Court of Conspiracy

by April Taylor

  Luke bowed again. He shut the door behind him, leaving the Secretary staring out of the window. Sir William’s words only heightened his feeling that wolves surrounded him. He wished he could walk out of the palace and escape into the anonymous depths of the distant city. Sweating slightly, he returned to where Will leaned against one of the gallery hangings. Will lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

  “You are to give me aid, friend,” Luke said, “but it is not to be spoken of, so when we meet to exchange intelligence, it must be as friends.”

  Will looked at him. “By all the saints, what have you got yourself into?”

  “Nothing. I simply need some information on my housekeeper.”

  Will burst out laughing. “You’ve finally got yourself a housekeeper. Is she good-looking?”

  “She is not my bawd if that is what you mean.”

  “Now it is my turn to beg pardon,” said the clerk. “I am more than curious to know why you need information about a mere housekeeper. What do you want to know?”

  “Her name is Philippa Garrod. She has run away from her relatives’ house in Norfolk. Their name is Messingham.”

  “Do you know where in Norfolk?”

  “Aye. A village called Market Wickham.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It is near Woodbridge.”

  Will drew in his breath. “You must tell me everything you know about this woman,” he said. “Quickly—I will find parchment, pen and a quiet corner. This is urgent.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  Will shook his head. “Honestly, Luke, for someone who is so quick and clever, you are sometimes very blind.”

  His friend’s attitude on top of the cold warning from the Secretary made Luke’s stomach flutter like a trapped butterfly beating futile wings against glass. More than ever he wished that his magic was strong enough to turn back time to the second before Philippa Garrod had risen like a bird of ill-omen from his shop floor. All the negative thoughts he had entertained about her came flooding back in full force.

  He grasped Will’s arm. “Tell me what you mean in plain language.”

  “In plain language, then, Woodbridge is in Suffolk, not Norfolk. That this Garrod woman is a liar is indisputable. What is infinitely more dangerous is that Woodbridge is close to Framlingham and the castle of the Lady Mary.”

  Chapter Nine

  Luke spent a wakeful night. It was not until the first twittering of drowsy birds sounded outside that he finally decided he had no option but to tell Pippa about his commission. However, he resolved to say nothing about the Queen. If Pippa was the liar that Will had suggested, then it might be a good thing to give her information in the hope that she would betray herself. His confusion about her had not lessened. Her arrival just as the Queen ordered him to investigate the attempts on the King’s life was disquieting. That, more than anything else, had made him change his mind about going to the greyspring kennels. Her initiation could wait a little longer.

  Breakfast found him heavy-eyed, short-tempered and still dithering. Pippa on the other hand was bright and agitated, buoyed up by the excitement of getting her own greyspring.

  “I thought you were going to the man with the dogs?”

  “Later this morning. Possibly. Before that, I have to tell you a secret, a very delicate secret. Someone, and I cannot tell you who, has come to the same conclusion as we did—that Gethin was the scapegoat for another’s crime.”

  “A little late for recompense,” she said.

  “Recompense is not possible. Discovering the truth may be, and that is what I have been ordered to do, but secretly. I need your help. Are you willing?”

  Her concentrated expression told him that her quick mind was assessing the possible implications. “You mean find out who put the thorns under the saddle?”

  “Aye.”

  “How?”

  “How in God’s name do I know? That is why I need your help. Can you think where we might begin?” He wiped his face with his hand and yawned again.

  She shook his arm. “Rouse yourself, Luke Ballard, or you will find that the sleep you now desire so much will be a permanent one.”

  Luke’s suspicions of the night returned in full force. “Why do you say that? What do you mean?”

  “I am not stupid. If there are doubts, they must come from on high. The same place where the certainties of Gethin’s guilt came from. It does not take a magician to work that out.”

  “So, what would you have me do?”

  “Mayhap go and see the boy’s mother?” she suggested, clearing the table.

  “A sound notion. I shall go now.”

  “And my dog?”

  “Will have to wait a while longer.”

  “In that case, I will concentrate on pretending to be your housekeeper and clean this cattle stall you call a kitchen.”

  Before going to find Goodwife Pitt, Luke decided he needed the solace of prayers to calm his mind and steer his thoughts. No enterprise could succeed without the aid of God. After washing, he walked through to the Fountain Court. A load of freshly made bricks must have just arrived by barge judging by the procession of workmen carrying them up to the new state apartments. The noise of rebuilding was particularly loud just here. The works left everything covered in a fine white dust that attacked the throat and stung the eyes. King Henry was spending lavish amounts to make the apartments worthy of his future queen, the front-runner being the Franco-Scottish Princess Madeleine, favored by Queen Anne.

  Leaving Joss at the door, Luke entered the chapel. If he went into a trance here, people would just think he was praying, so he was quite safe without her. He gazed with wonder at the vibrant blue ceiling set with gold stars. He liked the story that Great Harry had intercepted it on its way to grace an Oxford college, even if it wasn’t true. Bowing his head, he tried to find the words he needed to ask God for help. He hoped that the Lord was not slighted by the unusual intensity of his prayers, an intensity that stemmed from a desire for self-preservation as much as for success in saving his monarch.

  Luke was a familiar sight in the environs of the palace and on his return he met many people who gave him their good morrows, thus delaying him at a time when every instinct urged him to hurry. Nodding at the gatehouse guard, he decided to take the river path and walked to the stables’ water gate. His way was blocked by a yeoman guard, obviously part of new protection measures for the King, although Luke doubted if anyone would try the same method again when it had failed the first time.

  The guard held his halberd across the entrance. “Your business here?”

  “I came to ask after Goodwife Pitt. I thought mayhap she might be in need of my aid in her time of sorrow.”

  Looking past the man, he caught sight of another lad he knew a little. Ignoring the guard’s frown, he raised his arm. “Hey, Robin Flete, come hither. I need to speak with you.”

  The boy thus addressed came to stand behind the sentry. “Master Ballard, good morrow. Well met?”

  “I am well, Robin. I seek Gethin’s mother. Can you tell me where I may find her?”

  The boy’s face darkened. “Aye. She was laid in the churchyard three days since. You come too late.”

  Luke was stunned. “She is dead? How?”

  “I could not say. We are not encouraged to ask questions.” The guard had turned back to face the river and did not see the scowl Robin directed toward him. Luke took a step back, dumbfounded. He could think of nothing to say, but had just enough presence of mind to nod to the boy before turning away to the river path. This was grievous news. Not just that, it felt wrong. There was more to this than met the eye. There had to be.

  * * *

  Pippa’s face when he broke the news mirrored his own reaction. Her lips were compressed as she poured a jack of ale and gave
it to him.

  “That poor woman,” she said. “This cannot be a coincidence. Or can someone die of a broken heart so quickly?”

  “Not in my experience. We must tread slowly, Pippa. The speed of this death speaks of a power and influence we cannot match.”

  “Can we not use our magic powers to fight?”

  Luke dragged his fingers through his thatch of curls. Now he had to make a decision for good or ill. Despite his own doubts about Pippa, it was undeniable that Joss liked her. He had no choice.

  “Possibly,” he replied. “First, we must find out what your element is. I think I may already know the answer, but we have to be sure.”

  “What is it?”

  “You will see. I shall shut the shop for today. If there is urgent need, they can knock.”

  He led the way back into the kitchen and took four brazen mortars from the shelf. Then he went into the yard, came back with a handful of earth and put it in one of the mortars. In another he poured water; in the third he sprinkled some black grit. The last mortar he left empty.

  “The content of each mortar represents one of the four elements. First, we must wash and be clean. I will use the pump—you may have the pail.”

  The cold water helped steady his mind. On his return he went to a cupboard and pulled out two clean smocks, handing one to Pippa who slipped it over her head.

  “Now,” he said, “sit here and I will put the mortars in front of you. Do not worry about anything. You need to have a calm and focused mind.” With the girl sitting in front of the bowls, Luke asked her to put her hands together as if in prayer. “I want you to close the eyes of your body and open instead the eyes of your mind. Do not try to direct your thoughts.” He waited some moments, and could see from the slight frown on Pippa’s face that she was concentrating, before continuing. “Hold your hands, palms downwards over the bowls. Do not open your eyes—just let your thoughts be directed where God wills.”

  He watched for some time. There was no draught of air from the empty mortar. He picked it up and put it back on the shelf, then rearranged the other three in front of her. “Keep your eyes closed. Let your thoughts go.”

  The next mortar to be removed was the one containing earth. Had that been Pippa’s element, it would have begun to sprout tiny seedlings. So, it was either fire or water, and by now he was certain which.

  “My arms are tired,” Pippa said without opening her eyes.

  “We are almost there. Keep your hands over the bowls. Let your mind roam free.”

  At first he thought nothing was going to happen, but within a few minutes, the water in the second mortar began to move. There was no steam, but it was gathering itself to slop over the edge and onto the tabletop. Very quietly, Luke moved it to the edge of the table and put the bowl containing the grit directly under her hands. It stayed inert and did not burst into flames. He exchanged the mortar for the one containing water. After a few seconds, the liquid once more began to move and flow round the bowl as if some invisible force were stirring it. Then it leapt over the rim and drenched Pippa’s skirts, making her spring to her feet, her eyes wide with shock.

  “What was that?”

  “That was you. Your element is water. I suspected it might be, from the sudden drenching we got at the execution. It was a response to the depth of your fear and anger. This is good because, if you remember your first lesson, fire and water balance each other. We pair very well. That will help us in our investigations.”

  “Shame it wasn’t warm,” Pippa said, trying to mop her skirts.

  A knock sounded from outside the shop. Luke gestured to her to empty the mortars as he went to open the door. A short man nearly as wide as he was high stood waiting. A grin split Luke’s face.

  “Master Quayne. Good morrow,” he said holding the door wide.

  “Walking is dry work, Luke. A jack of ale would not come amiss,” the old apothecary said, laughing.

  “Come in and welcome.”

  A few moments later, Pippa came through from the kitchen wearing a fresh apron. She carried a jug of ale and two leather jacks. Quayne looked at her and back at Luke, his eyebrows raised.

  “Master Quayne, this is Mistress Philippa Garrod, my housekeeper. Pippa, this is Master Corbin Quayne, the head of the London apothecaries in the Grocers’ Company and my very good friend and benefactor.”

  Pippa dipped into a curtsey. “Ale, Master Quayne?”

  “You have a housekeeper, Luke? About time.” The old man grinned at the girl. “I expect you have had problems tidying up this reprobate’s belongings,” he said.

  Pippa bobbed again, keeping her eyes lowered in respect. “I do my best, sir.” She went back into the kitchen, leaving the two men to talk.

  “What brings you to my door, Corbin?”

  “Nothing other than a message from Bertila to say that we have not seen you for some time, and would you care for an evening’s refreshment on Friday?”

  Luke grinned. “And how is Mistress Bertila? She used to get so cross when I called her that.”

  “She has a new spring in her step,” the older man said. Luke shot a glance at his friend. The words had not matched the tone. Corbin’s face was looking more haggard than when Luke had last seen him. His eyes were clouded. Will had been right when he said something was awry.

  He put a hand on Quayne’s arm. “What ails you, Corbin? You are not as hale as I am used to seeing you.”

  “I am fine, Luke, fine. I feel a little more tired these days, but I am not a young cockerel now. I also miss Margery more and more as time passes. Bertila does a good job running my home, but a daughter’s companionship can never be the same as a wife’s.”

  “How could it be, old friend? I, too, miss Margery. How could I ever forget your aid and support when Silas died? You were the only person who believed that I had not influenced him into leaving me the house and shop. Do you remember when Everard Digby started making such a fuss and you told him to go and jump in the Thames?”

  “Aye.” The old man chuckled. “You know that was because he had been desperate to get his hands on such a good business. He could hardly wait until Silas was cold before he was pestering me to sell it to him.”

  Luke grinned back at him.

  “So, tell me, what has put a spring in Bertila’s step, or is it a who? Or perhaps it is the worry of losing her to a husband that has brought you to me?”

  “You know that it broke Margery’s heart when Bertila had the accident, Luke. It would take a man of special virtue and true feeling to take to wife one whose face is disfigured by acid, but she has grown up a lovely young woman, and I have prayed that one day she would find a husband to look after her. I’m not getting any younger, and she deserves to be happy.”

  “And it has happened? A suitor?”

  “Truth to tell, Luke, I don’t know what to think. His name is Geoffrey Peveril. It began a few weeks ago, when I...”

  A shadow blocked the light from the door. Both men looked up and Quayne rose to his feet, his voice suddenly louder. “Master Peveril. I did not know you were back from your journey.” He turned to Luke. “This is Master Geoffrey Peveril. Master Peveril, Luke Ballard, once my apprentice and now an apothecary in his own right, and a good one, too. I have invited him to join us for supper on Friday,” he added.

  Luke bowed. “Master Peveril, welcome to my humble shop.”

  “An interesting occupation, Master Ballard,” Peveril said, looking round the shelves. “I am fascinated by your craft, as Master Quayne here will tell you.”

  Pippa appeared at that moment holding a fresh jug of ale and dropped a curtsey to the newcomer. Luke was certain her prompt entrance was down due to eavesdropping and raised his eyebrows at her.

  “How now,” Peveril said. “Who do we have here?”

  “This is Mis
tress Garrod, my housekeeper.”

  “Welcome, sir,” Pippa said. “Would you care for some ale?”

  Luke was amused to see the blush that appeared on the girl’s face when she looked up at Peveril. He was less than amused to see the flash of interest that sprang into Peveril’s gray eyes. Glancing at Corbin, he saw the old man’s eyes narrow and wondered about the state of the relationship between Peveril and Bertila. If the man were a philanderer, Luke could well understand Corbin’s misgivings and if he were not, why did he fawn over Pippa in such an exaggerated way?

  “Well now, Mistress Garrod, you look and sound too highborn to be a simple housekeeper,” Peveril said with an easy smile.

  Pippa dropped her gaze to the floor and Luke wondered whether she was merely confused or did it on purpose. A man of Peveril’s stamp would take it for coquetry.

  “Mistress Garrod is lately come from the country,” Luke said. “She is unused to the ways of town, Master Peveril. I pray you do not confuse her.” He held the other’s gaze.

  “I would not dream of being so ungallant. We must help her settle in, Master Ballard.” Peveril turned to the watchful Quayne. “Corbin, why do we not invite Mistress Garrod to meet Bertila? Your daughter needs to widen her circle of friends.”

  Luke tried to catch Pippa’s eye to tell her to return to the kitchen, but the irritating girl seemed rooted to the spot. Corbin had no choice but to include her in the invitation to Friday’s supper, although the shock of inviting a mere servant to his house showed clearly on his face.