Taste of Treason (8 page)

“What would you have us do, Apothecary? Sit and whimper in fear whilst some unknown miscreant threatens our house? Or run like a whipped dog in the hope that this peril does not follow?”

Henry’s already furious expression darkened further as his voice rose. Luke dropped to his knees, his stomach lurching in panic. Henry’s rages were quite as formidable as those of his father, and though Luke had a sneaking suspicion that he used them carefully, it was unwise to underestimate Great Harry’s cub. Luke’s would not be the first neck to be stretched because of his monarch’s displeasure. Joss nuzzled his hand in an effort to ease his terror.

“Your Majesty, may I speak plainly?” For a few moments, Luke thought he had gone too far. The King’s lips flattened into an angry line, but he nodded. “I think it would be wise to change the Queen’s apartments, at least until the matter is cleared up.”

“Why?”

“They are a constant reminder of the girl’s death and therefore not healthful for Her Grace. I believe the Queen would be more comfortable away from the scene of the horror. I understand from Mistress Paige that the Queen refuses to sleep there. A change would put Your Majesty’s mind at rest.”

It might also disrupt Nimrod’s activities, but, of course, Luke did not mention that.

“A sound notion. We will consider it.” Henry raised an admonitory finger. “But understand this, Master Ballard. You will find the miscreants who have perpetrated this outrage against our person. If a link exists between the incidents, find it.” He glared directly into Luke’s eyes. “And quickly before our Queen’s fears endanger our son.”

Turning on his heel, the King stalked out. The slamming of the door echoed round the tennis court. Luke closed his eyes and swallowed. He knew, few better, what punishments would be called down on his head should he fail his mission, and, elemancer or no, they would be protracted and excruciating. So much so that death would be a welcome release.

Chapter Nine

Luke’s sleep, punctuated as it was with recurrent visions of a dangling noose, provided little rest. Each time the rope was placed over his head, merciful providence woke him before the terror of the hempen hornpipe could begin.

In consequence, he hauled himself out of bed whilst it was still night, red-eyed and hollow-cheeked, a good while before the designated change of guard. Knowing that the guards would be less vigilant as night progressed, he planned his foray on the wall near the Chapel Royal to coincide with the darkness before dawn in the hope of evading detection.

Tucking the ingredients for the spell in his sleeve, Luke spent a few moments in his inner chamber of serenity endeavoring to calm his mind before invoking a shimmer spell for Joss and a cloaking one for himself. So long as he did not hurry and remained unflustered, all would be well.

He reached his objective and began to assemble the revelation spell, working without haste. The slower and more thoroughly he incorporated the ingredients, the more time he would have to examine the results. Of all the things that experience and Elemagus Dufay had taught him, avoidance of speed in invoking spells was the most important. He sometimes suspected that Dufay had made a special point of the time issue in magic. Luke knew lack of patience to be one of his most persistent faults and labored to rectify it. As he mixed his potion, his ears and senses remained alert for the sound of anyone approaching or any kind of surveillance.

Taking a deep breath and chanting the incantation, Luke flicked drops of the liquid spell on the wall. A minute later, he stepped back to examine the words revealed in a dull rusty red on the previously pristine surface.

Following the words “Let my people go” was the jagged spider shape. He cursed under his breath and stroked his beard. Confirmation, were any needed, that the evil overhanging the palace emanated from Nimrod. At the sight of the arachnoid’s legs, a collective symbol of the simultaneous spread of chaos and destruction in multiple directions, Luke could not prevent helpless confusion flooding through him. How could he, one man, fight on so many fronts at once?

The letters began to fade and he only had time to dampen a piece of linen in the spell liquid and wipe it across the wording. The cloth retained the color of the writing. He nodded, satisfied, and put it away carefully in his scrip. By the time he looked back at the wall, it was clear and clean.

“Time we were gone, Joss,” he muttered and, keeping tight to the walls of the palace, they crept out into the park.

* * *

“Pass the purslane, Bertila. Now this is how you measure the dose and, mark me well, it must be exact or you stand to make the patient more ill than he already is.”

Bertila watched with total concentration as her father measured out the required amount and added it to the other components in the mortar. Leaning over Corbin’s shoulder, she almost jogged his elbow.

“Keep your distance, girl, or we will have to begin again, and that would be a waste of the emeralds.”

Bertila jumped back and collided with the little maid she had employed for household duties since her own time was now taken up assisting Corbin.

“Katelyn, what on earth is the matter, girl? Do not creep up on me like a cutpurse in the market.” Her voice was sharper than she intended and Bertila sighed as she saw water come into the child’s eyes.

“Marry, do not cry. Please just learn to be more careful.”

“If you please, mistress, we have run out of sand for scouring the knives.”

“I will see to it.” Bertila moved to look out of the window into the small back garden. “The weather is good. You may wash the dirty linen. I made soap yesterday.”

Corbin had paused during the interruption. Now he watched the girl scurry back towards the kitchen.

“How is she doing?”

“She is willing enough and respectful, but I would be happier if she could see what work needs doing without coming to question me ten times a day.”

“‘Tis early days, daughter. Let us see how she progresses.”

“Now I know why Luke does not take on a housekeeper. If I find Katelyn a source of irritation, just think how much a meddling wench would drive him to Bedlam.”

Corbin laughed. “How does he fare? Did I not see you creeping out with a basket of food for the rascal?”

“Father, I did not creep. Master Panton said that Luke has been working every hour treating the sickness. I knew he would not have time for anything other than basic bread, cheese and pottage. Do not tell me you begrudge him a few pies and pasties.”

“When they are made by your fair hands, my duck, I do.” Corbin laughed again, but his face grew serious. “If only he felt for you as a husband should, I could die happy, knowing that you were well protected and cared for.”

“What is this talk of dying?” Bertila kept the shake out of her voice with an effort, but the sudden dryness in her throat made her cough. She shook her head, determined to banish the dizziness that overwhelmed her when she thought of her father’s death. A world without the strength of his love seemed impossible.

“Nay, girl, fear not. I have no intention of dying, even though at times I long to be with your mother. All I meant was...”

“I know what you meant, Father. There is no point in returning to the argument.”

“I must talk to Will,” Corbin said. “I am sure that should anything happen to me, he will take you in and care for you.”

“Will I could cope with,” Bertila said, frowning. “I am not so sure about Sabina, especially when she is with child. We are like curds and whey, happier when separate.”

“Aye,” Corbin replied. “I have a notion she leads Will a merry dance at times.”

The sound of distant knocking made them both look up from the potion Corbin had been mixing as they talked. Katelyn’s shoes scrabbled across the floor and they could hear her struggling to unlatch the main door. A buzz of conversation followed and a loud hectoring voice made Bertila and Corbin frown at each other.

Curious, they both walked out of the workshop and towards the voice.

* * *

Will Quayne watched from his desk as Clifford Parry, pen in hand, shook his head over the accounts from the Queen’s kitchen. Much against his wishes, he had been transferred to the Chamberlain’s department to help him with the day-to-day running of the Queen’s affairs.

Master William Petrie had been unapologetic but sympathetic. Chamberlain Parry was not popular, being a pedant with no real head for organization. Petrie urged Will to patience and to think of his time with Parry as a stepping-stone to something more agreeable.

And Petrie had been correct. Will did not like his new master. Parry’s arrogant condescension especially towards the pages and lower servants disgusted him. In Will’s opinion his haughty demeanor was matched only by his sloth and inefficiency. The man was always complaining about how much the household spent when his mistress constantly craved sweetmeats and things that were usually out of season.

Parry was currently droning a stream of complaints in an undertone, causing Will to be glad when a shadow fell across them from the doorway. Father Reynard, the Queen’s confessor, looked down at the Chamberlain.

“Busy balancing the monies, Master Parry?”

“Indeed and a hard job it is when the Queen takes it into her head in the middle of April that she cannot live another moment without apricots in sugar, when stocks ran out in March. That does not take into account the amount of hippocras, cinnamon and spices we have had to purchase since she has been with child.”

Reynard burst into guffaws of laughter. “Never fear, Her Grace will soon be delivered.”

“And we all pray it will be a healthy boy,” Parry replied with a fervor that almost made Will burst out laughing.

“Indeed we do. The realm needs a prince. In the meantime, we must do our best to make sure that the Queen has all she needs and is not in any way troubled, which means more headaches for you, Master Parry.”

“I am honored to serve Her Grace.”

“As am I. Come, let us share a goblet or two of wine before meat. I am sure your royal mistress would not begrudge you that.”

Parry rose stiffly to his feet. “I have been sitting for too long,” he said. “Some wine and agreeable company would be a benison.”

Will could not keep the smile from rising to his lips. For all that Parry complained of his responsibilities, being at the beck and call of the Queen, he felt sure that the Chamberlain found ample compensation in the number and rank of people who now wished to be in his favor. Only two days before, Fuentes, the Spanish ambassador, had similarly invited Parry to share a bottle of Malaga wine with some crystallized fruit. Will knew only too well of his master’s reputation as a gossip and marveled that the man had not yet deduced that these people did not really want his company. Fuentes, in particular, was a past master at the art of inducing people to chatter.

“I have had a delivery today from the estates in Bordeaux,” Reynard smiled. “Let us see if it is as special as it promises.”

Parry, turning to show his clerk how important people craved his company, caught Will midsmirk. His voice took on an acid tone.

“You may go and inspect this morning’s delivery of flour, sugar and spices, Quayne. Be warned, I shall double-check your figures. Go now and do not tarry.”

Will caught up a clean piece of paper and thrust his inkhorn into his sleeve. Of all the things he hated most, auditing supplies was the worst, and Parry knew it. Will allowed none of his resentment to show, but merely bowed and left on his errand. Pausing at the corner to look back, he noted that Parry, in his haste to accompany Reynard, had neglected to put away the Queen’s accounts or lock the door to the office.

* * *

Luke sat in his kitchen, hands clasped round a jack of ale, staring down into the golden liquid. Everything was such a hotchpotch that he could make sense of nothing that had happened. In his mind he could hear Elemagus Dufay’s voice telling him to unravel the different threads one by one and then put them together again to see what patterns emerged.

Spooning meat from one of Bertila’s pies, he chewed, deep in thought. The events were clear enough. Two lots of writing on walls, complete with the spider symbol, which had also been carved into the back of the maidservant after her wrists had been slit. Someone with a maladjusted sense of humor letting loose hundreds of frogs at the royal banquet.

The girl’s death apart, the events could be seen as innocuous. Were they separate from the murder or did the whole thing combine to make a logical explanation, albeit one he could not yet fathom?

Luke sipped his ale and thought through possible rationalizations. He must observe, assess, analyze and only then, form a plan of action. Something itched at the back of his mind, but concentrate as he may, he could not bring it forward. Everything that had happened had to be connected. The writing. Two messages referring to false gods and a tyrant. Or was it simply that some young blood could have painted the words to set the maids screaming, possibly so that he could comfort one in particular? The first attempts failed, so he did it again when the court moved to Hampton. A fine notion but one that did not account for the spider.

Who but Nimrod could have killed the maid, and who but a woman could gain access to the Queen’s apartments unnoticed? That did not mean that Nimrod was in truth a woman, just disguised as one.

Leaving the murder aside, what about the frogs? Who in their right mind would collect together hundreds of the wretched creatures, a feat that must have taken a long, long time, and then release them in the middle of a royal feast? It was a reckless act. Henry was certain to be so enraged that he would take all necessary steps to discover the perpetrator.

The murder of little Edith Brook was in a different league, and quite what part she played in this tangle was anybody’s conjecture. The device carved into her back implied that the writing and her death were linked in some way. There was an easy way to prove this. If the same hand had performed both deeds, then the pieces of linen in his scrip, the one from the wounds on the dead girl and the other from the writing on the wall, must be related.

Walking into his shop, he went over the ingredients for the bonding spell. The spell needed all his focus even though in essence it was one of the simplest to perform. Any lapse in his concentration and the elements would split asunder, like curdled eggs. He blended the potion, dividing it between two bowls. He then dipped the cloth with which he had wiped Edith’s arm into the left-hand bowl and the cloth with red ink from the wall into the right-hand one, ordering them to reveal their secrets.

At first he thought he had made a mistake in the spell because nothing happened. If the events were related, they should leap into the air and try to bond. He reviewed his actions. No, the spell was correct. That must mean his theory had been wrong. Luke’s shoulders sagged.

Just as he was about to tip the contents of each bowl away, a faint stream of vapor rose from the bowl on the right and transferred itself to the one on the left. He released the breath he had not known he was holding and nodded in satisfaction.

“So, you are each part of the whole. I knew it,” he said, lifting out the cloth from the left—hand bowl into which the vapor had descended. The red ink had also transferred to the one from the right-hand bowl, thus proving that they were linked to the same person, but was it the killer or the girl? He picked the bowl up but stood transfixed with shock when a red mist swirled above the inky cloth. The sudden rush of heat made him drop the dish, and when he looked down, the cloth had been consumed, leaving behind a pool of red viscous liquid. Luke swallowed and muttered up a prayer. He knew that coppery, salty smell. The writing had not been done with ink, but with blood. Was it that fact that had slowed the action of the spell? Joss growled, making him jump. Looking round, he could see no cause for her unease, but she continued to grumble in the back of her throat.

He dropped to the settle in front of his counter, trying to make sense of what he had discovered. The murderer of Edith Brook had not only written those words on the wall and signed them with the spider symbol, he had used the girl’s blood to do it. How had he obtained it before her death? For it was certain that the writing had appeared on the wall before the girl had been killed. There was, of course, only one logical answer, and Luke’s mouth dried as he considered that solution and its implications. Although he had knowledge of the sang-tireur, this was the first time he had encountered it. Goose pimples stood on his arms, making him shiver. The sang-tireur was an evil spell whereby a sorcerer could draw blood at will from his victim, rather like one would milk a cow, whilst keeping the poor unfortunates behaving as usual but not in charge of their minds or bodies. This had to mean that Edith had been in the enemy’s thrall for some time. A whole new raft of possibilities had arisen, including more evidence that his adversary was indeed a sunderer, one of the highest abilities and a member of Custodes Tenebris. Nimrod.