Taste of Treason

by April Taylor

  Having finished the stew Rob had prepared, Luke remained at the table, tugging at his curls in frustrated concentration. The boy was again studying his letters and numbers. At least one thing was going well. Rob’s proficiency in learning to read and his understanding of quantities and potions improved daily.

  In all other respects, it had been a day of irritations. The thought that he might have been so far from the truth had played on his mind. He had been certain that Nimrod had set in train a reenactment of the Biblical plagues. Everything had fitted perfectly, until he remembered what Alys had told him, that it was not Edith but she who should have been preparing the Queen’s bath. Luke grew hot and then cold in apprehension, remembering his unequivocal opinion in front of the King. If he were in error, Henry would have no mercy.

  He had made a mess of the confrontation with Frayner, leaving the other more angry and vengeful than ever and himself blustering like a drunken sot being refused ale at the tavern.

  Corbin’s lack of progress was another anxiety. That the old apothecary would recover in time, Luke had no doubt, but until that day came, apprehension would sit across Bertila’s shoulders taking flesh from her bones. It needed stronger magic than his to effect a fast cure and the only person he could think of who had that ability was far away in France.

  Luke had arrived home exasperated by his inability to make any clear decisions. He had blundered sufficiently to ensure that Frayner would increase his attempts to have him arrested. The priest would not stop until Corbin and Bertila were in custody, too. That apart, he had to deal with the vagaries of the sweating sickness, in constant fear that it would break out again and be even more virulent. Luke put his head in his hands.

  “Master, I hate to see you so troubled. Tell me how I can aid you.”

  “I cannot keep everything in my head, Rob. When I think about it, the whole thing becomes like pottage, merged into one complicated mass—a stinking heap of trouble spilling over in all directions. It does not help that I am so tired. And before you ask, lad, there is only so much restorative one can take without ending up dependent on it or it having no effect at all.”

  Rob put down his quill and frowned at his kinsman.

  “Marry, your thoughts are indeed awry, Luke. Instead of slumping there tying your mind into knots, you should go to bed. There is nothing to stay up for, and if you are tired, sleep will serve you better than any potion. We can deal with the other problems on the morrow when you are feeling rested. What say you?”

  Luke rubbed his eyes.

  “You speak the truth and I know it well, Rob. But our enemy is more likely to strike when I am asleep and unaware of his presence.”

  “Could it be Nimrod turning your brain to fog?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Luke, if he attacked us now, you would have no strength to fight him. Go and sleep. Wait upon the morning.”

  Luke stood up and stretched.

  “Aye, lad. I will. If Mistress Paige is in need, she will press the ouch and that will awaken me. I will go up.”

  Sitting on the side of his bed, Luke was almost too exhausted to pull off his boots. It took all his attention to put another shield around the house. If anything were amiss with Gwenette, he would have to rely on the strength of their friendship to wake him. His legs ached as he lifted them onto the bed. He lay back, closed his eyes and was asleep in the space of ten heartbeats.

  * * *

  In the dim light of the Queen’s bed chamber, Gwenette and Alys leaned against the pillows of the bed, the curtains drawn back. All available candles had been lighted and Gwenette made sure that the fire was well ablaze with logs, but the glow made the murky corners appear even darker.

  Alys fell asleep, her head on Gwenette’s shoulder. Now their safety depended on her. Well, not quite, she thought, fingering the ouch again.

  She wondered how her mistress coped without her. They were so seldom apart. Furthermore, the Queen Mother would not be having an easy time with her daughter-in-law. Gwenette knew from firsthand experience, that, once affrighted, Madeleine was not easy to calm.

  The logs on the fire collapsed as they burned, making her flinch. Easing herself out from under Alys’s sleeping head, Gwenette tiptoed to the fire and threw on more wood. The temporary dousing of the flames made her shoulders twitch in sudden fright. She swung round, but could see nothing. Her gaze scouring the room, she scurried back to the bed and waited until the fire flared fiercely once more before she surrendered to the overwhelming desire to close her eyes, just for an instant.

  Muttering pierced her confused dream. It took Gwenette a few confusing moments to realize that she had fallen asleep. Jumping up, she noted that the candles had burned halfway down and the fire was little more than red embers. Using the end of a log, she stirred the cinders into flames and fed them with more wood.

  It was only then that she heard the murmuring again and knew it had not been part of her dream. With a feeling of dread, she looked back at the bed. It was empty. Following the direction of the sound, Gwenette saw the figure of her companion standing by a wall hanging. Alys appeared to be holding a conversation with herself. Herself? Gwenette’s heart sank as she approached the girl. By the light of a dying candle, she could see Alys’s eyes were closed and she babbled streams of nonsense with pauses as if she were listening to someone else before once more embarking upon unintelligible droning. Thoroughly unsettled, Gwenette put out a hand to touch the girl.

  * * *

  Rob’s dreams were a frightening succession of attempts to cross a shallow stream. As soon as he laid a foot in it, water surged up into white angry waves that threatened to drown him. He had no idea why he must get to the other side, only that it was imperative that he do so. As succeeding efforts proved fruitless, his desperation grew in direct correlation to the surge of water holding him back. In trying to force his way across, he found himself on the floor of his room, his covers a jumbled, knotted heap on top of him. Sweating profusely, he sat for a moment before becoming aware of an unnatural stillness outside in the black of night.

  Throwing on his clothes, Rob crept down the stairs and edged to the shop door, easing it open. He stood for a while, but nothing stirred, so he transferred his attention to the kitchen door. Opening it a crack, he peered out. At first he thought he could see nothing, but after a few moments, he became aware of a black shape standing underneath the tree. Swallowing several times, Rob decided to confront the visitor. He flung the door wide and stepped out.

  “Who is there and what is your business?”

  A tall cloaked form detached itself from the trunk.

  “Master Panton, is it not?”

  “It is, sir and who are you?”

  “I am Father Frayner from Hampton.”

  “I think we have nothing to say to each other. Get you gone or I will call the beadle.”

  Rob heard a silky laugh and then Frayner spoke again.

  “Ah, me, Master Panton, but you are as good as a jester. You have not yet heard why I am here.”

  Rob folded his arms and leaned against the doorpost.

  “Speak then.”

  “Your master does you no favors. He is a sorcerer. In a few days, he will be languishing in a dungeon along with his collaborators. What happens after that I leave to your limited imagination.”

  “Collaborators in what?” Rob’s first impulse had been to answer anything this bigot said with scorn. However, one of the maxims Luke had said recently came to mind, the one about honey catching flies more easily than vinegar, so he made his voice sound puzzled and a little fearful.

  “I would not expect Ballard to confide in a mere servant, but be well assured that if you do not help me, you will share his cell, his torments and his ultimate fate.”

  Rob thought quickly. Obviously this tosspot had no concept of loyalty. Mayhap it would be a good notion to play along with him. He purposely put a shake in his voice.

  “You make me affrighted, sir. I am bound
to the apothecary. He would beat me if I did anything amiss.”

  Frayner walked towards him.

  “You will suffer worse than a beating if you do not give him up to the authorities,” he said with oily ease. “It is simple. Indeed you do not need to appear in the business at all. Come and tell me when he consorts with his familiars and when he goes to the Quayne household. The rest you may leave to your betters.”

  “But what if he suspects? If he is, as you say, a sorcerer, what is to stop him from turning me into a toad?” Rob managed to make the uncontrollable laughter in his voice sound as if he trembled.

  “Never fear, we have ways of dealing with witches and sorcerers.”

  “But I don’t understand, sir. Surely if Master Ballard is a sorcerer, then he will be able to escape from any trap that you set? Which means that he would then come after me and turn me into a toad.”

  Rob heard a hiss of irritation from the other man.

  “Fie, boy, you have toads on the brain. I say again, you need not fear being turned into anything, especially a toad.”

  “He can’t be much of a sorcerer if he can’t turn people into toads. I thought they did that all the time.”

  The priest stepped forward in such a manner that Rob felt a shaft of fear sear through him.

  “There are always other considerations, boy.”

  “Oh aye. What?”

  “The girl. I saw the way you looked at her. I’ll wager that even now she is keeping your master warm and satisfied in bed. Give him to us and she is yours. Isn’t that a prize worth the price I ask?”

  All thought of ridicule left Rob’s mind. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Alys. This bastard meant Alys. Even as his rage soared, Rob knew he must not present himself as anything other than Luke Ballard’s lumpish servant.

  “Ah, I see that has set you thinking, boy. Well, that is the deal. What say you?”

  “You see many things, sir. Too much for my head to take in. I will think on it and give you an answer on the morrow.”

  “I believe we can accommodate you on that point, Master Panton. Agree to our terms and I will see that you not only get the wench, but this house, too.”

  “I like the sound of your suggestion the more I think on it. I will come to you soon with my answer, sir.”

  “Do that. And be warned. Work with us and the chit and house are yours. Cross us and we will crush you like a beetle.”

  With a swish of his cloak, Frayner turned and left. Rob stood for a few moments looking in the direction in which his visitor had vanished, then turned slowly and went back into the kitchen. He sat staring into the remains of the fire.

  “Well, Rob, are you going to do as the holy priest demands?”

  Rob spun round and forced a grin.

  “Nay, I am not. But, Luke, he does not just threaten us, but Alys and the Quaynes.”

  Luke walked down the rest of the stairs, grabbed the jug and poured two jacks of ale. Handing one to Rob, he sat on the other side of the fire and stared for a few moments into its depths.

  “What do you suggest we should do?” he asked.

  “I do not know. Is he truly part of your investigation, Luke?”

  “I am almost sure of it. But is he the enemy we seek or part of the enemy’s misdirection?”

  “I do not understand. What do you mean?”

  Luke leaned forward. “Is Frayner Nimrod, or merely his tool? Or is he nothing to do with the palace deaths and we are led to think so because of the juxtaposition of events? Whatever he is, we must deal with him. I cannot leave Corbin and Bertila under constant threat of danger.”

  “What of the threat to Alys?”

  “And Alys,” Luke conceded.

  Rob took a swig of ale.

  “Frayner must be dealt with whether he is part of your inquiry or not.”

  “Aye.” Luke sighed. “You speak truth, lad. Do you have any ideas?”

  “I saw how the villagers regard him. We must make him a public mockery. His haughty pride would never stomach that. Show him up as a charlatan. If he sees that people laugh at him, that they are no longer frightened of him, he will be neutered. His pride would not allow him to lose face in any way and such an event would make him go elsewhere.”

  “What a devious notion, lad. I like it very much,” Luke said, grinning.

  “I have another idea which may aid you. Why do you not write down all the threads of your inquiry and see if you can make them form a logical conclusion.”

  Luke looked at him with new respect.

  “I see you are not the pribbling lout the priest assumes you to be.”

  “And that is how we shall trap him in a net of his own making. Make him think he is winning, then expose him and let him see he is the butt of the jest.”

  Rob fetched paper and ink.

  “Tell you, what, master. You say what you need to remember and I shall write it. In that way it will benefit us both.”

  Luke paced the floor as Rob sat poised with quill in hand. Then he turned and pointed at the paper.

  “First, if the plagues connection is right, why was Alys chosen to prepare the Queen’s bath when neither she nor her name has any connection to water or blood?”

  Rob, his tongue stuck out at one side of his mouth in concentration, scribbled a few words.

  “What part does Frayner play in this matter?” Luke said next.

  Rob wrote the word priest.

  “What is Nimrod’s objective? Is he indeed Frayner and if not, is Frayner acting alone or being manipulated?”

  “I can’t write that fast,” Rob muttered. “Or spell manipulated.”

  “All incidents could be aimed at the Queen, but if so, they have been ill-planned because she has not been present when they happened, apart from the death of the maid in the bath. Our enemy would not be so careless, so what was the true purpose of them, or are they a blind so that I do not look further?” Luke began his pacing once more, then turned. “Ah, Rob, I think we have hit on the central nub of this matter. If...”

  He bent double in pain, unable to speak. Rob leapt up and supported him to the chair next to the fire. Joss put her front paws in Luke’s lap and laid her head on his chest. Slowly, he straightened up, but Rob could see that his face was ashen and he trembled as if with an ague.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The instant she touched the girl, Alys flung up her arm, the power of the blow sending Gwenette hurtling the width of the room. The force of her impact with the hardwood floor forced all the breath out of her.

  Frozen with fear, she watched as Alys turned slowly to face her. Try as she might, Gwenette found herself unable to move for several heartbeats. She thought she could not possibly suffer deeper terror, but one look at that face and her blood turned to ice in her veins.

  The figure looked like Alys. It walked like Alys, but it was not Alys behind those eyes.

  Gwenette scrabbled to her feet taking in great whoops of air. She ran to the bed, trying to put it between herself and the looming figure. As she reached the bed, however, the coverlet rose and threatened to throw itself over her head. Just in time, she swerved to one side, avoiding its falling prison. The wall hangings swayed although no draft was evident.

  The flickering candles went out simultaneously. Gwenette saw tendrils of smoke flowing upwards from them in the remaining dim light from the fire. Even as she looked towards it, the red embers turned black, the flames wavered and died. Darkness descended leaving only the light of the moon to illuminate the figure advancing towards her once more.

  “Alys. Child. What ails thee?”

  Whatever used Alys gave no response, but instead lifted both arms in a chilling parody of a hawk about to swoop on its prey. The eyes narrowed and a predatory smile spread across the girl’s features. Now the creature did not even look like Alys and it was between Gwenette and the door. This was no time for false steps. She needed to get out and get help. That some dark spirit had taken over the body of the maid she did
not doubt.

  Seizing a hand mirror, Gwenette reversed it causing the entity to see its own reflection. For a moment, the thing stumbled and thrust up a hand to shield its eyes. Using the momentary advantage thus given her, Gwenette dashed past and reached the door. She wrenched it open ready to scream for aid.

  What met her eyes nullified the small margin of time the ruse with the mirror had gained. The chamber was peopled by figures as motionless as statues. Some had been rendered thus as they went about their duties. One man was in the process of feeding logs to the fire. He held a log in his outstretched hand, but the fire was dead and black. Another was in the process of drinking, seated with his goblet fixed halfway to his lips.

  Gwenette stopped as if she, too, had been stricken. Her plan had been to run through the Presence and Watching Chambers to the Holy Day closet in the chapel and beg God for sanctuary in his house.

  The sound of swishing skirts made her swing back to face the horror closing in on her. It did not rush, but used Alys in careful steps. Gwenette had no illusions that if the entity caught her, all would be lost. Was this Nimrod or Alys or both? She backed away, remembering Luke’s counsel. Scrabbling under her sleeve, she found the ouch and pressed the onyx center as hard as she could before crumpling to the floor.

  * * *

  Luke gathered his strength and seized his scrip heavy with the ingredients he had placed in it before supper.

  “The ouch. Gwenette has pressed the ouch. And by the depth of my pain, they are both in great peril. There is no time to lose.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “Leave them to me.”

  Luke sent out mind tendrils in an attempt to locate Byram Creswell. If there were any physical fighting to be done, nobody could be a braver warrior than the resourceful captain. The elemancer knew that whatever might confront them, Byram would attack first and ask questions afterward. Rob was no slouch when it came to using his fists either. Luke could only pray that their fighting skills and his elemancy would be enough. He raised his head and closed his eyes, the easier to find Byram.

  “Follow me, Rob. Stay close.”