I looked into Faulke’s eyes and let myself get lost in the turbulent blue depths. This time I didn’t try to stop the staring contest, but embraced it. I felt as if I was looking beyond his eyes straight into his soul, a soul that loved me. I wondered idly if he saw the same thing in me. It felt intimate, but I no longer cared about the crowd of people watching us. I kept my gaze locked with Faulke’s as my heartbeat slowed and my breathing became marginally easier.
Someone shook me and I realized I had closed my eyes.
Chiavari was back. He handed a goblet to Faulke. “Make her drink this. All of it.”
Someone propped me up and a goblet was held to my lips. Something vile trickled into my mouth and I tried to close it. That same someone who propped me up had their hand on my jaw, forcing my mouth to stay open.
“Drink it, Isabel!” Faulke commanded. “You were poisoned. For your life, drink it all.”
It was horrible. And black. No cure should be oily black. It looked and tasted evil. Faulke’s panic-stricken expression cleared some of the fog. If I wanted to live, I had to drink the sludge. And I wanted to live. For the first time in my life, I had someone to live for, someone I would not leave without a fight.
Faulke had never made a declaration of love, but I saw it in his eyes whenever we were alone together. He looked at me the way Dante looked at Avalene, the way Richard looked at Gretchen, and, strangely enough, the way Gerhardt had looked at Hilda tonight. I was glad I had confessed my love to him, as embarrassing as it had been at the time. I wanted to say it again, but the horrible cure was being forced into me.
I barely had the last of it down before I started to retch. Faulke held me over the side of the table as everything I had to eat and drink at the feast ended up on the floor. It was worse than the wine. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at it, and silently apologized to the poor servants who would be stuck cleaning up the mess.
“I’m cold.”
Faulke’s already pale face lost all its color. “You said this was the cure!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “ ’Tis killing her!”
“The poison needs to get out of her body as quickly as possible,” I heard Dante answer, and then a hand was placed on my forehead. “ ’Tis obviously a fast poison, but I am not certain what was given to her. Purging is the first part of the cure, and then charcoal tea. I don’t know how much she ingested. We will not know until morning if the cure will work.”
Something shattered, and then I heard Faulke roar. Not one of his roars from our bedchamber, but an earsplitting shout of rage. Something else broke. I was too tired to open my eyes and look, too exhausted from retching to care. Someone was stroking my hair. Gretchen. She was crying. The sounds in the great hall faded again, and I closed my eyes.
* * *
—
I WOKE UP choking. Avalene was seated on my bed, trying to force a concoction down my throat that was only marginally less offensive than the first cure. A tea of some sort, I recalled Chiavari saying. I knew without looking that the strong arms around me belonged to Faulke. He was holding my mouth open but my bodice felt sopping wet. I wondered if there was more tea on me than in me.
Avalene suddenly leaned back and I watched her eyes widen. “She is awake!”
“Isabel, thank God!” I was jostled a bit, and then Faulke was in front of me, staring into my eyes. He lifted both of my hands, carefully turning them over to make certain his lips touched every spot. His eyes never left mine, as if he were afraid I would close them again. His big hands moved over my face, brushing from the center toward the sides while his lips moved in some silent incantation.
“Are you casting a spell over me?” I rasped.
His hands stopped their repetitive petting, and he gave me a sober look. “I was saying a prayer of thanks.”
“I—I can feel my hands again,” I said.
“You couldn’t feel your hands?”
“Aye, my hands and feet were numb. I couldn’t hear right, either.” I frowned, recollecting the halo that wasn’t a halo. “My lips are still numb.”
“Here,” he said as he reached behind him and Avalene handed him the goblet. “You must drink this. As much as you can.”
I managed a few small sips.
“More,” he encouraged, tilting the goblet up.
I took another sip and then pushed the revolting stuff away. “I will be sick again.”
“That is not a bad thing.” He made me take another swallow. “I would rather watch you puke than stop breathing again. Isabel, I nearly lost you.”
Really? I had been that close? I looked around and realized I was in my bedchamber, in my own bed. My hands and feet were still a little numb after all, I decided as I flexed my fingers and toes. Even that small effort felt monumental, and my eyelids were fighting a serious battle to stay open.
It suddenly struck me that my eyes might never have opened again, that I might never have looked upon Faulke again.
I looked at the window and saw the faint glow of dawn. “How long have I been here?”
“The entire night,” Faulke said. “You would not even rouse to drink.”
“Your cider was poisoned,” Chiavari said on the other side of me. He nodded at Faulke, who looked more haggard than I had ever seen him. “You have been unconscious since he carried you here from the great hall.”
Even as weak as I felt, with the memory of the first cure still too fresh in my mind, I knew I owed Chiavari my life. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You are welcome, Princess.” He smiled down at me, but there was still an edge of worry in his eyes. He turned to Faulke. “Have her drink the tea that Avalene brewed. Make her drink as much as she can. The poison is still not out of her.”
Faulke nodded, his gaze never leaving my face. “She will recover?”
“Aye.” Dante rubbed his jaw. “I will check on her again after…after I make certain Armand does not do too much damage.”
A terrible light came into Faulke’s eyes, but he gave Dante a tight nod.
“Armand broke something?” I asked, remembering the loud sounds of something breaking in the great hall the night before.
Faulke shook his head.
Avalene cleared her throat. “Armand is…interrogating the poisoner. Dante will make certain Armand does not get too enthusiastic before we can obtain answers.”
“You know who did this?” I asked them both.
“Aye.” Faulke’s voice promised death. I actually shivered. “But not the reasons you were poisoned. That silence will not last long once I—”
He looked down at the goblet, his grip so tight the knuckles were white. “All that matters is that you drink this tea. I will not leave you until I know for certain you are better and there is no more of that vile poison in your body.”
A noise at the doorway caught my attention. Gretchen and Hilda stood there, watching me, tired smiles of relief on both their faces. For some reason, their expressions made me realize they had not expected to see me again. Not alive anyway. I really had almost died. I began to quietly cry.
Avalene hesitated, looked at Faulke, and then said, “I will leave you alone.”
She wasn’t even out the door before Faulke had his arms around me, lifting me carefully to hold me while I cried. The tears didn’t last very long. They might have been tears of joy that I was still alive. I had thought to call Gretchen and Hilda into the room, but was glad I didn’t. I still felt weak as a kitten, but my emotions were getting a workout. My tears fell all over Faulke’s chest, but he didn’t protest. Instead he held and rocked me and murmured nonsense as the fear and fright poured out of me.
When the last of my tears were dry, Faulke tried to ply me with more tea.
“Wait, first tell me the name of the poisoner,” I said. “Was it a servant? How was it done? How were they caug
ht?”
Faulke held the cup away, his look foreboding. “Someone did see. Sort of. You had drunk from one jug of cider all night without incident, and no one else who drank from the jug was ill. The poison had to be put in your cup while we were dancing. That is the only time no one was at the head table to see it happen. No one, that is, except Rami. He was beneath the table during the dances, and recognized the garments of the only person who approached our place at the table while we were dancing. As soon as you fell ill, he told Avalene. If not for his spying, it would have taken much longer to find the culprit.”
I remembered Rami tugging on Avalene’s gown. I would never again complain about the boy sneaking around.
“Who was it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Torture
It took another day before I could walk to the solar without stopping to rest, but then my recovery progressed at a rapid pace. On the third day, I could take it no more.
“Help!”
“What are you doing?” Faulke asked.
“Help!” I called out again.
Hilda and Gretchen were in my doorway in an instant.
“Princess?” they asked in unison.
“Make him stop,” I pleaded, waving an ungracious hand in Faulke’s direction. “I cannot drink any more of that foul tea. I am cured. Convince him!”
Their heads swiveled toward Faulke, who didn’t turn his head at all. He glared at me. “Just drink this last cupful, and then I will ask Chiavari if we can stop.”
I glared right back at him. “You said that about the last cup.”
“I mean it this time. You have my word.”
Unmoved, I gave an exasperated sigh. “You said that last time, too.”
“I would not lie to you,” he said, sounding affronted. “I did ask Chiavari. He said it was better to be too cautious than too quick to stop the treatment.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How did you ask him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ask, ‘Can she stop drinking tea that tastes like a latrine?’ or did you say, ‘She is being unreasonable. Tell me why she should continue the treatment.’ ”
“I did not say that,” he muttered. His expression said it was something close to those words. “You are not well yet.”
“Ah, do you need us to remain?” Gretchen asked in German, just in case.
I waved them away. I looked at Faulke and struggled to keep my tone reasonable. “The only reason I am weak is because I have been lying in bed for almost four days. The poison is gone now. Truly. Please let me stop drinking that foul concoction and start eating real food. I am starving. You are starving me to death. I am weak from lack of food!”
So I might have turned a bit unreasonable.
“Fine,” he said between clenched teeth. “Chiavari said you could stop drinking the tea today, but he did not say when. I suppose now is as good a time as any. I will have food brought to the solar.”
I bit my lower lip and looked toward the door. “I would like to see the prisoners.”
“No.”
* * *
—
FAULKE INSISTED I eat first, but at last he gave in to my demand after a long discussion that might have sounded like an argument to everyone else in the solar. So far, the prisoners would not confess, to admit who had sent them and why. A confession was the only way to hold the person who was ultimately behind the plot responsible, and we did not have that person in custody. I finally convinced Faulke that I might succeed where they had failed.
Ashland Palace didn’t have a dungeon. The securest place to keep a prisoner was in the treasury, which I found ironic, keeping the worst people with the best goods, but it was the only set of rooms with heavy locks.
Chiavari, Armand, and Oliver were already with the prisoners. Gerhardt and Richard insisted on accompanying us to the treasury. I was glad of the torches they carried when we made our way through the dark, narrow tunnel that led to the vaulted room. Faulke already had his hands full since he insisted upon carrying me the entire way. I was secretly thankful, for I still tired too easily, but I asked him to put me down when the tunnel widened again into a guardroom. Two guards stood before a thick wooden door that was heavily banded with iron straps.
I heard someone inside scream.
The sound was muffled, here in the bowels of Ashland with a thick door between us and the person screaming, but it was obvious that someone was being tortured. I struggled not to shiver, but I did not struggle with sympathy. One of these people intended to murder me, and Faulke would have likely paid the price for that murder. They were my foulest enemies. They, and the man who had ordered my death.
Faulke’s hand came to rest on my waist, warm and reassuring in this place of dark misery. “You do not have to do this, Isabel. Someone will confess his name, eventually. Chiavari knows what he is doing.”
“I am fine,” I assured him, still staring at the door. It was eerily quiet. I gave the guards a nod, and one of them opened the door for me.
The first thing that hit me was the smell. Blood and urine and fear. It was not a good combination. I took shallow breaths through my mouth to accustom myself to the noxious odor. A quick glance at the prisoners made me look away just as quickly. I steadied my nerves by looking at everything that had been in the room before it had been turned into a torture chamber.
The treasury room was lined with shelves on one long wall, most of which held boxes of expensive spices and salt. The top shelves were crammed with gold and silver plates, goblets, candlesticks, and an assortment of jewel-encrusted treasures that sparkled in the torchlight. Trunks were stacked at the narrower end of the room, and I knew they contained everything from bolts of expensive fabrics to books to sacks of coins.
All of the trunks had been moved away from the wall opposite the shelves. Chiavari and his men stepped back to make room for us, and I forced my gaze to continue with its inventory. Three sets of manacles and chains had been bolted into the wall. The chains were drawn tight so the prisoners’ arms were stretched high above their heads with their feet barely touching the floor. When they passed out, they would hang by their wrists, which would only cause more pain that would eventually wake them. It was a hellish cycle. Torture treated no one kindly. The prisoners themselves were barely recognizable. I finally allowed myself to look at their faces.
The three unfortunate creatures returned my stare, something akin to hope in their eyes, as if I could save them. My gaze moved to the woman, recognizable only by her hair and what was left of her clothing.
“Mercy, please,” Lady Blanche managed.
I stared at Blanche, my face purposely wiped of emotion. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t look bloodied or battered. I tried to remember the color of her garments at the feast and realized she still wore the same blue gown, now ripped in places and almost black with crusted blood.
The gown had been a very distinctive shade of blue, almost sapphire. No one else at the feast had worn a gown of a similar color, and Rami was certain she had lingered at the head table while we were dancing. More poison had been found in her chamber, and she had already admitted under torture that she was the one who poisoned me.
I looked at her hands and realized someone had removed two of her fingers. It was obvious they had bled until she was probably weak from blood loss, but they were sealed now to prevent the loss of too much.
My gaze flickered over the other two prisoners. Her brother, Sir Walter, was no longer handsome, and never would be again. A low moan escaped his battered mouth each time he exhaled. Sir Crispin’s chin had dropped to his chest while I was inspecting his wife, and he hung limply from his wrists.
“Mercy, please,” Blanche said again in a hoarse voice, drawing my attention back to her.
Three days of torture had reduced her to this pathetic state. Wh
at would she look like in three more?
“My husband wants to kill you slowly,” I told her, coming to stand in front of her but far enough away that the mess that accompanied three days of being chained to a wall and tortured didn’t come near me. “I don’t know how good he is at it, but I’m certain he would be willing to listen to advice from Chiavari about how to make it last and be more painful.
“You will be punished until you confess everything,” I went on. “Including the name of the man who ordered you to kill me. Think hard about what you have already endured at their hands, and then think about what Faulke will do. He wants you to suffer as you intended for him to suffer, for his family and all of his people to suffer. That’s quite a lot of suffering, Blanche. Do you think you can tolerate that much torture?”
I could almost see the hope of a swift death fade from her eyes.
“Chiavari is here to make certain your questioning is painful but not fatal,” I told her. “He understands all aspects of how to bring about death. Fast or slow. Which will be your choice, Blanche?”
She shook her head as her chin sunk to her chest.
“One of you poisoned Sir Roland and his family. Aleric of Almain was with my father when Sir Roland died, ready to offer up Sir Crispin’s name again. Did you think no one would find that a strange coincidence?”
Actually, the coincidence might have gone unremarked, or it would have been only speculation at best, without Rami as an eyewitness to my poisoning. I would still be dead. Faulke would likely be dead. And these three would have probably gotten away with murder.
“They did not know,” Blanche muttered, her head still hanging down. “My brother and husband are innocent.”
I shook my head, even though she could not see. “They are accomplices, Blanche. Sir Roland would not have accepted a gift from a woman he did not know, even the wife of a fellow soldier. Crispin or Walter gave him the poisoned sweetmeats, and Sir Roland shared it with his poor family. Four people are dead. Your brother might be innocent of that crime, but he was close to the both of you. If he remained ignorant of the plots, he did so on purpose. That also makes him an accomplice and just as guilty.”
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