The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (6 page)

Another bite of bread disappears into her mouth. “They take months to weave, these rugs. Twenty shades of dye! Every design tells a story. I would like to show them to you.” She says all this with a practised air. I can easily imagine her as a toddling child, praising the merchandise to charmed buyers in a lisping baby's voice.

“Tomorrow morning, when the sun is up, I will be sure to admire your rugs,” I promise. “I must warn you, though. I will not buy any, at least not now. I have no need for carpets at present.”

“Of course. You need a home first, yes? A home
and a husband. Then rugs. Then babies!” She giggles, and her teeth flash white. She cannot be more than eleven or twelve. “Here's what I think, Miss Irish: If you buy the right rug, then the rest will come.”

“If your rugs could do all of that, they are certainly worth a lot of money,” I agree.

“They are. Four hundred knots in every square inch! My name is Maryam. It is nice to meet you.” She presses her hands together and makes a little bow of greeting. Then she holds out the last bit of her bread. “Take it.”

I do, and eat it with gratitude. “My name is Rowan,” I say. By now I have almost forgotten that it is a lie.

T
HE JOURNEY SOUTH TAKES
on a rhythm of its own. We pack the wagons before dawn, travel all day, and stop at a roadside inn at night. The inns are humble, and I sleep in my clothes to avoid flea bites.

Day by day my false identity has taken shape. I have told those who insist on knowing that my trade is fine embroidery and my finished pieces have all been sold. Now I journey to London to seek work in the dressmakers' shops there.

Where I am truly bound, even I do not know.
Patience,
Oleander whispers in my dreams.
Patience,
lovely. Do as I say, and all will be as I promised.

I obey, for what other choice do I have? I act the part of Rowan and put as many miles as I can between myself and my crime. I live for the day when Oleander says I can stop running and leads me to Weed.

In the meanwhile I try to keep to myself as much as I can without seeming standoffish, but I am peppered with questions: How does a young, pretty girl like me dare travel the countryside alone, with so many villains and highwaymen about? Where is my family? Why do I not have a husband? Have I been disinherited? Disgraced?

I just look away sadly, and let them wonder.

At least Rye has let me be. Too restless to sit in the wagon, he has taken to walking alongside the cart horses, and chats amiably with them for long hours at a time. They seem glad for the company, and always keep one ear swivelled in his direction.

Sometimes, after dinner and before I retire to the modest room that is mine for the night, he makes a point to pass by whatever quiet corner I have chosen
for myself. He speaks only brief pleasantries, but always brings me some offering: an extra slice of bread, a glass of small ale. The girl Maryam will sit and eat with me on occasion. When she does, he brings a morsel of cake for her as well.

Even these minor attentions do not go unnoticed by the others. This morning, as we boarded the wagon, I overheard one of them, a thin widow named Agnes who sells fine dyed yarns she spins herself, swearing to her companion that I have bewitched the horse trader. The other woman snorted and accused her friend of being jealous.

I cannot travel much longer with this group.

 

On Saturday we stop for the night at a small inn called the King's Head. By law we cannot travel the roads on Sunday, so there is no need to rise early; we will spend tonight and tomorrow in this town and resume our journey on Monday.

The law is meant to make people devote themselves to worship. Instead, it is an invitation to release
all the pent-up boredom of our journey. Once our party has settled at the inn, unloaded our luggage, and dined, the revelry and drink begin.

Monday,
I think as I watch the ale being poured. Monday I will part from this group. They will leave before dawn, and I can secure a place in some other inn, under some other name, and plan where to go next.

The carousing promises to last well into the night, as nearly all the members of our group gather, tankards in hand, and pull chairs into a half circle around the fire. First there is a round of jokes, with each person telling one in turn. Then a fresh pouring of drinks, followed by more jokes.

This time around, the humour slants toward the vulgar. When the room erupts with laughter, I see Maryam, her face flushed and giddy, asking for someone to explain the meaning, as her mother shakes her head and tells her to never mind.

Now one of the tinsmiths leads the group in a comic song about the biggest ram ever sold at the Derby fair – a ram so big his shadow blocks the sun
itself. The song has a nonsense refrain that gets louder and wilder each time it is sung:

Someone calls for ghost stories, with each storyteller enjoined to share a more terrifying tale than the one before. I wave off my chance to speak, claiming shyness. If they only knew what horrors I could tell! It is better that I say nothing.

After my refusal, it is Maryam's father's turn. “The ghost stories of Persia are much too frightening to repeat here,” he says, to hoots of disbelief. “I will tell you a true story instead. Completely true, I assure you. Your own hero, the explorer Marco Polo, saw these things with his own eyes. Have you ever heard of the Hashshashin?”

The word seems to exert some power of its own, for at once the room falls silent. The rug merchant glances at his daughter. Maryam is now half asleep
on her mother's shoulder, cheeks flushed from the fire. Quietly he continues. “The Hashshashin was an ancient brotherhood of trained killers. Their victims were kings. Generals. Leaders of men. They killed for power, and power only. Their knives had blades edged with diamonds, and their stealth was like the stealth of a snake. No one could hear them approach. Silent as shadows, their daggers never failed to find their targets.”

I try to concentrate on the leaping fire, the glass in my hand – anything but the rug merchant's story that holds everyone else spellbound. “Some say the Hashshashin were taught to kill from birth. Some say they were bred for it. By the use of strange potions, their stealth and ferocity were increased. They lived and trained in a mountaintop fortress of stone, and served a master known only as the Old One.”

A pipe is passed around the room. Its smoke has a strange, sweet smell. I try not to breathe it in, but soon my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
Everything seems slowed.

Carefully I put down my glass. I do not like this feeling; it reminds me of when I was ill, a helpless traveller adrift in strange and terrifying seas.

Listen closely, my lovely… Listen, and learn.

“Do these Hashshashin still exist?” one of the younger men asks, a note of admiration in his voice.

“Nobody knows,” the rug merchant says. “Some claim they were wiped out centuries ago, destroyed by their enemies. They had many enemies, you may be sure. Others say no: They are still among us, controlling the fate of nations, and just as dangerous as ever.”

“And what do you think?”

He leans forward, and the fire sends long shadows flickering across his face. “Does it matter? In every nation, in every century, there are those who would kill for power, no? Even here in England. You call them assassins.” He spreads his arms. “No matter what shape or form they take, no matter what they call themselves, these people are the heirs of the
Hashshashin. And there will be no peace on earth as long as such killers exist.”

“Hear, hear,” someone cries. Glasses are lifted, and there are declarations of assent. The rug seller's story has pleased the group, but it has put them in a sombre mood as well.

By now my limbs are leaden. I force myself to rise and begin to make my way to the stairs.

“Speaking of killers,” says one of the women, in the conversation's lull – it is Agnes's friend who speaks, I think – “It was all the talk at the market today. I took a walk over, to see what price yarn fetches in these parts. Anyway, there was a murder in some remote house, outside of Alnwick.”

Already I feel somewhat outside myself from the drink and sweet smoke. Surely I can listen and stay calm. At least I should stay long enough to hear what is being said.

“Not at the castle. It was at the old abbey ruins. A man is dead, and a girl is missing. The place was ransacked and half burned to the ground.”

Ransacked? Burned? There must have been looters, then – unless the tale has grown wings in the retelling. And they mention only one man dead. That must be Pratt, for who would think to look in the locked garden for a second body?

I cannot help but picture the dreadful scene: Father's corpse is lying there even now, rotting beneath the leaves – not even the ravens dare pick over his poisoned flesh, that work will be left to the worms –

“They say a herbalist and his daughter made their home within the ruins. Imagine that! They must have been odd ducks, both of them, to live in such an eerie place.”

“Both dead?”

“They found the body of a man, or what was left of it after the fire. No sign of the girl.”

There is some clucking of tongues. A woman interjects, “It's bad enough to rob a man's home and take his life. Must they steal his daughter as well?”

“She's ruined by now, if she's still alive. Poor thing.”

“Now, being the wench of a highwayman's not such an awful fate,” another woman says. Her speech is slurred with drink. “It wouldn't be boring, at least! And I'll bet the money's good.”

A few laugh crudely at this. Soon the group's wild spirits are restored.

“A highwayman, eh? Why not? I'd have a go, if the right robber came along.”

“I would too, but only if the thief was handsome. Like Robin Hood!”

“Hear that, men? If you want to please the ladies, a life of crime is your ticket to love. At least with this bunch of hussies, it is!”

More drink, more smoke, more song:

The din is so loud my head swims; I clutch the bannister for balance. Step by step, I drag myself up the stairs.

I too feel carried away in a tide of blood. It takes all my strength to climb the second flight of steps and turn into the dark landing by the door to my room. As I fumble for the key, I see something: a glint of light on metal, lurking in a dark corner. The sight makes me gasp.

The Hashshashin
, I think, like a foolish child.

“Hush, Rowan.” A strong hand reaches out from the darkness and grips my arm. “It's me.”

He steps forward, out of the shadows. It is Rye.
He has some drink in him, I can smell it on his breath, but he seems steady and in full possession of his wits.

“I thought ye might be frightened. All that talk of murder.” His brogue is heavier with drink, and the glint of metal comes from a medallion he wears around his neck. I have not seen it before, but the top of his shirt is unbuttoned and the medal hangs low on his chest. It is some Catholic saint, the kind of token that could get a man thrown in prison, or worse.

“You are too kind,” I say, glancing around into the hidden corners of the landing. I do not wish anyone to see us speaking alone. “But I am not frightened.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“Of you?” I look at him, and take in the expressive, mocking mouth, the coarse red-brown stubble on his chin. His shoulders are broad, with arms strong and steady enough to wrestle a spirited stallion or soothe a frightened yearling.

“No, not of me, lass,” he says quickly. “I'd wring the neck of any man who'd do wrong by a woman that way. I'm no choirboy to be sure, but I have my principles.”

“Of who, then?

“Them.” He jerks his head toward the great room downstairs, where the carousing continues. “The widow Agnes has taken to crossing herself when you pass by.”

“If you wish to speak to me, come inside,” I say quickly, opening the door to my room. Rye slips in behind me. I close the door and bolt it.

I light the candle in the wall sconce nearest the door. The room is small and spare: a cot, a dresser, and a washbasin.

I turn to him. “I am sorry I cannot offer you a chair.”

He laughs. “You're not afraid of me at all, then?”

“No.” I speak softly, for the walls between the tiny rooms are thin. “In fact, I feel safer with you here.”

“'Tis a sweet thing to say.” His voice softens, too. “And you are a sweet woman, I think, sweet and warmhearted, underneath that pretty face that never smiles.”

“Is that why you've come – to make me smile?” Somehow the words come out sounding like an invitation, but he does not move.

“I came to give you a warning. Be careful of that lot downstairs. I don't like the way they talk. Especially that woman Agnes. She's got her eye on you. She's got mischief planned.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “You are a gentleman to tell me so.”

He laughs. “Easy, now! I'll not be accused of gallantry. I won't lie; there's another reason I came, too. The truth is, I have a fever, Rowan,” he says, and I startle, for I have done nothing to reveal my healing skills to these people.

“What sort of fever?”

“Love, I think.” His eyes search mine. “Or its close cousin, anyway.”

The room sways again. Is it the drink? The late hour? The dance of candlelight in this tiny, cloistered room? Or is it Rye himself: the way he has sought me out, speaking gently, protectively, making me realise how desperately alone I am?

All I know is that his murmured words and warm-blooded presence have kindled an answering warmth within me. I lift my gaze to his. He sees at once what my eyes reveal; I hear it in the change of his breath.

He makes no step toward me but reaches out with one hand. He smoothes my dark hair away from my face, caresses the rim of my ear, traces the line of my jaw to my chin. Cradling my face in his hand, he brushes the curve of my lower lip gently with the tip of his thumb. As if obeying some unspoken command, my lips part, my pulse quickens. Still he does not move.

All at once, it is I who long to kiss him.

“Who are you, Rowan?” he says. “You're younger than you look, I think.”

“I am old enough.” I let my hands float up either side of him, skimming his strong arms. Gnarled with muscle, hard as packed earth, skin warm as a woodstove beneath the rough fabric of his shirtsleeves.