Chantress Alchemy

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  “So we started to smash the door down,” Sir Samuel said. I looked up and saw the hatch marks in the wood.

  Behind his spectacles, Penebrygg’s eyes were distressed. “We wanted to save you, my dear.”

  “But you saved yourself,” Nat said.

  I did, I thought. I did. I found my power.

  Nat’s eyes were steady on me, and I thought I saw both pride and regret in them—but we were too far apart for me to read more. Before I could step closer, the King said, “Where are Flamel’s papers?”

  “I doubt they’re Flamel’s,” Nat said. “They’re more ancient than that.”

  “Sir Isaac brought them down here,” I said. “I think the river took them.”

  For a long moment, we all looked at the wreck of what had been the best alchemy laboratory in Europe. There was no sign of the box that had held the papers. Even the great fire-breathing furnace had been humbled into a heap of broken bricks and twisted metal. The bottles and crucibles and beakers had been dashed to pieces.

  “Even so,” the King said, “I think we had better search Sir Isaac’s rooms. Who knows what else may turn up?”

  † † †

  The King led the way upstairs, with the rest of us following behind. I had thought Nat might speak to me then, but instead, he lagged at the back. Perhaps he was still keeping watch over Gabriel. Or perhaps he was waiting until we had more privacy.

  “You are cold, Chantress?” the King asked.

  I was shivering. “I’m afraid the wave soaked me through.”

  The King took in my sopping clothes for the first time. “So it has. You must change.”

  He insisted on escorting me to my rooms. As we traversed the palace, people moved out of our way. I heard whispers echoing around us: “Chantress . . . wave . . . rose right out of the Thames . . . taller than the East Tower . . . magic.”

  When we reached my door, the King ordered the guards to stand down. They did so immediately. From the look on their faces, they too had heard about the great wave.

  “Come and find us when you are ready,” the King said to me.

  The room was empty, but I didn’t need a maid’s help to dress. Instead, I shrugged myself into the only clothes I could find—my mulberry silk—and wrapped my plain traveling cloak around me to keep warm.

  By the time I reached Sir Isaac’s room, the place had been well and truly gone over. It was Nat and Gabriel who had made the chief discoveries: two secret boxes shaped like books. One contained various poisons and their antidotes. The other held keys swaddled in wool, including all the keys needed to open the moonbriar casket.

  “He must have had copies made,” Nat said to me. “And we’re guessing that he might have used the poisons on Sir Barnaby, to keep him out of the way. Of all of us, Sir Barnaby knew Sir Isaac the best, and he might have noticed something was wrong.”

  “Can anything be done to help Sir Barnaby now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Nat closed the doors to the cabinet at the foot of Sir Isaac’s bed. “I hope so.”

  “How could he stoop to such things?” Penebrygg shook his head, his eyes dimming behind his spectacles. “And how could I have been so blind? My dear,” he said, turning to me, “I am so very sorry.”

  “He made fools of all of us,” Sir Samuel said indignantly.

  “Only because we let him,” the King said in a low voice.

  Blustering, Sir Samuel started to deny this, but Penebrygg cut across him. “The King is right. Sir Isaac told us what we wanted to hear, and we believed him. We ought to have guessed he was promising us something too good to be true.”

  “One of us guessed it,” the King said, looking at Nat. “I will not forget that.”

  Before Nat could reply, Lord Roxburgh shot into the room. “Your Majesty!” He scuttled to the King’s side, distraught. “I have been searching for you everywhere. What are we to do? Boudicca has scattered our army. And she’s captured Lord Wrexham.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  BOUDICCA

  I stared at Lord Roxburgh. Wrexham was captured?

  “It cannot be!” the King said.

  Roxburgh wrung his hands. “It is true. I was out there. I rode back to tell you.” His eyes were terrified. “It happened right at dawn, a bare mile from here, on the banks of the Thames. We’d cornered Boudicca—she was on her own, with just a few of her men—and Wrexham gave the order to fire. But then a mist rose up from the river and threw everything into confusion.” He finished bitterly, “Boudicca must have summoned it.”

  “So she does have magic?” the King exclaimed.

  “No one saw her do anything,” Roxburgh admitted. “But she must have called that mist up somehow, Your Majesty. It came so suddenly—and when it cleared, she had the high ground, and her army was massing behind her. And she had captured Wrexham, too. One of our men saw him being dragged away. How could a woman like that have accomplished such a thing without magic?”

  With luck and leadership, I thought. And yes, magic might have been involved too. But whose? Boudicca’s—or mine?

  Defend me from my enemies. That was what I’d sung to the river, just as dawn was breaking. Had it not only dispatched Sir Isaac, but delivered me from Wrexham as well? Did my magic extend that far? Remembering the power of the river’s song, I thought it might. Yet magic or no magic, Boudicca was clearly formidable.

  “And it doesn’t end there,” Roxburgh was saying. “Our line broke in the mist, and others were captured too. When our men saw how many were gone, and what a great host Boudicca had arrayed against them, they fled. Have no doubt of it: Boudicca will soon be at the gates.”

  Only then did he seem to take in his surroundings. “But why are you gathered here in Sir Isaac’s room? Is it to do with the Stone? Have you made it?”

  “No,” the King said heavily. “There is no Stone. Nor will there ever be.”

  “No Stone?” Roxburgh cried out. “But then what is to be done? Boudicca will attack, and we have nothing to bargain with. Our men are in disarray, and her followers outnumber us.”

  “You forget that we have a Chantress on our side.” With an anxious face, the King turned to me. “You said if you were close enough, you could defeat Boudicca with magic. You must help defend us.”

  “Yes.” Roxburgh turned to me, his small eyes beseeching. “Do it! Put an end to that viper Boudicca once and for all.”

  I almost told them the truth: calling up the great wave had tired me. My power had not faded entirely—I could still hear the river’s music, even though Sir Isaac’s windows were closed—but it could be hours or even days before it returned in full force. Even had I wanted to, I doubted I had it in me right now to defeat a whole army.

  Instead, I took a deep breath. If I had power—or even the illusion of it—then I must use it wisely.

  “No,” I said.

  The King stiffened.

  Roxburgh’s cheeks bulged with rage. “You do not refuse your King!”

  Ignoring him, I spoke only to King Henry. “Of course I will do what I can to protect you, Your Majesty. But as you yourself have often said, it is better to talk than to fight. Offer to meet with her, and I will go with you. Let us see if we can make peace.”

  “No!” Roxburgh shouted.

  The King focused not on him, but on me. “What can I possibly say to her? Without the Stone, I have nothing to give her.”

  “You have more to give than you think,” I said. “You can sell houses and jewels. You can tell your Court to do likewise. And you can stop draining the Treasury to build fortifications.”

  The King looked worried, especially by this last. “Wrexham would have something to say about that.”

  “He’s not in a position to protest right now,” I said. “And as you yourself have said, everyone must compromise.”

  “But how can we know that Boudicca will accept our compromises?” the King asked. “What if she expects more? And what will we do next year, if the harvest fails agai
n?”

  Standing behind us, Nat at last raised his voice. “I have something that will help with that, Your Majesty.”

  † † †

  Three hours later, the King and Boudicca met at the top of Greenwich Hill. By negotiation, their armies remained on the low ground, well apart from each other—the King’s better armed, but Boudicca’s substantially outnumbering it.

  Fewer than fifty of us gathered at the summit. I was among them, and so was Nat. As we climbed up to the meeting point, I glimpsed Wrexham below, bound with ropes behind Boudicca’s lines, red-faced with impotent fury.

  It had taken half the morning and a host of white flags to arrange the conference. It took the other half of the morning and a great deal of talking for the meeting to reach a conclusion. The King, it must be said, did most of the listening. At his request, I stood next to him.

  Boudicca was shorter than I expected, and older and plainer. She was soft-spoken, too, a peculiar trait in a leader of armed men. When we drew close, I sensed something else about her: she could not work magic. The mist had been mine after all.

  Yet if Boudicca was no magic-worker, she nevertheless had real power. There was something commanding about her, and something enormously compelling, too. After only a few minutes in her presence, I could understand why so many had followed her. When our two sides met, she looked right into my eyes as she greeted me, and I had the uncanny feeling that she saw to the core of me. What exactly she perceived, however, she kept to herself.

  We were the only two women there; the rest were all men. This, however, did not seem to disturb Boudicca in the least. She had extraordinary self-assurance, and in her broad country accent she told the King that she was glad he had summoned her. She was certain that he wanted to know how his subjects—her followers—were suffering. And she was certain, too, that once he fully understood their troubles, he would help them.

  I think the King feared, at first, that she expected him to set everything to rights in a day. But she was wiser than that; she had a very practical turn of mind. She accepted at once his offer to suspend the fortification program. She agreed that it would help matters if he sold off some of the royal estates and jewels to help feed the hungry. And she grasped immediately the importance of Nat’s contribution: the potatoes.

  “They’ll feed thrice as many as wheat?” she said. “You’re sure of it?”

  “That’s right,” Nat said. “In a given field, potatoes will make three times as much food as wheat. And the wheat blight won’t harm them. You have my word on it.”

  She studied the lumpy, brown vegetables—part of the small store Nat had brought earlier to Greenwich to persuade the King and Council of the usefulness of the crop. And then she studied Nat, taking his measure, just as she’d taken mine. He met her gaze unflinchingly.

  “I have some sacks you can take now,” he said, “and I can arrange for shiploads more. Seed potatoes, ready for planting, and others to eat now.”

  “And what will you charge for them?”

  “Nothing,” the King interjected. “I will pay all costs myself.”

  Boudicca nodded, acknowledging this, and turned back to Nat. “But be they good eating?”

  Nat grinned. “The best. But you needn’t take my word for it: the King’s own cook has baked and fried some for you.”

  I hadn’t been with Nat when he’d negotiated this with the cook, but I’d heard that it had taken all his persuasive powers. At first, the cook hadn’t wanted anything to do with the dirty lumps. He’d changed his mind, though, after they were done and he’d tasted them.

  As I watched Boudicca and the King take forkfuls of hot, fried potatoes from the same dish, I wished that I could have a taste too. They smelled delicious, and I was reminded, forcibly, of how long it had been since I’d eaten a decent meal.

  There were no leftover potatoes for me or for anyone else, however—and for the best possible reason: Boudicca had taken a fancy to them.

  “So we have an agreement?” the King said over the empty dish.

  “Aye,” Boudicca said. “That we do.” She motioned to her followers to bring Wrexham forward.

  “You’re certain your people will stand down? That they’ll go home peacefully?”

  Boudicca nodded with the certainty of a born queen. “That they will, now as we’ve settled things.”

  And thus the peace was kept.

  † † †

  On the way back from Greenwich Hill, Nat and the King began to work out the best way to arrange the purchase and distribution of potatoes. I followed behind them, keeping a close eye on Wrexham. He’d sprained a knee when he’d been captured and was being carried back on a litter. The humiliations of the day had silenced him, and he refused to meet anyone’s eye.

  Back at the palace, Nat and the King continued discussing potatoes, with Penebrygg and Sir Samuel offering helpful suggestions. Nearby, various Council members talked in low voices, and from the way their glances darted in my direction, I guessed they were speaking of me. I saw a respect bordering on awe in their eyes—and outright fear, in some.

  Even Sybil was tentative when she first approached me, though her sheer exuberance soon won out. “Oh, Lucy, you are a wonder! I knew you were powerful, but this is something else altogether. I’m so proud—and so relieved you’re safe. . . .”

  She hugged me close, warming my heart. But when I saw Nat over her shoulder, talking with the King, the moment turned bittersweet. I was glad to see Nat given his due by King and Council, but it hurt that he had shown no desire to come near me. Indeed, we’d hardly spoken since we’d left Sir Isaac’s room—though given all that had happened, perhaps that was not so surprising.

  It’s only been a few hours, I told myself. Give it time. Looking away from Nat, I turned my attention to the one other concern that still niggled at me. “Have you seen Margery?” I asked Sybil.

  “No, I haven’t. Not since last night, when we were all in your room. Is she all right?”

  “Probably,” I said. But I was worried. Where was she?

  I finally found out when I went to my rooms. The guards were gone from my door, but Margery was waiting for me inside, seated on a small footstool by the fire.

  “My lady.” Her face paled when she saw me, and she gripped her hands tight in her lap. “I heard . . . they’re saying the Stone didn’t work. But you look so fine, my lady, and they say it was you who made that wave. . . .”

  There was a question in her voice, which answered the question in my mind.

  “So you did overhear what Sybil and I said.” I came over to where she was sitting. “I thought you did, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “You knew about the Stone. And how I’d lost my powers. And yet you said nothing to Wrexham?”

  “No, my lady.” She shook her head vigorously. “I couldn’t. Not once I knew you wanted to help me. And not once I knew what was stopping you.”

  “Then I owe you a lot, Margery. And I won’t forget, I promise. Now that my magic’s back, I’ll do everything I can for your family.”

  “Then it worked?” She clasped her hands even more tightly, but now there was hope in her face. “You did make the Stone?”

  “No. Sir Isaac—” How could I explain it? “It turned out Sir Isaac was trying to betray the King, trying to betray me. He wasn’t intending to make the Stone at all. But I got my power back anyway.”

  “So what they’re saying is true?” Margery spoke almost in a whisper. “The wave . . . that was you?”

  “Yes.” There was no point hiding it. Indeed, there was every reason not to. “I was the one who made the wave.”

  Margery looked at me, her eyes shining. “Oh, my lady.”

  Uncomfortable being the object of such hero worship, I smoothed my skirts and sat down on a chair beside her. There were still parts of the story I did not understand, and I was determined to get to the bottom of them. “Margery, why did you leave the room last night? And why did yo
u bolt when I saw you up in the gallery?”

  Fear came into her face again. “My lady, do you remember when you sent me after Miss Dashwood yesterday? And she said she saw me by Lord Wrexham’s rooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was true; I was there. I’d overheard him earlier, you see, speaking to someone in one of the rooms off the library. He said something terrible. Something truly evil.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Not me,” she said ever so softly. “He didn’t see me. Nor could I see him. But I could hear him, and he was talking about the King.”

  I straightened in my chair. “The King?”

  “I know I was supposed to keep searching for Miss Dashwood,” she said in a rush, “but I couldn’t, not after that. It was so awful I knew no one would believe me, except maybe you. And if you went to the King and I was wrong, then Wrexham would starve my family for certain. So I knew I had to search his rooms. I had to find proof.”

  “And did you?” I asked.

  Margery’s hands twisted open, revealing a tiny packet of paper. “I don’t know.” She handed the packet to me. “I finally got into his rooms just before dawn, and I found these under the felt at the back of his writing desk. They’re in cipher.”

  I looked them over. The cipher meant nothing to me. “Margery, what was it he said?”

  “He spoke of the King’s death, my lady. And . . . and about being king himself.”

  We looked at each other over the papers.

  “We had better go straight to King Henry,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  REALITIES AND DREAMS

  “Treason,” the King said to me six hours later. It was evening, and we were alone in the small study near his staterooms; he was seated at his desk, and I had taken a chair close by. After an exhaustive search of Wrexham’s rooms, all had been laid bare. The cipher had been cracked, the plot unraveled, and Wrexham was in the Tower.

  “It was treason, pure and simple,” the King went on heavily, looking far older than his years. “Wrexham was planning to have me shot during a tour of new fortifications in the North this spring. It would be made to look like a rebel ambush. At which point he would use his armies and his connection to the Tudor line—and, most likely, his marriage to you—to put himself on the throne.”