by April Taylor
Luke was gazing into the bath. “Oh, a bit more cold, I think. And definitely some rosemary.” He saw Pippa’s anxious expression and looked down at Joss. “Did you move?”
“Aye. I thought she was going to attack me.”
“I should have warned you.” Luke’s shoulders dropped. Casting spells was tiring.
“What did you just do?” she asked.
“What you are going to learn to do. Now, remember what I said before. Not a word to anyone—and I mean anyone—about elemancy. Even the most intelligent and highborn do not countenance something they cannot understand.” He turned and loaded more wood onto the fire. Pippa edged backward until her hips rested against the stone sink. She looked at Luke with wide suspicious eyes and he burst out laughing at her expression.
“You see. You prove my point. I have shown you what can be done with the talent. You have demonstrated that you also possess it and yet you stare at me as if I had changed the order of the heavens with a sweep of my hand. Girl, I have told you that you, too, will be able to do magic in time. Knowing all this, you still look at me as if I am possessed. How do you think the rest of the ignorant world would react? They would burn you and hang me. That is why you must keep silent. Both our lives may depend on it.”
Chapter Four
Pippa backed onto the settle by the kitchen fire, never taking her eyes off him, and nodded. “Don’t you find it difficult walking around pretending to be normal when you can do magic?”
Luke, grateful to hear Gwenette’s voice calling, did not answer but ran through to the shop and greeted Mistress Paige with unwonted warmth. He showed her into the kitchen, her arms full of cloth. He then retreated and began to make up ointments and replenish his stock of cordials. He needed to muse on this strange girl who had appeared, seemingly from nowhere. His instinct told him that she was no spy, but his instinct had been wrong before and, most disastrously for Luke, that had involved a woman.
He would never forget Alison, or forgive her. How could he, when she was the cause of the rift with his dearest friend, Giles? Alison had dallied with the naïve Giles to alleviate her boredom whilst her betrothed was in Calais. Luke had been oblivious to the power that love could wield and Giles too bedazzled to heed Luke’s warnings. His reaction had been furious, an outburst cursing Luke’s lies. On the day Alison had married her intended, Giles, without a word to Luke, had enlisted. He now lay, fathoms deep, off Portsmouth with the other fatalities from the Mary Rose.
Noises from the kitchen woke Luke from his memories. Pippa emerged wearing a dark green gown over a cream kirtle. It was the perfect length and she looked every inch a highborn lady. Her demeanor and posture seemed to confirm her story of coming from a wealthy background. He could believe that, by birth at least, she had the right to wear silks and satins.
“Where did you find something to fit her?” he asked Gwenette.
“I could tell she is the same size and height as His Majesty’s sister, the Princess Elizabeth. This is one of the gowns she left behind at her marriage, to be disposed of. There is still plenty of wear in it, but nobody will miss it. However, as Mistress Garrod is your housekeeper, she cannot wear it in public. These are more in keeping.” Gwenette held up a coarse linen chemise, a wool dress and a linen apron. “They may be a little short, but then it’s less to drag in the mud,” she told Pippa. “There’s a coif here, too.”
“You mean I am wearing one of the princess’s gowns?” Pippa looked down at the green velvet and Luke read distrust in her eyes.
“Do not fret, Pippa,” Luke said. “If Mistress Paige says it is in order to have it, you may trust her. However, Gwenette is quite right you cannot wear it in public. It is against the statutes. Why did you bring it?” he asked, turning to his friend.
“I thought Pippa might like to see how she would look as one of the nobility,” Gwenette answered, her eyes wide with innocence. “Sometimes a girl likes to look her best. Keep it. You never know when it may come in useful, and if your relatives find you, Pippa, you may need it.”
Pippa made a small curtsy. “I pray that they never find me, Mistress Paige, and who would tell them unless you did? Never fear, I am quite content to be Master Ballard’s housekeeper. There is no need for me to keep this. Please wait. I will change into the other garments and you may take this back with you.
“Very well. I must go soon or I shall be missed,”
Luke waved Gwenette through to the shop to give Pippa privacy to change.
“Thank you, Mistress Paige,” he said. “Your help, as always, has been invaluable.”
He frowned down at her and urged her to sit on one of the settles. “You are looking more than a little pale. Do you feel unwell?”
Without giving Gwenette time to answer, he took a small jar from the counter and splashed wine into a goblet. “Here,” he said, putting some powder from the jar into the wine. “This will bring some color to those cheeks. You appear fatigued.”
Gwenette glowed at the warmth in his eyes. “Thank you, Master Ballard. I visited my uncles yesterday and stayed a little later than I should.” She drank the wine. “Verily, that is very warming. I feel better already.”
Pippa appeared and held out the green gown. Gwenette turned to her.
“Better I think to keep it for the moment. It was difficult enough getting it here undiscovered and the last thing any of us need at the moment is a lot of questions being asked. I hope we meet again.”
Luke bowed and saw Gwenette out of the shop, still a little concerned at her pallor. He knew her uncles lived deep in the heartland of London, part owners of the Company of Merchant Adventurers. They would have been sorely tried when the King had revalued the coinage. Profit margins would be down, possibly even halved, and many merchants were in crisis. Perhaps that was why Gwenette looked so pale.
“Now we are alone again, will you tell me more about being an elemancer?” Pippa asked.
Luke poured himself a jack of ale to give himself time to gather his thoughts. Leaning on the dresser, he tipped his head to one side and began.
“The power of the elements was first discovered by Empedocles. He was a Greek philosopher. Elemancy uses the power of the elements, earth, wind, fire and air, to produce magic. We have powders and oils that represent each element in our stock. In theory, all four elements should be present for the magic to maintain cosmic harmony, but each elemancer has an affinity with one element more than the others. Mine is fire.”
“Is that how you heated the water for my bath?”
“Aye, and you will be able to do that, too, but the degree of difficulty will depend on your element of affinity. Because mine is fire, I find heating and lighting easy, but I have to use more of the relevant element to a spell if, say, I want to create a breeze, help a dying plant or purify a polluted well.”
“But I can do magic, can’t I?”
“It isn’t quite that simple. Where should I start?”
“How do we find out what my element is?”
“We will need to experiment unless it becomes clear some other way. What you must understand, Pippa, is that this type of magic is not widely known, which is why you talk to nobody about it. The other reason is the sunderers.”
“What are sunderers?” Pippa asked.
Luke poured more ale and sat at the table. “Everything in nature is made of the elements and, if you think about it, the four elements are composed of two pairs of opposites, which make the whole. Air and earth balance each other as do fire and water. There is a fifth element, aether, but you don’t need to know about that yet. Elemancers work for the good of man—we work through what Empedocles called love. To balance this, there are those people with the same talent who work for nothing but their own advantage. They sow discord and propagate evil. To further their ends, they use the malus nocte, the dark side of the talent, what
Empedocles called the war side. They will foment strife, imperil whoever gets in their way. We call them sunderers because they try to split the balance of the elements, to cast the natural order asunder. Elemancers have greysprings. Some sunderers have umbrans, dark dogs who assist in evil deeds. The worst sunderers are elemancers who have turned to the malus nocte.”
Pippa leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Have you ever met one?”
Not wanting to frighten the girl, Luke did not answer her question directly. “You may rest assured that there will be a few at court,” he said. “It is the center of the world for advancement and the pickings to be made from gifts given by the royal hands will attract them. Our sovereign is a generous man, but much like his father when it comes to perceived slights. Whispers can condemn a man unheard, and his lands then become forfeit and ripe for dropping into others’ hands, frequently the originator of the whispers. Make no mistake, Pippa, a fair face can conceal a foul heart and a twisted tongue can speak honeyed words. Be careful how you give your trust. We live in dangerous times.”
* * *
“Sir, sir, I beseech you, I am innocent.”
The guards had forced Gethin up some wicker steps, raised his arms and closed the iron manacles tight around each wrist. The steps had then been removed, leaving him dangling.
“Tell me, Gethin. Please tell me. I do not want to see you suffer in this way. Tell me who gave you the thorns and I promise you will be released,” Sir Anthony replied.
“Nobody gave me nothing, sir.”
“Come, Gethin, just tell me who the man was and you can go free.”
“There was no man, sir. On my honor.”
By this time, he was beyond terrified. At the first bite from the iron manacles, he could not help voiding his bowels, which drew a response of disgust from one guard not as nimble as his colleagues.
Gethin’s mind was in a fog of abject fear and bewilderment. The Constable, with his soft voice, struck more terror into the boy’s heart than anyone he had ever met. He was sweating now from the unbearable pressure of the manacles. Sir Anthony climbed a ladder and wiped at his face and chest.
“Was it one of the other boys, Gethin? If you tell me now, I can stop all this.”
“But that would be a lie, sir. I am telling you the truth. There wasn’t no thorns when I saddled Jasper.” The pain in his hands, belly and chest was intense. He felt as if blood was rushing up his arms, into his hands and bursting forth from his fingertips. The man’s voice receded into blackness.
When Gethin came back to consciousness, he was lying on the floor. As soon as the guards realized he was awake, they suspended him again and Sir Anthony’s soft questioning continued.
“Why would you want to hurt the King, Gethin?”
“I don’t, sir. I am proud to serve His Majesty, just as my father served his father. I would never do nothing to harm him, sir.”
“But the rose stem hurt Jasper, too,”
Gethin began to sob again. “I love Jasper, sir. Why would I hurt him?”
“As a means of killing the King.”
Sir Anthony gestured to the guard nearest the brazier to feed the fire and heat the irons. When one of the brands was a fiery red, they thrust it under his nose. Gethin could feel the heat and smell the sharpness of near-molten metal. He could see little through the mist of pain and he did not hear the next question, but everyone heard his screams when the glowing iron bit into his chest. The stench of burning flesh mingled with that of loose bowels. The last thing Gethin saw before merciful blackness descended was Sir Anthony holding a cloth to his nose against the smell. The next thing he felt was the coldness of the water the guards threw over him to bring him back to his senses.
Nine fruitless hours later, they dragged him back to his cell and threw him inside. He had fainted from pain and fear six times, and each time they had revived him and continued the process. Feces dripped down his hose, mingling with the filth on the floor. Even as he curled up on the stinking straw, sobbing his relief at being out of that fearsome chamber, he realized that these rushes must have soaked up the bodily effluent from countless other lost souls before him. Gethin wished he was with them and past this agony.
* * *
Three days passed before Twelvetrees, the palace baker, brought word that Gethin Pitt had been put to pains. Luke took a sharp intake of breath and shuddered.
“What are they going to do with him?” he asked, knowing the answer but hoping for some mercy to be shown to the lad.
“They’ve nailed a proclamation to the gate of the Tower,” the baker said. “It’s the usual for traitors.”
“And you believe the boy to be a traitor?”
“What I believe ain’t important, nor what you might believe neither, Master Apothecary. Now how about some nice fresh manchets?”
“I can’t afford manchets. Cheat and ravelled are good enough for the likes of me.”
Luke shut the door of the shop. It was not time yet to fold back the shutter on the front window signifying that he was open for business. He sat on the settle, bright sunlight edging round the door and shutter, shedding some rays into the dark room. Poor Gethin. Poor bastard. The usual punishment for traitors was terrible indeed. Hanging, drawing and quartering. Sometimes the hangman was bribed and allowed the poor sod on the end of the rope to die before cutting him down, castrating him, disemboweling him, burning his entrails and then beheading him. Luke could think of nobody with enough influence or money to grant Gethin such mercy.
He sat down to break his fast, but the food tasted like ashes in his mouth. Pippa prattled on about her letters. He had made her three sets of alphabet blocks, each block with one letter painted on it. She could already read the words he formed from the blocks, as well as simple sentences. He was amazed at the speed with which she had soaked up her lessons.
After breakfast, as he opened the shop, he saw the baker returning from the palace kitchens and hailed him.
“Master Baker, when is the execution?”
“Day after tomorrow. Why? Thinking of going?”
“I have a mind to go, aye.”
“There’s room in my cart for you and your housekeeper, if you want, Master Ballard. I shall be baking double tomorrow to take to Tyburn and sell. A hanging always brings on a healthy appetite.”
“Thank you. I shall pay you, of course.”
“Even better. I’ll be setting off early, mind.”
Instead of teaching Pippa her lesson that night, Luke cleared the table and lit a solitary candle, placing it in the middle.
Pippa frowned at him. “Are we not reading?”
“Not tonight. I want to teach you to centralize.”
“What’s that?”
“Watch the candle.” Luke bowed his head then gathered his concentration and gazed at the candle. Within a few seconds, the height of the flame rose by a few inches. When his concentration released it, the flame dropped back to normal. Pippa said nothing as he rose from the table, disappeared into the shop and returned holding a piece of paper. Climbing on a chair, he attached the paper to one of the hooks hanging on the ceiling directly above the candle. Joss moved toward the warmth of the fire and settled with her head on her paws, watching them.
“I cannot make the flame reach the paper by myself. Together we might be able to, but first, let us see what you can do by yourself.”
“How?”
“By centralizing your thoughts. Focus on the flame. Empty your thoughts of everything else. The flame occupies your entire mind. Visualize it growing taller. See it with your inner eye and watch it gradually reaching higher and higher. Concentrate on nothing but the flame. Look at it. How yellow it is. Imagine it growing bigger and brighter.”
He could see that the girl was doing her utmost, but the flame stayed constant. When he saw beads of p
erspiration on Pippa’s forehead, he called a halt. It had been too much to hope for on a first attempt, but fear and need had made him desperate.
“You focus well, but your skill is too untrained as yet. I said it would be hard,” he added watching her frown. “Let us both try and focus on the flame.”
For a few silent moments they sat, on either side of the table, concentrating on the candle. The flame flickered, then a sudden arc of fire shot toward the ceiling.
“Good,” Luke said, leaping on the chair and removing the burning paper from the hook before it could damage the ceiling beams. “I want you to practice centralizing your thoughts whenever you can for the rest of tonight and tomorrow. Take this feather. Try and move it across the table.”
* * *
The next morning, Luke arose before dawn and went out to gather plants not in his usual stock. He needed vetivert as well as garlic and thyme. On the way back, he visited Gethin’s mother. The poor creature, wits befuddled by shock, had been taken in by the family of one of the kitchen scullions. Goodwife Corbet was trying to make her guest eat.
“I cannot persuade her to take even a mouthful of bread or cheese,” she said. “And, what’s worse, she insists on being there at the hanging. Can’t you persuade her, Master Ballard? ’Tis no place for her.”
“I must be there for my Gethin,” Goodwife Pitt said. “I would not have him think I have abandoned him or think him guilty. Master Ballard, here is one of his tunics. I have brushed it. Will you take it to him?” she asked, beginning to cry.
Luke took the tunic. “I will ask if he is allowed it,” he said. He put a hand on her shoulder, which seemed to soothe her. “We cannot change what is, but we can pray for God’s help to endure it.”
Back in the shop, Luke snipped two small pieces of fabric from the tunic. He had been prepared to filch anything belonging to Gethin, but God had put this tunic into his hands. He knew only too well that any plea for it to be taken to the condemned boy would be refused. However, he had promised, and Luke had always been a man of his word. He decided to go and see Will Quayne, who worked for Sir William Petre in one of the household offices off the Base Court. Will and Luke had been friends since Corbin Quayne, Will’s father, had taken over Luke’s apprenticeship, following the death of his previous master.