by C. J. Archer
"I need a drink," Ash said, signaling Nelly.
"Has anyone ever told you you drink too much?" Nicholas asked.
"Yes."
Ash did drink too much but he’d seen things that Nicholas didn’t want to know about in detail so it was understandable. Nelly brought two tankards of ale and waited while they drained them in one gulp, thumped them down on the table and ordered another.
"I need you to do something for me," Nicholas said when Nelly left.
"Anything."
"I want you to look into Samuel Camm’s case."
"Don’t you already know everything about it?" Ash asked, stretching out his leg and rubbing his thigh.
Nicholas shook his head. "I only became involved after the actual poisoning. And you know how Walsingham can be."
Ash smirked. "Need to know basis only. And he assumed you didn’t need to know all the details before you carried out the investigation?"
"To be fair, I didn’t think I needed to know."
"And now you’re not so sure. Do you think your father-in-law was innocent?"
Nicholas shook his head. "No, I investigated him myself." He sighed because that wasn’t entirely true. "Perhaps he could be. I don’t know. But I think I’m missing a piece of the puzzle that could help me with this latest poisoning."
"So what do you want me to do?"
Nelly deposited two more tankards in front of them. "You boys look like you need this today." She pointed to the dried blood on Ash’s cheek. "Nicky here has an apothecary friend who could put something on that. Mighty pretty she was. And very ladylike. She could fix you up good and proper, M’Lord. What do you think, Nicky?"
Nicholas’s grip tightened around the tankard. "Thank you, Nelly," he said, aware that he sounded annoyed and not caring. "I think your husband is calling you."
Ash chuckled as Nelly sauntered away in a swish of swaying skirts. "She’s just teasing you. So, what do you want me to do?"
"Ask some questions of the people who investigated at the time. Who else was in the palace and had access and poisons knowledge? What did Samuel say when he was accused? Was there anything else that could point to another guilty party? That sort of thing."
Ash nodded. "I’ll start today. In fact, I’d best leave now anyway. Another meeting with Walsingham." He drained his tankard then stood, picking up his bow and quiver. "Be careful, Nick. Someone out there wants to kill you."
Nicholas stood too. "I carry a rapier and two daggers, not forgetting this bow. I think I’ll be fine if the coward doesn’t run off again."
"As long as you’re only required to use the bow to whack someone. You really need more archery practice, my friend."
Nicholas snorted. "What I really need is fewer distractions."
"You enjoy the distractions too much to give them up." Ash grinned.
Nicholas grinned back. "I certainly do."
***
Nicholas headed home to deposit the bow and arrows and change out of his sporting doublet and breeches before heading back to Bucklersbury Street for more research. Of the spying kind, although the Isabel kind was high on his agenda too. Work first, play later. He was almost within sight of the house when he heard a whoosh a moment before an arrow struck his shoulder.
"Bloody hell!" He grunted at the sharp sting, grateful his doublet stopped it from entering too deep.
He quickly scanned his surroundings but everything seemed in order. People went about their business, wrapped against the cold in cloaks of different colors and styles according to their station. Except for Nicholas himself, none carried bow and arrows. Maybe the archer wasn’t on the street at all, but on an upper storey of one of the shops, preparing to shoot again.
A small crowd began to gather around him, asking questions, looking concerned, but more importantly, shielding him from any further arrows.
"Are you all right, Sir?" asked a lad.
Nicholas nodded then gritted his teeth as he pulled the arrow out of his shoulder. He felt skin tear, but not muscle and thankfully the bloodflow was minimal.
"Lucky it didn’t get you in the head," said a man wearing blue and white servant's livery.
"Let me look at it," said a woman already inspecting his shoulder.
Nicholas shook his head to dislodge the strange thickness that had set in. "Did anyone see where the arrow came from?" He squinted in the general direction of its origin—a series of shops lining the western side of Bishopsgate Street, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He rubbed his forehead, confused. Maybe it hadn’t been from that direction at all.
The throb in his shoulder drew his attention. He had to inspect it properly, stop the blood and... Home. He had to get home and lie down. The house was close. That way... No, down there.
He waved off the crowd and headed down a short street that looked familiar, stumbling once or twice over...something. It must have been further than he thought because he was breathless by the time he arrived at Mistress Plunkett’s door. He shook from the cold and the pain, burning like a raging fire in his arm and his stomach. Had he been shot in the stomach too? He couldn’t recall. Everything was a blur.
He thumped on the front door with his fist, surprised to see that it still clutched the arrow. He desperately needed to rest so he leaned his head against the door frame and waited, trying to master the agony pulling his insides apart. When the maidservant finally opened the door, he staggered through it.
"Sir Nicholas, is everything all right?" she asked. "If I do say so, you look ill, Sir."
"Who is it, Mary?" Mistress Plunkett seemed to have appeared from nowhere. "Goodness, Sir Nicholas, what’s happened?"
He frowned, thinking, trying to force aside the nausea and searing pain and concentrate on staying upright. "No. Shot. Arrow." He saw the stairs and headed towards them, although the damn things wouldn’t be still. They kept moving, left right then left again. He managed to reach the first step with Mary’s help then doubled over as pain speared through his middle. He lay down amongst the rushes on the floor and closed his eyes. There was no way he could make it up the stairs.
"Good Lord, this is from an arrow?" Mistress Plunkett pressed a hand to his forehead. "You’re cold."
Very cold. And weak. All from an arrow. A single arrow. It barely even broke the skin.
Somehow he gathered enough strength to open his heavy eyes. "Poison," he whispered. "Go...Shawe’s apothecary." He curled up into a tight ball as another attack of nausea wracked his body. Through the groans filling his ears, he heard Mistress Plunkett giving Mary orders.
***
When Isabel arrived in Nicholas’s room she found a mess. The bed was in disarray, the bedsheets soaked in what was probably the source of the stench that had driven Mistress Plunkett downstairs. The ewer lay on its side on the damp rushes, an overflowing basin beside it. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. Panic momentarily seized her. Then she heard him groan.
"Nicholas?" She ran to the other side of the big bed and found him huddled on the floor, shivering.
His red eyelids cracked open slowly as if it was the most painful movement in the world, then closed again. The tension seemed to ease a little from his shoulders as he licked bloodless lips. "Poison," he whispered.
She knelt down beside him and checked his pulse. Irregular and weak. "Do you know what sort? Nicholas," she said when he didn’t answer, "this is very important. Mary said you were shot with an arrow. Where is it?"
"Here," said the maidservant from the door. She held the arrow between thumb and forefinger.
Isabel retrieved it and sniffed the arrowhead. "Monkshood," she said to nobody in particular. "Mary, I need another basin."
The maidservant nodded gravely. She still puffed heavily after running all the way to Bucklersbury Street and back but the stout girl, bless her, turned immediately to fetch a basin. She didn’t even appear disgusted by what she saw.
Isabel carried the leather bag she’d brought with her to Nicholas’s side and pulled out
a phial of emetic. When Mary returned she told the girl to fetch water and a mop to clean the room. "Get what you need then wait outside until I call you."
Mary left and Isabel put the phial to Nicholas’s pale lips. "Drink this. It’ll make you ill again but will get rid of the remainder of the poison."
He drank and she held him while his body purged itself of the monkshood. Afterwards, he lay his head on her lap, his body limp, his breathing still shallow, his skin cold and clammy to touch. She checked his pulse again and felt a sliver of relief as it seemed more regular. But still very weak. He wasn’t out of danger yet.
"Mary," she called and the maid entered immediately. She must have been hovering outside as ordered.
Mistress Plunkett poked her head round the door, screwed up her nose and left again. As Mary went about cleaning the room with quiet efficiency, Isabel retrieved a bottle of aqua vitae from her bag and held it to Nicholas’s lips. He drank and she followed it with a cup of water from the ewer Mary had refilled.
"Shouldn’t he be moving about?" the maid asked from where she was stoking the fire. "I heard that’s what you should do when someone is poisoned."
"Not with monkshood. He has to lie down but he needs stimulants like aqua vitae. Are you finished?"
"Aye, I’ll just gather the rushes and go."
Isabel made sure Nicholas was resting comfortably on the floor but not sleeping and stood. She opened the press and pulled out a clean shirt, hose and breeches and placed them on the fresh bedsheets.
"You’ll be needing another basin," Mary said, leaving the room. She returned moments later with clean cloths and a basin filled with water.
Isabel thanked her and waited until the girl left before removing Nicholas’s clothes. With none of the awe and desire of the previous night, she went about the task of cleaning him. She stroked his limbs vigorously to stimulate the blood flow, easing a little when he winced, then calmly washed the wound. It was inflamed and red but not bleeding. She found a bandage in her bag and wrapped it around his shoulder.
Although aware that this was her husband, her lover, she felt somewhat removed as she carried out her work. It was as if she had split herself in two and the practical apothecary had ordered the concerned wife to wait outside. For now, his life depended on her detachment.
When she’d finished, he opened his eyes, deep orbs sunken inside the bruised sockets. "Different to last night," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
She gave him an encouraging smile. He must be in so much pain and yet he managed to be lighthearted for her sake. "Not really," she said. "You’re naked and flat on your back."
He smiled and moved his fingers so they touched hers.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Like ants are crawling over my body."
"That’s one of the effects of monkshood. It’ll pass. Try not to scratch," she said, noticing the fingers of his other hand rubbing his leg. "Are you still giddy?"
"I don’t think so."
"Are your legs and arms in pain?"
"Somewhat."
Knowing Nicholas, that meant he was in agony. At least his breathing wasn’t coming in short, labored gasps anymore but he had begun to shiver again. "Do you think you can make it to the bed if I help you?"
She pulled him up and he leaned heavily on her as they progressed slowly to the bed. He slumped down on top of it with a groan. With very little assistance from her patient, she dressed him in hose and shirt but left the breeches off then tucked him under the blankets.
When his eyes began to droop she shook him awake. "No sleeping, not yet."
He looked like he was about to protest then said, "Talk to me."
"About what?"
"About the last six years." He yawned. "Everything I’ve missed."
"That’ll send you to sleep for sure."
"Never."
So she talked about turning up on Old Man Shawe’s doorstep six years ago, tired and miserable and alone, and how she had become part of his household. She spoke about Mistress Shawe’s death and Master Shawe’s illness and the death of Lawrence’s wife the year before. She told him about Fox the lazy apprentice, about the friends she’d made, including Meg, and about the little rituals that comprised her day. She told him a lot of things, and yet nothing of great importance but he stayed awake. Occasionally she noticed his jaw tightening and she guessed he was doing his best to suppress a fresh wave of pain gripping his insides. Once, he closed his eyes and she thought he’d fallen asleep but it seemed he was trying to master the poison. He threw up again after she told him about Lawrence obtaining the role of physician to Her Majesty and thought the timing was quite apt considering the two men seemed to dislike each other.
Some time later, he closed his eyes out of sheer exhaustion and she let him sleep. It was only then that she began to relax and the true danger that Nicholas had been in penetrated her professional mask. He could have died if she hadn’t been summoned straight away. And if he hadn’t kept the arrow with him, she would never have known the type of poison. And if he lived alone...
Too many ifs. Too many things that could have gone wrong. Too many ways in which she could have lost him. For the first time since her powers came in, she wished she could heal more than flesh wounds. The injury from the arrow was minor and wouldn’t cause him any trouble while it healed naturally, but the poison was a different matter. She wouldn’t have hesitated to cure him with her magic if she could.
The thought stopped her tears instantly and she stared at Nicholas’s peaceful, pale form in the bed. She might have left him in Kent years ago with no thought of returning, but in her heart, he had always been her husband and she’d felt better knowing he was alive and well elsewhere in the world, if not on his own lands then somewhere.
But in the last few perilous hours he had almost been ripped from her forever.
The tears started again and she swallowed a sob, then another then didn’t bother trying to contain the rest. When her crying eased, she sat on the bed beside him because she just wanted to be close. But it wasn’t close enough so she lay down next to him and he must have sensed her because he rolled into her, resting his head on her shoulder. His breathing came more even, hot on her neck, and beneath the covers his chest rose and fell regularly. He was out of danger. Safe. With her. She kissed the top of his head and closed her eyes, not wanting to think beyond the sweet moment.
CHAPTER 8
"Who would want to poison you?"
Nicholas wanted to know the answer to Isabel’s question just as much as she did. He shook his head then regretted it because the action made the incessant pounding worse. The only good thing to come of it was the softening of Isabel’s demeanor. Ever since he awoke that morning, she had treated him like one of her customers, clinically asking him questions about his health then plying him with medicines, but now her brow furrowed and she sat down next to him on the bed.
"How is your head?" she asked, pressing cool fingers against his temple.
"It feels like someone has driven a spike through my skull." He tried to sit up but she gently stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Lie down. You need to rest or your recovery will take longer."
He lay back as ordered. If he needed rest then he’d best take it while he could because tomorrow he would have to restart his investigation in earnest now that the stakes had risen somewhat.
"Did you see where the arrow came from?" she asked. It seemed she wasn’t about to give up on her line of questioning.
"Not exactly. One of the shops I think."
"Were there any witnesses?"
"Nobody actually saw the arrow."
She placed her fingers on his wrist and checked his pulse for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. Surely she didn’t need to check it that often. "It’s most odd," she muttered, frowning down at their connected hands. "Most odd."
"My pulse?"
"This attempt on your life. Monkshood is one of the deadliest poisons an
d smearing it on an arrow means someone intended to cause you serious harm, if not death." She shook her head. "I just don’t understand why someone would want to kill you."
"Perhaps the arrow was meant for someone else and missed its target." It was a blatant attempt to deceive her but hopefully she fell for it. He suspected if Isabel thought someone wanted to kill him she would not give up until she found out why. And he certainly couldn’t have her doing that. "It happens all the time. Archery is bloody difficult to master, as I keep reminding Ash."