Twenty shades of dye! Every design tells a story. I would like to show them to you.” She says all this with a practised air. I can easily imagine her as a toddling child, praising the merchandise to charmed buyers in a lisping baby’s voice.

  “Tomorrow morning, when the sun is up, I will be sure to admire your rugs,” I promise. “I must warn you, though. I will not buy any, at least not now. I have no need for carpets at present.”

  “Of course. You need a home first, yes? A home and a husband. Then rugs. Then babies!” She giggles, and her teeth flash white. She cannot be more than eleven or twelve. “Here’s what I think, Miss Irish: If you buy the right rug, then the rest will come.”

  “If your rugs could do all of that, they are certainly worth a lot of money,” I agree.

  “They are. Four hundred knots in every square inch! My name is Maryam. It is nice to meet you.” She presses her hands together and makes a little bow of greeting. Then she holds out the last bit of her bread. “Take it.”

  I do, and eat it with gratitude. “My name is Rowan,” I say. By now I have almost forgotten that it is a lie.

  7

  THE JOURNEY SOUTH TAKES on a rhythm of its own. We pack the wagons before dawn, travel all day, and stop at a roadside inn at night. The inns are humble, and I sleep in my clothes to avoid flea bites.

  Day by day my false identity has taken shape. I have told those who insist on knowing that my trade is fine embroidery and my finished pieces have all been sold. Now I journey to London to seek work in the dressmakers’ shops there.

  Where I am truly bound, even I do not know. Patience, Oleander whispers in my dreams. Patience, lovely. Do as I say, and all will be as I promised.

  I obey, for what other choice do I have? I act the part of Rowan and put as many miles as I can between myself and my crime. I live for the day when Oleander says I can stop running and leads me to Weed.

  In the meanwhile I try to keep to myself as much as I can without seeming standoffish, but I am peppered with questions: How does a young, pretty girl like me dare travel the countryside alone, with so many villains and highwaymen about? Where is my family? Why do I not have a husband? Have I been disinherited? Disgraced?

  I just look away sadly, and let them wonder.

  At least Rye has let me be. Too restless to sit in the wagon, he has taken to wal
king alongside the cart horses, and chats amiably with them for long hours at a time. They seem glad for the company, and always keep one ear swivelled in his direction.

  Sometimes, after dinner and before I retire to the modest room that is mine for the night, he makes a point to pass by whatever quiet corner I have chosen for myself. He speaks only brief pleasantries, but always brings me some offering: an extra slice of bread, a glass of small ale. The girl Maryam will sit and eat with me on occasion. When she does, he brings a morsel of cake for her as well.

  Even these minor attentions do not go unnoticed by the others. This morning, as we boarded the wagon, I overheard one of them, a thin widow named Agnes who sells fine dyed yarns she spins herself, swearing to her companion that I have bewitched the horse trader. The other woman snorted and accused her friend of being jealous.

  I cannot travel much longer with this group.

  On Saturday we stop for the night at a small inn called the King’s Head. By law we cannot travel the roads on Sunday, so there is no need to rise early; we will spend tonight and tomorrow in this town and resume our journey on Monday.

  The law is meant to make people devote themselves to worship. Instead, it is an invitation to release all the pent-up boredom of our journey. Once our party has settled at the inn, unloaded our luggage, and dined, the revelry and drink begin.

  Monday, I think as I watch the ale being poured. Monday I will part from this group. They will leave before dawn, and I can secure a place in some other inn, under some other name, and plan where to go next.

  The carousing promises to last well into the night, as nearly all the members of our group gather, tankards in hand, and pull chairs into a half circle around the fire. First there is a round of jokes, with each person telling one in turn. Then a fresh pouring of drinks, followed by more jokes.

  This time around, the humour slants toward the vulgar. When the room erupts with laughter, I see Maryam, her face flushed and giddy, asking for someone to explain the meaning, as her mother shakes her head and tells her to never mind.