Taste of Treason (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Luke ignored the sharply indrawn breaths from the two women.

“This is further proof that Edith was foully done to death,” he said, his voice thick with indignation. “Does the priest believe she cut her wrists and then carved this abomination into her back? Man of God?”

Only the warning squeeze of Bertila’s fingers on his arm stopped the flow of invective that hovered on the tip of his tongue. He had been aware of her puzzled expression, suspecting that she had seen the flash of the garnet in his hand followed by the sudden change in the old woman’s demeanor. However, she said nothing, doubtless trusting that he would explain in due course. Thank God for her reticence.

Luke inclined his head to Goodwife Brook, whilst at the same time wiping a small piece of linen along one of the wrist wounds in such a way that neither woman saw it. What the linen would tell him he did not know, but he determined to do all he could to ensure that Edith was indeed with God. This physical evidence from her earthly vessel might aid contact with her spirit.

“I prithee pardon my wrath, Goodwife. It seems so plain to me that Edith is innocent of the crime of self-murder that I am amazed others are unable to see it. Would you like me to visit the priest and arrange for Edith’s burial?”

Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks.

“Bless you, sir, for believing in my girl. I am certain that he will take more note of you than of a feeble old woman.”

“In that case, consider it done. I must now take my leave of you both. It is time Edith was given her rights.”

* * *

Luke had encountered the priest on several occasions and although dislike was not a common emotion with him, that was the only word to describe his feeling toward this man. A convert from Catholicism, Gerard Frayner used his recovery from the pox and his pitted face as proof that God smiled on the righteous. He was mindful enough to cloak the bombastic tyranny with which he ruled his flock in pious hypocrisy. Luke would have waged thirty pieces of silver that, should Mary Tudor ever succeed to the throne, this one would recant quicker than anyone could say
Deo Gratias
.

One of the tenets of the new religion upon which the King had insisted was that the churches should be made plainer and the services comprehensible to all. What a pity that this had not been extended to include the living quarters of the priests. Frayner’s house was ample for the largest of families. He lived alone, looked after by a cook and two servants, in a degree of comfort and opulence denied to most of his parishioners. Luke thanked Providence that he had put a shimmer spell on Joss. Frayner was just the kind of bully who would kick out at any creature he perceived to be weaker than himself.

“Master Apothecary, what brings you to my house?” Frayner asked, with a chilly smile.

“The burial rites for Edith Brook.”

The smile disappeared. “I will have no suicides in my graveyard.”

Luke planted his feet more firmly on the floor.

“The maid is innocent of such a crime and I can prove it. I would know who told you this calumny?”

“A source I would trust sooner than the word of a miserable apothecary. Suicide in that manner was a method commonly used by the heathen Romans. Do not think I am ignorant.”

Luke bowed, although his fists clenched and for one fleeting moment he longed to smash them into the man’s sneering face. The touch of Joss’s nose on his closed fingers brought him to his senses.

“I am sorry you doubt the veracity of my word. The child was in service with the Queen. You therefore compel me to bring this matter before Her Grace’s physician. No doubt you will accept his opinion where you refuse to admit mine?” He concentrated on keeping his voice light and unconcerned.

Frayner’s face turned a mottled red and all color fled from it. He forced a smile.

“I did not mean to belittle you, Master Ballard. I was informed that the girl had killed herself.”

“By whom?”

“I cannot recall. However, if you are willing to show me your proof and if I accept it, then I will conduct the girl’s burial and see that her body receives those rites as set down by the Church.”

Luke bowed again, more to hide the smile that rose unbidden to his lips than to show respect for the creature in front of him. It was not his habit to be so insistent, but if poor little Edith could be laid in holy ground, her soul had a better chance of salvation and might not be, as Luke feared, hovering twixt this world and the next.

“In that case, come with me now, sir. We can settle the matter within the hour.”

It was with grudging reluctance that Frayner admitted defeat. His initial argument was that Edith had fallen forward onto the edge of the tub causing the bruise on her forehead. This, he maintained was due to shock at the cuts she had self-administered. Luke demonstrated beyond doubt that the priest was wrong. He pointed out the injury on the girl’s back, at which point Frayner’s manner changed to one of oily condescension peppered with bad grace.

Goodwife Brook was too voluble in her gratitude to notice Frayner’s haughty mien, but Luke felt the priest’s eyes resting on him and met his gaze. He stared the man out, in no doubt that he had made an enemy. One who would grasp the first opportunity to avenge any perceived slight.

* * *

Gwenette Paige stood immobile behind the Queen Mother’s chair. Although the pregnant Madeleine had wanted to attend, she was fatigued and Henry decided it best she rest in her apartments. In her absence the King had requested that his mother appear at the banquet with him.

Although nobody knew Anne Boleyn’s age, it was certain that she approached her half-century or mayhap had already passed it. Gwenette was one of the favored few who knew her mistress tired more easily these days. Despite rumors to the contrary, she had been more than willing to give way to her daughter-in-law in matters of precedent, pomp and ceremony. That Henry and Madeleine had fallen in love was an added bonus. The prospect of an heir within a year of the wedding was the best of all possible outcomes. Gwenette was happy to see the Queen Mother now free from the constant anxiety that had marred her serenity since the death of Great Harry.

After four years on the throne Henry IX had grown into his position. There would always be plots, jealousies and jostling at court, but they were no longer Queen Anne’s primary concern. The first twenty-five years of Great Harry’s reign had been overshadowed by the need for an heir, and in a moment of candor, Anne had told Gwenette that she considered it her duty to ensure history did not repeat itself.

It was with a frisson of shock that Gwenette realized her mistress was more on edge than she had been since before the royal marriage. Anne’s head turned constantly from side to side examining the throng crowded onto the tables in the Great Hall. Her shoulders were stiff with tension and she only toyed with the wild boar and capon on her gold plate.

Gwenette bent to whisper in Anne’s right ear.

“Madam, what ails you? Are you unwell?”

Anne did not move her head, but muttered from the side of her mouth.

“Can you not feel it?”

“Feel what, Your Grace?”

“The air is thick enough to slice with a dagger. Some mischief is afoot. Observe and be ready to pull the King away should anything happen.”

The words frightened Gwenette more than anything she could remember. She began to watch the diners, starting with the lords at the high table. Although most ate and conversed in undertones with their neighbors, one noticed her scrutiny and met her gaze with raised eyebrows. In the dark eyes underneath, she sensed his sudden interest and her involuntary gasp was noted by her mistress. Anne looked up, meeting the man’s eyes. He smiled and inclined his head.

“Senor Fuentes,” breathed Queen Anne to Gwenette, masking her words with a smile. “A cunning rat who leaves no stone unturned in his attempt to promote his master. Much as we do not trust him, we do not think the danger comes from him.”

Gwenette resumed her study of the diners, many of whom were eating as if they did not know when the next meal would be served. One fat slubberdegullion, grease running unchecked down his chin and onto his coat, continued to shovel venison and sturgeon into his ever-open mouth.

Gwenette’s stomach flicked with a spasm of nausea. She wrenched her gaze away from him to a spindly clerk, his eyes fixed on his plate, using his dagger to cut his pigeon into tiny pieces before slipping each sliver between his lips.

The tables were closely packed with less-than-fragrant bodies and heaped with hot, steaming food. The great number of people made the air fetid and, together with the raucous blare of the minstrels’ cornetts, Gwenette’s head began to spin. It was as if a mist shimmered over the room, and she knew that if she did not leave, she would swoon. A hand grasped hers. Queen Anne had divined the state of her servant’s queasiness and was willing her to breathe deeply and overcome it.

A few moments later Gwenette’s vision cleared. She looked around the hall again and met the calculating gaze of a fair-haired woman, dressed in red, whom she recognized as having once been at court, but whom she had not seen for many months. The woman’s nostrils flared and, with a mocking smile, she turned back to her meat, making some quip to her companions. Gwenette had no means of hearing her words, but the woman’s expression needed no clarification, and she felt the blood rush to her face.

Deliberately turning her head away, Gwenette made a point of surveying the other diners. Try as she might, she could not prevent her gaze returning to the woman in the red dress. Mayhap it was the red that drew her eye. All she knew for certain was that this unknown’s presence disturbed her. So much so, she bent to speak to her mistress.

“Your Grace? There is a bold-faced wench in a red dress sitting against the north wall close to the Horn Room door. She seems familiar but I cannot place her.”

Queen Anne picked up a morsel from her plate and turned her head in the direction indicated. Gwenette sensed her stiffen momentarily, but she recovered quickly and carried on eating. Then Gwenette saw Anne’s head turn towards her son.

“Your Majesty, do you not think we should drink a toast to the Queen and ask everyone to pray for her safe delivery?”

Henry turned to face his mother.

“Madam, my dearest mother, that is a charming suggestion.”

He rose to his feet and the hubbub ceased on the instant. As the King raised his goblet and proposed the toast for his most dearly beloved Queen Madeleine, Gwenette knew that the Queen Mother would be watching for the woman in the red dress to react. Anne Boleyn’s shoulders dropped in sudden relaxation as the woman’s smile was replaced by a thin angry line. From her height advantage, Gwenette could also see her fist clenched in anger and mortification. A warning touch from one of her companions and the woman seemed to remember where she was. There was no doubting that, for a moment, she had been consumed by rage and in that instant, Gwenette had recognized her.

When the buzz of conversation resumed, Gwenette bent again to her mistress’s ear.

“Madam, is that who I think it is?”

Anne turned to her, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.

“Yes, Gwenette, that is the Lady Ysabel Broome, lately the King’s mistress, although he never brought her here. A calculating jade and one whose nose was truly thumbed when it became apparent that His Majesty wanted no more to do with her once he was married. I understood she had retired to the country.”

“She is no threat to the Queen?”

Anne’s head turned back towards Lady Ysabel, who was now laughing into the face of her nearest companion.

“She should not be, ’tis true, but we will keep an eye on her nonetheless.”

Gwenette nodded. It was more than likely that the slut was scheming for a return to the King’s favor. Even Great Harry had been known to stray fleetingly from the marital bed. Mayhap that was the danger Queen Anne had sensed. In addition, the hall was closely packed, making the chamber stifling. No wonder Gwenette felt unwell. She had permitted her imagination to run away with her.

In the doorway, she saw the procession forming for the highlight of the feast to be brought in. Would it be swan or peacock, or had the kitchens produced something even more spectacular? The fanfare sounded as pages, all clad in green and white, shouldered huge covered silver dishes and paraded around the room. It was part of the ritual that all platters should be placed on the tables and the lids lifted off at the same instant.

As a spectacle, Gwenette thought that few ceremonies bettered it. The gold trim on the sleeves of the pages glittered in the glow of the candles, sending shards of white light shooting across the wall hangings. Shining silver lids magnified the candles’ radiance until the whole room seemed bathed in bright sunshine. At a signal, the pages bent and lifted the lids from the platters with a flourish.

After one moment of frozen horror writ clear on the diners’ faces, screams rent the air. Men and women sprang away from the tables, trampling each other in their haste to flee, thrusting aside any who hindered their passage.

The King leapt to his feet, and it was only supreme discipline that kept Gwenette standing immobile behind Queen Anne. For instead of revealing elaborately adorned roast swans and peacocks, the removal of the lids let loose hundreds upon hundreds of frogs. All alive, jumping in every direction, but especially towards the astounded monarch.

Chapter Eight

Luke walked home feeling that his victory was a Pyrrhic one.

“I didn’t do that very well, girl,” he said to Joss. “Indeed I seem to specialize in making enemies. First Nimrod, now Frayner. There’s a man who will never be happy unless he is causing grief to some poor soul who has no power.” He shook his head before a new thought struck him, one that made him chuckle. “Having to adhere to the new rules for priests must be like swallowing nails. How I would love to see him confront Archbishop Cranmer.”

All knew the depth of Henry’s adherence to the new faith. As well as devising a new prayer book, something with which the King had been much involved, Cranmer had recently decreed that priests could marry. Vociferous protests from Catholics had been countered by an official decree that marriage was a gift from God, not a state for weak-minded men. To Luke, it appeared perfectly logical. How could any priest understand the problems that beset families when he had no experience of them?

Protestantism seemed unstoppable. Even James of Scotland had been happy to compromise his faith and that of his daughter so long as there was the likelihood of a Stuart grandson of his sitting on the English throne. If achieving that meant Madeleine converting, so be it.

Luke wondered how that knowledge resonated with Reynard, the Queen’s confessor. Not well, he conjectured. Henry’s influence over Madeleine grew daily. Luke prayed that when the inevitable occurred, Father Reynard would accept it with good grace.

Once home, Luke sat near the fire, staring into the flames and trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. He was seldom as ill at ease as this after a day’s work. Mayhap now he had settled his body into repose, he could permit his mind full rein to ponder on the disquieting events of the last twenty-four hours.

His gaze rested on Rob, tongue protruding in concentration, ostensibly studying his letters at the table. He had expressed a wish to help Luke more in the shop and for that, he needed not just to read and write but also to perform basic calculations. Luke was aware that the boy’s focus was divided for he glanced up from time to time, a look of concern on his face.

“Keep your mind on your words, lad. They deserve better than half your attention.”

“It’s you, Luke. You sit as if your chair were a skittish mare and you unsure how to handle her.”

Luke sprang to his feet just as his vision began to falter.

“Something is afoot. I thought it was the residue of a busy day, but it is...” He felt rather than saw Rob’s hands steer him back to the chair and the weight of Joss’s head on his leg. Then darkness overtook him.

He found himself in a beam of white light that rendered his surroundings even darker than they already were. Looking around, he surmised he was in a chamber. His nostrils were assailed by the smell of rotting flesh, so much so that he covered his nose with one hand.

High-pitched sniggering came from one corner, followed by a cry of pain. It was the cry of a child, frightened, lost and in terror. The giggling began again, once more preceding the child’s piteous scream. Was this Nimrod and was the shrieking the sound of Edith Brook’s tortured soul? Whoever was tormenting the child appeared oblivious to Luke’s presence.

Helpless rage swept through him. What could he do to help this poor innocent? He relaxed his shoulders and concentrated. He could not hope to stop Nimrod, but he might be able to spoil his fun with the velamin incantation. It would interrupt the flow of the enemy’s magic. Luke gathered his energy into a silver ball that spun in his open hand. Just as Nimrod became aware of his presence, Luke threw the ball in the direction of the crying child. The sound stopped to be followed by a scream of rage from his adversary. The shaft of malice directed at him was enough to throw him out of the chamber and into a struggle with Rob. The boy had grasped him by the upper arms.

“Luke. It is me. It is me. You must sit down. You are grey and shivering.”

Joss, on her hind legs, put her front paws onto his chest, and it was this that finally brought him out of the murky darkness of the trance. He waited, gasping for air, until Rob handed him a beaker of the ruby restorative. Luke downed it in one gulp.

“What did you see?”

“I saw nothing, lad. I smelled decomposing bodies. There was a child being tortured.”

“Who by?”

“I assume Nimrod.” He saw Rob’s confusion and hastily explained the Queen Mother’s theory that giving their enemy a name made focusing upon him easier.

“A fitting name. And you think this Nimrod holds Edith’s soul in thrall?”

“Possibly. I’ve managed to stop his little game for a while. He is not happy with me, for I mirrored his own spell back on to him.”

“Can you not use your talent to discover the child’s name? Surely if it is a soul in torment, you are permitted?”

“Would that it were so easy, lad. I must sit and think on this.”

A thunderous knocking interrupted them. They exchanged glances.

“But not now,” Rob said, striding to the door.

* * *

King Henry had taken charge of the chaos in his Great Hall, bellowing commands that none dared disobey. One sideways glance from him had his mother demonstrating her usual courage. With Gwenette’s help, she calmly shepherded the women, most of who were in various stages of hysteria, through to the Watching Chamber.

Order was restored within a short time, the King himself striding around the Great Hall, seizing frogs and casting them into barrels half-filled with ale to drown them. He then ordered the barrels to be sealed and emptied into the river the next morning.

That he endeavored to hide his rage was testament to his determination that nothing must be permitted to shock his wife into losing his son. He had no doubt that those with swift feet and even swifter tongues would soon be carrying the news to her. Worse, the tale would lose nothing in the telling. To all he must appear calm and unconcerned.

Once the frogs had been captured, the King summoned all to regain their seats and ordered the feast to continue. Notable amongst the women who walked past curtseying to their monarch was Lady Ysabel Broome. She swept him a deep obeisance, ensuring that he viewed her ample charms.

In his peripheral vision, Henry noted his mother’s return. He saw Ysabel’s insolent gaze shift direction for an instant before she rose and moved towards her seat. Annoyed that he had allowed himself to be used by her to discomfit his mother, he clapped his hands and called for quiet.

“There is nothing to fear,” he said. “We surmise some jest has miscarried, that is all.” He gestured to the pages. “We would like our roast swan. Now.”

Only that last word, spat like an arrow leaving the bow, gave any indication that the King was in the least perturbed. He sat back in his chair, his black eyes scanning the room, whilst seeming to be completely at ease, a slight smile on his face. Whoever had perpetrated this atrocity would suffer the consequences. He waved to indicate that his guests should continue and leaned towards his mother, his hand shielding his mouth so that none could read his words.

“Where is my Inquirer?”

Queen Anne, skilled in playing the same game, smiled as if he had shared a merry quip.

“My son, he has his orders and will obey. I am concerned that this matter is more serious than we at first supposed.”

Henry gazed again over the diners.

“I will not have anything frighten Madeleine.”

He saw that his mother understood him. She inclined her head.

“Have no fear, I shall attend her and tell her of the tremendous jest that one of the mischievous scullions in the kitchen has played on us.”

“Make sure that you reach her before some panic-stricken serving woman or trouble causer.”

“My lord, I shall go now. There is one thing I think we need to keep in mind.”

The King looked up at her.

“Apart from the insult to our person?”

“Aye, Henry. The hall was overrun by frogs. This could be a less than subtle reference, mayhap even a plot to threaten the treaty with France signed upon your marriage.” She paused to allow her words to sink in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And who save the Spanish would benefit from such a conspiracy?”

* * *

Rob paused before opening the door, looking back at Luke, who nodded. Byram Creswell, Captain of the King’s Personal Bodyguard, stood outside, an expression of impatience on his face. He greeted Rob in haste, asking for Luke, who stepped out from the kitchen.

“Well met, Captain. A pleasant surprise. Come and take ale.”

“No time, Luke. The King summons you. I will tell you what I know as we go.”

Luke and Rob exchanged glances.

“I may not come into the palace, Byram. I have been treating those with the sickness. Surely His Majesty knows that.”

“It is neither my place nor yours to question the King’s commands, Master Apothecary. You may be sure that if the King wants to see you, he will expect you to take the appropriate precautions to ensure his health.”

Luke inclined his head. He knew Creswell to be a friend. The captain’s gruff manner indicated a deal of disquiet.

“Where am I to go?” he asked.

“The tennis court. And alone,” Creswell added. “You are not required, Master Panton.”

“I seldom am,” Rob replied, grinning. “This is one of those times when I am glad I do not hanker after exalted company. I am much safer staying at home. I shall wait up for you, Luke.”

“What’s happened?” Luke asked as he and Byram strode through the Orchard toward the east side of the palace and the great closed tennis court.

“Someone has upset the royal temper by interrupting his dinner.”

“What is that to do... Wait. How did they interrupt it? Is anyone hurt?”

“No, but the King is in a fair old rage, Luke. Somebody filled up the closed platters with frogs instead of roast swan. The result was chaos. Thank God the Queen Mother was there to help. I think the young Queen would have had hysterics. Watch yourself. He is liable to go up like a firework.”

Byram pulled open the door into the corridor outside the tennis court. Luke shivered. The building might resemble a chapel, but the interior was painted black and its vast windows were covered in red mesh. He walked through the door onto the court itself and looked up to the spectators’ gallery, expecting it to be lined with guards. It was empty.

Henry, accompanied by a stout courtier, paced the width of the court some little way from the net strung across the middle. He pointed to a spot on the other side and Luke, after bowing, walked to it, Joss at his heels. Henry scowled and for one awful moment, Luke thought the King could see the greyspring. Bringing any animal into the palace, other than the King’s and Queen’s personal pets, was punishable by death. However, Henry continued to glare at his Inquirer but Luke’s breathing eased by a few degrees. The King was indeed furious, but it was an anger more than tinged with fear, and although it might be directed at his Inquirer, Luke knew he was not the cause of it.

“My lord of Sussex, pray make sure we are undisturbed and unheard,” the King said, his gaze still fixed on Luke.

“Sire,” the man answered, gesturing Creswell to check the building for unwanted listeners.

A few moments later, Luke heard the outer door close. He was alone with his monarch. He bowed again.

“Your Majesty, how may I aid you?”

“You are aware of the condition of our Queen and the importance of the son she carries. We are determined that nothing should affect her well-being. Has Captain Creswell told you of the outrage at the feast?”

“Sire, he has. You think the frogs were loosed on purpose to shock the Queen? That in itself is interesting. I understand that the Queen Mother resided instead of Queen Madeleine. That being the case, did they either not know that the Queen was resting, or not care?”

Henry paced up and down once more, pounding his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.

“Why would you assume I know the answer to that? Elucidation of these problems is part of your remit, Master Apothecary. The decision for Madeleine to rest was only lately made and not widely known. My mother thinks this incident was perpetrated by those who threaten the peace of the kingdom as well as our domestic harmony.”

The fact that the King used his wife’s given name was further confirmation of his anxiety. Luke took a deep breath. His next words would either calm the King or make his anger explode.

“And this follows close upon the murder of the girl found in Her Grace’s apartments,” Luke said.

The King swung round to face him.

“You believe the two are connected?”

“I do not know, Sire, but if there is a plot to threaten the Queen’s health, it would be a logical deduction.”

Henry resumed his pacing.

“We must have a son. I do not want to suffer as my dearest father did for want of an heir.”

Luke looked at this most powerful of men. Approaching his seventeenth birthday, Henry IX already stood as tall as Great Harry. The continuance of the Tudor line was outside his sphere of control. Bitter medicine for a man accustomed to his every whim being satisfied. However, it was well-known that he had inherited Anne Boleyn’s quick mind and sharp intellect. Above all Henry was a practical man. He would have taken every step to safeguard his Queen.

“What conclusions have you drawn thus far in your investigation, Master Ballard?”

“Sire, I will not deceive you. I have not yet discovered enough information to make deductions or conclusions.”

“Then you had best make haste. My beloved mother thinks there may be a threat from the Spanish against the recent treaty with France. Mayhap you could begin with that and see where it leads. Or must we rule our country single-handed, sorting out every difficulty that presents itself?”

Luke shivered at the implication of that sentence ground out between gritted teeth.

“Your Majesty, I would willingly give my life to ensure the safety of you and your family, but even I cannot make bricks without straw.”

Henry stopped pacing and stood in a pose reminiscent of his father, fists clenched on hips, his eyes narrowed.