by April Taylor
“Time we were gone, Joss,” he muttered and, keeping tight to the walls of the palace, they crept out into the park.
* * *
“Pass the purslane, Bertila. Now this is how you measure the dose and, mark me well, it must be exact or you stand to make the patient more ill than he already is.”
Bertila watched with total concentration as her father measured out the required amount and added it to the other components in the mortar. Leaning over Corbin’s shoulder, she almost jogged his elbow.
“Keep your distance, girl, or we will have to begin again, and that would be a waste of the emeralds.”
Bertila jumped back and collided with the little maid she had employed for household duties since her own time was now taken up assisting Corbin.
“Katelyn, what on earth is the matter, girl? Do not creep up on me like a cutpurse in the market.” Her voice was sharper than she intended and Bertila sighed as she saw water come into the child’s eyes.
“Marry, do not cry. Please just learn to be more careful.”
“If you please, mistress, we have run out of sand for scouring the knives.”
“I will see to it.” Bertila moved to look out of the window into the small back garden. “The weather is good. You may wash the dirty linen. I made soap yesterday.”
Corbin had paused during the interruption. Now he watched the girl scurry back towards the kitchen.
“How is she doing?”
“She is willing enough and respectful, but I would be happier if she could see what work needs doing without coming to question me ten times a day.”
“‘Tis early days, daughter. Let us see how she progresses.”
“Now I know why Luke does not take on a housekeeper. If I find Katelyn a source of irritation, just think how much a meddling wench would drive him to Bedlam.”
Corbin laughed. “How does he fare? Did I not see you creeping out with a basket of food for the rascal?”
“Father, I did not creep. Master Panton said that Luke has been working every hour treating the sickness. I knew he would not have time for anything other than basic bread, cheese and pottage. Do not tell me you begrudge him a few pies and pasties.”
“When they are made by your fair hands, my duck, I do.” Corbin laughed again, but his face grew serious. “If only he felt for you as a husband should, I could die happy, knowing that you were well protected and cared for.”
“What is this talk of dying?” Bertila kept the shake out of her voice with an effort, but the sudden dryness in her throat made her cough. She shook her head, determined to banish the dizziness that overwhelmed her when she thought of her father’s death. A world without the strength of his love seemed impossible.
“Nay, girl, fear not. I have no intention of dying, even though at times I long to be with your mother. All I meant was...”
“I know what you meant, Father. There is no point in returning to the argument.”
“I must talk to Will,” Corbin said. “I am sure that should anything happen to me, he will take you in and care for you.”
“Will I could cope with,” Bertila said, frowning. “I am not so sure about Sabina, especially when she is with child. We are like curds and whey, happier when separate.”
“Aye,” Corbin replied. “I have a notion she leads Will a merry dance at times.”
The sound of distant knocking made them both look up from the potion Corbin had been mixing as they talked. Katelyn’s shoes scrabbled across the floor and they could hear her struggling to unlatch the main door. A buzz of conversation followed and a loud hectoring voice made Bertila and Corbin frown at each other.
Curious, they both walked out of the workshop and towards the voice.
* * *
Will Quayne watched from his desk as Clifford Parry, pen in hand, shook his head over the accounts from the Queen’s kitchen. Much against his wishes, he had been transferred to the Chamberlain’s department to help him with the day-to-day running of the Queen’s affairs.
Master William Petrie had been unapologetic but sympathetic. Chamberlain Parry was not popular, being a pedant with no real head for organization. Petrie urged Will to patience and to think of his time with Parry as a stepping-stone to something more agreeable.
And Petrie had been correct. Will did not like his new master. Parry’s arrogant condescension especially towards the pages and lower servants disgusted him. In Will’s opinion his haughty demeanor was matched only by his sloth and inefficiency. The man was always complaining about how much the household spent when his mistress constantly craved sweetmeats and things that were usually out of season.
Parry was currently droning a stream of complaints in an undertone, causing Will to be glad when a shadow fell across them from the doorway. Father Reynard, the Queen’s confessor, looked down at the Chamberlain.
“Busy balancing the monies, Master Parry?”
“Indeed and a hard job it is when the Queen takes it into her head in the middle of April that she cannot live another moment without apricots in sugar, when stocks ran out in March. That does not take into account the amount of hippocras, cinnamon and spices we have had to purchase since she has been with child.”
Reynard burst into guffaws of laughter. “Never fear, Her Grace will soon be delivered.”
“And we all pray it will be a healthy boy,” Parry replied with a fervor that almost made Will burst out laughing.
“Indeed we do. The realm needs a prince. In the meantime, we must do our best to make sure that the Queen has all she needs and is not in any way troubled, which means more headaches for you, Master Parry.”
“I am honored to serve Her Grace.”
“As am I. Come, let us share a goblet or two of wine before meat. I am sure your royal mistress would not begrudge you that.”
Parry rose stiffly to his feet. “I have been sitting for too long,” he said. “Some wine and agreeable company would be a benison.”
Will could not keep the smile from rising to his lips. For all that Parry complained of his responsibilities, being at the beck and call of the Queen, he felt sure that the Chamberlain found ample compensation in the number and rank of people who now wished to be in his favor. Only two days before, Fuentes, the Spanish ambassador, had similarly invited Parry to share a bottle of Malaga wine with some crystallized fruit. Will knew only too well of his master’s reputation as a gossip and marveled that the man had not yet deduced that these people did not really want his company. Fuentes, in particular, was a past master at the art of inducing people to chatter.
“I have had a delivery today from the estates in Bordeaux,” Reynard smiled. “Let us see if it is as special as it promises.”
Parry, turning to show his clerk how important people craved his company, caught Will midsmirk. His voice took on an acid tone.
“You may go and inspect this morning’s delivery of flour, sugar and spices, Quayne. Be warned, I shall double-check your figures. Go now and do not tarry.”
Will caught up a clean piece of paper and thrust his inkhorn into his sleeve. Of all the things he hated most, auditing supplies was the worst, and Parry knew it. Will allowed none of his resentment to show, but merely bowed and left on his errand. Pausing at the corner to look back, he noted that Parry, in his haste to accompany Reynard, had neglected to put away the Queen’s accounts or lock the door to the office.
* * *
Luke sat in his kitchen, hands clasped round a jack of ale, staring down into the golden liquid. Everything was such a hotchpotch that he could make sense of nothing that had happened. In his mind he could hear Elemagus Dufay’s voice telling him to unravel the different threads one by one and then put them together again to see what patterns emerged.
Spooning meat from one of Bertila’s pies, he chewed, deep in thought. The events were clear enough. Two lots of writing on walls, complete with the spider symbol, which had also been carved into the back of the maidservant after her wrists had been slit. Someone with a maladjus
ted sense of humor letting loose hundreds of frogs at the royal banquet.
The girl’s death apart, the events could be seen as innocuous. Were they separate from the murder or did the whole thing combine to make a logical explanation, albeit one he could not yet fathom?
Luke sipped his ale and thought through possible rationalizations. He must observe, assess, analyze and only then, form a plan of action. Something itched at the back of his mind, but concentrate as he may, he could not bring it forward. Everything that had happened had to be connected. The writing. Two messages referring to false gods and a tyrant. Or was it simply that some young blood could have painted the words to set the maids screaming, possibly so that he could comfort one in particular? The first attempts failed, so he did it again when the court moved to Hampton. A fine notion but one that did not account for the spider.
Who but Nimrod could have killed the maid, and who but a woman could gain access to the Queen’s apartments unnoticed? That did not mean that Nimrod was in truth a woman, just disguised as one.
Leaving the murder aside, what about the frogs? Who in their right mind would collect together hundreds of the wretched creatures, a feat that must have taken a long, long time, and then release them in the middle of a royal feast? It was a reckless act. Henry was certain to be so enraged that he would take all necessary steps to discover the perpetrator.
The murder of little Edith Brook was in a different league, and quite what part she played in this tangle was anybody’s conjecture. The device carved into her back implied that the writing and her death were linked in some way. There was an easy way to prove this. If the same hand had performed both deeds, then the pieces of linen in his scrip, the one from the wounds on the dead girl and the other from the writing on the wall, must be related.
Walking into his shop, he went over the ingredients for the bonding spell. The spell needed all his focus even though in essence it was one of the simplest to perform. Any lapse in his concentration and the elements would split asunder, like curdled eggs. He blended the potion, dividing it between two bowls. He then dipped the cloth with which he had wiped Edith’s arm into the left-hand bowl and the cloth with red ink from the wall into the right-hand one, ordering them to reveal their secrets.
At first he thought he had made a mistake in the spell because nothing happened. If the events were related, they should leap into the air and try to bond. He reviewed his actions. No, the spell was correct. That must mean his theory had been wrong. Luke’s shoulders sagged.
Just as he was about to tip the contents of each bowl away, a faint stream of vapor rose from the bowl on the right and transferred itself to the one on the left. He released the breath he had not known he was holding and nodded in satisfaction.
“So, you are each part of the whole. I knew it,” he said, lifting out the cloth from the left—hand bowl into which the vapor had descended. The red ink had also transferred to the one from the right-hand bowl, thus proving that they were linked to the same person, but was it the killer or the girl? He picked the bowl up but stood transfixed with shock when a red mist swirled above the inky cloth. The sudden rush of heat made him drop the dish, and when he looked down, the cloth had been consumed, leaving behind a pool of red viscous liquid. Luke swallowed and muttered up a prayer. He knew that coppery, salty smell. The writing had not been done with ink, but with blood. Was it that fact that had slowed the action of the spell? Joss growled, making him jump. Looking round, he could see no cause for her unease, but she continued to grumble in the back of her throat.
He dropped to the settle in front of his counter, trying to make sense of what he had discovered. The murderer of Edith Brook had not only written those words on the wall and signed them with the spider symbol, he had used the girl’s blood to do it. How had he obtained it before her death? For it was certain that the writing had appeared on the wall before the girl had been killed. There was, of course, only one logical answer, and Luke’s mouth dried as he considered that solution and its implications. Although he had knowledge of the sang-tireur, this was the first time he had encountered it. Goose pimples stood on his arms, making him shiver. The sang-tireur was an evil spell whereby a sorcerer could draw blood at will from his victim, rather like one would milk a cow, whilst keeping the poor unfortunates behaving as usual but not in charge of their minds or bodies. This had to mean that Edith had been in the enemy’s thrall for some time. A whole new raft of possibilities had arisen, including more evidence that his adversary was indeed a sunderer, one of the highest abilities and a member of Custodes Tenebris. Nimrod.
He was given no time to ponder further because Will Quayne burst in through the door, his hair disheveled, face red from the exertion of running. His breath came in gasping whoops. Joss leapt to place herself in front of Luke, who sprang up, his experiment forgotten. He grabbed his friend’s arm.
“Will? What is amiss?”
“You must come, Luke. They have taken father and Bertila. They say her scar was eliminated by sorcery. They are both charged with witchcraft.”
Chapter Ten
“Who has taken them? Where?”
Luke pushed Will down onto the settle and poured out a goblet of wine, slipping in a few drops of the calming serenity mix he usually gave swooning maidens. Will downed the contents in one draught. His free hand continually combed through his dark hair, but the wild look faded from his eyes.
“I went to see him. We have not been close of late. My fault. Sabina is with child again and things are not as harmonious at home as usual.”
“Why did you choose today to go?”
“I cannot say in truth. I have been working at my desk all morning, and the urge to see Bertila grew stronger and stronger until I decided I could not put it off a moment longer. I arrived at the house to find the new maid weeping in the fireplace. By dint of soft words and cajoling, I finally found out that the Hampton priest, Frayner, had come with four officers, accused Father and Bertila of witchcraft and escorted them away, although what authority he has in Hampton Wick, I do not know.”
“How could anyone think that of either of them? Unless, of course, it is Frayner’s revenge for me forcing him to promise Christian burial to poor Edith Brook. Surely no priest would go so far with such an obviously fabricated charge as this?”
“They said that Bertila’s face being made whole and unblemished after so many years of disfigurement was plainly the work of the evil one. I went to see Sir William Petrie to explain that a medical specialist had cured her of an inner malady last year, but he refuses to involve himself.”
“That does not surprise me,” Luke said, kicking the settle. “Sir William would not cross a road to help a friend if he thought there was the faintest chance of a galloping horse happening along. Where have they taken them?”
“I do not know. None will tell me. Luke, can you send for your doctor friend and ask him to explain how he repaired the damage done by the acid?”
“Alas, Will, he is in France. However, I will see what I can do. Small comfort for you, my friend, but try not to worry. What concerns me more is why Frayner is involved and to what extent. What do you know of him?”
“Very little. He is lately come to the Hampton preferment, having been, I believe, in the west country.”
“His accent is not of the west.”
Will’s voice sharpened in impatience.
“I did not say he came from the west country, just that he has spent time there. Doing what, I have no idea. His family is said to be wealthy with friends at court and he has been educated to an unusually high degree for a priest. I am told he speaks Greek, Italian and Spanish with equal fluency.”
Luke’s ears pricked.
“Spanish? That is interesting. I wonder that he is content to take on such a small, unimportant parish when with those accomplishments he could have the pick of the London livings.”
Will shook his friend’s arm.
“We waste time, Luke. Even now they could be putting
my sister to pains, and you stand there bumbling on about the priest. You introduced this doctor. Get them out of their prison. You know what they will endure. Can you not envisage them tied to hurdles and dangling at the end of the rope? Do something. Do it now. Save my father and sister.”
Leaving Luke staring after him, Will turned and shouldered his way out of the door.
This, of course, was the one thing all elemancers feared. Bound as they were to do good where and when they could, such kindness left elemancers in danger. Those of a malevolent disposition would twist anything charitable and bring evil knocking at the most innocent of doors. Sunderers hid their foul deeds under a blanket of darkness and vanished. There was no protection for elemancers. The common belief was that all magic was evil. Thus, the ability to perform white magic, by definition, conferred the ability to perform black magic. The punishment was the same whether the magic be good or bad.
Luke wished that Elemagus Dufay were here or that he could make telepathic contact with him. He pondered on the Queen Mother’s comment, speculating on the timing of this French visit.
Who could possibly have reported the change in Bertila’s appearance? Then he remembered Goodwife Brook’s remark about Bertila having lost her scar. And Frayner had been into that house to look at Edith’s body. Could it really be as simple as that? There could be no other explanation. The scar had been eradicated for almost twelve months and nobody had made any kind of protest. Luke frowned. He could bear to know why the supercilious priest had been given the Hampton living if he was so well connected, unless he had been put here for some fell purpose. Which led to another question. The Quaynes lived in Hampton Wick, not Hampton, so, in theory, Frayner had no authority over them.
That, however, was no help to Corbin and Bertila at this moment. Luke could not hold back his fears any longer even though he knew it would do nothing to help his friends. There was a time for logic, and a time for allowing dread and terror full sway and coming to terms with it. His legs gave way and Joss nosed him towards the settle before he fell to the floor.