by April Taylor
* * *
Luke’s first impression of Goodwife Brook was that she had lost flesh since Gwenette had brought her to see him. She greeted Bertila politely enough, but in a distant way, almost as if there were a thin sheet of glass between them. Bertila took the poor woman’s hand in both of hers.
“I am desolated by your loss. Edith was a sweet child,” she said.
“Aye, that she was.”
The old woman blocked the doorway, and for a few moments, the atmosphere grew thick and uncomfortable. Luke cast a quick glance at his greyspring. Joss stood, hackles rising, staring intently at Goodwife Brook. He felt Bertila’s eyes looking to him for guidance and his attention sharpened. Now he thought about it, the old woman’s eyes appeared unfocused. Natural grief or something more? He sniffed. Ah, the same odor from the shop. Luke slipped his hand into the bag of stones tucked in his sleeve and pulled out a garnet. Rolling it between his fingers, he waited until Goodwife Brook fixed her gaze upon its shards of light.
“May we enter?”
The old woman seemed to come to with a start, as if she had been asleep.
“Why, Bertila, I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said. “Your face is unmarked.”
“Aye,” Bertila said, putting up her hand to where the disfigurement had for so many years scarred her cheek. “My father found a special physician who diagnosed a deep inner malady and made me well again.”
“And you, Master Apothecary, I remember your kindness when Mistress Paige brought me to your shop. Come in. How can I aid you?”
Bertila put her arm around the beldame.
“Master Ballard would like to see Edith if that is possible.”
“Why?” Goodwife Brook’s expression showed confusion and some hostility.
“I mean no disrespect to your granddaughter, but there are all kinds of stories circulating about how Edith met her death and those that say she took her own life are gathering pace. I believe that, were I to see her body, I can temper the wildness of the gossip with fact and truth.”
She stood, digesting his words in silence.
“Surely it would be better,” Luke continued, “if I could state that Edith was a blameless innocent. Folk trust me and will believe what I say.”
She inclined her head.
“Very well.”
Edith’s pitiful body was on a table in a small outbuilding that Luke supposed had at one time housed a pig. She had been wrapped in a sheet and laid in a narrow coffin. Luke saw at once that the maid’s grandmother had washed her clean of blood, a fact that frustrated him, but in truth, he could have expected nothing else. He would have to hope that the remains could still tell him something. Joss settled at the foot of the table, her head resting on her paws, her eyes never leaving her master.
First Luke checked Edith’s hands. The nails were bitten to the quick and showed signs of manual work, but neither the backs nor palms were marked by any kind of wound. Luke frowned before examining her arms. Here, the evidence of long slashes up both inner wrists was all too evident. Bertila winced and turned Goodwife Brook’s head into her shoulder. Luke glanced at her.
“Aye, there is no doubt she was killed unlawfully, but she did not suffer, I can assure you of that.”
“How can you tell?”
“Had she struggled with her captor, there would be cuts on her hands and fingers, but there are none. She was overcome, doubtless by a blow to her head—look at this bruising here on her brow—and then laid in the tub and the fatal wounds inflicted.” He put his hand on the old woman’s arm. “I know this is no comfort to you, but I can truly tell you that Edith did not suffer in any way. She is with God and his angels now.”
She put her hand over his and looked directly into his eyes, entreaty clear in hers. “Master Ballard, the priest will not bury her because he says she took her own life, but my Edith would not do that. She was as God-fearing a maid as ever lived and would not put such a mortal sin on her soul.”
“I will talk to him, never fear. There is no doubt Edith was murdered and I will prove this to him. She will lie in consecrated ground. Bertila, will you help me to turn her over?”
Luke was unsure what instinct prompted this suggestion, but decided he must follow it up. When the girl’s back was exposed, he was pleased he had. For there, cut deep and clear into the white flesh, was the jagged shape of an eight-legged spider.
Chapter Seven
Luke ignored the sharply indrawn breaths from the two women.
“This is further proof that Edith was foully done to death,” he said, his voice thick with indignation. “Does the priest believe she cut her wrists and then carved this abomination into her back? Man of God?”
Only the warning squeeze of Bertila’s fingers on his arm stopped the flow of invective that hovered on the tip of his tongue. He had been aware of her puzzled expression, suspecting that she had seen the flash of the garnet in his hand followed by the sudden change in the old woman’s demeanor. However, she said nothing, doubtless trusting that he would explain in due course. Thank God for her reticence.
Luke inclined his head to Goodwife Brook, whilst at the same time wiping a small piece of linen along one of the wrist wounds in such a way that neither woman saw it. What the linen would tell him he did not know, but he determined to do all he could to ensure that Edith was indeed with God. This physical evidence from her earthly vessel might aid contact with her spirit.
“I prithee pardon my wrath, Goodwife. It seems so plain to me that Edith is innocent of the crime of self-murder that I am amazed others are unable to see it. Would you like me to visit the priest and arrange for Edith’s burial?”
Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks.
“Bless you, sir, for believing in my girl. I am certain that he will take more note of you than of a feeble old woman.”
“In that case, consider it done. I must now take my leave of you both. It is time Edith was given her rights.”
* * *
Luke had encountered the priest on several occasions and although dislike was not a common emotion with him, that was the only word to describe his feeling toward this man. A convert from Catholicism, Gerard Frayner used his recovery from the pox and his pitted face as proof that God smiled on the righteous. He was mindful enough to cloak the bombastic tyranny with which he ruled his flock in pious hypocrisy. Luke would have waged thirty pieces of silver that, should Mary Tudor ever succeed to the throne, this one would recant quicker than anyone could say Deo Gratias.
One of the tenets of the new religion upon which the King had insisted was that the churches should be made plainer and the services comprehensible to all. What a pity that this had not been extended to include the living quarters of the priests. Frayner’s house was ample for the largest of families. He lived alone, looked after by a cook and two servants, in a degree of comfort and opulence denied to most of his parishioners. Luke thanked Providence that he had put a shimmer spell on Joss. Frayner was just the kind of bully who would kick out at any creature he perceived to be weaker than himself.
“Master Apothecary, what brings you to my house?” Frayner asked, with a chilly smile.
“The burial rites for Edith Brook.”
The smile disappeared. “I will have no suicides in my graveyard.”
Luke planted his feet more firmly on the floor.
“The maid is innocent of such a crime and I can prove it. I would know who told you this calumny?”
“A source I would trust sooner than the word of a miserable apothecary. Suicide in that manner was a method commonly used by the heathen Romans. Do not think I am ignorant.”
Luke bowed, although his fists clenched and for one fleeting moment he longed to smash them into the man’s sneering face. The touch of Joss’s nose on his closed fingers brought him to his senses.
“I am sorry you doubt the veracity of my word. The child was in service with the Queen. You therefore compel me to bring this matter before Her Grace’s physician. No dou
bt you will accept his opinion where you refuse to admit mine?” He concentrated on keeping his voice light and unconcerned.
Frayner’s face turned a mottled red and all color fled from it. He forced a smile.
“I did not mean to belittle you, Master Ballard. I was informed that the girl had killed herself.”
“By whom?”
“I cannot recall. However, if you are willing to show me your proof and if I accept it, then I will conduct the girl’s burial and see that her body receives those rites as set down by the Church.”
Luke bowed again, more to hide the smile that rose unbidden to his lips than to show respect for the creature in front of him. It was not his habit to be so insistent, but if poor little Edith could be laid in holy ground, her soul had a better chance of salvation and might not be, as Luke feared, hovering twixt this world and the next.
“In that case, come with me now, sir. We can settle the matter within the hour.”
It was with grudging reluctance that Frayner admitted defeat. His initial argument was that Edith had fallen forward onto the edge of the tub causing the bruise on her forehead. This, he maintained was due to shock at the cuts she had self-administered. Luke demonstrated beyond doubt that the priest was wrong. He pointed out the injury on the girl’s back, at which point Frayner’s manner changed to one of oily condescension peppered with bad grace.
Goodwife Brook was too voluble in her gratitude to notice Frayner’s haughty mien, but Luke felt the priest’s eyes resting on him and met his gaze. He stared the man out, in no doubt that he had made an enemy. One who would grasp the first opportunity to avenge any perceived slight.
* * *
Gwenette Paige stood immobile behind the Queen Mother’s chair. Although the pregnant Madeleine had wanted to attend, she was fatigued and Henry decided it best she rest in her apartments. In her absence the King had requested that his mother appear at the banquet with him.
Although nobody knew Anne Boleyn’s age, it was certain that she approached her half-century or mayhap had already passed it. Gwenette was one of the favored few who knew her mistress tired more easily these days. Despite rumors to the contrary, she had been more than willing to give way to her daughter-in-law in matters of precedent, pomp and ceremony. That Henry and Madeleine had fallen in love was an added bonus. The prospect of an heir within a year of the wedding was the best of all possible outcomes. Gwenette was happy to see the Queen Mother now free from the constant anxiety that had marred her serenity since the death of Great Harry.
After four years on the throne Henry IX had grown into his position. There would always be plots, jealousies and jostling at court, but they were no longer Queen Anne’s primary concern. The first twenty-five years of Great Harry’s reign had been overshadowed by the need for an heir, and in a moment of candor, Anne had told Gwenette that she considered it her duty to ensure history did not repeat itself.
It was with a frisson of shock that Gwenette realized her mistress was more on edge than she had been since before the royal marriage. Anne’s head turned constantly from side to side examining the throng crowded onto the tables in the Great Hall. Her shoulders were stiff with tension and she only toyed with the wild boar and capon on her gold plate.
Gwenette bent to whisper in Anne’s right ear.
“Madam, what ails you? Are you unwell?”
Anne did not move her head, but muttered from the side of her mouth.
“Can you not feel it?”
“Feel what, Your Grace?”
“The air is thick enough to slice with a dagger. Some mischief is afoot. Observe and be ready to pull the King away should anything happen.”
The words frightened Gwenette more than anything she could remember. She began to watch the diners, starting with the lords at the high table. Although most ate and conversed in undertones with their neighbors, one noticed her scrutiny and met her gaze with raised eyebrows. In the dark eyes underneath, she sensed his sudden interest and her involuntary gasp was noted by her mistress. Anne looked up, meeting the man’s eyes. He smiled and inclined his head.
“Senor Fuentes,” breathed Queen Anne to Gwenette, masking her words with a smile. “A cunning rat who leaves no stone unturned in his attempt to promote his master. Much as we do not trust him, we do not think the danger comes from him.”
Gwenette resumed her study of the diners, many of whom were eating as if they did not know when the next meal would be served. One fat slubberdegullion, grease running unchecked down his chin and onto his coat, continued to shovel venison and sturgeon into his ever-open mouth.
Gwenette’s stomach flicked with a spasm of nausea. She wrenched her gaze away from him to a spindly clerk, his eyes fixed on his plate, using his dagger to cut his pigeon into tiny pieces before slipping each sliver between his lips.
The tables were closely packed with less-than-fragrant bodies and heaped with hot, steaming food. The great number of people made the air fetid and, together with the raucous blare of the minstrels’ cornetts, Gwenette’s head began to spin. It was as if a mist shimmered over the room, and she knew that if she did not leave, she would swoon. A hand grasped hers. Queen Anne had divined the state of her servant’s queasiness and was willing her to breathe deeply and overcome it.
A few moments later Gwenette’s vision cleared. She looked around the hall again and met the calculating gaze of a fair-haired woman, dressed in red, whom she recognized as having once been at court, but whom she had not seen for many months. The woman’s nostrils flared and, with a mocking smile, she turned back to her meat, making some quip to her companions. Gwenette had no means of hearing her words, but the woman’s expression needed no clarification, and she felt the blood rush to her face.
Deliberately turning her head away, Gwenette made a point of surveying the other diners. Try as she might, she could not prevent her gaze returning to the woman in the red dress. Mayhap it was the red that drew her eye. All she knew for certain was that this unknown’s presence disturbed her. So much so, she bent to speak to her mistress.
“Your Grace? There is a bold-faced wench in a red dress sitting against the north wall close to the Horn Room door. She seems familiar but I cannot place her.”
Queen Anne picked up a morsel from her plate and turned her head in the direction indicated. Gwenette sensed her stiffen momentarily, but she recovered quickly and carried on eating. Then Gwenette saw Anne’s head turn towards her son.
“Your Majesty, do you not think we should drink a toast to the Queen and ask everyone to pray for her safe delivery?”
Henry turned to face his mother.
“Madam, my dearest mother, that is a charming suggestion.”
He rose to his feet and the hubbub ceased on the instant. As the King raised his goblet and proposed the toast for his most dearly beloved Queen Madeleine, Gwenette knew that the Queen Mother would be watching for the woman in the red dress to react. Anne Boleyn’s shoulders dropped in sudden relaxation as the woman’s smile was replaced by a thin angry line. From her height advantage, Gwenette could also see her fist clenched in anger and mortification. A warning touch from one of her companions and the woman seemed to remember where she was. There was no doubting that, for a moment, she had been consumed by rage and in that instant, Gwenette had recognized her.
When the buzz of conversation resumed, Gwenette bent again to her mistress’s ear.
“Madam, is that who I think it is?”
Anne turned to her, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.
“Yes, Gwenette, that is the Lady Ysabel Broome, lately the King’s mistress, although he never brought her here. A calculating jade and one whose nose was truly thumbed when it became apparent that His Majesty wanted no more to do with her once he was married. I understood she had retired to the country.”
“She is no threat to the Queen?”
Anne’s head turned back towards Lady Ysabel, who was now laughing into the face of her nearest companion.
“She should
not be, ’tis true, but we will keep an eye on her nonetheless.”
Gwenette nodded. It was more than likely that the slut was scheming for a return to the King’s favor. Even Great Harry had been known to stray fleetingly from the marital bed. Mayhap that was the danger Queen Anne had sensed. In addition, the hall was closely packed, making the chamber stifling. No wonder Gwenette felt unwell. She had permitted her imagination to run away with her.
In the doorway, she saw the procession forming for the highlight of the feast to be brought in. Would it be swan or peacock, or had the kitchens produced something even more spectacular? The fanfare sounded as pages, all clad in green and white, shouldered huge covered silver dishes and paraded around the room. It was part of the ritual that all platters should be placed on the tables and the lids lifted off at the same instant.
As a spectacle, Gwenette thought that few ceremonies bettered it. The gold trim on the sleeves of the pages glittered in the glow of the candles, sending shards of white light shooting across the wall hangings. Shining silver lids magnified the candles’ radiance until the whole room seemed bathed in bright sunshine. At a signal, the pages bent and lifted the lids from the platters with a flourish.
After one moment of frozen horror writ clear on the diners’ faces, screams rent the air. Men and women sprang away from the tables, trampling each other in their haste to flee, thrusting aside any who hindered their passage.
The King leapt to his feet, and it was only supreme discipline that kept Gwenette standing immobile behind Queen Anne. For instead of revealing elaborately adorned roast swans and peacocks, the removal of the lids let loose hundreds upon hundreds of frogs. All alive, jumping in every direction, but especially towards the astounded monarch.
Chapter Eight
Luke walked home feeling that his victory was a Pyrrhic one.
“I didn’t do that very well, girl,” he said to Joss. “Indeed I seem to specialize in making enemies. First Nimrod, now Frayner. There’s a man who will never be happy unless he is causing grief to some poor soul who has no power.” He shook his head before a new thought struck him, one that made him chuckle. “Having to adhere to the new rules for priests must be like swallowing nails. How I would love to see him confront Archbishop Cranmer.”