Chantress (13 page)

“You are willing to try now?”

“If you wish.”

“Whose mind will you read?”

I knew no one in London except the men in this room. “Let it be your choice.”

“Who shall it be?” Oldville, roused now, stood and took suggestions from the audience.

“My wife.”

“My son.”

A pause, and someone said, “Scargrave.”

“Yes, Scargrave!”

There was no need to put the suggestion to a vote; Scargrave it was, by popular acclaim. But Penebrygg looked worried. “It seems a trifle soon . . .”

Success had given me confidence, however, and I wanted nothing more than the chance to prove myself again. What a coup it would be if I could read Scargrave’s mind from this room! The battle would be half won on the spot.

“Let me try,” I said.

I closed my eyes, quieted my mind, and sang the moonbriar song again, so that it would have fresh life inside me. After so much practice, this gave me little trouble, but after that I was lost. There were thousands upon thousands of souls here in London. How was I to find Scargrave among them?

At last I opened my eyes and admitted defeat. “I cannot do it.”

The men seemed crestfallen, especially Penebrygg, though he rallied himself to say kindly, “Never mind, my dear. It was brave of you to make the attempt.”

“Perhaps later, when you are better rested, we might try again,” Deeps added.

“Or we might try again now,” said Oldville, “using stronger magic.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“With other magic, it helps to have something belonging to
the subject to act upon,” he said. “Why should this not be true for Chantresses? A strand of hair would be best. But another personal token may also work.”

Christopher Linnet raised an eyebrow in mock appeal. “Anyone here happen to have a strand of Scargrave’s hair handy?”

“Not a lock of hair,” said Oldville impatiently. “A ring. Lord Scargrave gave Sir Barnaby a signet ring last month—a ring that Scargrave himself used to wear.”

“Why, so he did,” Sir Barnaby said. “It was a present for my sixty-fifth birthday.”

I recalled what Penebrygg had told me: that Sir Barnaby’s good relations with the King and Lord Scargrave were part of what helped give cover to the Invisible College.

“Do you really think it would work?” Sir Barnaby said.

“We can but try,” said Oldville.

“But do I have it here? That’s the question.” Sir Barnaby rose from his chair and surveyed the shelves, stopping before a case lined with curiosities and miniatures. “Ah, here it is.” He showed me the ring: a thick band of gold on which a flat, heavy emerald was mounted. Sir Barnaby pressed the stone, and it flew open, revealing a glowing portrait no more than half an inch wide; it depicted a serious boy whose red-gold hair shone like the sun. “Quite a wonderful likeness of the King, isn’t it? But then, Cooper’s portraits are always remarkable.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen a picture of him,” I admitted.

“He has the Tudor hair,” Sir Barnaby said. “And the hands as well, though you can’t see them here. But more to the point, the
ring was Scargrave’s and it has his mark on it.” He pointed to the raven incised inside the band.

A jolt of fear ran through me.
It’s only a ring,
I said to myself.
No need to be so afraid.

But it seemed I was not the only one who was affected. A somber silence had crept over the room, and I was reminded of the risks they took merely in meeting here.

“Will you make another attempt?” Oldville asked.

I could not answer.

“Give her a moment,” said Penebrygg, who was still standing nearby. To me, he added, “There’s no need to rush yourself. This can wait.”

Had he sensed my fear? Not sure what to say, I looked up and saw Nat leaning up against one of the bookcases. He looked back at me, and something flickered in his eyes.

Don’t do this,
his expression seemed to say, louder than any words.

A flash of anger drove my fear away. Who was he, to tell me what to do?

“I am ready.” I took the ring from Sir Barnaby’s hand.

It was not necessary to sing the song again. Enough of the magic was still with me that something was already happening. I felt myself swimming in darkness, a humming like music in my ears . . . and then, all at once, I found myself in another person’s mind.

But not the one I wanted.

I knew at once that something had gone wrong, for the thoughts that flowed through me were not those of a man in control of a kingdom. Instead, they were young and sad and confused:

He despises me, I know he does.

No, of course he does not despise me. How could I think that? He loves me as a father loves his son. He would die for my sake. Truly he would.

But he treats me as a child. A weakling.

And then, overpoweringly:

I am King, and yet my word means nothing . . . .

It was beyond doubt, then: I had landed in the mind of young King Henry the Ninth. But how could that be? Did the subject of the portrait somehow matter more than its owner?

The questions flashed through my head, but almost immediately I lost hold of them. I was so deep in the King’s head that I saw and heard everything exactly as he did. There was no veil as
there had been with Oldville. Was it practice that was making me more powerful? Or was it merely that the King offered so little resistance?

Standing before a gilded mirror, Henry stared anxiously at his own reflection. The room behind him was richly decorated with gilt and silken tapestries, but it was outshone by Henry himself—a Henry noticeably older and even more solemn than the boy I had seen in the ring’s miniature portrait. Underneath the magnificent cloth-of-gold trappings and the brilliant red hair, however, his face was pale and unsure.

Someone spoke from a corner of the room.

“Your Majesty, we bring you the account of arrests.”

I hardly heard the words, for the voice itself—charming and musical—shook me to my marrow. The last time I had heard it, I had been hiding in Scargrave’s library.

Henry wheeled around. “My Lord Protector?”

Through his eyes I saw Scargrave at last: a man in his prime, iron-haired and agile, with the commanding stance of a man born to lead. In the set of his mouth and the breadth of his bones, he showed the calm strength that had made him a kingmaker.

But then my gaze—Henry’s gaze—was drawn to Scargrave’s eyes. Deep-set and quicksilver gray, they blazed like a wildfire barely contained. Looking into them, I felt a blast of uncontrolled fear.

My fear—or Henry’s?

Both, I thought. But for Henry, fear was perhaps the least of it. As he looked on his Protector, I felt his envy and loyalty and hero
worship—and also an onslaught of misery, like a heavy, soaking rain.

Scargrave spoke with scrupulous care to his King. “In no way do I wish to rush you, sire. Indeed, if Your Majesty has reconsidered the plan of receiving these reports directly, rather than accepting a summary through me, then I shall be only too happy—no? You are quite sure? Seventeen is, after all, very young.”

Henry’s revulsion was so quick and fleeting that I barely registered it. “I am quite sure.”

Scargrave nodded at a lanky man in velvet. “Very well, then. Lord Winship?”

Winship bowed low before Henry. “If it please Your Majesty.”

“You may begin,” Henry said.

Shuffling his papers, Winship began reading as the delegation fanned out behind him. “Herein is offered an account of the arrests made in the King’s name in the month of October: For treasonous speech against the King and his advisers, four hundred and fifteen arrests. For treasonous writings, one hundred and twenty-eight. For illegal assembly, three hundred and ninety-one. And for suspicion of treasonous conspiracy, one hundred and twelve. These were passed forward to the usual authorities, and the usual methods of interrogation were employed.”

Although Winship recited these statistics in a cheery tone, I could feel King Henry’s revulsion returning and deepening.

“Threats alone were enough to break fully a third of the prisoners,” Lord Winship continued, “while being held to the flame elicited full confessions from most of the others. The rest were, of
course, given to the Shadowgrims, with excellent results. After a quarter-hour confinement, thirteen prisoners confessed everything; by then, of course, their confessions were not necessary, since the Shadowgrims had gleaned the relevant information. Subsequently, these prisoners were punished according to their crimes.”

My horror was mirrored by Henry’s own.

Winship, however, was still buoyant. “Of the remaining prisoners, all but two died in the presence of the Shadowgrims—some almost instantly, others after some time—thereby eliminating their dangerous persons from the kingdom. In every case, vital information was gleaned by the Shadowgrims before the prisoners’ demise. The two prisoners who survived have become the Ravens’ Own. They have joined the personal guard of the Lord Protector to the great benefit of all parties.” Lord Winship looked up from his notes. “I believe that is everything, Your Majesty.”

“As you can see, we have matters well in hand, sire,” Lord Scargrave said. “It was a typical month, except for the rise in those attempting illegal assembly. We are looking into that, and it will soon be brought under control.”

Henry’s hands twisted.
And this is all done in my name.

“Your Majesty?” Scargrave inquired. “Are you well?”

I felt Henry’s despair. And then, faint but real, a spark of rebellion.

“I have a question,” he said.

Lord Winship’s self-satisfaction faltered. “A question about my report, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” At last, Henry sounded like a king. “Were all those arrests necessary?”

Winship stammered a reply. “Oh, er, yes . . . indeed . . . I suppose . . .”

Scargrave’s brow creased in irritation, but he spoke gently to Henry, as if humoring him. “Of course they were necessary, Your Majesty. As you have heard, we have the confessions to prove it.”

Henry put out a hand. “I want to see the papers.”

Scargrave leaned forward. “There is no need—”

I could feel Henry’s heart pounding, but he persisted. “As your King,” he said to Winship. “We demand to see the papers.”

With an apologetic look at Scargrave, Winship handed them over.

“Your Majesty, this is highly irregular,” Scargrave said, his anger well controlled but visible. “As I have said before, there is a time and place for everything—”

“This arrest here.” Henry’s hand shook as he pointed to the lines, but his voice was steady. “It says that the man complained about the price of bread, nothing more. But he was arrested for treason.”

“If you will allow me, Your Majesty.” Scargrave took the papers from Henry. “Ah, yes. I remember now. That was indeed how it started, with a complaint about prices.”

“That is not treason,” Henry said.

“It is how treason starts. A complaint about prices is a complaint about the King’s policies—a complaint, in essence, about the King himself.”

“But he was speaking of bread.”

“He was spreading dissatisfaction and discontent. The merest whisper, you might say—and yet it takes only a tiny flame to start a fire. And like flames, such whispers can lead to disaster. They swell and grow and embolden others, until at last the murmur becomes a shout, and people are baying like madmen for the King’s blood.”

“But this man—”

“This man was arrested and questioned for good reason. And that would be true even if the complaint about bread were the sole charge we had against him. But perhaps it will interest you to know that when his house was searched, he was found to be in possession of incendiary pamphlets by Locke and Grotius on the limits of royal power and the right of subjects to rebel against their King. When threatened with the Shadowgrims, he confessed all, and he has been sentenced to ten years’ hard labor on the Isle of Man. You are well rid of him.”

“But—”

“You would prefer that we had allowed him to remain free?” Lord Scargrave turned scathing. “Free to read his pamphlets and his books about the natural rights of men, and then to meet with others of like mind, and plot against the lawful rulers of this country? And then to murder you, as the King before you was murdered?”

Henry stared straight ahead. Only I knew how deeply the words bit into him, and how much—at least at this moment—he loathed the Lord Protector.

But it seemed Scargrave sensed something of what was in his mind, for he reined himself in. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He inclined his head, as if to show deference to Henry. “I spoke too bluntly, and for that I ask your pardon. It was never my intent that you be forced to contemplate such matters. Indeed, I have pledged my strength, my wealth, and my honor in the hope of preserving you from such an end.”

I felt Henry’s loathing ebb, to be replaced by self-doubt.

“Perhaps my methods sometimes strike you as harsh,” Scargrave continued, “but how else can I defend you? And not only you but the very integrity of the kingdom itself? Someday, I hope we can contemplate new ways of governing men, but for now we must take no risks. For you are the last of a long and noble line, Your Majesty, and if we lose you, there is nothing standing between us and chaos.”

Henry was now hanging on every word. Caught inside him, I found myself moved by the earnest voice despite myself. I hated Scargrave and everything he stood for, but it was impossible to deny that in his own way he loved his King and his country. It was what he had done in the name of that love that I despised.

“Make no mistake,” Scargrave said. “I take no pride in imprisoning my fellow men. I would rather it did not need to be done. But without a king, without an heir, we would succumb either to civil war or foreign invasion. Next to the carnage these would cause, even a thousand arrests are as nothing.”

Henry raised his head and met Scargrave’s burning eyes.

“I do this to keep you safe,” Scargrave said quietly.