Taste of Treason

by April Taylor

  He pictured Bertila’s anguish and thanked God that witches were not tortured in England as they were in the rest of Europe. For a girl of Bertila’s reserve and timidity, the examination of her naked body for the Devil’s teat would be horror enough. The great love between father and daughter also ensured that their distress would be heightened by not knowing what tribulations the other suffered.

  Of course, there was one person whose aid he could invoke. Luke ran up the stairs slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. Making a heroic effort to calm his breathing and cease the tumult in his head, he snatched the small vial of rose, musk and ambergris from its hiding place beneath a floorboard. The strength of the plea he sent to Queen Anne Boleyn had her responding so quickly he could hear the tremor in her voice.

  “Master Ballard, what is amiss?”

  “Your Grace, I must beg for your aid in the matter of my friends.”

  Her voice adopted an icy tone. “Explain.”

  Luke did, his stumbling story so unlike his usual manner that he felt some of Queen Anne’s ice thaw.

  “You have our sympathy, Master Ballard, but there is no way we can become involved in such a situation. Your friends will have to sink or swim.”

  Hot words bubbled to Luke’s lips. That she should use the phrase for the testing of witches in such a flippant manner when his friends’ lives were at stake enraged him.

  “So, Your Grace, I must move mountains to save those you love, but you will not lift a finger to help when those whom I love are under threat.”

  “Remember to whom you speak and what is at stake for the realm. We will make allowance for your distress, but do not go too far. We do not refuse to help. We cannot.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Many accused us of witchcraft in the early days. Do you think they would hesitate to revive that calumny if we were seen to intercede in this case?”

  “Your Grace, I implore you...”

  “Master Ballard, we will hear no more of this.”

  “In that case, Your Grace, I must beg leave to be excused from the investigation so that I may devote my time to clearing my friends’ names.”

  For a moment, Luke was certain he had trespassed too far. Joss’s usual warning nudge when he was in danger of overstepping the mark had gone unheeded. There was a long pause, followed by an audible sigh.

  “We will make enquiries and do what we can, but, hear this. If it is determined that they are guilty, we will not lift a finger to help. Your job is to bring your investigation to a successful conclusion. Turn your energies to that. Do not fail us.”

  She broke the connection.

  Luke sat on the side of his bed, head in hands. He could not countenance inaction, but he knew that one false move on his part, especially if Gerard Frayner became aware of it, would result in more trouble for Corbin and Bertila. Even now, he could hear her laughing voice saying how Corbin had declared Luke to be in too much of a hurry. No, he would do them no favors if he acted precipitately.

  The one thing he could do was tune into their minds and send a message of reassurance. Luke’s chin dropped to his chest, his hand on Joss’s head, his eyes closed. Going first to his inner chamber, he gathered up all the strength he could muster.

  * * *

  Bertila’s initial fear had been replaced by deep mortification as she stood naked in front of four men, one of them being the priest from Hampton. The terrifying journey from home had taken two hours, Frayner berating the prisoners all the way, admonishing them to confess and repent. He had grabbed at Bertila’s breasts, determined to display the hidden teat, the sure sign of a witch. Corbin, arms bound, had heaved himself against the priest, knocking away the groping hands.

  “Leave my daughter alone, you slug.”

  Neither of the guards had tried to prevent Frayner from beating Corbin around the head with his staff, until the apothecary’s face had been a mask of blood. Once at the Tower, they were separated, both understanding that now might be all the time they had.

  “Dearest father, stand firm in God and trust in Him. I will always love you.”

  “Bertila, you were ever a bright lantern in my heart. Courage, my child.”

  Being parted from her father had the strange effect of calming Bertila. She knew part of her feared for her life and Corbin’s, but overtaking that was a growing fury that they had been so misused. Her interrogators had taken turns to bombard her with questions, and seemed angry that she answered so calmly, repudiating their assertions as wicked lies.

  “A normal person would be greatly afeared in such a plight as you, Mistress Quayne,” Frayner sneered. He turned to his companions. “It is but another sign of the witch.”

  “We have found no trace of the Devil’s teat on her,” one of them replied. “In truth, I see no cloud in her eyes and she answers with steadfast spirit.”

  “I wager you would find the mark quick enough were you to employ the pincers. We have not examined her privily. It could be more hidden than you think. Why do you not use the spike?”

  “Fie, sir.” The man who appeared to be in charge seemed genuinely shocked. “You must be aware we are not permitted such barbarities. This is not Germany or Spain.”

  “More’s the pity,” Frayner retorted. “If we were in Valladolid, I would have the truth out of her in moments. And you would believe that she is innocent on such flimsy grounds as clear eyes and steadfast spirit? Is it not plain enough that she had the mark on her until last year when her familiar removed it? How else could such a symbol of her true nature be achieved?”

  “Were that the case, sir,” replied Bertila with scorn dripping in every word, “why did he wait so long when I had been disfigured from the age of six?”

  “Do not bandy words with me, witch. I shall perform a service of thanksgiving the day you drop to the end of the rope.”

  “We will leave her to ponder her fate,” the gaoler said, putting up a hand to stop Frayner’s protest. “Let us see what the father can tell us.”

  The door banged shut behind them and Bertila heard the clash of keys as they locked it. She stood, hands bound behind her back, tears trickling down her cheeks at the thought of her father. Despite his appearance, Bertila knew that since the death of her mother, his spirit had lost much of its former resilience. She could still hear the whining smoothness of the priest’s voice and wondered that a man of God could be so vile.

  What horrors would they heap on Corbin? Mayhap they would threaten him with witnessing her agony under interrogation. It would not be the first time examiners had used that ploy. And if they did, Corbin would agree to anything they said. Bertila closed her eyes and tried to pray.

  She gradually became aware of a sprig of warmth spreading under her ribs. Not wanting to disturb it, she kept her eyes shut. A golden light appeared in her mind as a soft, warm coverlet that wrapped itself around her in a protective cloak. A voice sounded in the distance. Was it her mother’s?

  “Fear not. I am but a heartbeat away. Trust. They may hurt your body, but your soul is safe.”

  Bertila’s eyes opened, fully expecting to see her beloved mother, but all was dim inside her cell. Of one thing she was certain. At no time would she admit that it had been Luke who had introduced them to the doctor who had erased her scar. She had seen the hatred in Frayner’s eyes when it had been proved beyond doubt that Edith Brook had not taken her own life. Such men as he could bear anything except to be proved wrong. He would take every opportunity to bring Luke down. Was this false imprisonment designed to do that in some way? She would not be party to such a plan. Luke’s name would never pass her lips.

  She could only hope and pray that her father would see things the same way.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the late afternoon, King Henry IX paid an impromptu visit to his Queen. He was aware that Madeleine had not settled into married life in England as quickly as he had hoped or expected. She had been the pampered darling of her French mother. None had expected
the Scottish Queen to live long after her marriage to James on New Year’s Day in 1537, but she had proved all the doom-mongers wrong and produced Madeleine, followed several years later by the longed-for heir. Young Jamie, brought up in his own establishment in the Scottish tradition, left the elder Madeleine time to devote all her love and energy to her daughter.

  Although conscious of the fact that he was deeply in love with his new Queen, Henry nonetheless expected her to abide by the same rules as his mother had. No Queen could be permitted to take up all of her husband’s energies, and he had been occupied consulting with Cranmer about the new prayer book, anxious to see it in all churches.

  As the archbishop had pointed out, the realm would breathe easier were Madeleine to convert. Knowing the strength of her beliefs, Henry was aware this would be no easy matter, especially with Madeleine’s confessor, Olivier Reynard, stiffening her resolve. He had said this to Cranmer, who had smiled and shaken his head.

  “Your Majesty, it is easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar. Her Grace is bound to be a little unsettled. She is newly arrived at the most splendid court in the world, married to the most handsome prince in Christendom, and in love. Balance that with the prospect of delivering your heir and the understandable fear she must be experiencing. Her anxiety is natural, is it not?”

  “It is a woman’s work to provide heirs.”

  “Indeed, Sire, but it is not without dangers to both mother and child, and the Queen knows how important her task is.”

  With impatient fingers, Henry pushed away the parchment he had been studying.

  “What do you counsel?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “Do not chide Her Grace or worry her. It will do no harm to wait until the child is born before approaching the subject again.”

  “Reynard will not permit her to convert without a struggle.”

  Cranmer had smiled.

  “Then we shall give him one, Sire. Meanwhile, smiles and gifts are more conducive to the sunny nature and calm temperament necessary for the safe delivery of your heir. Leave this fight for another day.” His face grew thoughtful. “I will make some enquiries about Father Reynard. Winning a battle is easier when you know the enemy.”

  Henry made sure there was a loving and welcome smile on his face as he entered his wife’s apartments. She sat staring forward, her sewing idle in her hands. His heart contracted at the sight. Was she truly so unhappy?

  It was a few moments before he noticed the black-robed figure of Olivier Reynard whispering to her. Henry felt his fists clench and his jaw tighten. He fought to maintain his smile. If that Catholic crow were pouring poison into Madeleine’s ear, then he would make the priest’s existence at his court short and very uncomfortable. He remembered Cranmer’s advice about flies and honey and deliberately made his voice soft.

  Madeleine started when he spoke.

  “My Queen, how is it you sit in gloom and with such a forlorn look in those beautiful eyes?”

  The Queen sprang up, leaving Reynard in midsentence. She dropped into a short-lived curtsey as Henry seized her hands and pulled her to him. This was better. The light had come back into her eyes and the mouth, drooping only a few moments before, curved into a delighted and spontaneous smile. Henry could not help dropping a swift kiss onto his wife’s brow.

  “My sweet, come out of these rooms. I want to show you something.”

  Her face glowed. “Not another present? My Lord, you spoil me.”

  She laughed as he led her from the chamber back towards his own apartments, climbing the turret stairs to the upper floor, holding her hand until they reached the suite of rooms above his own.

  “Now, my own sweetheart, I would not have you suffer one moment’s anxiety on account of what happened in your chamber.” He walked her towards the windows of the huge empty space. “If you would like it, I will have all your effects moved here. Well, Madeleine, what say you?”

  She dropped into a deep obeisance. “My Lord, my King. I do not deserve so great and good a husband as God has found me.”

  “Then, you will be installed in these rooms within two days. Fret no more. I would have you happy and content.”

  Henry turned to the Queen’s confessor, who had followed in their wake.

  “Do you not agree, Father Reynard, that the Queen’s happiness must come before all else?”

  He was confident that his eyes said everything his mouth did not and that the priest received his warning. The man bowed.

  “Sire, all know the Queen is the most blessed of wives.”

  Henry clapped him on the back, making the man almost stumble.

  “Indeed, indeed. It is everyone’s duty to ensure that she remains so.”

  His hand tightened on Reynard’s shoulder for a moment before he turned from the priest back to Madeleine.

  “Come, sweetheart, let us take a turn in the Privy Garden.”

  All knew that very few were given leave to attend the royal couple on their private walks. Contenting himself with light banter, Henry noted that Reynard accompanied them uninvited. His eyes narrowed further when, upon entering the garden, he spied his mother at the other end. Was he never to have time alone with Madeleine? Alerted by her ladies, Anne Boleyn swung round and remained in a deep curtsey until Henry reached her.

  “Madam, we did not expect to see you here.”

  “I prithee pardon, Your Majesty. I have a headache and thought a walk in the fresh air would rid me of it. I will retire.” She curtsied again, moving away to the door, her head held delicately erect.

  “My Lord?” Madeleine rested her hand on her husband’s arm. “The Queen Mother looks a little strained of late.”

  Henry frowned. “Mayhap you are right, my love. Sit here and rest in the fresh air. I will speak to her. Wait for me.”

  He hurried after his mother, catching her as she made her dignified way through the dimly lit corridors and out into the daylight of the Fountain Court. He was aware of her sudden stop and saw her hand move to her throat. In a flash, he had run to her side, bellowing for the guards.

  As Henry put his arm around his mother’s shoulders, he felt her recoil at the sight that met their eyes. Standing immobile near the darkness of the arch, a small serving maid, golden eyes looking huge in her colorless face, gazed at them. In her hand, Henry could see a dagger, its blade rusted with a dull brown stain.

  The girl remained motionless whilst yeoman guards surrounded her. Almost, Henry thought, as if she had no idea of their presence. He gestured to them to move away. Queen Anne, having recovered her composure, moved forward and put a hand on the girl’s arm.

  “Where did you find that, child?”

  The maid’s eyes focused on hers. She pointed back under the arch. Henry, surrounded by his guards, strode to see for himself. There was a collective gasp of horror when he covered his mouth with his hand and staggered back from the spectacle.

  * * *

  It took Luke several hours before his concentrated tendrils found Corbin and Bertila. Within minutes, he read Bertila’s mind, thankful and humble that she was prepared to suffer torment to protect him from Frayner’s wrath. He sensed that her mind was full of anxiety for her father. Whispering the incantation of a comfort charm imitating the mellow tones of her mother, he then shifted his concentration to Corbin.

  Pity wracked his heart as he felt his old master’s confusion and anguish, though he had to overcome this in order to get his message through. Just as Bertila was worried about her father, Corbin was frantic about her. Gradually, Luke managed to calm the fear rampaging through his friend’s mind. He would have to be concise, Luke decided. This was no time for anything complicated. He lit a candle and concentrated on the blue flame. By his reckoning, he should be able to send a few words. Repetition would enhance the likelihood of Corbin comprehending and, more important, believing. The old man would need the shield of honesty if he were to persuade the interrogators of his veracity.

  Luke went deeper into his con
centration and focused on the old man. He felt his distress and fatigue as if he, too, suffered the hurts. Corbin was tired to death. His captors had trussed his arms behind his back and then half-lifted him from the floor, so that his shoulders took most of his weight. Luke winced as he felt pain shoot through him. Although Corbin was close to the same age as the Queen Mother, his life had not always been easy or comfortable, and Luke knew only too well that since the death of his wife, Corbin’s driving force had dissipated. Aye, he could still run the apothecaries’ guild and keep his clients sound and pain-free for the most part. What he could not do was summon up the old fire that had driven him in younger days. Will was settled, married with a child, but how would Bertila manage without her father? Had it not been for her, Corbin would have given up long ago, but although he knew his daughter was stronger in spirit than he, she was also more vulnerable. That business the previous summer had almost killed her. Not until the Christmas celebrations had anyone seen an unforced smile on her now unblemished face. Luke felt the irony of his friend’s next thought. That Corbin’s happiest moment since Margery died had been when Luke’s “physician friend” had cured his girl of her disfigurement.

  Luke cursed the rabid priest from Hampton and withdrew slightly. Dufay’s kind act in removing Bertila’s scar had only provided Frayner with ammunition to fuel his cruelty. There must be a way to protect Bertila and deliver Corbin and her from this disaster. Luke took a draught of his restorative to aid him in the coming spell, then prepared with great care, waiting until he was sure the link with Corbin was strong once again. He could do it in five words. “Physician French. Gave Bertila cream. Physician French. Gave Bertila cream.” Luke spent several minutes sending the same words over and over. “Physician French. Gave Bertila cream.” So strong was his link with his old master that Luke knew the instant Frayner and the interrogators returned. Aware that Corbin would appear to be in a trance, something that would only reinforce the belief that he practiced witchcraft, Luke broke the link and prayed for success.