Chantress Alchemy (22 page)

I had to save him somehow. But what could I do without magic?

In a frenzy of frustration, I pushed at the backs of the men
who stood in my way. The men did not budge.
I can’t even see him
, I thought.
They’ll kill him for a traitor, and I can’t even see what’s happening.

“They’ve got him!” someone shouted.

The men in front of me shuffled forward, and through a gap I glimpsed Nat. Two guards had him pinioned and were marching him toward the door. Just before they reached the threshold, he stumbled. Blood on his cheek glistened in the torchlight.

“Nat!” I cried out. What had they done to him?

He didn’t rise. The guards leaned over him.

Quick as a hare, he jerked up and knocked the guards off balance. Dodging their flailing arms, he ran free.

“Stop him!” Wrexham cried. But the two guards were still getting their footing. When the others rushed forward, they tripped over them, blocking the doorway for everyone else. By the time the tangle was undone, Nat was out of sight.

“Find him!” Wrexham shouted.

As the guards fanned out, Wrexham wheeled toward me, the crucible in his massive grasp. His free hand came down on my shoulder. “You. Come with me.” He turned to one of the guards. “Alert the soldiers outside. They must keep watch for the traitor on the walls, in the park, on the river—”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And summon the full Council to the Crimson Chamber. Bring the man Penebrygg there under guard. I don’t want him slipping away.” His hand tightened on my shoulder. “The Chantress and I will meet you there.”

†    †    †

Whatever the guards said to the Council members, it made them act quickly. Within a quarter hour, almost everyone was assembled in the Crimson Chamber, including Penebrygg. Spectacles askew, cap missing, he had been marched into the room by two guards who now stood behind his chair. I was too far away to say anything to him. Indeed, I hardly dared meet his eyes, for Wrexham was watching every move I made.

It was Sir Isaac’s entrance, however, that caused the most stir. White-faced, he tottered through the door.

Sir Samuel rushed up to steady him. “You oughtn’t to have come here, old friend. Not in your condition.”

Sir Isaac grabbed Sir Samuel’s arm for support. “Bother my condition. Wrexham, is it true? Have you found the crucible?”

“We have,” Wrexham said. “And I swear to you, it will be ringed with guards from this night onward, until your work is done.”

“But where is it?”

Wrexham beckoned forth a cohort of men who had been standing in the corner. “Show the crucible to Sir Isaac.”

The men trotted around the table, carrying a chest. When they opened this before Sir Isaac, he looked as if he were about to faint.

“It
is
the crucible. It truly is. God be thanked.” As he touched its smooth side, his voice shook. “Where did you find it?”

Wrexham recounted what had happened. Those who had
not witnessed the turn of events for themselves—Sir Isaac, Sir Samuel, and Penebrygg—looked shocked.

“I can hardly believe it,” Sir Isaac said. “I know Nat was no fan of alchemy, but to stoop to such infamy . . .”

“He wouldn’t.” Penebrygg shook his head vehemently. “I raised the lad; I know him through and through. He’s not a murderer. And he wouldn’t steal the crucible.”

Sir Samuel looked torn. “But what about the evidence? He was caught red-handed—”

“He didn’t do it!” I had to speak, even though I was half-afraid Wrexham would muzzle me. “Dr. Penebrygg is right. We know him, none better, and he wouldn’t do this.”

“Nonsense,” Lord Roxburgh said. “He was found with the crucible. We all saw it. And everyone knows he was against the alchemy work.”

“But he told you he was,” I said. “The real thief would never dare be so open. Nat is innocent. He must be.”

“He’s guilty as Judas, Chantress.” Wrexham pounded the table as he delivered his verdict. “You saw him there with the crucible.”

“It could have been planted on him,” Penebrygg said.

Wrexham dismissed this. “How, when no one else knew the room existed?”

“What about the queen?” I said, scrambling for any point in Nat’s favor. “The magic told me there was a queen involved.”

“And who’s to say there isn’t?” Lord Roxburgh put in. “Perhaps the boy is working for a foreign queen—or for Boudicca. Of the
two, I’d say Boudicca is more likely. We all know he comes from base blood himself.”

“His blood has nothing to do with it!” I rose from my chair in anger. “I tell you he isn’t working for any queen. If he were, I would know it—”

“Would you, Chantress? And how exactly would you know?” Wrexham leaned in close, and I saw rage in his eyes. “Have you been seeing him in secret?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“God’s bloody bones!” Wrexham’s rage spread, reddening his cheeks, twisting his mouth. “Understand this, Chantress: you will not be seeing him again. Not until you see him put to death like the traitor he is. For we will hunt him down, have no doubt about that. We will hunt him and capture him; he will be drawn and quartered. And you will be there to see his head tarred and spiked and set high on London Bridge.”

“No.” I would not listen. I would not let myself picture it. “No.”

“You will be there because I tell you to be.” Wrexham’s fist slammed into the table again. “The women of my house do not disobey me.”

My mouth went dry. Surely I had not heard him right. Surely I had misunderstood. “The women . . . of your house?” I repeated.

“Has no one told you yet?” Wrexham leaned close, his breath hot on my cheek, his eyes burning with malice. “The Council has come to an agreement about your marriage: you are to become my wife.”

I stared back at Wrexham in disbelief.

“I recall no such decision by the Council,” Penebrygg protested from far down the table.

“The Inner Council settled the matter this very night,” Wrexham said without taking his eyes off me. “We are agreed: in these dangerous times, the Chantress requires the protection and steadiness that a man of my years and position can offer.”

The room was quiet.

So it was true. They were marrying me off to Wrexham. The horror of it nearly swallowed me whole.

“You don’t even like me,” I whispered, looking into his perfect, hateful face.

“Liking has nothing to do with it,” he said coldly. “I had thought to save you for my son, but we need a more immediate solution. The kingdom has a pressing need for Chantresses who respect authority—as I assure you our daughters will do.”

Our daughters?
I wanted to retch.

“You can’t do this,” I said.

“I can, and I will. And I will not suffer you to disobey me.” Wrexham’s fists tightened as he motioned to the men standing at the door. “Guards, I fear the Chantress is unwell. Escort her to her rooms—and watch over her.”

†    †    †

The guards delivered me to my rooms, where I found Margery waiting up for me. When the guards made as if to accompany me, she pointed them firmly to the door. “It isn’t proper for you men to be here, not when the Lady Chantress is about to take her rest. You can take up your post outside. I’ll watch over her in here.”

The guards looked at each other, then did as she asked. Was that because of her implacable manner—or because they knew she was Wrexham’s spy?

Well, if she was his spy, what did it matter now? Wearily, I sank before the fire. As Wrexham’s wife, I could expect to be surrounded by his spies for the rest of my life.

Wrexham’s wife.
Was it possible? Exhausted and defeated, and still terrified for Nat, I watched the fire through blurred and aching eyes.

“You cannot sleep there by the fire, my lady,” Margery said.

“Did you know?” I asked dully.

“Know what, my lady?”

“That I was to be married to Wrexham.”

“My lady!” Her shock appeared genuine. “Surely not—”

“He told me so himself. Before the Council. There can be no doubt.” Despite my best efforts, my voice shook.

“Oh, my lady.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “He has wanted another wife for some time. But I did not think it would be you.”

I didn’t want to keep talking with someone who was in Wrexham’s pay. “It is very late, Margery. You should go to bed.”

Her voice grew wooden again. “I must help you into your own bed first, my lady.”

“No. Just leave me.” I was fighting now for self-control. “Please.”

For once, she let me have my way. “Yes, my lady.” I heard her soft footsteps tread back and forth behind me. She placed a blanket around my shoulders. “Good night, my lady.”

I heard her walk into her own small room and climb into bed. She left the door between our rooms open, but once I was sure she was asleep, I allowed the scalding tears to fall.

If only I had run away with Nat when he’d asked me to! Guilt and regret gnawed at me. I’d been so certain that I knew a better way forward—and look at the result: I was to be married to Wrexham, and Nat was to be hunted down and hanged for a traitor. And I had no way to prevent any of it. The only magic I could do now was to see strange visions. And what kind of power was that? A paltry one at best.

Unless I could somehow use it to see the face of the true culprit. . . .

My tears dried as I considered this. When I had scried with Sybil, the faces of the king and queen had been blurred. But if I
tried it again on my own, I might see more clearly and be able to identify the queen. Or perhaps I would see an altogether different picture, one that would reveal some other clue.

Scrying would tell me something else, too: if I were successful, I’d know that the scrying magic was my own, and that Sybil didn’t control it—or me.

Of course, even if Sybil were innocent, there remained the danger that the visions were more than visions, that they somehow worked harm in the real world. What if I scried a picture of Nat being captured—and it happened? My whole body tensed. Perhaps I ought not to try scrying after all.

Yet what else could I do? Lie here and hope for my Chantress magic to come back—knowing, all the while, that Wrexham was drawing his net tighter and tighter? And that if he found Nat, he would condemn him to torture and death?

No. To do nothing was intolerable.

After listening to be sure Margery was still asleep, I crept over to the chest in the corner. On it stood the floral offerings from my erstwhile valentines, which Margery had arranged in vases. I tried not to make a sound as I pulled the nosegays from the shallowest bowl. Made of fine, gilded porcelain, it was quite different from the bowl Sybil had used, but it was the only reasonable container I had.

I carried the bowl, nearly full of water, over to the fire. How to get the light right? I tried several different arrangements, but nothing worked.

Just as I was about to give up, a log in the hearth broke in two,
sending up a shower of sparks. I saw their fire reflected in the water, and then, beneath that, another swirl of light diving down and down and down . . .

Ask
, some small part of my mind said.
Ask the question.

“Who stole the crucible?” I did no more than breathe the words. “Who pinned the blame on Nat?”

Deeper and deeper I fell, and then all at once I saw colors rich as stained glass. They whorled and shifted and then resolved into the picture I’d seen before: the murderous king and queen. Again, to my horror, they fought their life-or-death battle, clawing at each other’s throats until their blurred faces turned blue.

But this time the picture twisted, and a new image appeared before me: a circlet of gold crowning a faceless head, and a hand with a pearl ring grasping a knife. A flash of blue light, and the knife sliced between crown and head. Blood spurted. Another slash, and the crown tore away. And now it felt as if I could not breathe, as if I myself were dying. . . .

My hand flailed, rocking the cup, and the picture vanished. I was left sitting before the fire, a half-spilt bowl of water before me, and a spreading puddle on my cloak. Dread filled every inch of me.

I knew now that the magic was mine and not Sybil’s. But what did the pictures mean? Whose hand had wielded the knife? Could it be Wrexham? I was fairly sure that one of his rings had a pearl. But then why hadn’t I seen his other rings too?

So many questions! But the worst one was this: By conjuring these pictures up, had I somehow harmed the King?

“My lady?” Margery appeared at my side. “Did you cry out?” Sharp-eyed as always, she swooped down on the cup. “What’s this?”

“There was a mark on my cloak,” I said. “I . . . I wanted to get it out.”

“You ought to have left that to me, my lady. Velvet needs special care.” She started mopping at the wet cloth. “Anyway, you ought to be sleeping now.”

“I can’t.”

She looked up from her mopping and surveyed my face. “Syrup of roses and saffron, that’s what you need, my lady. I could send to the kitchen—”

“No.” I had a sudden thought. “Could you send someone to check on the King instead? That’s part of why I can’t sleep. I worry he’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s the
King
you’re worried about? I thought—” She cut herself off and asked quickly, “Is your magic telling you something?”

“No.” I didn’t want to bring magic into this at all. “It’s just ordinary worry. But if I knew the King was doing well, I might be able to sleep.”

Margery’s face had turned unreadable again. “All right, my lady. I’ll ask a guard to find out.”

It took nearly half an hour for the answer to come back. During all that time, Margery sat up with me, her presence fraying my nerves still further. But when the guard reappeared, the news was good.

“The King’s condition has improved, my lady,” Margery reported, giving me a severe look. “He is sleeping peacefully, as you yourself should be.”

This time she gave me no quarter, shepherding me toward my bed like a collie. But I climbed in willingly enough, for I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts. After Margery went back to her own room, I lay there in the dark, plotting out what to do next.