The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (13 page)

The signora's eyes widen. “The King of England? But why would he travel to Italy when half of Europe is at war? It is madness.”

“Agreed. Whoever has convinced the king to leave the safety of England is a traitor. I fear a trap is being laid even now.”

He lays a hand on my shoulder. “I am sure the signora has told you, if you don't already know: This region has a long and gruesome history of political assassination by poison. In Venice there was an official committee, the Council of Ten, which met to vote
on whom to poison next. The French would find it admirably democratic.”

By now we have reached the uppermost tier. Dr. Carburi pauses to catch his breath. “That they bring the English king here bodes very ill indeed, and all but guarantees that we will be blamed for whatever happens to him. It will bring war to our city. A royal assassination would be the end of Padua, the university, everything.”

“But why would someone kill the King?” I ask, ashamed of my ignorance.

“Revolution.” Dr. Carburi wipes his brow with a crimson silk square. “Murder the King and chaos reigns, just long enough for a fresh crop of tyrants to seize power. Come inside now; we have climbed as high as we can, and it is almost time –”

He steps through a small door into the auditorium.

We follow. The view from this uppermost tier is dizzying, like looking down a well. The coffin-shaped table waits below.

“What a view, eh?” He turns once more to the
signora. “The
Orto botanico
– are there not plants within it that could be used to cause harm?”

“Of course there are, for one who has the knowledge and skill.”

He nods. “Be careful who enters. Be wary of theft. It is a pity the plants themselves cannot stand guard. The things they must witness! If only they could speak…”

From the seats below us comes a ripple of excited chatter, as two men in blood-stained smocks enter. Together they lean on one side of the dissecting table, until it rotates all the way around. A woman's naked corpse lies strapped to the other side. The crowd gasps and applauds.

“Bravo!” Dr. Carburi throws off his cape, revealing a slightly crushed orchid boutonniere pinned to his lapel. He removes a small telescope from his pocket. “That double-sided table is a marvellous touch.”

Beware,
the dying orchid whispers.

As the two assistants lock the table in place, a tall man in a flowing white coat strides into the theatre
and takes a low bow. When he straightens, he lifts his right arm. He holds a gleaming silver knife in his hand.

“Professor Scarpa,” Carburi says eagerly, extending his opera glass and holding it to one eye. “The dissection is about to begin.”

“Why?” I whisper under my breath. Signora Baglioni gives me a startled look, but says nothing. Carburi is too busy focusing his opera glass to notice.

The violinist raises his instrument, and the other players follow suit. As the knife makes the first cut, the musicians begin to play.

I lean forward, as if to see better, but in truth I seek to get closer to the fading bloom. With its last morsel of strength, the orchid says:
When the Prince of Poisons wants the world to know his might, what better way than to poison a king?

B
E CHARMING, LOVELY
.
That was Oleander's final instruction.
These men do my bidding, though they do not know it. They think the voice of providence speaks to them, or the voice of their own ambition, but they obey me nevertheless. I want you to serve them freely, for their purpose and mine are aligned – for now.

I direct the coach driver to let me off at the servants' entrance of a nobleman's estate. A silent butler with thinly-arched eyebrows bids me come inside and leads me to a private chamber, richly appointed. I still have not been told the purpose of this summons.

I count six men, seated in chairs around the fire or standing, leaning against the back of a divan or examining a book from the library shelves. The three youngest are no more than thirty and seem virile and eager, with flaring nostrils like racehorses. The older men are full-bellied and bandy-legged, foolish in their white wigs, ruffled lace shirtfronts, and velvet waistcoats.

They eye me with grave curiosity, and some scepticism.

“This?” a younger one says to the eldest man. “This pale wraith is the skilled one you spoke of?”

“She is. Come in, my dear. Someone get our guest a glass of whiskey.”

“Perhaps later,” I say quickly. I have already taken an extra dose of laudanum to steady my nerves. I am at my best now, fearless and without shame, but anything more will make me reckless.

“As you wish. We have been told you are a young lady of the utmost discretion, is that so?”

“Yes.” I look around. All eyes are upon me.

“In that case, welcome. We are the founders and members of a private club. Our membership is select, our existence secret. Do you know what a scorpion is?”

His patronising tone makes me bristle. “I prefer to work with plants, not insects,” I retort. “But yes, I do know that scorpions poison their prey. Most are not venomous enough to be lethal to larger animals; only a few are dangerous to humans.” I meet his challenging gaze. “And, given the right boot, all can easily be crushed underfoot.”

He laughs. “Well said! You live up to your reputation quite well. You have arrived just in time, Miss Belladonna. We of the Scorpion Society always begin our meetings with a prayer. Gentlemen, please join me in speaking the assassin's creed.”

The men bow their heads and recite.

“And whatever weapon the people fear gives power to those who wield it. May that power be ours; to use it as we see fit,” the man finishes, to which his fellow conspirators reply, “Amen.”

These are the Hashshashin,
I think.
And I am one of them now.

They gather chairs in a circle and invite me to sit with them. Then the plotting begins. They call one another by secret names, each taken from a different killing plant: Foxglove. Chrysanthemum. Rhododendron. Narcissus. I listen as they spin their web of schemes, each treasonous thought a fresh log on the bonfire of wickedness they build together – it seems
they will not stop until the blaze consumes all of England. Each speaks in turn, but their purpose has a single voice.

“Revolution is a healing plague that leaps across borders and spreads from one nation to the next. Our country already has the blessed infection. Many in England long for change, and we count ourselves among the most powerful of these. As such, we wish to bring the sickness to a head, so to speak, so that the purge may run its full course.”

“As a doctor lets blood to release bad humours, we too must bleed this patient, this England, until the dross has been emptied from its veins.”

“There will be blood, make no mistake. Blood in plenty. But first, there is a tumour to be excised. A tumour in the shape of a crown…”

Their plan reaches beyond England's borders, for it will be safer that way, abroad and out of reach of the royal guard. There is mention of a ball, fancy dress, a masquerade… a sealed bottle of wine, uncorked in front of the King to allay suspicion… a deadly glass to
be prepared at the last moment, tainted and served by a deceptively attractive messenger, ruthless and beautiful, lacking all fear….

The grey-haired man whom the others call Monkshood abruptly pulls me onto his lap. With one liver-spotted hand he holds me fast; the other strokes my thigh, as if I were a pet Pomeranian dog. I writhe from his grasp. When he does not let me go, I slap him hard across the face.

The crack of the blow silences the room. Free of his grip and on my feet, I am quickly seized by two of the men.

The grey-haired man wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and smiles. “Ruthless indeed. And beautiful,” he says, as if I am not in the room. “A dish fit for a king.”

The others chuckle. I struggle to free myself but cannot. The one called Narcissus takes my chin in his hand and jerks my face to the light. He looks at my eyes with a clinical interest, first one, then the other.

“In addition to your other virtues, you, my dear, are an opium eater of the first rank,” he concludes.
“How charmingly decadent. I hope it will not interfere with the efficient
execution
of your duties.”

The men nod approvingly at his choice of words.

“It gives me courage,” I retort. “It frees me to do my work.”

“Does it? Give her some more, then,” one of the men instructs, laughing. “Perhaps it will make her a bit friendlier.”

They fetch me a drink, whiskey and laudanum mixed, and then another, and soon I am laughing too, my head thrown back, as I toss my raven-black hair and dance before the fire for my appreciative fellow assassins.

No broken, lost soul am I among these powerful men. No; I am triumphant; I am all that they wish me to be, and more. The poison in my veins thrums with the joy of a homecoming.

And all the while, Oleander's words bear me aloft like warm, caressing wings.

Dance, my beautiful, deadly beloved. Forget about these panting fools, and dance with abandon, for me alone… for soon you will be mine… but first, you shall be the king's…

3rd November

 

T
HE TREE
S
IGNORA CALLS
the Palm of St. Peter is the oldest plant in the garden, and the wisest. It is not happy to see me, but there is no plant I would trust more to test these precious vials.

“Again?” the palm says crossly when I kneel before it. “Already we have watched as you helped yourself to ginger, saffron, cardamom, shepherd's purse, anise, St. John's wort, cassia bark, and hartwort root, and at least two dozen others. Is there a plant left in this garden that has not been pruned to the ground?” Its fan-shaped clusters of leaves quiver with irritation. “Or have you come to harvest me this time?”

“Forgive me,” I say, my head bowed. The palm tree is not as big as the ancient oaks and pines of the Northumberland forests, but it is more than twice my height, and the authority it commands is great. “I know I have taken much from the garden. I come at the bidding of the signora. She is trying to create a
remedy for poison. It is very important that she succeeds.”

“To you, perhaps. If foolish humans wish to poison one another, how does it matter to us?”

“It matters a great deal,” I say hotly. “For it is Oleander himself who is making his power known –”

“Silence!”
The rough hairs on the palm's grey trunk bristle in anger. “Do you think you know better than we what danger is posed by the upstart prince? He is not the concern of
you humans
.”

“He is surely my concern, for he is my enemy,” I snap back in anger. “He is a danger to Jessamine, my beloved – the girl I have asked you about so many times, the one you cannot seem to find, anywhere…”

I catch myself – I ought not to rage at this wise being, when I have come to beg a favour. Still, the palm's tone softens. “Seasons change, Weed. Winter comes, and you cannot stand in the way of it. One must accept that.” Its leaves curl and uncurl again, in a gentle reproof. “Now. Why are you here?”

I take out the three vials. “These are the three mixtures of antidote the signora has prepared. We need to know if any of them has the power to stop poison.”

“Place a drop upon my broadest leaf. One drop of each, please.”

I obey. The palm quivers and mutters. “Yes. There is power here. One greater, two lesser.”

“Is the greater power enough to combat strong poisons in the body of a human?”

“It is great,” the palm concludes. “But I do not know how great a poison it will meet with. I do not know the strength of the human in question. I am old and wise, Weed, but I cannot know the unknowable. I cannot say whether it is enough for your purposes. Only that it is powerful.”

I know the signora will be disappointed with this answer, but the palm speaks the truth. “And which was the more powerful mixture? The first drop, the second, or the third?”

“One greater, two lesser,” the palm repeats.

My anger flares once more. “Surely one such as you cannot be afraid of the evil prince. Why will you not tell me?”

“You are the one who seeks this knowledge, Human Who Hears. You are the one who must pay the price of knowing.” After a time, the palm adds, “The Prince is evil, yes – but he is one of us. We cannot take sides with a human against him.”

I rise. “I understand. Thank you for your aid.” I cannot help myself from asking one last time: “Has there been any news of Jessamine?”

The palm sways thoughtfully in the breeze. “There is a girl,” it says, and chants:

“Her hair as black as raven wings.

Her lips red as a poppy flower.

Her heart as merciless as the belladonna berry.

Her will as deadly.”

“That cannot be her,” I say, my heart breaking.

“In that case – we cannot find the girl you seek,” the palm says, and falls silent.

 

Luckily the signora has stepped into the courtyard to tend to her grapes. It takes me but a moment to prepare the vilest mixture I can think of. Hemlock, hellebore, wormwood, arsenic, wolfsbane, plus a half dozen others. All equally deadly.

I could add honey to mask the taste, but there is no need. I will not give myself even a moment to reconsider; I lift the glass and drink. My body cries out against it, my throat gags as if a noose were tightening around my neck, but my will is stronger.

I drain the last drop of noxious potion, and look up. Signora Baglioni stands in the doorway, caught in midstride. Her eyes move to the empty glass in my hand.

“Signora Baglioni, I am sorry to impose upon you,” I say. I must speak quickly, while I can. “Very shortly I will fall ill. When I do, please administer your first formula for mithridatum.”

She takes a step toward me. “Weed – what have you done?”

“If I do not recover within the hour, give me the
second formula. If that does not work, the third.” I pause. Something is wrong with my eyes. The room blurs, and my hand goes to my forehead. “If it comes to the third, it is probably best not to wait too long. I shall have to trust your judgment… about that…”

“Reckless fool!” she cries, seizing the glass from me and sniffing it. “What did you drink?”

I find myself leaning against the wall of her kitchen. Either I am slipping down, or the floor is rising up to meet me. My belly feels suddenly full of broken glass. “One of the three antidotes is likely to work. The Palm of St. Peter told me so. We only need to discover which one –”

“
Likely
to work! You
idiot
! You should not have risked yourself in this way. You are much too valuable – without you there is no hope –”

Those are the last words I hear.

 

The King of England is not as brutish as he might be, given that his most casual request carries the force of law. I should be grateful for that, I suppose.

Most days I am the one chosen to serve him his food. Afterwards I dance for him or sing to him. When he is ill, I fetch a chamber pot for him to vomit into. I bathe his face with a cool, wet cloth as if he were a sick child and tell him our difficult journey will be over in another day or two, no more.

I am one royal handmaiden of many, but my orders were to make sure I became his favourite. This I have done. It was not difficult; he may be a king, but he is also a man. My lavish attentions made him welcome my company, and a few drops of a carefully prepared aphrodisiac guaranteed that he would prefer me above all others.

When he asks me to stay behind after the meal is done, I obey. When we are alone, I pretend just enough impudence to rouse his passion. When he wishes to quench a rebellion, I resist. But he is victorious, always, for he is the king, beloved of his people, God's anointed ruler and on Earth supreme head of the Church of England.

And two days hence, I will kill him in cold blood.

Not here, in his private stateroom aboard ship, where it would be all too easy to do. No – I am ordered to do it in public, in front of the English court and before the eyes of Europe, so that my master's will might strike fear into the hearts of the most powerful men in the world.

At last I can tally the true price of my bargain with Oleander. If I succeed in my task, I will be killed on the instant. If I fail, my fate is the same. My new acquaintances in the Scorpion Society made that very clear.

Either way, this is how my final days on Earth will be spent: on this rolling, stomach-churning journey in the belly of a ship, the traitorous bedmate of a seasick king. I would laugh, or weep, or leap overboard, if not for the laudanum.

And if not for Oleander. Am I mad to say it? I know he is my downfall, my destroyer, yet he is the only companion I have left. His incorporeal presence has become my north star. His constant devotion is all that has kept me from hurling myself into the sea.

He guides me and comforts me. He tells me what special herbs to add to the laudanum, to keep me indifferent and as pleasure-seeking as a cat. He whispers words of adoration to me all night long, until I can scarcely sleep from longing.

I wish I could touch you,
I tell him.

Would that I could possess you as the fat king does. But soon, lovely. Soon.

My every waking moment, he praises my beauty, even as I lift my gown and offer myself to my sovereign, His Majesty King George III, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. Whose life and reign it is my destiny to end.

 

The slap of wetness against a thin hull. The steady splash of a gondolier's oar moving through the water. These are the sounds I wake to.

Signora
– I try to speak, but no words come. With difficulty I open my eyes.

Someone has dressed me in a gentleman's Sunday
clothes – a crisp linen shirt, a matching frock coat and breeches. The clothes are not my own and are over-large for my frame. My feet are bare.

I am propped up against the side of a gondola, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat against the sun. My right hand trails over the side. The still water of the canal is cold, slimy, unpleasant. I wish to lift my hand from the water but cannot.

I cannot seem to move at all.

Around me, the students are laughing, joking. Full of high spirits, bragging about their pranks. Somehow I know their names. Moonseed. Larkspur. Dumbcane. Snakeweed.

“You are not medical students,” I say, or try to. “Look. There is dirt still clinging to your roots.”

They laugh. “You are covered in earth too, Master Weed. But perhaps that is because we have just dug you up from your grave.”

“My grave?”

“Of course! Where else do you think the bodies come from?”

The gondola passes beneath a footbridge and moves into shadow. All is darkness.

It will be darkness without end, this time,
I think with relief. Finally I have reached the end of this terrible agony I am already too near death to feel… darkness is nearly here, and with it, peace…

And then there is light. And pain.

Like the world itself, I spin. Night turns into day, day into night, again and again.

When the spinning stops, I am flat on my back, spread-eagled. My clothes are gone.

A
click
, as the dissection table is locked into place.

I dare to open my eyes. Faces, hundreds of them, near and impossibly high, all staring at me. Hungry with anticipation.

I struggle to rise but am held down with straps.

Oleander appears before me, silver-haired, his dark wings folded against his back. One arm is raised, and something sharp gleams in his hand. He gazes down with mocking emerald eyes, the same vivid green as my own.

“Weed! What a surprise. We were all quite sure you were dead.”

“Not – not yet –” I gasp. The pain is returning, spreading quickly, too quickly –

“So I see. But it won't be long now. And the crowds have already gathered. The preparations have been made. It is much too late to change our plans. What is it your mountebank used to say? The show must go on? Music, please,” he commands some unseen players.

But I hear no music – just the hoarse cry of the raven –

KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

as the blade of ice comes plunging down…

 

Oleander?

Yes, lovely?

I have been wondering: Is there a worse crime than to kill God's anointed King?

It is dreadfully wicked, to be sure. But there are so many different sorts of crimes, and each one is worse than
the last. One can scarcely keep track of them all.

Do you think it is worse than killing one's own father?

Not many people get to experience both, lovely. Count yourself fortunate in that respect. But why ask such pointless questions? I hope you are not having second thoughts. For I would be so very disappointed if you were to break your word.

No. I know it does not matter. I am going to hell, no matter what. I was just curious. May I ask you something else?

Curiosity killed the cat, my dear.

Still, I wish to know. Is Weed alive?

Weed! Why do you ask?

I – I am not sure. I would like to say goodbye to him, I suppose.