The Poison Diaries: Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  “You should have told me the truth, Rowan.” His look is hard, his voice resigned. “Now you’ll have to tell them.”

  9

  THEY DRAG ME BACK to the King’s Head and sequester me in one of the private drinking rooms off the main saloon. I still wear Rye’s coat; over it is wrapped a coarse blanket someone has tossed around my shoulders. From its rank animal smell, I can guess it belongs to one of the horses stabled here at the inn.

  My dress lies in shreds in a heap in the corner. The rest of my belongings are laid out on a table. The women go through them like mercenary relatives fingering the possessions of a newly dead and utterly unloved uncle.

  The larger mob has dispersed: no witch, no hanging, and therefore no need to wait around. But Agnes is here, still doggedly seeking a means to cause my downfall. The two women whom I spoke with at breakfast are here as well, and a handful of men, including the innkeeper, who has been summoned as master of this house and final arbiter of my fate.

  Rye, my would-be saviour, is gone. It is just as well. I have no shame left to feel, but even so, I would not want to face him now. I am exhausted from my ordeal and cannot summon the strength to feign either fear or distress. Oleander’s words – you are no use to me dead – have fallen upon me like a frost, and I feel myself going quite still inside, numb and yet full of hatred, even as these idiots argue and assault me with questions that I have no intention of answering.

  “Tell us your real name, girl.”

  “Why have you changed your looks? Who are you hiding from?”

  “What were you doing to that sick child?”

  “Remember, even to pretend witchcraft is a serious crime,” the innkeeper says heavily, clearly wishing to be elsewhere. “What are we to make of all these?” He gestures to the collection of herbs lined up across the table with the rest of my things. Each variety is neatly tied up in parchment. They are unlabelled, thankfully, for I know each one like an old friend.

  “Ask her how much money she swindled from the sick girl’s parents,” Agnes insists. “No doubt she promised to cast a healing spell, with a magic potion made of carrot tops and herbs for soup.”

  I draw the blanket around me, for a deadly chill is beginning to seep through my veins. “There was an old woman who lived in my village, years ago,” I say, telling the tale I practised in my mind during the long walk back from the river. “If she was a witch I never knew it; I was a small child at the time. She could make a tea that cured headaches. She taught me how to do it as well. To this day I carry some of the mixture with me, as I am prone to them. Headaches, I mean.”

  Their countenances range from doubt to outright scorn. “When I heard that the child was sick, I felt sorry. I took some of my headache tea to the family’s room. I thought it might ease the girl’s discomfort; I knew it could not do her any harm. It was all I had to give. I asked for no payment, and received none.”

  The innkeeper lifts a packet of castor beans, which have been dried and ground to a flour to release the deadly poison within. “What’s this, then? Headache tea?”

  “Yes. And some ingredients to make cosmetics.” One pinch of what you hold in your hand would end your days on Earth, I think. Part of me wishes that he might demand a taste – but then I would swing at the end of a rope for sure.

  “You’re a young, good-looking girl. What do you need a suitcase full of make-up for?”

  “To sell at the fairs.”

  “She told us she did embroidery! See, she is lying. It is all lies,” Agnes crows, smelling victory.

  “I do embroidery as well. But my eyes are not strong, and there is only so much sewing I can do before the headaches come back. The cosmetics are more profitable, but my customers are often – forgive me for saying it – harlots. It shames me to be acquainted with such people, and I do not boast about that part of my business. However, I need to earn my keep, and those wicked women have money to spend.” I glance up, all innocence, and fix Agnes with a look. “It is not easy to make a virtuous living, as I am sure you know.”

  Some of the men begin to fidget, embarrassed. My lie rings true, as all good lies do. Besides, I suspect there are few among them who can honestly claim to know nothing of harlots.

  The innkeeper clears his throat. “All right, the girl makes tea and make-up. I see no harm in that. Will you at least tell us your true name?”

  “My name is Rowan, and only Rowan. My family name is disgraced, and I swore long ago never to speak it again.”

  My accusers begin to argue among themselves.

  “Why can’t she say her name?”

  “Disgraced? Maybe we should call a priest.”

  “What if she’s a nobleman’s daughter? If she is, there may be a ransom.”

  At the word ransom they turn back to me, eyes glittering with greed.

  By now the chill from my dousing in the river has taken root in my bones. “I assure you,” I say through chattering teeth, “There is no one who would pay a ransom for my life. As far as money goes, I am quite worthless to you.”

  “Worthless? Hardly. I would give Miss Rowan my whole fortune if she asked me for it.”

  Maryam’s father stands in the doorway, hollow eyed with fatigue. “My daughter’s fever has broken.” He pushes through the group to where I sit and clasps my icy hands. “Thank you. Thank you for your kindness, miss.”

  He turns to my accusers. “Since before the sunrise I have walked the streets. Hour after hour, I go from house to house, searching for a doctor. But there is no doctor to be found. My heart feels like a stone. I have failed. I think my daughter will be dead when I return.”

  He pauses. For a moment the only sound in the room is the sharp clattering of my teeth. “Instead I find her fever is broken. My wife says this lady, Miss Rowan – the one you treat like a criminal – came by and held her hand. Offered some tea. Said a prayer for her health. Did any of you do as much?”

  There is no answer save the embarrassed shuffling of feet. He glares at the innkeeper. “If trying to help a sick child is a crime, then arrest me too, for going to fetch a doctor. Arrest my wife, for she has been caring for the girl since midnight.”

  The innkeeper holds up his hands, as if to stave off the rug seller’s mounting anger. “All right, calm down, nobody’s been arrested. The fever’s broken, you say?”

  “Thanks be to God, it has.” The rug seller’s voice crackles with fury. “And I will say one more thing, sir. If this is the way guests are treated at your inn, then you will soon have no customers. No business! I will speak of it everywhere I go. I will make sure that every traveller from Inverness to Baghdad knows what terrible things happen inside this establishment.”

  The innkeeper grumbles a few words of excuse, if not apology. But the spell of accusation is broken. He waves his hands at the group and shoos them out, scolding, “The girl wears make-up and drinks tea, and for that you want me to think she’s some kind of sorceress! Troublemakers, away with you! If you weren’t leaving in the morning I’d toss you out myself, and never mind how much money you spend at the saloon…”

  Maryam’s father finds a robe for me. He stays with me as I gather up my possessions – all my money has disappeared, but at least the packets of herbs remain – and helps carry them back to my room.

  After he leaves, I wrap myself in every blanket I can find. If I could only get warm, I know I would sleep the sleep of the dead, but I cannot. My body is battered, but my mind whirls, and rest eludes me. Time is wasting, but I am too weak to do what I know I must.

  Within the hour Maryam’s mother arrives with a mug of hot broth. She wants to feed me as if I were the sick child, but I tell her to leave it on the nightstand. “Your daughter needs you,” I say. “Go back to Maryam.”

  She nods, wringing her hands. “My husband is with her now. But I had to come myself to say this: I am so sorry to hear what they did, Miss Rowan. I want you to know I said nothing, to anyone. I kept my promise. When my husband returned from town, he told
me that he heard many people talking about a witch, a young woman, being drowned in the river by a mob. I remembered what you said to me, and I became afraid. I told him to go look for you – I am glad he found you. And now see how you shiver! I am afraid you will be the next one to get sick.”

  All at once my eyes are so heavy I can scarcely sit up. “It is not your fault,” I mumble. “I am grateful for your kindness. If you will forgive me, I must rest.”

  She nods and moves to the door but lingers there. “I do not understand these people,” she says. “We will travel with them no more. And you will not, to be sure. Miss Rowan, promise me you will ride with us? We have room in the cart. My husband does not mind walking. And this way you will be with us – in case Maryam’s fever returns, or in case you need someone to care for you.”

  “We can talk about it tomorrow.” I offer a weak smile. “And I promise to drink the broth.”

  She goes, and I take a few spoonfuls. The heat of it warms me just enough to crawl into bed and bury myself beneath the quilt.

  My last thought as I finally drift into sleep is to marvel that there are still good hearts in the world. Not many. But some.

  I am sinking, again. Pulled down this time. Weighed down, as if a large stone is pressed upon my chest.

  The plants at the bottom of the river beckon. I peer through the murk at the greenish figures below. It is no swaying meadow of eelgrass waiting for me there, but the plants of my father’s apothecary garden.

  Moonseed. Larkspur. Dumbcane. Snakeweed.

  “Why are you here?” I wonder aloud, confused. “You do not grow under water.”

  They bend and twist as if consumed by mocking laughter. Then, to my amazement, they speak.

  “Welcome, lovely Jessamine.”

  “Welcome home –”

  I wake from the dream with a gasp.

  What sound was it that woke me? I listen, frozen. A quiet click as the door opens. A footstep in the dark.

  Someone stands, breathing, quite close, inside my room.

  “Don’t be afraid. It’s me. Rye.”

  “But – the door –”

  He lights the stub of a candle and holds it near his face. I see him now, half smiling in the flickering light.

  “I’m not what you’d call a law-abiding citizen, I’m afraid. Locked doors don’t tend slow me down.”

  I struggle to rise, to claw my way up from the depths of the dream, but there are weights pressing on my limbs, I feel buried alive –

  “Stay under the quilt. You don’t want to catch a chill. Not after today.” He kneels at my bedside. “I came to say I’m sorry for what I did. At the river.”

  “You saved my life. I know that.”

  “I may have, yes. Still. I don’t want you to hate me.”

  “For saving my life? Perhaps I should.”

  “Don’t talk madness, Rowan.” He stops. “Ought I still call you Rowan?”

  “It is the name I choose.”

  “Rowan it’ll be, then. Until we christen you with something better.” He pauses again. “You left me full of questions. I spent the day looking for answers.”

  “Did you find any?”

  “Perhaps. I heard quite a bit of gossip while I was out. That’s the other reason I’ve come.”

  Something in his tone frightens me. “What gossip?”

  “About that murder near Alnwick.” He leans close, and his voice drops so low it seems to come from inside my head. “It seems the cottage belonged to no ordinary herbalist, but a well-known apothecary, a favourite of the Duke’s. A man with powerful, dangerous friends. A man who could heal with plants, and do great mischief with them, too. His daughter, they say, was equally skilled.”

  I am fully awake now.

  He puts the candle down on the nightstand. “I even found out the girl’s name. A fair-haired beauty, she was, named for a yellow flower –”

  I raise myself up. “What do you want from me?”

  He lets out a low, soothing whistle, as if calling a wayward horse. “I want nothing, lass, except what you might freely choose to give me.”

  I shiver uncontrollably now, with fear and a bone-deep cold. Without hesitation or permission, Rye eases himself into the narrow bed and wraps his arms around me. Instinctively my body curves into his warmth, like a sunflower reaching toward the sun.

  “The sight of you on that riverbank is not something I’ll soon forget,” he murmurs into my hair. “Like a siren, you rose from the waters, calling me to the rocks. I’ve caught you like a fever, Rowan.”

  “I could cure you of it, quick.”

  “I doubt that.” His lips graze my ear. “Tell me the truth – no, don’t flinch, I know better than to ask what you don’t want to tell. What I want to know is this: Did you like it when I kissed you last night? No more lies, now.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, ashamed. “I did.”

  “That’s a start, then. Listen carefully. I’ve a proposition for you. Don’t say a word until I’m done.”

  I stiffen in his arms, but it only makes him hold me closer.

  “Come with me,” he says. “I’ve been on the road my whole life, a tinker and a smuggler, always on the run. With you I’d have a reason to stop and savour life’s pleasures. But we have to get out of this blasted country and never come back. We can do it, too. I know all the smugglers’ ships out of Kent and Cornwall, and I’m owed favours up and down the coast. I’ve made plenty of money, and never paid a penny in tax. Most of it’s hidden away back home. We’ll book passage on a cutter, and there’ll be no questions asked. With the money I’ve saved we’ll buy a little farm in County Sligo. Or if that’s still too close for comfort, we’ll go to America. There’s fine land in Virginia, they say, and tobacco’s a cash crop. It’ll be a simple life, a sweet one, and no more running.” He presses his lips to my neck. “Come with me.”

  “Don’t.” My voice is sharp. “You think you know who I am, but you do not – if you knew all I have done –”

  “I’ve no need to know, now or later. Once we cross the Irish Sea, it’s a new land, a new life. Your troubles won’t follow you there, whatever they are. I swear it.”

  Already the bed is warm from his presence, warm as a sun-baked meadow in the long days of summer.

  Tempting, isn’t it, lovely?

  I am promised to Weed. I want no other.

  But surely it is pleasant, to lie in the arms of a man who’s actually here? Whose kisses stir you even now, despite your protestations of love for another?

  It is – pleasant.

  And where was Weed when my lovely Jessamine was jettisoned, left derelict at the fetid bottom of the Tyne? The horse trader was there, ready to save you from peril and buoy you back to life – but Weed? Nowhere to be found. As usual.

  “Will you come with me, Rowan?”

  Why don’t you say yes, lovely?

  I cannot. I will not.

  Such noble sentiments! Surely you don’t believe that Weed is alone this evening?

  I know he is faithful to me.

  Is he? You may be ignorant of his whereabouts, but I am not. Even now, he is handing a single perfect rose to a blushing young woman. She is beautiful, I must say. In fact, she looks a great deal like you…

  Thinking my tears are some show of feeling meant for him, Rye kisses me.

  “Will you come, then? Will you?”

  Go ahead, lovely. Bestow upon him your tender lies, spread your broken wings of love. Obey me, and I will reward you in the end, as promised. If Weed truly loves you, he will take you back, even slightly soiled. And you know how this kind of thing amuses me…

  “Yes.” I twine my arms around Rye’s neck and draw him to me. “Yes. I will.”

  Happiness spreads like the break of dawn across Rye’s broad, unsuspecting face. “Now seal your promise with a kiss.”

  He kisses me, and more. He is a grown man, and no stranger to a woman’s body. And I am no innocent, to be sure.

  Is loneliness a k
ind of love? Is despair? I do not know, but they open the door to passion nearly as well. Perhaps it is the slow poison trickle of jealousy and doubt that Oleander has fed me, but I am not wholly sorry to surrender. For I have been cold, in every fibre of my being, and Rye warms me. His passion is a furnace that burns my pain to ash.

  It is exactly the kind of forgetting I need.

  He stirs early, long before dawn, and reaches for me once more.

  “When we get to Ireland, I want you to marry me, Rowan,” he says, groggy. “Say you will.”

  “I already told you.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I will. Go back to sleep.” He grunts and rolls on his back.

  Time to go now, lovely.

  I have no money – how will I pay for my travel?

  Check the horse trader’s pockets. And make sure he sleeps until the sun is well up; I would not have him give chase.

  Silently I slip from the bed and go to my bag of poisons and cures. My heart pounding, I do my work quickly and in silence.

  I wait until a gentle snore leaves Rye’s mouth slightly open. As the sweet drops slip past his tongue, he stirs. Quickly I seal his mouth by pressing my lips to his. It only takes a moment before his sleepy grumbles turn to murmurs of longing. His hands travel to my waist, and he gathers up my gown with work-roughened fingers.

  I kiss him once more – he groans – and abruptly he falls back against the pillow, a dead weight. He will not wake again for hours.

  I check his pockets and find a thick wad of notes tied in string, but I cannot bring myself to take it all. I remove one bill and put the rest back.

  I should make haste, but I cannot help myself: I take a moment to smooth the thick russet hair and caress his stubbled, unresponsive cheek. Asleep he looks younger, softer. Less the cynical horse smuggler; more the trusting, ardent lover.

  When tomorrow comes and he discovers I am gone – but I cannot think of that now. I must run, faster and ever further from myself – but where I am running to, I dare not imagine.