Suzanne Robinson (19 page)

“I must insist.”

St. John’s gaze shifted to something behind him, and Tristan whirled, cursing himself. As his hand went to his boot, a man lunged forward and stuck the point of a sword beneath his chin. Tristan stopped, raised his hands, and slowly straightened. A second man-at-arms held a blade over his heart while a third searched him and retrieved the serpent dagger. Then they shoved him through the window.

Once inside, he was pushed to his knees in front of St. John, who remained standing beside the bottle full
of golden liquid. A guard handed St. John the serpent dagger.

Tristan glanced at it, then raised a brow at him.

St. John smiled at him. “Yes, I must insist that you join me. Obviously the men I’ve had watching for you at Highcliffe bungled the task of apprehending you when you left the castle. If Henri here hadn’t needed to relieve himself by the north wall and seen you, why, who knows what would have happened.”

“You’d be kissing my sword blade and wishing you’d never set foot on Penance Isle.”

St. John surveyed Tristan without replying, his hand stroking the dagger. With a smile he thrust the weapon into his belt and turned to the bottle.

With a pair of tongs he grasped the neck and removed the vessel from the flames. Pouring the golden liquid into a silver goblet, he set the container aside and turned back to his prisoner. Tristan knelt motionless with the point of a sword touching his throat.

“I’m going to enjoy wrecking that pride of yours.”

“Are you going to tell me who I am?”

“Ah, you still insist upon this game.” St. John walked back and forth in front of Tristan, his brow furrowed. He rubbed his chin and mused. “I have given this puzzle much thought. Much thought. There is little time, you see, and so much of great import depends upon finding out what you’ve been doing. Have you been ill, as you claim, or have you been playing a part?”

St. John stopped in front of Tristan. He clasped the serpent cross and stroked it. Light flashed off the writhing, intertwined bodies of the snakes and caused Tristan to wince.

“I don’t suppose you would care to confide in me,
Anglais
? Before you die, that is. A last confession,
shall we say? Have you been truly ill, or are you going to bring down a fleet of English privateers upon my head?”

A wisp of a smile flitted across Tristan’s lips, and he whispered, “Jesu Maria, you are the priest.”

Jean-Paul drummed his fingers on the table beside them and said impatiently,
“Dominus vobiscum.”

“Then I must be Morgan St. John.”

The priest’s glance slanted sideways and raked him. In that glance Tristan read a lifetime’s experience in corruption and iniquity. So jaded was that look that he doubted if the priest could even imagine what innocence and verity were like.

In that moment Tristan knew at last who he was, even without his memory. He was Morgan St. John. From this moment, he had a name. Morgan. And from this moment, he understood what this man had planned for him all along. The only doubt he had was how long Jean-Paul would draw out his suffering before killing him.

Morgan shook his head. “You’re so young to have managed so much evil, priest.”

“I have five years more than you, so let us not speak of youth.” Jean-Paul glanced over Morgan’s shoulder and nodded at the guards.

Instantly Morgan felt himself grabbed and propelled backward until he hit something solid. His head flew back and hit wood, and he landed in an armchair so heavy that the force of his entire weight hadn’t shifted it. He lunged up, but someone punched him in the stomach. His guts crawled up his throat, and he nearly strangled.

By the time he could breathe again, his arms and legs had been strapped to the chair. His hands gripped the arms of the chair as a guard passed a rope around
his chest. The priest had turned his back and busied himself at the worktable. Now he faced Morgan, and in his hand was the goblet containing the golden liquid.

“Mayhap you remember not my studies in alchemy and herbs.” He held up the goblet so that Tristan could see its contents. The liquid sparkled as he swirled the vessel. “One of my charges under the cardinal was to study in Italy. Poisons … And draughts to tease the mind into delusions.”

“Bastard.”

Jean-Paul gave him a brief smile. His glance flitted upward, and hands descended to grasp Morgan’s head. Too late he tried to dodge aside. Someone pinched his nose closed. Morgan writhed and jerked, but his bonds clamped him to the immovable chair.

His lungs burned, and he opened his mouth, keeping his teeth clenched. He heard Jean-Paul chuckle. The priest bent over him and placed his hands on Morgan’s throat. His fingers slid up, pressed a point on either side of his jaw. To his horror, Morgan felt his mouth relax.

Jean-Paul touched the rim of the goblet to his lips and poured the liquid down his throat. The priest’s fingers massaged his throat. Then his hand covered Morgan’s mouth hard. His fingers dug into flesh as Morgan choked and tried to spit through closed lips. The golden brew burned its way down his throat. Soon he could feel it blistering a path down his chest and into his gut.

He was released, but he had little time to be thankful, for he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His mouth tingled, and he heard the buzzing of wasps. He squeezed his eyes shut because the edges of objects had begun to melt.

Suddenly Jean-Paul knelt and touched his cheek.
Morgan opened his eyes and met a dark gaze filled with pleasure and tranquility. There it was again, that glint that signaled the desire to see a victim’s protracted anguish. He blinked rapidly. Then an overwhelming urge to smile assaulted him. He fought against it, but lost. The priest smiled back at him, and Morgan laughed.

“Release him.”

Morgan felt his bonds drop away. Freedom seemed the most wondrous event in his life. He bubbled over with laughter, turned sideways in the chair, and dropped his legs over one arm. The toe of one boot distracted him, and he fell to studying its uniqueness. He didn’t hear Jean-Paul until the priest touched his arm.

“Tristan.”

He turned to find the priest’s face close to his. He grinned at the man.

“Am I Tristan? I thought we’d discovered that I’m Morgan. Which is it?”

“
Merde
. I had hoped you were playing a part,
mon amour
. Of what use are you otherwise?”

“I like your cross,” Morgan said as he swung his leg over the chair arm. He touched the cross with a fingertip. “I have a dagger like it.”

Jean-Paul hesitated, then pushed Tristan’s hand away. “Non, my addled one, the dagger is mine.
Dieu
, but I’ve wanted to kill you for months, and I will enjoy it.”

“The dagger was in my boot. Pen told me.”

“You took it when I attacked you at that inn on the Scottish border. Curse you, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that. I nearly slit your throat while you slept. How do you think I knew about that scar of yours? I saw it in the moonlight just before I jumped out of the window.”

“What scar?”

A guard approached. “Shall I give him more of the potion,
monseigneur
?”

“Non, Henri. There is no need. He has lost his memory. There is a curse upon my dealings with Secretary Cecil’s young spies. The cardinal wishes to turn one of them into his own creature, but I fear it isn’t so easy to control them. And this one has already nearly cost me my life. Have you not,
Anglais? Non
, this one must die, but I can’t help wanting to play with him and savor the taste of revenge.”

“I’m hungry.”

Jean-Paul’s voice suddenly rose as he swore.
“Le bon Dieu
, what pleasure is there in killing you if you know nothing of our past? For months I’ve looked forward to beholding your anguish. I had to use the potion on you to get the truth, but now you’re as merry as a babe with sweets, and without your memory—”

“Hmmm? My memory? Then give me some of the truth.”

“God’s arse, can’t you at least remember some of it? You chased me from England to Scotland and back again. And you found me at Holyrood Palace, talking to that pestilence of a Scottish minister.”

Tristan was fastening the ties on his shirt. “Who?”

His jaw clenching with frustration, Jean-Paul appeared not to be listening.

“I never would have known you were there if it hadn’t been for his mistress catching you,” he muttered. “But you heard, didn’t you? You heard about the assassin coming from France to kill Cecil, and that’s why you tried to throw me out of the window and splatter my guts on those hard Scottish flagstones.”

“God’s breath,” Tristan said on a chuckle. “I mislike these memories you’re giving me. And you prattle and
peep while I starve. I want a roast goose and a capon, and five or six cherry tarts.”

Jean-Paul swept back and forth in front of him, his agitation apparent in his jerking movements, and in the way he ran his fingers through his hair.

“What an incongruity. Here we are, we two mortal enemies, waiting for the assassin to meet us on this cursed pebble of an island, and you care naught for it. If you had your wits you would try to kill the poor creature.” The priest paused to glance at Morgan. “I liked you better as your old self.”

“Forgive me for causing you such pain,” Morgan said.

He grinned at Jean-Paul, and then yawned. The priest threw up his hands.

“It’s my own fault for feeding you that potion, but I was so certain you were lying.” Jean-Paul came closer to stare into Morgan’s eyes. “
Dieu
, how I wanted to see your face when I told you that I’m here to give my fellow countryman a small piece for information—the whereabouts of Master Secretary Cecil, Queen Elizabeth’s favorite and most valuable minister.”

“And I would like some wine. Jesu, I’ve had my fill of Pen’s ale. She hasn’t said, but I think she can’t afford much wine. God, my stomach is as empty as Dibbler’s head. I crave something to eat.”

Jean-Paul straightened and backhanded Morgan across the cheek. Morgan’s head jerked back, but he righted himself dizzily. He touched blood at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“
Mon amour
, you’re quite boring in this condition. I prefer you with all your wits, spitting at me and grudging me every living breath.”

“I have a wondrous idea,” Tristan said as dabbed at
the blood on his face. He began to chuckle. “Let’s eat Margery.”

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes, bent, and yanked Morgan to his feet. Morgan wobbled and swayed backward, but the priest caught his arm and held him steady.

Contemplating his prisoner, Jean-Paul murmured, “Listen to me, curse you. I really am going kill you.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“
Sacré Dieu
.”

Morgan looked down his nose at Jean-Paul. “There’s no need to swear, priest.” His ankles bent sideways, and he clutched at Jean-Paul.

Henri the guard grabbed Tristan’s other arm. “Shall I run him through,
mon seigneur
?”

Jean-Paul shook his head and drew the serpent dagger. Tristan’s head wobbled around, and he pointed at the weapon.

“There it is.” He wrapped his hand around the blade as Jean-Paul pressed it against his heart. He looked at the priest. “I told you I had a dagger like your cross.”

“Let go of it,” Jean-Paul said. “It will be easier.”

Morgan burst out laughing and released the blade. He glanced from it to the priest’s unsmiling face. A musing smile curled about his lips.

“Are you going to kill me, Jean-Paul?” he whispered.

Silence fell as Morgan continued to smile at the priest with his head cocked to one side as if listening for faint music. The serpent dagger pressed into his doublet, distracting him. He glanced from it to Jean-Paul and smiled again. Then the blade retreated.

“I think not,
Anglais
.”

“Then feed me.”

“The devil take you,” Jean-Paul said as he walked Tristan toward the chamber door. “If we were on English soil, I couldn’t risk allowing you to live, but
since we’re on this isolated wasteland in the middle of the sea, I can wait to see you die in a less merry humor.”

“Food, and then a wench.”

“You’re going to bed.” Jean-Paul ushered Morgan out of the chamber. “And then, after the assassin has sailed to England, I will bethink myself of a most evil death for you.”

“I don’t want to go to bed. I’m going back to Pen. She hasn’t treated me well, and I’m going to tell her that you’re the priest so she’ll have to beg me to forgive her. I have a list of things she can do to apologize, pleasurable things.”

“You’re going to bed, and later you’re going to die,
mon amour
. Just remember.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
”

Morgan laughed again. “What?”

“It is sweet and seemly, Morgan St. John, to die for one’s country.”

OF BAKING MANCHETS

N
ow of the baking of bread of your simple meals, your best and principal bread is manchet, which you shall bake in this manner; first your meal, being ground upon the black stones if it be possible, which makes the whitest flour, and bolted through the finest bolting cloth, you shall put it into a clean kimnel, and, opening the flour hollow in the midst, put into it of the best ale barm the quantity of three pints to a bushel of meal, with some salt to season it with: then put in your liquor reasonable warm and knead it very well together both with your hands and through the brake, or for want thereof, fold it in a cloth, and with your feet tread it a good space together, then, letting it lie an hour or thereabouts to swell, take it forth and mould it into manchets, round, and flat; scotch about the waist to give it leave to rise, and prick it with your knife in the top, and so put it into the oven, and bake it with a gentle heat.