Taste of Treason (12 page)

“No, lad. It is nothing. Morning approaches. You may finish up your slumbers...”

Luke stopped, alarmed to realize that the room was now icy. They heard a dragging sound on the other side of the door, then it was struck three times.

“Let me in. It is so cold out here and I am starving.”

The trembling voice was that of an aged crone. Rob relaxed and moved towards the door, but Joss leapt in front of him, preventing his hand from touching the latch. Rob gestured at Luke.

“It’s an old woman, Luke. We must let her in.”

“No. Wait. Listen. Look at Joss.”

Once more the plaintive voice cried its appeal, and once more Rob stepped nearer the door, only to be stopped again by Joss, stiff-legged and snarling.

Luke sprang to his feet.

“See, lad. It is a trick. Once we invite evil in, we are lost.”

The voice sounded again, but, getting no response, faded away.

“What happens now?” Rob came back to the table and sat, Joss resting her head on his thigh as if to reassure him she meant him no harm.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“I do not know. Watch and wait. Stay alert.”

Luke stole a quick glance at Alys. She remained pale and motionless, asleep on the pallet near the dead fire. Whatever was outside must have felt his momentary inattention because they now heard a series of grunts followed by blows strong enough to rattle the latch in its keeper.

They leapt to their feet. “He is trying to gain entry, Rob. Stand firm.”

The door shuddered, but held. Without realizing, both men had backed towards the fire and away from the attack on the door. A breath of wind blew past Luke’s ear. He whirled round.

“The chimney,” he shouted. “Stay strong. He knows she is here.”

Chapter Fourteen

For Byram Creswell, it had been a long and fruitless night. After drowsing for two hours, he had been jolted into full wakefulness by a sharp noise. He lay for some time, willing himself to relax, but finally acknowledging that until he could carry the news about the Quaynes to Luke, sleep would be almost impossible. He had learned long ago that if something worried him to the point where he could not sleep, it was far better to take a walk and think about the best way to resolve his problem.

Cursing under his breath, he rolled off his straw pallet and made his way down to the Base Court, unease pricking at his instincts. He would make an unscheduled patrol. Crossing to the King’s Wardrobe, Byram eased up the stairs to the King’s Privy Chamber, making the yeomen jump to attention, so quietly had he entered.

“No alarms or untoward events?” he asked.

“None, sir. His Majesty retired with the Queen last night and has not yet stirred.”

“Maintain all vigilance.”

Byram was not surprised that Henry was sharing a bed with Madeleine this late in her pregnancy. As her time grew nearer, the King had become as restless as a drop of water spitting on hot iron. Staying close to his wife, he could reassure himself that she was well and safe. After the Queen’s hysteria on the discovery of the maid’s body, Byram surmised Henry had decided to be with her as much as he could whilst still attending to affairs of state. After all, the most important thing for the realm now was the birth of a healthy heir.

He slipped down the gallery towards the Queen’s rooms. The yeomen on guard there confirmed that the King had visited the Queen the previous evening, that they had been merry together for an hour before retiring to the King’s bedchamber. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now he was up and about, it made sense to patrol the rest of the palace and check on the guards.

Flitting from place to place in a random pattern, Byram satisfied himself that all was as it should be, until he came upon the sentries on duty between the royal apartments and the water gate. Both leaned against the wall snoring.

It took him considerable time to wake them and the tongue-lashing he gave them only heightened his anxiety. The men themselves appeared to have been so deep in slumber that for a few moments they knew not where they were. Trusted men, too. He was both angry and disappointed.

Elsewhere, all seemed normal. He dropped into the Chapel and said a few prayers before walking round to the kitchens. The scullions were beginning to stir. An air of calm and peace lay on everything, so why did he still feel that something, somewhere was amiss?

He almost returned to the King’s apartments to personally check on the royal couple, but that would only earn him a bad-tempered reprimand from his master, who was never at his best in the morning.

The first wisps of dawn streaked the sky. It would be another fine day, he could tell. His sojourn had made him hungry and the aroma of freshly baked bread was wafting over from the bakehouse. It would do no harm to go and grab some. Luke Ballard should be up and about, too, and the news Byram had to impart might be easier said over food. He would buy fresh bread and join the apothecary for breakfast. Byram bent his steps to the west gate and through it into the Outer Green.

* * *

In one swift motion, Luke pulled the still-sleeping girl away from the fireplace and stationed Rob at one side of her pallet whilst Joss stood guard on the other side. As an afterthought, he grasped the glass beads round the girl’s neck and dragged them over her head, dropping them on the floor. Thick black smoke rose from them and with a hissing sound, they disintegrated and vanished.

“God save us. She has been bewitched. For some reason, Nimrod needs her, and for that alone we must thwart him,” Luke shouted above the noise of wind whirling outside the house and howling down the chimney. The knocking came again, this time accompanied by shrieking laughter. Then they heard the rattling of the wooden shutters on the shop and swung round to face the sound.

“Master?” Rob said, the shake in his voice audible.

“He thinks our strength will be at its lowest just before dawn. We must disabuse him of the notion. Recite the Lord’s Prayer. Go on, loudly.”

As Rob spoke the familiar comforting words, Luke concentrated on trying to assess the strength and will of their opponent.

“From all errors, defend and keep, the little flock of thy poor sheep,” intoned Rob, switching his gaze from the kitchen door towards the shop and back again as if expecting that any second a specter might leap out.

“Keep going, lad—I think I have it,” Luke breathed. Aye, there, near the door leading out to the backyard. The rattling in the shop had been a blind.

“From Satan’s rage and filthy band, defend us with thy mighty hand,” Rob continued, raising his voice to a near shout.

The prayer was having its effect. Luke could feel Nimrod’s growing frustration as they maintained their defiance. Joss remained standing over the girl ready to protect her as best she could. One glance at her broke Luke’s train of thought and allowed a niggling uncertainty to reach the surface of his concentration. The assault on the door resumed. He closed his eyes and concentrated on sending power flowing down to his hands and out through his fingers. A clear blue light hit the wood and dissipated through it. The onslaught ceased and Luke realized that, although the entity outside was exasperated and growing more so by the moment, if it were Nimrod, he could have destroyed the house with one sweep of his enraged fist. Ergo, it could not be Nimrod. He must be following the usual behavior of the
malus nocte
, working through underlings, thus leaving himself clear of danger. Luke heaved a sigh of thankfulness and relief. Confidence that he could deal with whatever was on the other side of the door flooded through him.

Rob’s voice was stronger now.

“O Lord into temptation lead us not when the fiend doth rage, to withstand his invasion, give power and strength in every age. Arm and make strong thy feeble host, with faith and with the holy ghost.”

Aye, it was wavering now. Luke felt the presence melting away like snow in sunshine. A few moments later a loud knocking sounded making them jump anew.

“Master Ballard, ’tis Byram Creswell. The sun is on the up and it looks as if some felon has been at your door with an ax. Is all well?”

Alys awoke with a startled cry. Luke immediately looked deep in her eyes. The cloud of bewilderment and dazed fear had gone. Her gaze back at him was clear, if a little perturbed.

“Where am I?”

Luke laughed and gestured to Rob to look after the girl, whilst he opened the door wide to reveal the anxious face of his friend. Byram pointed at the wood, which gave every appearance of having been assaulted by some predatory beast.

“Come in, Byram, and break your fast. You are especially welcome if some of that fresh bread is for us. I will provide the beef and cheese.”

“Who has done that to your door?” Byram’s expression was full of suspicion.

Luke forced a laugh. “A felon in the night. Mayhap he thought the house empty. Do not worry, friend. He quickly discovered his error.”

They sat at the table with a still-bewildered Alys and Rob waiting on them, until Luke gestured the pair to sit and eat. Alys, pale and confused, was happy with bread and honey, washed down with milk. Rob was as taut as a lute string, his eyes resting with what Luke could only think of as a speculative expression on Captain Creswell. Having stretched his mind out in all directions and discerned no dark influences, Luke was content to sit without speaking. Faith, but it had been a disturbing night.

“I must talk to you of the Quaynes, Luke.”

Luke stopped chewing abruptly, dropping his food back on the table and grasping Byram’s arm.

“You have found them? How are they? Have they been tortured? Where did they take them?”

“Slowly, lad, slowly. They were supposed to go to Richmond, but some order came down they were to be transported to the Tower.”

“The Tower?” Luke spun on the bench and put his arms around Joss for comfort. “Dear God, what is happening to them?”

“Better there than at the local lockup, Luke, where anyone can get to them. I have also found that the priest, Frayner, insisted on being part of the interrogation. He claimed they were of his parish.”

Luke stiffened.

“But that is a lie. Why would he target Corbin and Bertila when they are not under his jurisdiction?” He exchanged glances with Byram. “There is more to this than we know. What can I do to help my friends?”

“For the moment nothing, save trust in God. I will try to find out more.”

When Byram had gone, Luke left Rob and Alys tidying and cleaning and went up to his bedroom to lie down. He needed to think. As he closed his eyes, he could remember another occasion, last year, when everything seemed to be happening at once and he was jolted from crisis to crisis.

Now, the same thing was happening again. The Brook child had been killed, Corbin and Bertila were taken, Nimrod had left his mark in cryptic messages and signs written on palace walls and the girl, Alys, had found another dead body. Finally, this attack upon his house.

Though his first fears were for his friends, Luke wondered if anyone had yet claimed the unknown corpse. When they did, he was sure Byram would let him know, but Rob might also be able to help on that front. Through his own weariness, Luke acknowledged he could do nothing without further information. Which just left the matter of Corbin and Bertila. It took some minutes before his need outweighed his wisdom and he gathered enough courage to contact Queen Anne once more.

She was less than pleased, Luke realized, but his desperation would have made him face Satan himself.

“Your Grace, I know well that I trespass on your goodwill.”

“You think we have any left for you?”

“I can only hope so. If it were not for the great anxiety I feel for my friends in this matter, I would not disturb you, even if my life depended on it.”

She sighed. “What do you want?”

“Can you in truth do nothing to aid them, Your Grace?”

His tone had some effect, for the Queen Mother lapsed into informal speech.

“I have done what I can. The accusation is that the girl, abetted by her father, rid herself of a scar by witchcraft.”

She hissed as Luke attempted to interrupt.

“My time is short. When I was first with his late majesty, rumor abounded that I had a sixth finger on my left hand. The witch’s teat, they called it. There never was such a mark. Did they really think Henry VIII would allow any he loved to be less than perfect? But the gossip persisted. When I showed my hand to be whole and blemish-free my enemies said I had rid myself of the deformity by sorcery. Now do you understand why I must not be seen to be involved in the matter of this girl and her scar? It would reawaken speculation, especially at this time when we are still without an heir. I have done all I can, Master Ballard. You must trust to God.”

* * *

The King stretched his tall frame as he climbed out of the bed, turning to smile at his Queen. He felt that Madeleine had been a little distant of late. That could be for any number of reasons, but Henry was not the type of man to leave something of that kind without chasing it down. At first, he thought the baby was making her fractious, something about which his mother had warned him. However, during his playful chatter with his wife the previous night, he had made a point of asking how she and the babe fared, and she had assured him that she felt well and strong.

He was aware she had suffered nightmares in the days since the murder of the serving girl and determined to hurry her move into the new apartments, overlooking the river, directly above his own. Madeleine had grasped his hand and kissed it, thanking him for being with her during the dark hours.

For all that, there was something else at the back of her mind, something that Henry could not identify but which he was certain existed, just as he knew the instant a stone caught in Jasper’s hoof before it threatened to make the horse lame.

He strode out of his chamber shouting for his bath to be made ready. Life might be much easier when Madeleine’s rooms were closer to his. By the calculations of the physicians, she was due to give birth in late June or early July. That meant that she would be going into her confinement very soon.

He would have finished the discussions about the prayer book with Cranmer by then. Once Madeleine was in the birthing chamber, no man except himself was permitted to see her. It would get rid of that black priest forever at her shoulder at least for a while and allow her husband to become her guiding light into the new faith.

Although she greeted her confessor with welcoming smiles, Henry felt that all was not easy between them. He stopped pacing. Was that it? The Queen was very much aware of his wish that she should convert, but Reynard’s influence over her was strong. Ah, but here surely was the heart of the problem. Madeleine, emboldened by her priest, still believed that Catholicism was the true faith.

Until Henry could further alter the balance of her relationship with Reynard to the point where Madeleine was not influenced by him, her husband stood little chance. His mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. He knew that Fuentes would do most things to weaken the bond between Madeleine and her French roots. Mayhap he should ask the ambassador’s advice about converting her to the new faith. The man would be torn between achieving his aim and losing another soul from the Catholic fold.

Was it truly the prospect of changing her beliefs that caused her such anxiety? Who could help him? Cranmer? Possibly. It was not until he was being dressed that he identified the one person who would support him, a person with a claim above that of the priest on the Queen—her father, the King of Scotland. He called for pen and paper. The letter was soon written, sealed and on its way.

Preparing for the usual tedium of the Privy Council, the King was surprised to find his Captain of Guards bowing and asking that he meet with a group of apothecaries who were begging admittance.