Chantress Fury (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TRESPASSER

I hadn’t realized that Nat had rooms of his own in Whitehall, but Penebrygg remembered enough about where they were located that I could find them easily. Deep inside the palace, they did not have a view of the river—which meant they were still accessible.

As we walked over there, I saw several people shy away from us. Was it me they were avoiding? Were they holding iron crosses?

Ignorance and superstition
, I told myself again.
Don’t take it to heart.
But still they unnerved me.

Once we reached Nat’s rooms, Penebrygg had trouble with the key, so I handed him the lantern and unlocked the door myself. Penebrygg went straight in, but at first I held back, standing self-consciously on the threshold. Given where I stood with Nat, I wasn’t sure he would want me in such a private place. But when Penebrygg looked back at me, his weary face heavily shadowed in the light of the lantern, I cast aside any reservations.

“I’ll get a fire going,” I said.

A half hour later, the coals were burning merrily, and I had Penebrygg tucked up in a chair close by them. I’d made free with Nat’s possessions, grabbing a counterpane from his bed, pears from a basket, and cider and cheese from a well-oiled cupboard. Penebrygg was looking more like himself now.

And I? I was caught between warring emotions. It felt like trespass to be here when Nat hadn’t invited me in—and yet it felt perfectly right too, especially since I was ministering to a man who meant so much to both of us.

Nat’s role as the King’s special envoy meant that he was often on the road, so it made sense that his rooms were neat but plain; they had an air of a place that wasn’t much used. Yet here and there I saw the stamp of his presence: books on astronomy, microscopes, and philosophy; a treatise on the potato; a letter addressed in his incisive hand. And when I’d gathered up the counterpane, I’d caught the scent of him in it, as immediate and fresh as an embrace.

Penebrygg finished his pears and cheese and set the plate on the small table next to him.

“Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

“No, no, my dear.” He rubbed the place on the bridge of his nose where his spectacles usually sat. “I’ve had as much as I care to, thank you. And in any case, you must have plenty of other things to do than look after one rather doddery old man. Where were you off to when we met?”

Worried about all he’d been through already, I started to deflect the question, then realized I was doing him a disservice. Without his spectacles, he looked fragile and unfocused, but his mind was still as sharp as ever, and his spirit as curious. So I told him not only that I’d been looking for Sybil but why.

“Scrying? How fascinating, my dear.” A bit of color came into his cheeks. Magic had always excited him. “I remember you mentioning that you had done something of the sort before, but I’m afraid I know very little about how it works. What kind of pictures did you see, exactly—if you don’t mind my asking?”

I didn’t mind at all. In fact, it was possible that Penebrygg would be able to cast some light on them. Although he didn’t have Sybil’s deep knowledge of Chantress magic, he was a keen researcher and reader, and his interest in magic meant that over his long lifetime he’d consulted all kinds of rare books—some of which no longer existed, having been burned in Scargrave’s time. I sat down on a bench by the fire and carefully described what I’d seen, hoping he might have a clue as to what it all meant. For good measure, I told him about Melisande, too—about her necklace, and what she’d said about a wall and the Mothers.

“And now here you are seeing a wall with a hole in it, and a green light on the other side.” Penebrygg stroked his beard, something he did only when troubled. “I wonder . . . could it be the wall between the worlds?”

“The what?”

“Didn’t I once tell you about it? Years ago it would be, back when we first met, when you asked me what I knew about Chantresses. It’s how your kind came about, you see. So the old stories say. I’ve heard a few different versions, but it boils down to this: There is—or was—a wall between the faerie world and ours, and both we and they used to cross it now and again, and to mingle. And those men who took faerie wives had Chantress daughters.”

If he had said something about this, I’d forgotten it in my rush to understand more about the threat posed by Scargrave and his Shadowgrims.

I said slowly, “The old stories? You mean it’s only a legend?”

“A legend, yes. But that doesn’t mean there’s no truth in it, my dear.”

My godmother had warned me that Penebrygg’s stories about Chantresses weren’t necessarily to be believed, and she herself had never mentioned any kind of wall. Still, I was curious. “You say people used to cross it? They don’t anymore?”

“So the stories go. Something sealed us off from each other; I’ve never heard anything about how or when or why. From what you say, I gather Melisande believes it was Chantress magic of some sort, though why Chantresses would want to cut themselves off from the faerie world, I don’t know. I seem to remember reading once that Chantresses used to cross the wall to renew their powers. Apparently visiting that world strengthened them, though, it was said that they had to be careful never to take their stones off while they were there, or terrible things could befall them.”

I couldn’t help shaking my head. I’d never heard of such a thing before—not from Lady Helaine, not from anyone else.

“Well, all that’s by the by,” Penebrygg said. “My point is this: I wonder if what we are dealing with now is a hole in the wall—and some kind of terrible magic from the other side. You said the light coming from the hole was green?”

“Yes.”

“In the old stories, green is the color of the faeries. Who, it is also said, can be held off with iron.”

“But it’s not faeries we’re seeing,” I objected. “It’s sea serpents and kraken.”

“For all we know, that’s what they look like.” Penebrygg stretched his hands toward the blue-orange flames of the fire. “The trouble is, you’re thinking of faeries as tiny winged creatures who dance around the woods. But that isn’t what they are at all. You should think of them instead as masters of illusion. The old stories say the creatures of faerie can be anything they want to be.”

I thought of the moment when I’d seen two kings. Maybe there was something in what Penebrygg was saying.

“And here’s something else for you to consider.” He fished in his sleeve and pulled out a bedraggled scrap of paper. “I’ve been doing a bit of research about ondines, and I found something I thought you would want to see. It’s based on an old Norman manuscript from the time of the Conquest, but I’ve translated the passage for you.” He pulled the paper close, then stopped and blinked, looking bereft as he missed his spectacles again. “Well, I can’t read it properly now. But perhaps you can, my dear?”

I took the paper he held out to me and spoke the words aloud: “
It is well known that the ethereal spirits of air were never very strong, and the spirits of earth and fire have long since been weakened by humans, who have done so much to tame their elements. But water spirits by nature are nimble and strong and ambitious, and their domain includes the oceans, which cover most of the globe. They take many forms, and they are by far the most dangerous kind of elemental, greatly feared even by Chantresses.”

“For ‘elementals,’ ” Penebrygg said, “I think you could perhaps substitute the world ‘faeries.’ Or perhaps even Melisande’s ‘Mothers.’ ”

I stared down at the tattered paper. Was that the explanation? Were we at war with a whole host of watery beings? If so, was Melisande their agent—or their leader?

“What about the two snakes?” I asked. “The ones I saw, and the ones on Melisande’s necklace. How do they fit into this?”

“Ah, yes, the snakes.” Penebrygg stroked his beard again. “They would appear to be a version of the ouroboros. A very ancient symbol, most often used to signify immortality and eternal rebirth. It was known to the Greeks and even the ancient Egyptians. You see it in alchemy, too.”

I looked at him in surprise. “In alchemy? Why?”

“Because immortality is one of the great goals of alchemy, my dear. Some also say the ouroboros embodies the mingled acts of destruction and creation that are part of the alchemist’s work.”

I sat up straight, the scrap of paper forgotten. “Then maybe it’s not magic we should be worrying about. Maybe it’s alchemy.” I told him about my conversation with Gabriel.

“How interesting,” Penebrygg said, clearly intrigued. “I suppose the green light you saw could represent the first stage of transmutation.”

I tried to remember what I’d learned about alchemy last year. “The first stage—that’s what you call the Green Lion, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And in alchemy, the Lion devours the sun, you know.”

“Does it?” As always, the arcane terminology of alchemy made little sense to me, but Penebrygg sounded very sure of himself. “Well, it’s true we haven’t seen the sun for days. But what about iron?”

“There, I must admit I’m less certain.” He was stroking his beard again. “But iron is important to alchemy. When you combine it with sulfur, you get sulfuric acid, the destroying fire. So it’s possible it has a destructive force that interferes with power over water.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw how weary he was. This discussion was taxing him.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I should leave you now, but can I first help you to bed?”

“No, no.” He waved me away but couldn’t help yawning as he did so. “Must leave the bed for the boy.”

“He’s so busy, he probably won’t come back tonight. And even if he does, I’m sure he’d want you to have it.” I tugged at the counterpane. “Come, let’s make you comfortable.”

He really was exhausted, which made it easier for me to persuade him to do as I directed. I’d barely gotten him tucked into the bed before he was fast asleep.

Making as little noise as possible, I closed the door to the bedchamber before banking down the fire in the main room. My hand was on the latch of the outer door when I remembered my lantern. Looking back, I saw Penebrygg had set it down on a desk strewn with papers.

I was reaching for it when I heard quick footfalls outside. My pulse picked up as I recognized the tread.

The door swung open, and Nat walked in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BROADSIDE

Nat stopped short when he saw me. In the dim light, it seemed as if his face were covered with bruises, but as he came closer, I was relieved to see it was only mud.

“Lucy?”

“It really is me,” I assured him, holding up my bracelet. As he briefly touched his iron-ringed hand to it, I swallowed hard. What must he think, finding me here in his rooms?

“I brought Penebrygg here,” I told him quickly. “His house is flooded, and he had nowhere to sleep except your rooms. I hope I did right—”

“Of course you did.” His face was full of concern. “Is he still here?”

“Yes, fast asleep in your bed. But he’s heartsick about the flood, Nat. He couldn’t save your books and papers—”

“No matter. As long as he’s safe.”

It was exactly what I’d thought he would say, but it warmed me all the same. It seemed he hadn’t changed that much after all, at least not in the most important ways. “And what about you?”

“I’ve just come back for a change of clothes before I have a quick word with the King.” He set some sodden papers down on the desk and shucked off his dripping coat. Draping it over a chair by the banked fire, he added, “There’s more bad news, I’m afraid. You know Westminster’s flooded, and I expect you’ll have heard about Bridewell from Penebrygg. And now St. Katharine’s is underwater too, and most of Southwark and Lambeth.”

That
was
very bad news. “And the kraken?” I asked.

“An archer up at the Tower shot it down two hours ago; there are plenty of witnesses. But on my way here, I saw Sir Christopher Linnet, who says he spotted it—or another just like it—not half an hour ago, surfacing near London Bridge.” Nat rubbed the mud off one cheek with the back of his hand. “But what worries me most is that we’re only two hours off low tide, and yet the waters haven’t gone down.”

“Not at all?”

“Not so much as an inch. Sir Barnaby’s been keeping track of that for us, and I don’t doubt his measurements. I’ve told the King that if it continues this way, I think we may need to evacuate the whole city.” He looked at me with hope in his eyes. “Unless you’ve found a way to stop all this?”

“Not yet.” I hated to disappoint him, but that was the hard truth. “I may have found a clue, though. I’m just not sure what it means, but I’m hoping Sybil can help me. I was looking for her when I ran across Penebrygg.”

“It was good he found you.”

Our eyes met, and there was a light in his that made me blush. But before either of us could speak, something shot through the gap between door and sill: a cheap printed broadside on a page of foolscap.

I was closest to the door, so I picked it up for him. I read the title in disbelief.

THE WICKED CHANTRESS

or, The Melusine-Monster

Nat tried to grab it from me. “Don’t read it, Lucy. You don’t need to see this.”

“I think I do.” I yanked it out of his reach, into the full light of the lantern. Beneath the huge black letters of the title, a crude woodcut showed a dark-haired woman dancing in the sea while a serpent snaked around her. In the background, three ships were wrecked on rocks, and a sea monster was attacking London.

Heart knocking in my chest, I scanned the lines. According to the ballad, I was a magic-maker who was now betraying my country. Like Melusine before me, I had revealed my true nature and made alliance with my own monstrous kind to destroy England.

I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to remain calm. I failed. I read the lines again. These things spread like fire on thatch. Already half of London had probably read it or heard it sung. I thought of the people in the Great Hall holding up their crosses.

“Lucy, don’t look like that.”

I didn’t look up. “You knew what this was, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is it everywhere?”

“I don’t know. I’ve gathered up all the ones I’ve found.” He gestured toward the soggy papers he’d laid facedown on his desk. It was a thick pile.

“You should have told me,” I said.

“I had other things I wanted to say to you first.”

I shook my head, hardly hearing him. I was still staring at the broadside.

Nat covered the ugly title with his hand. “Lucy, listen to me. Please.”

He touched the curve of my cheek, as if I were a bird he feared would fly away. “I said we were strangers, but I was wrong. I could never feel about a stranger the way I feel about you. I’m not going to let you face this alone. From now on, I’ll be right by your side—if you’ll let me.”

Everything blurred before me. I ached to say yes to him, but how could I? The world was so much against me—and it would turn against him, too, if he stood with me. Loving him as I did, how could I possibly let him in for that? Especially when I was half-afraid he was making the offer out of pity.

Biting my lip, I pulled away. “Nat, you can’t afford to be paired off with someone the whole world thinks is a monster.”

“It’s just one broadside,” he said gently. “It’s awful, I know, but it’s not the whole world.”

“It’s not just the broadside, Nat.” The foolscap crinkled in my hands. “People are screaming when they see me. They’re holding up crosses. They hate me.”

“It’s because of this flood,” he said. “It’s made everyone lose their heads.”

“It’s
not
just because of the flood. People mutter things and gossip behind my back even when everything’s fine. At best, they say I’m different, but most don’t stop there. I’m not human, they say. I’m a witch, a harpy, a she-monster. And if they see us together, you can be sure they’ll smear you right along with me.”

“I can live with that,” he said steadily.

“That’s easy to say, when they haven’t done it to you yet.” He started to protest, but I stopped him. “You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. I won’t let you throw that away.” I thought of Sybil and how unhappy she was. I couldn’t bear to do that to Nat.

There was a stubborn set to his jaw now. “I’ll do what I please.”

But I was stubborn too—stubborn and exhausted and worried half out of my mind about how to save us all. I had to work hard not to sound sharp. “And what about me? Do you think I want to live with a man who’s sacrificed everything for me? Because reputation is the least of it, Nat. Think of all you stand to lose. As long as we’re together, your life will never be comfortable, never be normal. I’ll always be traveling for the King, for one—”

“He makes you travel too much,” Nat said.

This was exactly the kind of argument that would make life together a misery. “I need to travel, Nat, and anyone who marries me is going to have to accept that.”

“I can accept a lot,” Nat said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the King is becoming too dependent on you, and that’s not good for anyone. It would be better for us all if your magic were used more sparingly.”

I’d secretly wondered as much myself, but somehow hearing Nat say it didn’t help. My grip tightened on the broadside. “Look, if you want a normal life—”

“It’s not a normal life I’m after.” The amber light of the lamp caught him full in the face, and his gravity took me aback. “I thought I’d made myself plain, Lucy. What I want is you.”

There was a directness in what he said, and an honesty, that made my throat ache. But it didn’t change how things were.

“Maybe you think that’s what you want now,” I said quietly. “But sooner or later, you’re going to wish you’d chosen someone else—someone who’s easier to live with, someone you haven’t given up so much for. You’ll want your independence back. You’ll want to leave.”
The way my father left my mother.

“I won’t.”

I looked straight at him. “You left me before.”

That silenced him.

“I can’t live through that again.” I was still raw from the first time. “I tell you it won’t work.”

His face grew fierce. “So you’re saying we’re done? That I should go find someone else?”

My head pounded. I felt as if I were teetering on the top of a precipice, and everything hung on what I said next. But I couldn’t take the words back, any more than I could change who we were, or how the world worked.

No man wants a wife who works magic.

“Yes,” I said. “I think you should find someone else.”

He turned away from me and went to stand by the dying fire. “If that’s really how you feel, maybe I will.”

There was nothing more to say. Feeling sick, I picked up the lantern and walked out. Down in the courtyard, the dark sky was still weeping with rain. I trudged on shaky legs across the flooded cobblestones.

I’d saved the person I loved from a life he would hate. I’d saved us both from a painful mistake. That had to be right.

Why, then, did it feel as if I’d just laid waste to everything that mattered?