by April Taylor
All knew the depth of Henry’s adherence to the new faith. As well as devising a new prayer book, something with which the King had been much involved, Cranmer had recently decreed that priests could marry. Vociferous protests from Catholics had been countered by an official decree that marriage was a gift from God, not a state for weak-minded men. To Luke, it appeared perfectly logical. How could any priest understand the problems that beset families when he had no experience of them?
Protestantism seemed unstoppable. Even James of Scotland had been happy to compromise his faith and that of his daughter so long as there was the likelihood of a Stuart grandson of his sitting on the English throne. If achieving that meant Madeleine converting, so be it.
Luke wondered how that knowledge resonated with Reynard, the Queen’s confessor. Not well, he conjectured. Henry’s influence over Madeleine grew daily. Luke prayed that when the inevitable occurred, Father Reynard would accept it with good grace.
Once home, Luke sat near the fire, staring into the flames and trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. He was seldom as ill at ease as this after a day’s work. Mayhap now he had settled his body into repose, he could permit his mind full rein to ponder on the disquieting events of the last twenty-four hours.
His gaze rested on Rob, tongue protruding in concentration, ostensibly studying his letters at the table. He had expressed a wish to help Luke more in the shop and for that, he needed not just to read and write but also to perform basic calculations. Luke was aware that the boy’s focus was divided for he glanced up from time to time, a look of concern on his face.
“Keep your mind on your words, lad. They deserve better than half your attention.”
“It’s you, Luke. You sit as if your chair were a skittish mare and you unsure how to handle her.”
Luke sprang to his feet just as his vision began to falter.
“Something is afoot. I thought it was the residue of a busy day, but it is...” He felt rather than saw Rob’s hands steer him back to the chair and the weight of Joss’s head on his leg. Then darkness overtook him.
He found himself in a beam of white light that rendered his surroundings even darker than they already were. Looking around, he surmised he was in a chamber. His nostrils were assailed by the smell of rotting flesh, so much so that he covered his nose with one hand.
High-pitched sniggering came from one corner, followed by a cry of pain. It was the cry of a child, frightened, lost and in terror. The giggling began again, once more preceding the child’s piteous scream. Was this Nimrod and was the shrieking the sound of Edith Brook’s tortured soul? Whoever was tormenting the child appeared oblivious to Luke’s presence.
Helpless rage swept through him. What could he do to help this poor innocent? He relaxed his shoulders and concentrated. He could not hope to stop Nimrod, but he might be able to spoil his fun with the velamin incantation. It would interrupt the flow of the enemy’s magic. Luke gathered his energy into a silver ball that spun in his open hand. Just as Nimrod became aware of his presence, Luke threw the ball in the direction of the crying child. The sound stopped to be followed by a scream of rage from his adversary. The shaft of malice directed at him was enough to throw him out of the chamber and into a struggle with Rob. The boy had grasped him by the upper arms.
“Luke. It is me. It is me. You must sit down. You are grey and shivering.”
Joss, on her hind legs, put her front paws onto his chest, and it was this that finally brought him out of the murky darkness of the trance. He waited, gasping for air, until Rob handed him a beaker of the ruby restorative. Luke downed it in one gulp.
“What did you see?”
“I saw nothing, lad. I smelled decomposing bodies. There was a child being tortured.”
“Who by?”
“I assume Nimrod.” He saw Rob’s confusion and hastily explained the Queen Mother’s theory that giving their enemy a name made focusing upon him easier.
“A fitting name. And you think this Nimrod holds Edith’s soul in thrall?”
“Possibly. I’ve managed to stop his little game for a while. He is not happy with me, for I mirrored his own spell back on to him.”
“Can you not use your talent to discover the child’s name? Surely if it is a soul in torment, you are permitted?”
“Would that it were so easy, lad. I must sit and think on this.”
A thunderous knocking interrupted them. They exchanged glances.
“But not now,” Rob said, striding to the door.
* * *
King Henry had taken charge of the chaos in his Great Hall, bellowing commands that none dared disobey. One sideways glance from him had his mother demonstrating her usual courage. With Gwenette’s help, she calmly shepherded the women, most of who were in various stages of hysteria, through to the Watching Chamber.
Order was restored within a short time, the King himself striding around the Great Hall, seizing frogs and casting them into barrels half-filled with ale to drown them. He then ordered the barrels to be sealed and emptied into the river the next morning.
That he endeavored to hide his rage was testament to his determination that nothing must be permitted to shock his wife into losing his son. He had no doubt that those with swift feet and even swifter tongues would soon be carrying the news to her. Worse, the tale would lose nothing in the telling. To all he must appear calm and unconcerned.
Once the frogs had been captured, the King summoned all to regain their seats and ordered the feast to continue. Notable amongst the women who walked past curtseying to their monarch was Lady Ysabel Broome. She swept him a deep obeisance, ensuring that he viewed her ample charms.
In his peripheral vision, Henry noted his mother’s return. He saw Ysabel’s insolent gaze shift direction for an instant before she rose and moved towards her seat. Annoyed that he had allowed himself to be used by her to discomfit his mother, he clapped his hands and called for quiet.
“There is nothing to fear,” he said. “We surmise some jest has miscarried, that is all.” He gestured to the pages. “We would like our roast swan. Now.”
Only that last word, spat like an arrow leaving the bow, gave any indication that the King was in the least perturbed. He sat back in his chair, his black eyes scanning the room, whilst seeming to be completely at ease, a slight smile on his face. Whoever had perpetrated this atrocity would suffer the consequences. He waved to indicate that his guests should continue and leaned towards his mother, his hand shielding his mouth so that none could read his words.
“Where is my Inquirer?”
Queen Anne, skilled in playing the same game, smiled as if he had shared a merry quip.
“My son, he has his orders and will obey. I am concerned that this matter is more serious than we at first supposed.”
Henry gazed again over the diners.
“I will not have anything frighten Madeleine.”
He saw that his mother understood him. She inclined her head.
“Have no fear, I shall attend her and tell her of the tremendous jest that one of the mischievous scullions in the kitchen has played on us.”
“Make sure that you reach her before some panic-stricken serving woman or trouble causer.”
“My lord, I shall go now. There is one thing I think we need to keep in mind.”
The King looked up at her.
“Apart from the insult to our person?”
“Aye, Henry. The hall was overrun by frogs. This could be a less than subtle reference, mayhap even a plot to threaten the treaty with France signed upon your marriage.” She paused to allow her words to sink in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And who save the Spanish would benefit from such a conspiracy?”
* * *
Rob paused before opening the door, looking back at Luke, who nodded. Byram Creswell, Captain of the King’s Personal Bodyguard, stood outside, an expression of impatience on his face. He greeted Rob in haste, asking for Luke, who stepped out from the kitchen.
&nbs
p; “Well met, Captain. A pleasant surprise. Come and take ale.”
“No time, Luke. The King summons you. I will tell you what I know as we go.”
Luke and Rob exchanged glances.
“I may not come into the palace, Byram. I have been treating those with the sickness. Surely His Majesty knows that.”
“It is neither my place nor yours to question the King’s commands, Master Apothecary. You may be sure that if the King wants to see you, he will expect you to take the appropriate precautions to ensure his health.”
Luke inclined his head. He knew Creswell to be a friend. The captain’s gruff manner indicated a deal of disquiet.
“Where am I to go?” he asked.
“The tennis court. And alone,” Creswell added. “You are not required, Master Panton.”
“I seldom am,” Rob replied, grinning. “This is one of those times when I am glad I do not hanker after exalted company. I am much safer staying at home. I shall wait up for you, Luke.”
“What’s happened?” Luke asked as he and Byram strode through the Orchard toward the east side of the palace and the great closed tennis court.
“Someone has upset the royal temper by interrupting his dinner.”
“What is that to do... Wait. How did they interrupt it? Is anyone hurt?”
“No, but the King is in a fair old rage, Luke. Somebody filled up the closed platters with frogs instead of roast swan. The result was chaos. Thank God the Queen Mother was there to help. I think the young Queen would have had hysterics. Watch yourself. He is liable to go up like a firework.”
Byram pulled open the door into the corridor outside the tennis court. Luke shivered. The building might resemble a chapel, but the interior was painted black and its vast windows were covered in red mesh. He walked through the door onto the court itself and looked up to the spectators’ gallery, expecting it to be lined with guards. It was empty.
Henry, accompanied by a stout courtier, paced the width of the court some little way from the net strung across the middle. He pointed to a spot on the other side and Luke, after bowing, walked to it, Joss at his heels. Henry scowled and for one awful moment, Luke thought the King could see the greyspring. Bringing any animal into the palace, other than the King’s and Queen’s personal pets, was punishable by death. However, Henry continued to glare at his Inquirer but Luke’s breathing eased by a few degrees. The King was indeed furious, but it was an anger more than tinged with fear, and although it might be directed at his Inquirer, Luke knew he was not the cause of it.
“My lord of Sussex, pray make sure we are undisturbed and unheard,” the King said, his gaze still fixed on Luke.
“Sire,” the man answered, gesturing Creswell to check the building for unwanted listeners.
A few moments later, Luke heard the outer door close. He was alone with his monarch. He bowed again.
“Your Majesty, how may I aid you?”
“You are aware of the condition of our Queen and the importance of the son she carries. We are determined that nothing should affect her well-being. Has Captain Creswell told you of the outrage at the feast?”
“Sire, he has. You think the frogs were loosed on purpose to shock the Queen? That in itself is interesting. I understand that the Queen Mother resided instead of Queen Madeleine. That being the case, did they either not know that the Queen was resting, or not care?”
Henry paced up and down once more, pounding his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Why would you assume I know the answer to that? Elucidation of these problems is part of your remit, Master Apothecary. The decision for Madeleine to rest was only lately made and not widely known. My mother thinks this incident was perpetrated by those who threaten the peace of the kingdom as well as our domestic harmony.”
The fact that the King used his wife’s given name was further confirmation of his anxiety. Luke took a deep breath. His next words would either calm the King or make his anger explode.
“And this follows close upon the murder of the girl found in Her Grace’s apartments,” Luke said.
The King swung round to face him.
“You believe the two are connected?”
“I do not know, Sire, but if there is a plot to threaten the Queen’s health, it would be a logical deduction.”
Henry resumed his pacing.
“We must have a son. I do not want to suffer as my dearest father did for want of an heir.”
Luke looked at this most powerful of men. Approaching his seventeenth birthday, Henry IX already stood as tall as Great Harry. The continuance of the Tudor line was outside his sphere of control. Bitter medicine for a man accustomed to his every whim being satisfied. However, it was well-known that he had inherited Anne Boleyn’s quick mind and sharp intellect. Above all Henry was a practical man. He would have taken every step to safeguard his Queen.
“What conclusions have you drawn thus far in your investigation, Master Ballard?”
“Sire, I will not deceive you. I have not yet discovered enough information to make deductions or conclusions.”
“Then you had best make haste. My beloved mother thinks there may be a threat from the Spanish against the recent treaty with France. Mayhap you could begin with that and see where it leads. Or must we rule our country single-handed, sorting out every difficulty that presents itself?”
Luke shivered at the implication of that sentence ground out between gritted teeth.
“Your Majesty, I would willingly give my life to ensure the safety of you and your family, but even I cannot make bricks without straw.”
Henry stopped pacing and stood in a pose reminiscent of his father, fists clenched on hips, his eyes narrowed.
“What would you have us do, Apothecary? Sit and whimper in fear whilst some unknown miscreant threatens our house? Or run like a whipped dog in the hope that this peril does not follow?”
Henry’s already furious expression darkened further as his voice rose. Luke dropped to his knees, his stomach lurching in panic. Henry’s rages were quite as formidable as those of his father, and though Luke had a sneaking suspicion that he used them carefully, it was unwise to underestimate Great Harry’s cub. Luke’s would not be the first neck to be stretched because of his monarch’s displeasure. Joss nuzzled his hand in an effort to ease his terror.
“Your Majesty, may I speak plainly?” For a few moments, Luke thought he had gone too far. The King’s lips flattened into an angry line, but he nodded. “I think it would be wise to change the Queen’s apartments, at least until the matter is cleared up.”
“Why?”
“They are a constant reminder of the girl’s death and therefore not healthful for Her Grace. I believe the Queen would be more comfortable away from the scene of the horror. I understand from Mistress Paige that the Queen refuses to sleep there. A change would put Your Majesty’s mind at rest.”
It might also disrupt Nimrod’s activities, but, of course, Luke did not mention that.
“A sound notion. We will consider it.” Henry raised an admonitory finger. “But understand this, Master Ballard. You will find the miscreants who have perpetrated this outrage against our person. If a link exists between the incidents, find it.” He glared directly into Luke’s eyes. “And quickly before our Queen’s fears endanger our son.”
Turning on his heel, the King stalked out. The slamming of the door echoed round the tennis court. Luke closed his eyes and swallowed. He knew, few better, what punishments would be called down on his head should he fail his mission, and, elemancer or no, they would be protracted and excruciating. So much so that death would be a welcome release.
Chapter Nine
Luke’s sleep, punctuated as it was with recurrent visions of a dangling noose, provided little rest. Each time the rope was placed over his head, merciful providence woke him before the terror of the hempen hornpipe could begin.
In consequence, he hauled himself out of bed whilst it was still night, red-eyed and hollow-
cheeked, a good while before the designated change of guard. Knowing that the guards would be less vigilant as night progressed, he planned his foray on the wall near the Chapel Royal to coincide with the darkness before dawn in the hope of evading detection.
Tucking the ingredients for the spell in his sleeve, Luke spent a few moments in his inner chamber of serenity endeavoring to calm his mind before invoking a shimmer spell for Joss and a cloaking one for himself. So long as he did not hurry and remained unflustered, all would be well.
He reached his objective and began to assemble the revelation spell, working without haste. The slower and more thoroughly he incorporated the ingredients, the more time he would have to examine the results. Of all the things that experience and Elemagus Dufay had taught him, avoidance of speed in invoking spells was the most important. He sometimes suspected that Dufay had made a special point of the time issue in magic. Luke knew lack of patience to be one of his most persistent faults and labored to rectify it. As he mixed his potion, his ears and senses remained alert for the sound of anyone approaching or any kind of surveillance.
Taking a deep breath and chanting the incantation, Luke flicked drops of the liquid spell on the wall. A minute later, he stepped back to examine the words revealed in a dull rusty red on the previously pristine surface.
Following the words “Let my people go” was the jagged spider shape. He cursed under his breath and stroked his beard. Confirmation, were any needed, that the evil overhanging the palace emanated from Nimrod. At the sight of the arachnoid’s legs, a collective symbol of the simultaneous spread of chaos and destruction in multiple directions, Luke could not prevent helpless confusion flooding through him. How could he, one man, fight on so many fronts at once?
The letters began to fade and he only had time to dampen a piece of linen in the spell liquid and wipe it across the wording. The cloth retained the color of the writing. He nodded, satisfied, and put it away carefully in his scrip. By the time he looked back at the wall, it was clear and clean.