Court of Conspiracy (18 page)

“Did you go near the horse afterwards?”

“Aye.”

“Laugh as if I have just told you a jest.”

Bell began to laugh and Luke joined in. Then he leaned close again. “Did you check Jasper’s girths?”

“Aye.”

Time was running out and Luke had not yet asked the most important question.

“What did you put under the saddle?”

“Thorns.”

“When?”

“As I took the horse outside. Slid ’em under.”

“Who gave them to you?”

“Can’t see him.”

“What color hair did he have?”

“Can’t see him.”

“Where is the rose stem now?”

“Buried it.”

“Where?”

“Between the shit heap and the river.”

“How was the man who gave you the stem dressed?”

“Can’t see him.”

“Laugh again.”

Luke joined in and disengaged his mind. Bell’s head dropped onto his chest, sleeping. If Luke could find the stem, he could take it to the Queen to support his argument that Gethin was blameless. No innocent man would have buried it. The Queen might suspect that he was embellishing the confession, but the stem would be solid evidence of Bell’s guilt. Aye, if Luke could bring Queen Anne definitive proof, he might be able to persuade her that she needed a better brain than his to decipher this conundrum. Too late for Gethin and his mother, but together with the glove, it was the beginning of a long strand that had to lead to the would-be murderer. He would get up at first light and retrieve it.

Preoccupied by his thoughts, Luke became aware only gradually that he was under surveillance. He lifted his head, which must have alerted his watcher. Using all his senses, Luke rose to his feet, pushing through to where he knew the observer had been standing. Nothing. His best course of action was to make haste home.

He kept his eyes and senses alert for anyone in the vicinity, but could discern no threat, so he decreased his vigilance and began to rerun the recent interview in his mind. Joss padded at his side. She stopped once or twice and looked back, but each time, after a few moments, she caught up with Luke and he, busy with his own thoughts, paid no heed to her.

He had passed the stables and could see the nimbus glow of the torches at the main gate to the Outer Green. Still thinking about John Bell, his mind was suddenly wrenched back to full awareness by Joss growling. Only then did he register the scent of danger behind him. In an instant he ducked to one side, an action that saved his life. The blow intended to kill him did not land as hard or accurately as his would-be assassin intended though it was still enough to fell him.

Luke heard a loud bellow, realizing a few moments later that the sound emanated from him. He fought desperately to stay conscious, hearing running feet receding in the direction of Hampton. Joss stood over him, still growling softly, but even as he put up his hand to stroke her, everything went black.

Chapter Twenty

Luke swam up from black depths, his head throbbing, his face wet. Joss alternately whimpered and growled and he knew that she had been trying to rouse him by licking his face. The front of his tunic reeked of ale and he felt his shoulder being shaken in no gentle fashion. Captain Creswell leaned over him.

“Ballard. Wake up, you drunken sot.”

Luke tried to sit up, dizziness blurring his vision. Where was he and why was he sitting on damp earth? Memory returned. “What hit me?”

“Nothing hit you. You stink of ale. Get back home or I’ll put you on a charge.”

Luke looked up at the man, but his eyes were distracted by a glint of light in the gateway. A figure whisked back into dark shadow. He was sure that he had seen the flick of a skirt. Ignoring Creswell, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Aye, just on the edges of the light from the torches, he had seen a skirt for an instant and also the impression of a shawl being wrapped around a face.

The female figure who had appeared—and disappeared—on the palace side of the gates worried him. It could only be someone from within. A servant, most likely, but why would a servant retreat out of sight? Was it possible that...? The sudden thumping of his heart told him he must not travel down that particular path.

This ever-present threat of danger wearied him. Where was the truth to be found in this battle to which he had been conscripted? Was it simply good against evil? Luke had taken his elemancy vows with the heartfelt certainty that by using his magic skills, he could help people, make a difference in their lives. Was that still true? Or was he closing his eyes to the nuances? What, save loyalty and royal command, made the daughter of Thomas Boleyn more beneficial for England than the twice-royal Mary, daughter of a King and a noble princess, albeit a foreign one? Had he got it all wrong and if so, was it really evil he served in his current endeavor?

Pain shot from his hips and up into his back. “Get up, man,” Creswell said, his leg drawing back to kick again.

Luke put his hand to the back of his head and felt the stickiness of blood. Tarrying would only enrage Creswell further. With some difficulty he climbed to his feet, teetering for a few moments.

The Captain’s voice dripped with disdain. “You sway like a maiden after her first kiss. Get out of my sight. And quickly.”

Luke needed no further urging. Leaning on Joss, he took a few steps forward, knowing from the pain and the quantity of blood seeping from his head that the wound was by no means superficial. The fewer people who knew about it the better. He made his way to the water pump behind the houses and doused his head as well as he could, continuing to pump the water so that no observant eye would see red stains in the light of day. He felt better, but his footsteps were unsteady as they walked to the house. Before entering the kitchen, he remembered to put his cap back on to hide the wound he was sure still bled.

Robin, already half-asleep, sat at the table. Luke yawned and said goodnight. Once in his room, he was too tired to do more than take out a clean linen cloth, wind it around his head and mutter a coalescence incantation. But if he were correct, it would take more than his talent to treat the injury.

* * *

When he awoke at first light, the pounding of his head coupled with the amount of blood that had seeped through his makeshift bandage brought back the events of the previous evening in full clarity. He felt cold and was grateful that Joss had stretched out alongside to give him her body warmth. The only person who could help him now was Roland Dufay. The Elemagus would mend his wound quickly. Self-treatment was never as effective. The truth of that stained the mattress.

However, his first action of the day must be trying to find the buried rose stem, so stifling the urge to lie down and sleep again, he climbed out of bed only to be seized by dizziness. He staggered to the stairs and managed to struggle down to the kitchen without making too much noise. Grabbing his scrip, and making sure he wore his cap, Luke crept out. After a few moments thought, he decided to skirt the Tiltyard and leave the palace by way of the orchard. Despite his giddiness, he marched out across Bushy Park, making sure he would be far enough from the main gate guards to avoid recognition before striking back south toward the Royal Mews.

Striding through the stable yard with a confidence he did not feel, Luke knew he had to scan the surroundings for anybody watching him. The effort of concentrating, trying to sense any adverse vibrations, blurred his vision, aggravating the hammering in his head. An automatic shake brought an audible groan from between clenched teeth. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him. Joss had been keeping closer than usual and he leaned on her. He must have lost more blood than he realized. Taking a deep breath, Luke scanned the ground where Bell had told him the rose stem was buried. He saw freshly disturbed earth and yellow blobs, clearly from a tallow candle. The rose stem had been dug up and, judging from the condition of the earth, sometime in the past six hours.

Luke straightened up and gazed down at the ground. He spotted a faint indentation from a boot pointing in the direction of the river. He squatted next to it, committing the shape and size to memory, then, being careful lest he be observed, began a casual stroll toward the river. Keeping his head up, but his eyes lowered, he was able to follow the footsteps of whoever had been standing next to the patch of disturbed soil right down to the water’s edge. The inference was clear and unmistakable. If the rose stem had indeed been buried in that small hole near the manure heap, then it was now floating downstream and out of anybody’s reach. That said, Luke would know those particular boot prints the next time he encountered them. Then he checked his steps. He had seen that particular boot print before. The toe was not as rounded as current fashion dictated. Where had he seen it? He stood for some time trying to bring it to the front of his mind before shaking his head and generating another onslaught of pain. The answer would come if he gave it room.

The only thing to do now was salvage whatever he could from the waste of the last twelve hours and go to Dufay’s house. He decided to hide the extent of his injuries from Pippa, too. He would present himself as the journeyman student anxious to progress to Dominus, but that in itself presented a problem. Dufay was the Elemagus. He would be able to read Luke’s mind and sense the misgivings that had beset him the previous night. Any hint that his loyalty to the Tudors wavered and his life could be measured in hours.

It was a question of trust, and with a flash of self-knowledge, Luke realized that he trusted only two people. Corbin and Gwenette. Before Peveril’s appearance, he would have included Bertila, but anything or anybody connected with that particular gentleman must be considered untrustworthy.

The fog of pain had thickened until he could hardly put two thoughts together. He knew he had no option but to put his faith in the head of his guild. The rest he would leave to God.

From the number of people now going about their business, Luke deduced it was almost time for breakfast. He hoped that Pippa had something tasty that could be spared.

He slipped into Dufay’s backyard, aware that Joss had begun growling. As he shut the gate behind him, Roland Dufay stepped out of the kitchen door. It was only then that Luke saw Pippa and Geoffrey Peveril, the latter slipping back into the cover of the birch tree halfway down the yard. Dufay’s face darkened with anger. With the full length of the yard between them, Luke could feel the heat of the Elemagus’s rage.

“Come out, sirrah. Do not hide behind a woman’s petticoats.”

Peveril stepped out, facing Dufay. “I beg your pardon, Master Dufay. I had business with Mistress Garrod.”

Before Dufay could reply, Luke spoke, making both Peveril and the girl jump. “Business? What business does such as you have with such as her? And if your business is genuine, why did you try to hide yourself?”

Pippa rounded on him. “That is no concern of yours, Master Ballard.” She turned back to face her master. “I pray pardon. Master Peveril was asking my advice on a gift for a friend.”

Dufay looked her directly in the eyes until she grew hot and restive.

“Really?” he asked in such a scornful tone that all color left her face. “And was it a petition for a friend the previous two times I have caught you with this...” He looked at Peveril. “...this person? Do not think I am ignorant of what goes on in my house, Mistress.”

Peveril stepped forward and bowed. “As I am obviously not welcome here, Master Dufay, I will leave.” He turned and bowed to Pippa. “We will discuss the matter another time, Mistress Garrod.” Without waiting for her reply, he shouldered past Luke and disappeared through the gate, Merrick at his heels.

From either end of the yard, Dufay and Luke stared at Pippa in silent disapproval. She looked from one to the other, her head high, spots of red flaring in either cheek. “I will continue with my duties,” she said, stalking past Dufay and into the kitchen.

Dufay looked at Luke, his eyes clouded. “You are injured, Master Ballard.”

“Aye. It is beyond my skill to mend.”

“Come through. Not a word to the girl.”

“I have also come to embark on my studies, Master Dufay.”

A rare wintery smile flitted across the other’s face. “Good. It is about time.”

“Master Ballard has come to begin his studies, Mistress Garrod. Would that you were as enthusiastic about yours,” Dufay said as they walked past her.

Luke ignored Pippa. He was almost out of the kitchen when her voice, low with anger, reached him.

“What, Master Ballard? No good morrow? Or am I not worthy of your notice?”

Luke stopped with a sigh before turning to face her. “Was your assignation—no, do not try to deny that it was such.” He pointed at Ajax. “Was it worth leaving your greyspring, your protection, out of reach, shut in the kitchen? Fool of a girl. If you had needed Ajax, what would have happened? Are you so besotted with that flap-mouthed lewdster that you have no thought for your sworn vows, your studies or even your safety?”

At his admonishment, tears came into Pippa’s eyes. “Am I not a woman, too? Am I to be allowed no chance of happiness?”

The sound of her voice brought Dufay back into the kitchen. He stared at her, his mouth set in a thin line. “If you prefer paddling palms and dalliance with a smooth-tongued peacock like Master Peveril, then I have no use for you. I will not waste my valuable time and energies indulging a child who thinks that magic is a plaything. I shall now talk to Master Ballard about his studies. You would do well to think on your actions and decide which path you wish to follow.”

Luke could hear her sobs as he followed Dufay up the stairs and into a large room lined with wall hangings.

“What is to be done with her?” he asked.

“She must decide herself. As an acolyte, she has responsibilities to the Guild and to her fellow elemancers. Perhaps you could explain that love, courtly or otherwise, must come after she has progressed her studies.”

“I will talk to her before I go.”

“If you cannot persuade her, and I fear you may not, she will have to leave here. I have found her to possess a disposition singularly unsuited to a maid of her years, a willfulness that is stronger than that of many men. Do not be deceived by a doleful expression and torrents of tears. When it comes to what she wants, Mistress Garrod brooks no interference. But that is not what bothers me most at this moment.”

Luke’s heart began to hammer nearly as much as his head. Had he somehow given himself away?

“I do not understand, sir.”

“It is you, Master Ballard. You are drenched in black evil. I am surprised you cannot smell it. The stench is almost overpowering. Where have you been and what on earth have you been doing?”