Court of Conspiracy

by April Taylor

  “You seem to see much that does not concern you, but precious little of what does.”

  Luke bowed his head. “Aye, mayhap that is true, but it is also true that I have always held you in very high regard, and knowing that something was causing you grief and worry was of far more import than the sheep’s eyes a silly maid was making to a knave like Peveril. However, you are right. I should have taken more notice of Pippa’s dallying and stopped it.”

  “I did not know my troubles were so apparent. I could kick myself.”

  “Is it something that I can help with, or if not, would talking to me about them ease your mind, sir?”

  Corbin sat in silence for a few moments. When he spoke, his words at first were slow and hesitant as if they did not want the judgment of daylight on them. “Bertila does not know this, but I happened to be on my way home when she first encountered Peveril, and I saw what happened. She says that in the crowd, he was jostled against her. She lost her basket and he not only picked it up along with all the things she had bought, but insisted on carrying it back home.”

  “As any gentleman would.”

  “Aye, Luke, but the truth is that he deliberately knocked the basket from her arm. I saw him do it. At first I thought it was because he was diffident and could think of no other approach, but as I came to know him a little better, I could see that timidity and reticence are not among Master Peveril’s attributes. By the time I did realize, it was too late.”

  The suspicion that had been growing in Luke’s mind thrust Peveril straight to the heart of the problem. A devious spider weaving a dangerous but unknown web. A spider who had Pippa caught in silken strands. Pippa, who knew so much. Had she told him of her talent?

  “This makes no sense,” he said. “If he deliberately targeted Bertila why should he now transfer his attentions to Pippa? What is his scheming mind cooking up?”

  “I have no idea. Nobody knows better than I how much taunting and ill-usage Bertila has suffered since her accident. Peveril is a handsome man, one who must have turned many hearts. What would he want with my girl when he could have any woman he wanted? I have grown watchful, waiting for his motive to declare itself.”

  “And it has not?”

  “No. Unless his plans were unripe, he was exactly what he purported to be. A suitor for Bertila’s hand. I hoped that his heart was true. I thought it was. Until this moment.”

  “Then I am doubly sorry that I did not prevent what has happened.”

  “I hold you to blame, Luke. Why could you not take my girl? She would have accepted you. You know her worth. She would have made you a fine wife, but you left it too long, just as you always do. If there is a nettle to grasp, you will sit staring at it wondering how much the sting is going to hurt, rather than take hold and put it in your scrip. If that doxy of yours has stolen the knave away from my girl, I...”

  “Father, what on earth is all this shouting?” Bertila had appeared in the doorway.

  Corbin pointed at Luke. “Let him tell you.” He stumbled to his feet and a few seconds later they heard the slam of the door.

  Bertila took one look at Luke’s face. “Well, Luke, whatever it is, you’d best come through and tell me whilst we eat.”

  “You may not want me as a guest when I tell you what I must.”

  “Fie, Luke. Sit down. I can almost see your innards flapping with hunger. Whatever it is cannot be that bad.” She put a leg of chicken on his plate and handed him the bread. “Eat first, talk later.”

  * * *

  Pippa thought she had known misery before she came to London, but never had she felt this wretched. A dull ache under her ribs stopped any desire for food. Had she tried, it would have stuck in her throat. She was weary beyond belief, able to concentrate on nothing, not even cooking a meal for Luke and Robin. She had no energy for anything save sitting by the fire, gazing into its depths. Her head buzzed with fatigue and her neck ached. It was only when she realized how dry her throat was that she remembered she had not yet even had a drink today, but she could not rouse herself to pour a beaker of ale or milk. Robin had gone out almost as soon as Luke was out of sight. She was here alone, except for Ajax and he, instead of leaning against her legs as Joss did with Luke, was curled in a tight sleeping ball on a piece of sacking next to the fire.

  Where had it all gone so wrong? She knew she loved Peveril and that Peveril loved her but, niggling in the far reaches of her mind, spoiling what should have been a feeling of joy, was the knowledge that she had done something disgraceful and unforgiveable. She had stolen the man Bertila Quayne loved. Bertila who considered her a friend. This betrayal doubled Pippa’s gut-wrenching guilt. What made it worse was that she had known her sin even as she committed it. Her overwhelming longing to be with Geoffrey had changed everything.

  She was not sure if she wanted to be an elemancer, but if she did not, what would happen to darling Ajax? In a flash of enlightenment, Pippa knew she could never give Ajax up. She would sooner die. Could her greyspring be her salvation? If she could concentrate on Ajax, perhaps she could find a path out of her fog of troubles. But even as she gazed at her dog, the memory of urgent hands made her entrails melt. The sight of Ajax faded, replaced by a vision of Geoffrey’s smiling face, his eyes gazing into hers, bright with ardor. As the thrill of desire ebbed, she edged closer to the warmth of the fire. It was a long time before she accepted that she had one stark choice. She could go to Geoffrey, declare her love and be with him for always, or she could return to Master Dufay, humbly beg his pardon and continue her studies. She was oblivious to the crackling of the wood and the sparks that shot out onto the hearth around her feet. Her heart was too sore and confused to provide an answer, and neither did the white-hot core of the fire.

  * * *

  Bertila was quiet for some time after Luke had stammered out his story. He could see that she was drawing on her reserves to face the destruction of her dreams. In that moment, Luke realized Bertila was the bravest person he knew. Tears pricked at his eyes. Looking into the inner heart of this almost sister, he knew that the pain of Peveril’s betrayal would never heal. Something in her spirit was broken beyond repair. Beyond his capability to repair, he reminded himself. Corbin was right. He should have taken Bertila to wife even though he was not in love with her. Love. What chaos it wrought. Giles, Pippa and now Bertila, all brought low because of love. He vowed to keep a careful eye on her. When he looked up, she was trying to smile at him.

  “Let us face the truth, Luke. Had Master Peveril loved me as much as he appeared to, then the most beautiful woman in the world could not have moved him to stray. We can only assume that he either did not love me enough, or he was merely toying with my affections to pass the time of day. Either way, I am fortunate to have found out before things had gone further. I would not have been the first wife to have a constantly wandering husband, and I do not think I could have borne that.”

  “You are an amazing woman, Bertila.”

  She laughed. “No, Luke Ballard, I am not. I am a practical woman. Did you know that Father hoped that you and I would...?” She broke off, biting her lip.

  Luke squirmed. He had known only too well how disappointed Corbin had been. The truth was that he was not the stuff of which husbands were made.

  “I have always regarded you as a sister,” he stammered. “The same as I look on Will as a brother.”

  He glanced at her face, worried lest she take it as another betrayal. To his relief, she laughed again. “That’s what I told Father. Let us talk of something else. What have you been doing of late?”

  “The usual sort of thing. The shop is often full as soon as I open the shutters. That keeps me busy.”

  “And do you still insist on charging nothing?”

  “If a body is in need of medicine, that is something I can help. If I can cure ills, why should the fact that the patien
t has no money be a barrier to them getting well again? Why should it not be free?”

  “You will never be a rich man, Luke.”

  “No, but I have a few clients who pay over the odds and trust no other apothecary, so it all balances out in the end.”

  “Wasn’t it you who told me life must always be in balance?”

  “Aye, it was. But I have to say, Bertila, that since the hanging of that poor stable boy and now this trouble with Pippa, everything has been very much out of balance.”

  “Do you mean the boy who put the rose stem under the King’s saddle?”

  “That’s what he was hanged for, aye. His mother was out of her wits with grief. She died less than a week later, in church.” He heard Bertila’s sharp intake of breath and sat up, putting a hand on her arm. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  Bertila’s face was white and he could see that her breathing was fast and ragged. “In church?”

  “Aye, the church—”

  “Luke. It was I who found her!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Luke leaned forward. “Thank God,” he said, putting out a hand to her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of the kitchen boys told me that a young woman had found Goodwife Pitt, but vanished before the Beadle could question her. I am sorry to put it so baldly, Bertila, but I desperately need to know what happened. Will you tell me?”

  “Why?”

  For answer he leaned forward and took her hand. “Have I not always been a good brother to you? Will you not trust me now?”

  She thought for a few moments, then straightened up in her chair. “There has always been confidence between us, Luke. I would trust you with my life. What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell me everything you can remember from the time you opened the church door. Why were you there?”

  She flushed a deep red and her pale scar stood out even more than usual. It took her a few moments to gain mastery over her voice. “I went to thank God for sending me Geoffrey.”

  “Oh, Bertila.”

  She took a deep breath and carried on, but he could see the effort it took not to let the tears gathering in her eyes spill over onto her cheeks. “I wanted to say a prayer to Saint Catherine, to thank her for sending me a husband.”

  Luke leaned forward. “My dear girl, I had no idea it had gone that far. Forget this. We can talk another day when you feel less...less stricken.”

  “No, no. It will do me good to think of something else. Ask your questions.”

  Luke, aware of Bertila’s emotional fragility, wanted to ensure that she did not suffer in any way from his questioning, but he had to discover everything she could tell him about that night. He could not use the probing powder on her. It was far too strong. “In that case, trust me enough to close your eyes.” He took a garnet from the bag of gems given him by Dufay. It would protect Bertila from harm and enhance the communication between them. He rolled the stone between his fingers until it began to glow, centering the light on Bertila’s brow. “Be conscious only of your breath going in and out. Now, take the eye of your mind back to the moment you put your hand on the latch of the church door. Tell me what you see,” he said, his voice soft.

  She frowned a little in concentration, but he knew from the blankness of her face that she was in a trance-sleep. “The door is already slightly open. I do not have to turn the handle. I step down onto the floor. At first, everything seems as it should be. Then, as I walk up the aisle, I feel frightened. I cannot understand why I should feel such dread in church, under the protection of God, and that makes my fear grow. So I force my steps as far as the chancel step.” Bertila paused, her face showing evidence of the fear she had experienced. “I look down,” she continued. “At first, I think it is a bundle of rags, but then I see a foot. It is a woman.”

  Luke’s concentration was total. For Bertila to come out of her trance too early would not only impede his investigation, but further damage her spirit. Much as he felt the weight of loyalty to the King and Queen and the ever-present fear of the consequences should he fail to complete his mission, his first thought must be for this girl’s safety. If he owed her nothing else, he owed her that.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  “I bend down. She has fallen onto her side, almost as if she has been on her knees and just keeled over like some of the ships do at low tide.”

  Luke stifled an exclamation as he saw again his vision of the hound looming over the woman and her sideways fall.

  “Her face is twisted,” Bertila said. “Almost as if she had seen something so terrible that her brain could not encompass the horror and she died of it.” The girl’s voice had risen.

  “You are quite safe, Bertila. I will not let any harm come to you. Bend over, nearer to her face. Can you see anything else?”

  She swallowed and put out a hand as if to ward something off. “Everything has lost its color.”

  “Explain.”

  “She is dressed in black. Her eyes are black. Her face is white. There is no color in her.”

  “Can you smell anything?”

  There was a pause. “There is a sweet sickly smell. I think she has vomited, but there is no sign of it here.”

  “Can you touch her skin?”

  “I do not want to. I am afraid.”

  “I am protecting you, Bertila. You are quite safe. Please put the backs of your fingers onto her cheek. Tell me how it feels.”

  Her voice rose as if in panic. “It is cold and clammy as if she has been sleeping somewhere damp.”

  “Has anyone else asked you these questions?”

  “No. My father was concerned because I was upset. He gave me mulled ale to drink.”

  Luke could feel that she was only just holding on to her senses. He took both her hands in his. “Come back, Bertila. You are safe and warm in your father’s house. Come back now. Open your eyes.”

  As she did so, Luke could see how unfocussed they were. He poured some ale into a beaker, added some cloves and cinnamon and warmed it. He knew she was in no fit state to mark what he did.

  He gave her the warm drink and passed his other hand over her hair, being careful not to touch her. “Drink this and forget. If anyone asks you about the woman in the church, you need only say that you found her and fetched the Beadle. The Beadle said she had had a seizure. Drink it all. It will do you good and make you feel warm and safe.”

  Luke sat in silence whilst Bertila sipped. “Do you feel warmer now?” he asked, taking the empty cup from her.

  “Aye,” she said her voice back to its normal strength. “What happened? Have I been asleep? You were going to ask me some questions about the church.”

  “I only wanted to ask you about the woman you found.”

  “I fetched the Beadle,” Bertila replied. “He said that she had had a seizure. I came away. That is all I know.”

  Thinking over what she had said, he was again struck with foreboding by the ease with which she had slipped into a trance. He thought back to his own vision of the huge black hound and the woman’s dead body slipping sideways onto the stone floor. There were a few tests he performed to verify events, and he decided that tomorrow he would do them. He had the necessary ingredients in stock. If Gethin’s mother had been killed by black arts, then it proved beyond doubt that he was ranged against the sunderers.

  Peveril’s treachery had cut Bertila deeply. With a certainty he found difficult to explain, Luke knew that her heartsickness would cause a bodily malaise that he could only pray he would be able to mend. He could only hope that Bertila would recover and be heart-whole again. Failing that, he prayed she would ask her father to send for him when she became ill.

  * * *

  Luke met Corbin a little way from the house. His old master looke
d at him without smiling.

  “Well?”

  “I told her, sir. She took it with her usual calm, but I do not think that we can understand yet how deeply she is injured by it.” Luke paused, uncertain how to phrase his next question. “Sir, may I ask you to send news to me if Bertila falls ill?”

  “Why? Do you not think I can physick her better than you?”

  “It is not her bodily ills that concern me, sir. Those I know you can treat far better than anyone. It is the hurt to her spirit that troubles me.”

  Corbin wagged his finger under Luke’s nose.

  “And how would you deal with that? I think, Master Ballard, you have done quite enough damage for one day. I would prefer not to see you again for some time.”

  Luke bowed. “As you wish, sir, but again, will you please send news if Bertila falls ill and does not seem to get well again? She is as dear to me as a sister. You know that.”

  Corbin’s shoulders sagged. “If she falls ill and wishes it, I will send for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now I must return to my house and put it in order.”

  Corbin grunted and turned on his heel and strode into his house. Luke watched the door close, then he, too, turned and made for the distant palace. It had been an eventful day, one which he was not anxious to think about, but he knew he reasoned better when he was walking.

  It was clear that whatever force had knocked him senseless last night was from the malus nocte. It was equally clear that the same force had been present in the tavern and had seen him talking to John Bell. He berated himself that he had been concentrating so much on the clarifying spell that he had not thought to check his surroundings. Well, he had paid the price for that inattention and lost the chance of examining the rose stem and trying to match its thorns to the holes in the glove.

  He was surprised by his first study period with Dufay, but the idea of becoming an Inquiring Elemancer appealed very much to his innate sense of justice and fair play. When he remembered the impotent feeling that Gethin’s arrest and execution had engendered, he knew that he had a choice. Either to never again let himself be caught up in events likely to make him feel so helpless, or to actively seek out a way of redressing the balance for those poor souls who had nobody to speak for them. He was not so arrogant as to assume that he could be a defender of the poor, but if by becoming an Inquiring Elemancer he could save one innocent soul from Gethin’s fate, then he would count his life useful and well lived.