The Lady of Secrets (12 page)

Unlike the unkempt Blackwood, every article of Graham’s clothing was neat and clean. The only thing at all out of place was a single gold-tipped curl that persisted in straying across the man’s forehead, but only added to his charm.

Yet it wasn’t his physical appearance that Meg found attractive,
but his courteous manner, his gravity, the melancholy in his gaze that tugged at something in her own heart. When he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes, but not in the chilling manner she had observed in cold, calculating men.

It was more as if Sir Patrick had long since forgotten how to smile and had to struggle to remember. Meg could understand that all too well, weighed down as she often was with memories of her mother, the fear of the past she had buried rising up to haunt her again.

So what was Sir Patrick’s great burden? Meg wondered as she rested her hand upon the crook of his arm and they strolled along the shoreline.

“I hope that my request for this talk did not alarm you,” he said.

“That will depend on what it is about and who you are.”

“I told you. I am Sir Patrick Graham and—”

“I know your name.” Or at least she believed she did. He could well be traveling under an assumed identity, although she had no reason to think so.

“A name tells one nothing,” Meg went on. “It gives me no idea of who you are.”

“I am no one of any particular importance, the oldest son of a modest but respected family from Middlesex. After being educated at Oxford, I journeyed to London to make my fortune, as so many young men do.

“I have achieved neither great success nor great failure. At present I am engaged as clerk for the king’s privy council.”

“That sounds quite important to me.”

“There are many such clerks, overworked and poorly paid. Still I do not complain. It is a mark of good fortune to acquire any post at court, no matter how minor.”

“Then I congratulate you, but I am more confused than
ever. What brings a clerk of the English privy council to such a remote place as Pernod?”

“Pernod was not my final destination.” He stopped and stared down at her. “You were. I was coming to Faire Isle in search of you.”

“I see,” she said, forcing a light note to her voice. “Should I be alarmed or flattered?”

“I do not think you are the sort of woman who cares to be flattered. But you should know that the legend of the Lady of Faire Isle is known and spoken of, even in London.”

Meg could endure that, as long as it was the legend of the Lady under discussion. Not Margaret Wolfe or, worse still, Megaera.

“So what did you hear about the Lady of Faire Isle that induced you to come in search of her?” Meg asked.

“That she—I mean you were a sorceress of incredible beauty and power, well versed in all the arts of magic and healing. I confess I did not believe it. I thought it must all be a myth.”

“Now that you have met me, you can see that it is.”

“On the contrary, after what I witnessed at the inn last night, I realized that the stories about you are all true. The way that you resolved the matter of Mistress Tillet’s bewitchment—”

“The girl was not bewitched! I did nothing but expose her trickery. That was all.”

“All? You saw through her lies when no one else did. You knew she was faking.”

“Apparently so did your friend, Blackwood.”

“But you were the one who brought an end to it. I am told you have much experience in these matters of feigned bewitchment.”

“From time to time, I have been called upon to deal with someone behaving as if they were possessed, claims that always prove to be false.”

“Always? Then you do not think that there is such a thing as bewitchment, that someone really could be cursed by a sorceress?” Graham searched her face intently. “You do not believe in the existence of evil?”

Meg thought of her mother and suppressed a shiver. “I do not dismiss the possibility of such black magic, but I pray it would be rare.”

“If someone was damned by a witch, could you help them? Could you remove the curse?”

“I don’t know.” Meg frowned up at him. “Whom do you believe has been cursed, Sir Patrick? You?”

“No, I thank God.”

“Then some friend of yours?”

“I cannot presume to call him that.”

Graham’s hedging started to irritate Meg. “Then what can you presume to call him? What is this man’s name?”

Graham paused and finally said. “James Stuart.”

“James Stuart?”
Meg stared at him, incredulous. “You cannot possibly mean—”

“Yes, I do,” Sir Patrick replied gravely.

“James Charles Stuart, the king of England.”

M
EG REGARDED SIR PATRICK IN STUNNED SILENCE, WONDERING
if she had lost all ability to judge a man’s character. She had believed Graham to be sober and sensible, but it would seem as though he was as mad as his friend.

“I am sure I did not understand you,” Meg said. “You are telling me that you believe the king of England is possessed?”

“Not possessed,
cursed.
His Majesty labors under the weight of a terrible curse that was laid upon him.”

If Blackwood had told her such a thing, Meg would have been tempted to dismiss the remark as more of the man’s odd humor. Graham looked so earnest, she did not know what to think.

“I fear I am explaining all this very badly,” he said. “Perhaps I should start over again at the very beginning when all these tragic events were first set into motion.”

“Yes, perhaps you should.”

They walked for a moment in silence as Sir Patrick strove to marshal his thoughts.

“It all began nearly fifteen years ago in Edinburgh. James Stuart had not yet succeeded to the English throne. He was but the king of Scots, a young man and in need of a bride. His choice settled upon Princess Anne of Denmark and James made an extraordinary gesture for a sovereign king. Rather than having his bride fetched to him as is the custom, James sailed across the waters to wed the princess in her own land.

“It was a romantic decision rather than a wise one. Our country has never been a tame—”

“
Our
country?” Meg echoed. “But I thought you said that you hailed from Middlesex?”

Sir Patrick looked discomfited by her interruption. “My mother was from Scotland, so as a lad I spent many summers on my uncle’s manor and felt quite at home there. But to continue what I was saying,
Scotland
is a rough land with a long history of rebellion, powerful lairds rivaling each other for power, constantly ready to challenge the king, especially one who displayed any sign of weakness.

“James had one subject who was particularly troublesome, the Earl of Bothwell. He was the nephew of that same Bothwell who had abducted the king’s late mother, Mary Stuart. I fear the lairds of Bothwell have always been unruly, troublesome subjects.

“The present earl took full advantage of the king’s absence to lay a plot against His Majesty of a most dark and unexpected nature. When King James tried to sail home to Scotland with his new bride, the royal fleet was beset with storms.”

Meg stiffened beside Sir Patrick, aware of the direction his tale would take.

“It was a miracle the king was able to come to safe harbor. It did not take long after that for it to be discovered—”

“That a coven of witches was responsible,” Meg said. “You need not continue, Sir Patrick. I am sorry to say I am quite familiar with what happened next.”

“How could you be? You could have been no more than a child when this all occurred.”

“I was old enough and we have a collective memory for sorrow on Faire Isle, particularly where it concerns the fate of wise women. When word of the Scottish witch trials reached our island, we all went into mourning. All of those poor lost souls, hundreds of innocent women and men as well, accused of conjuring against the king, being arrested and tortured. So many put to death, burned at the stake.”

Meg closed her eyes briefly, willing away the terrible image. “It is the secret dread of every woman who dares to practice the arts of healing and keep the ancient knowledge alive. You cannot possibly imagine—”

“Yes, I can and I share your horror of such a death.” Something caught in Sir Patrick’s throat and he coughed to clear it. “But not everyone who was arrested was innocent. There was a coven of witches who gathered at midnight in a church. They profaned that holy place with their satanic rituals, burning wax figures of the king, chanting evil spells to brew up storms to destroy his fleet.”

“Evil and profane, certainly, but still nonsense. I have never known anyone with the power to conjure storms or cause harm by playing with wax poppets. Your king should have directed his anger at whoever instigated this treasonous plot against him.”

“That was thought to be the Earl of Bothwell. He was also accused of witchcraft, but the charges were eventually dismissed.
No one could link him to the witches and many believed the charges were false, an effort to discredit the earl. Bothwell had many powerful enemies at the king’s court and then there was the strange matter of the woman known as Old Tam.”

“Old Tam?”

“That was what most people called her, but at her trial she was listed as Tamsin Rivers. Out of all those tried and condemned, she appears to have been a genuine witch.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His Majesty claims that she knew things about him, intimate details that no stranger should have known. It was Old Tam who cursed the king. She did so with her very last breath as she was being consumed by the flames.”

“If I was being burned alive, I am sure I would have hurled curses at him, too.”

“No, you would not have. Not from what I have witnessed of your courage, kindness, and forbearance.”

Meg was flattered by the warmth of his praise, although she did not deserve it. Sir Patrick did not know her, what she had almost done. Few people did.

She thought of the blackest moment of her life when she had hovered by the bedside of her enemy, Catherine de Medici, the witch blade laced with poison hidden in the folds of Meg’s skirt. More than the queen’s life had teetered in the balance that day. Meg’s soul had as well. She had come so close to surrendering to the darkness that day, only saved by a breath of hesitation, a whisper of sanity. The memory would always remind her of what she was capable. If she did not remain vigilant, it would be far too easy to become her mother’s daughter.

“It was a most terrible curse that old woman laid upon
the king,” Sir Patrick continued.
“Damn ye to hell, James of Scotland. May ye one day also perish in fire. My curse upon the House of Stuart!”

Meg started at the change in his voice, thick with a Scottish accent. Meg’s father could easily have pulled off such a performance. Martin Wolfe was a gifted actor, but Meg would have thought such skill of mimicry beyond the quiet Sir Patrick. Was the accent some holdover of memory from his boyhood summers in Scotland?

She regarded him curiously. “How well you remember all of this, Sir Patrick. Were you present at the old woman’s execution?”

“No, I but repeat the curse as I was told by the king. These words have preyed upon His Majesty’s mind ever since that day.”

“And therein lies the power of a curse, the mental torment that it can inflict upon its victim. Obviously the curse has not come true. Many years have passed and the king remains unharmed.”

“Thus far. But of late, the king has been much tormented. He claims to have received notes that appear to be written in blood, notes that threaten him.
The curse is upon you, James Stuart. Soon you will burn.
Even more disturbing, His Majesty has seen
her.
”

“Who?”

“Tamsin Rivers.”

“The woman he executed? Impossible!” Meg exclaimed. “Surely the king was mistaken.”

“His Majesty swears he will never forget that old witch’s evil countenance. He has seen her on a number of occasions, clamoring for alms in the company of a blind beggar woman at the crossroads, spying upon him from a copse of trees
when he was hunting. Once he even saw her lurking outside the palace walls at Whitehall.”

“And did anyone else ever see her?”

“Well, no. The king did send his yeoman guards after her, but she had vanished into thin air.

“Like a ghost,” Sir Patrick added uncomfortably. When Meg made an impatient sound, he asked, “You do not believe the dead can rise from their graves?”

Meg longed to declare that she didn’t, but she was haunted by the memory of Cassandra Lascelles waving her gaunt white hands over her steaming copper basin, conjuring forth the vision of some terrifying spirit.

“I do not discount the possibility of a ghost,” Meg said. “But I think it far more likely your king suffers from delusions of the mind. Perhaps he is finally having an attack of conscience over all of those women he burned.”

“Or an attack brought on by a witch’s curse.”

“Either way, I am not sure why you are telling me all of this.”

Sir Patrick halted and turned to face her. “Because I was hoping you would return with me to London and use your extraordinary powers to help His Majesty.”

Meg stared at him, incredulous. “If you were hoping that, sir, I fear you are infected with the same madness as your king.”

“It is not madness. Indeed, there is precedence for such a thing. When the late Queen Elizabeth was threatened by an enemy trying to hex her, she consulted a magus, Dr. John Dee.”

“That was entirely different. Dr. Dee was Elizabeth’s astrologer and tutor and yet there came a time when he had to flee England to escape charges of sorcery. If such a thing
could befall a man who was the queen’s trusted confidant for years, how do you think I would fare with a king who is notorious for burning witches? Since James Stuart came to the English throne, I hear that your laws against witchcraft are more stringent than ever.”

“Nay, I assure you the king is much wiser than he was in his youth, much more careful about leveling accusations of sorcery. The harsher laws against witches are due to parliament rather than the king.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” Meg said tartly. “I would only risk running afoul of the entire English government.”