Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  Now one of the tinsmiths leads the group in a comic song about the biggest ram ever sold at the Derby fair – a ram so big his shadow blocks the sun itself. The song has a nonsense refrain that gets louder and wilder each time it is sung:

  Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,

  Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day!

  Someone calls for ghost stories, with each storyteller enjoined to share a more terrifying tale than the one before. I wave off my chance to speak, claiming shyness. If they only knew what horrors I could tell! It is better that I say nothing.

  After my refusal, it is Maryam’s father’s turn. “The ghost stories of Persia are much too frightening to repeat here,” he says, to hoots of disbelief. “I will tell you a true story instead. Completely true, I assure you. Your own hero, the explorer Marco Polo, saw these things with his own eyes. Have you ever heard of the Hashshashin?”

  The word seems to exert some power of its own, for at once the room falls silent. The rug merchant glances at his daughter. Maryam is now half asleep on her mother’s shoulder, cheeks flushed from the fire. Quietly he continues. “The Hashshashin was an ancient brotherhood of trained killers. Their victims were kings. Generals. Leaders of men. They killed for power, and power only. Their knives had blades edged with diamonds, and their stealth was like the stealth of a snake. No one could hear them approach. Silent as shadows, their daggers never failed to find their targets.”

  I try to concentrate on the leaping fire, the glass in my hand – anything but the rug merchant’s story that holds everyone else spellbound. “Some say the Hashshashin were taught to kill from birth. Some say they were bred for it. By the use of strange potions, their stealth and ferocity were increased. They lived and trained in a mountaintop fortress of stone, and served a master known only as the Old One.”

  A pipe is passed around the room. Its smoke has a strange, sweet smell. I try not to breathe it in, but soon my tongue feels thick in my mouth. Everything seems slowed.

  Carefully I put down my glass. I do not like this feeling; it reminds me of when I was ill, a helpless traveller adrift in strange and terrifying seas.

  Listen closely, my lovely… Listen, and learn.

  “Do these Hashshashin still exist?” one of the younger men asks, a note of admiration in his voice.

  “Nobody knows,” the rug merchant says. “Some claim they were wiped out centuries ago, destroyed by their enemies. They had many enemies, you may be sure. Others say no: They are still among us, controlling the fate of nations, and just as dangerous as ever.”

  “And what do you think?”

  He leans forward, and the fire sends long shadows flickering across his face. “Does it matter? In every nation, in every century, there are those who would kill for power, no? Even here in England. You call them assassins.” He spreads his arms. “No matter what shape or form they take, no matter what they call themselves, these people are the heirs of the Hashshashin. And there will be no peace on earth as long as such killers exist.”

  “Hear, hear,” someone cries. Glasses are lifted, and there are declarations of assent. The rug seller’s story has pleased the group, but it has put them in a sombre mood as well.

  By now my limbs are leaden. I force myself to rise and begin to make my way to the stairs.

  “Speaking of killers,” says one of the women, in the conversation’s lull – it is Agnes’s friend who speaks, I think – “It was all the talk at the market today. I took a walk over, to see what price yarn fetches in these parts. Anyway, there was a murder in some remote house, outside of Alnwick.”

  Already I feel somewhat outside myself from the drink and sweet smoke. Surely I can listen and stay calm. At least I should stay long enough to hear what is being said.

  “Not at the castle. It was at the old abbey ruins. A man is dead, and a girl is missing. The place was ransacked and half burned to the ground.”

  Ransacked? Burned? There must have been looters, then – unless the tale has grown wings in the retelling. And they mention only one man dead. That must be Pratt, for who would think to look in the locked garden for a second body?

  I cannot help but picture the dreadful scene: Father’s corpse is lying there even now, rotting beneath the leaves – not even the ravens dare pick over his poisoned flesh, that work will be left to the worms –

  “They say a herbalist and his daughter made their home within the ruins. Imagine that! They must have been odd ducks, both of them, to live in such an eerie place.”

  “Both dead?”

  “They found the body of a man, or what was left of it after the fire. No sign of the girl.”

  There is some clucking of tongues. A woman interjects, “It’s bad enough to rob a man’s home and take his life. Must they steal his daughter as well?”

  “She’s ruined by now, if she’s still alive. Poor thing.”

  “Now, being the wench of a highwayman’s not such an awful fate,” another woman says. Her speech is slurred with drink. “It wouldn’t be boring, at least! And I’ll bet the money’s good.”

  A few laugh crudely at this. Soon the group’s wild spirits are restored.

  “A highwayman, eh? Why not? I’d have a go, if the right robber came along.”

  “I would too, but only if the thief was handsome. Like Robin Hood!”

  “Hear that, men? If you want to please the ladies, a life of crime is your ticket to love. At least with this bunch of hussies, it is!”

  More drink, more smoke, more song:

  This ram had four legs to walk on, sir,

  This ram had four legs to stand,

  And every leg he had, sir,

  Stood on an acre of land.

  Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,

  Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.

  The din is so loud my head swims; I clutch the bannister for balance. Step by step, I drag myself up the stairs.

  The butcher that killed this ram, sir,

  Was drownded in the blood,

  And the boy that held the pail, sir,

  Was carried away in the flood.

  Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,

  Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.

  I too feel carried away in a tide of blood. It takes all my strength to climb the second flight of steps and turn into the dark landing by the door to my room. As I fumble for the key, I see something: a glint of light on metal, lurking in a dark corner. The sight makes me gasp.

  The Hashshashin, I think, like a foolish child.

  “Hush, Rowan.” A strong hand reaches out from the darkness and grips my arm. “It’s me.”

  He steps forward, out of the shadows. It is Rye. He has some drink in him, I can smell it on his breath, but he seems steady and in full possession of his wits.

  “I thought ye might be frightened. All that talk of murder.” His brogue is heavier with drink, and the glint of metal comes from a medallion he wears around his neck. I have not seen it before, but the top of his shirt is unbuttoned and the medal hangs low on his chest. It is some Catholic saint, the kind of token that could get a man thrown in prison, or worse.

  “You are too kind,” I say, glancing around into the hidden corners of the landing. I do not wish anyone to see us speaking alone. “But I am not frightened.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “Of you?” I look at him, and take in the expressive, mocking mouth, the coarse red-brown stubble on his chin. His shoulders are broad, with arms strong and steady enough to wrestle a spirited stallion or soothe a frightened yearling.

  “No, not of me, lass,” he says quickly. “I’d wring the neck of any man who’d do wrong by a woman that way. I’m no choirboy to be sure, but I have my principles.”

  “Of who, then?

  “Them.” He jerks his head toward the great room downstairs, where the carousing continues. “The widow Agnes has taken to crossing herself when you pass by.”

  “If you wish to speak to me, come inside,” I say quickly, opening the door to
my room. Rye slips in behind me. I close the door and bolt it.

  I light the candle in the wall sconce nearest the door. The room is small and spare: a cot, a dresser, and a washbasin.

  I turn to him. “I am sorry I cannot offer you a chair.”

  He laughs. “You’re not afraid of me at all, then?”

  “No.” I speak softly, for the walls between the tiny rooms are thin. “In fact, I feel safer with you here.”

  “’Tis a sweet thing to say.” His voice softens, too. “And you are a sweet woman, I think, sweet and warmhearted, underneath that pretty face that never smiles.”

  “Is that why you’ve come – to make me smile?” Somehow the words come out sounding like an invitation, but he does not move.

  “I came to give you a warning. Be careful of that lot downstairs. I don’t like the way they talk. Especially that woman Agnes. She’s got her eye on you. She’s got mischief planned.”

  “Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “You are a gentleman to tell me so.”

  He laughs. “Easy, now! I’ll not be accused of gallantry. I won’t lie; there’s another reason I came, too. The truth is, I have a fever, Rowan,” he says, and I startle, for I have done nothing to reveal my healing skills to these people.

  “What sort of fever?”

  “Love, I think.” His eyes search mine. “Or its close cousin, anyway.”

  The room sways again. Is it the drink? The late hour? The dance of candlelight in this tiny, cloistered room? Or is it Rye himself: the way he has sought me out, speaking gently, protectively, making me realise how desperately alone I am?

  All I know is that his murmured words and warm-blooded presence have kindled an answering warmth within me. I lift my gaze to his. He sees at once what my eyes reveal; I hear it in the change of his breath.

  He makes no step toward me but reaches out with one hand. He smoothes my dark hair away from my face, caresses the rim of my ear, traces the line of my jaw to my chin. Cradling my face in his hand, he brushes the curve of my lower lip gently with the tip of his thumb. As if obeying some unspoken command, my lips part, my pulse quickens. Still he does not move.

  All at once, it is I who long to kiss him.

  “Who are you, Rowan?” he says. “You’re younger than you look, I think.”

  “I am old enough.” I let my hands float up either side of him, skimming his strong arms. Gnarled with muscle, hard as packed earth, skin warm as a woodstove beneath the rough fabric of his shirtsleeves.

  “Old enough for me? I wonder if you are. I wonder why you’re running, and what you’re running from.” He gathers up my hands in his and lifts them up, as if to kiss them. Instead he holds them to the light of the candle. “Old enough to be a liar, anyway. These are no seamstress’s hands.” He turns my palms upward. “More like a farm girl’s. These hands know the feel of dirt, I’d wager. Of good rich earth.”

  He comes closer still and leans his face down to mine. The slow tenderness of his kiss shocks me, and he pulls away long before I am satisfied.

  “You are running, aren’t you?”

  I stay silent, but my breath comes quick. He smiles.

  “Tell me the truth and I’ll kiss you again. Are you running from something?”

  “Yes.”

  “From what?” He draws me close. His cheek is rough and hot against my skin. “Did you flee a wicked husband? A crushing debt? A mistress who treated you like a slave?”

  “I have done murder,” I whisper. I know he will think I lie, but a mask made of truth is often the best disguise. I offer him my upturned, parted mouth, and wait for my reward.

  Practised healer that I am, I can feel his temperature rise. But he steps back and gives me a hard, searching look. Then he chuckles. “Did you, now? Can’t say I’m surprised. There’s something lethal about you, to be sure. Very well, man-killer Rowan. Someday you’ll tell me the truth. Sleep well.”

  He starts to go, but I reach for him and seize the front of his shirt. Wordlessly I fasten the top buttons, to hide the medal he wears.

  “Lock the door after I go,” he says when I am done. “There are too many drunken rogues in this inn tonight. Including me.”

  He leaves me then, the feel of his stubble still raw on my cheek. Obediently I bolt the door and blow the candle out.

  That night, I do not dream of Weed.

  8

  THE NEXT MORNING I awaken early. I have only had a few hours’ sleep, yet I feel instantly alert, like a hunted animal.

  I light a candle, for it is still scarcely dawn, and wash my face with cold water from the basin. With each icy splash, it is as if I rinse away the memories of Rye’s presence here in my tiny room. His voice, his form, his warmth, his kiss – all fade until they are no more than the shadow of a half-remembered dream.

  My shame is not so easy to wash away. What would Weed think if he knew how readily I welcomed Rye’s embrace? I am lonely and afraid, yes – but is my devotion so weak that I sought refuge in the arms of the first man who showed a moment’s kindness to me?

  After committing two murders, you feel shame over one little kiss? Really, lovely, you are very foolish sometimes. But the horse trader is right – it is time to move on. I would not have you rotting in some country jail, waiting for the hangman’s scaffold to be built…

  Oleander’s scorn only deepens my shame. But I will obey. As a hunted deer runs through a stream to make the dogs lose its scent, I too must change course often and step lightly, leaving no trail.

  I will gather my things and tell no one of my plan. Tomorrow I will slip away before dawn, and leave word with the driver that I have found other means of transportation, so that no one waits or looks for me. It is best not to offer lies and excuses; I wish to simply disappear.

  At nine o’clock I go downstairs to get a boiled egg and some bread from the kitchen. The inn is quiet, the dining room empty. Perhaps some of the guests have gone to church. No doubt many are still asleep, recovering from last night’s revels.

  I choose a small table for myself and pour a cup of tea. As I do, two women from our group enter the dining room. One of them yawns widely.

  “The crying and moaning kept me up half the night,” she complains to her companion. “I hope the child recovers, of course, but I’ll tell you, I won’t spend another night in the room next door if it’s going to be another ordeal like that.”

  “If the girl’s that sick, the rug sellers will have to stay behind tomorrow. Just as well, if you ask me. We’ll go faster and safer without them. That mule of theirs is slow as a barge! It makes us easy pickings for the highwaymen.”

  “Are you still dreaming of Robin Hood, sweeping you off to a life of thievery and romance?” Laughter. They have taken a table not far from me. I slide my wooden chair back and clear my throat.

  “Excuse me; I could not help overhearing your remarks.” I speak in a rush, before my better judgment can stop me. “Did I understand you to say that the little Persian girl is ill?”

  The bleary-eyed woman shrugs. “I only know because I rapped on the door this morning asking them to quiet down. Her mother was all apologies and excuses. She told me the child started burning hot with fever during the night and can scarcely swallow because her throat is so swollen. She claimed her husband was already out looking for a doctor, but they’ll not find one who’ll come on foot on a Sunday, that’s certain.” The woman clucks her tongue. “I got a glimpse of the girl. She’s sick enough, to be sure. Her cheeks are red as a harlot’s.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” I speak sympathetically, but inwardly I am ablaze with anger. Why Maryam? Why now, when I am packed to leave? If anyone else of our group fell sick, I would walk away from their suffering with a heart of ice.

  I could help Maryam, easily. But to betray myself as a healer now would be too dangerous, especially since the news of the murder at Hulne Abbey has spread. How long before someone remembers that the dead herbalist’s daughter also had the skill to heal, and to kill?


  Even as I sit there, staring at my cold tea, a war rages inside me. The longer I stay, the more peril I am in. But she is a child, an innocent. Unlike most adults – unlike me – she does not deserve even a moment of pain.

  Swollen throat, high fever, scarlet cheeks – the kind of fever she has is one I know to be dangerous. It is also not difficult to cure, if one has the correct herbs on hand, and the knowledge of how to use them.

  “In what room are they staying?” I ask it casually.

  “Third floor, the last room in the hall.” The woman gives me a stern look of warning. “But don’t you go visiting there, unless you want to risk coming down with the same fever.”

  “Lord, no! A catching fever, running through the company. That’s the last thing we need,” her companion adds. “Best keep away, for the sake of all.”

  “That is why I ask where they are staying.” I add a splash of milk to my cold tea and watch it swirl as I stir, a tiny whirlpool of fate that is about to suck me down into its depths. “I would prefer to avoid them if I can. I have always had a strong fear of illness.”

  I pretend to drink my tea until the women leave. When the way is clear and there is no one around to observe me, I go at once to the third floor and stand outside the door to the rug sellers’ room. Still, I hesitate. Perhaps the girl is not as sick as those women said, I tell myself. Perhaps there is nothing I need do but offer my sympathy.

  Why visit her at all, then? The evil prince croons doubts in my head.

  If there is some way I can help her condition without exposing myself, I will.

  And what if that is not enough?

  My hand hovers in front of the door. Do I dare knock? Do I dare leave without knocking?

  Careful, lovely, the voice of my master warns. Locked gates are kept locked for a reason. Open them even a crack, and you never know what demons might escape…

  My knock is so faint, it is as if I do not wish it to be heard. Even so, the door opens at once.

  “Ibrahim! Has the doctor come?” It is Maryam’s mother. She looks worn and exhausted. “Oh… it is you. Miss Rowan.” She peers past me, down the empty hall. “I thought it might be my husband.”