Taste of Treason (11 page)

Chapter Thirteen

With some trepidation, Will Quayne knocked on the door of Clifford Parry’s quarters. His master had not returned to the office the previous afternoon and Will had been unable to lock the door after he had finished for the day. This morning, Parry had not arrived at his usual time. Having waited for an hour, Will’s increasing anxiety drove him to go and see if the Chamberlain was unwell.

When Parry answered the door, Will could almost see the headache his master suffered. Having been in a similar condition several times, the clerk knew Parry’s head would feel as if two groups of musicians were playing different jigs at the same time. That the man had tried to eat something was clear from the pool of vomit on the floor. Will’s stomach heaved in sympathy. Parry’s clothes reeked, and it looked as if he had slipped and fallen in the stinking mess by the bed.

“Master, can I get you anything?”

Parry groaned.

“Fie, but that French priest can hold his liquor. My head is unused to such excess.”

“Do you not think it would be better to lie down again? I will let everyone know you are ill.”

“Nay. I must not be guilty of a dereliction of duty. Give me a few moments to wash and I will join you.”

Will dared not leave Parry to make his own way. There were several sets of stairs between these quarters and the office and, much as he disliked the Chamberlain, the clerk worried his master would fall and break his neck.

It was a while until the door opened and Parry, face like parchment, began his unsteady journey, Will hovering in case the man’s legs gave way beneath him.

As they entered the accounts office, Will was aware that the Chamberlain seemed less anxious. The fresh air of the Base Court must have revived him.

“Thank you, Master Quayne. My head feels as it used to before the King’s marriage when the Queen’s apartments were being made ready. Do you remember the constant hammering?”

“Aye, indeed, sir. It was the reek of the brick fires that used to affect me most.”

Parry looked down at his desk and smiled at Will. “I must thank you for putting away the accounts, lad. In my hurry, I forgot.”

Will felt his skin prickle with fear.

“But sir, when I came back with my audit, your desk was clear, as it is now.”

Parry groaned and put his head in his hands. Will, now seriously alarmed, rose from his desk and went to his master’s.

“Master Parry, you are unwell. You must rest.”

“Nay, I cannot spare the time.”

At that moment a gleam of white caught Will’s eye. What was that on the floor? He bent down, picked up a sheaf of documents and placed them on the desk. Parry, already ashen, grew paler. He seemed to be looking at the accounts as if they would rise and bite him.

“I should have put them away and locked the office,” he said, his lips shaking. “The King will have my head.”

And before Will could move, Parry’s eyes rolled upward and he fell from his chair, insensible.

* * *

His interrogators had released his bonds and the resultant agony of blood entering seemingly empty veins in numb arms, in addition to the torment in his shoulders, bestowed upon Corbin a pain he could only term exquisite. They had then strapped him to a bench, pouring copious amounts of water down his throat. Given no respite for breath, his chest heaved and strained. He stared with dull eyes at the man who had introduced himself as Anthony Boterel, one of the King’s Examiners. Boterel had been asking incessant questions but he now stood shaking his head and biting his lips as if unsure of his next action.

“Come, Master Quayne, you stand accused of sorcery. If you confess, we can stop this. What say you?”

Corbin glared at his interrogator. His voice was reduced to a croaking whisper. Every muscle screamed in agony and he could hardly form the words he needed.

“Head of the apothecaries’ guild... I heal... I abhor witchcraft. Where is my daughter?”

“Your daughter is as intransigent as you,” Boterel replied, his eyes flicking to something or someone out of Corbin’s sight.

“Reputation good for thirty years,” Quayne gasped. “Why endanger that?”

His inquisitor, a lanky man dressed in black, sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“I really do not know, Master Quayne. However, you have been so accused and we must put you to question and pains should we deem it necessary.”

His tone gave the lie to his words and Corbin pounced, rage aiding the strength of his voice.

“On the word of a rabid priest? With no evidence?”

Frayner’s voice interrupted.

“I am merely the tool of God’s justice and righteousness, apothecary. The evidence is as clear as your daughter’s face, a face that was, until last year, hideously scarred. We have witnesses who will swear so. You stand condemned by your actions.”

Corbin craned his neck to look Gerard Frayner in the eye.

“Is that so? You have a series of warts on your hands, sir. I could make a cream that will erase them. It contains no trace of devilry, just a combination of ingredients found growing in any meadow. If I did that for you, would you then be guilty of sorcery?”

Despite being in great pain, Corbin made sure contempt dripped in every word, and he continued to glare at the priest, only assaying a weak laugh when Frayner tried to hide his hands.

“No, I thought not. Hypocrite. Disgrace to the cloth. I pray God will forgive you.”

Frayner’s expression hardened, a light in his eye that made even Boterel take a step back. The priest approached Corbin’s ear.

“You are of no interest to us,” he hissed. “It is the other apothecary we want. Luke Ballard. He is known to consort with familiars. Give him up, and you and your daughter go free. We will let you think on it.”

Frayner strode to the door and stalked through it. Boterel gazed after him, confusion and discomfort clear in his expression. After a few moments, he followed the priest.

Corbin turned his head to make sure he was alone, then vomited the contents of his stomach. It was no good. He was no martyr and knew he could not withstand more tribulation.

* * *

Luke insisted Alys go upstairs to Rob’s room to try and sleep. He dared not give her another potion, fearing that it might make her slumbers too deep and render her vulnerable to spiritual attack. After she had settled and closed her eyes, Rob returned downstairs. Luke knew that there would be no sleep for Rob this night. He would spend the hours of darkness watching over Alys.

“Do you think the ghost of Edith really came to her?” Rob asked.

“If the bond between them were close, it is possible. It is equally possible that the voice tried to lull her into a state where she would be easily controlled, and what better way than to pose as the shade of her best friend?”

“How do you explain the beads?”

Luke frowned.

“I cannot.” He looked towards the stairs. “It grows dark. I think you should assume your guard. She will be asleep by now.”

“If she wakes, what should I do?”

“Reassure her and tell her to rest. If she tries to get up or resists in any way, call me at once. I will not say good night, Rob. I fear we may be disturbed, so stay on your guard.”

Luke had intended to retire and try to sleep. He knew he could rely on Rob to stay awake, but an uncomfortable twitch between his shoulder blades made him revise his opinion.

He had sensed nothing other than extreme fatigue and anxiety from Alys, but, as he well knew, diablerie was more than capable of burying its evil so deep that only the veritas spell would reveal it. Alys’s mind was not strong enough for that, which was just as well, because only an Elemagus had the power to perform it.

Mayhap he was making too much of all this. After all, the girl was young and lonely, grief-stricken for her murdered friend. She could hardly be expected to be anything other than confused and frightened. She had merely imagined the voice. Aye, that had to be it, and his mind, focused on Nimrod, saw evil where none existed. Luke shook his head and relaxed his shoulders.

Wait. Would not his enemy want to put doubts in his mind? Make him lower his guard, the easier to strike? And what about the beads? Was Alys lying, and had she stolen them knowing that Edith was dead? Had he taken a thief into his house, one with whom Rob appeared besotted? Anyone who knew the boy would think a love hex had been put on him.

Luke sat up, all thoughts of sleep gone. A hex? The enemy would have no problem putting Rob into a remote sleep and Luke would be none the wiser. He could be sitting oblivious in the kitchen and even now, the spell working its evil. He leapt to his feet and pounded up the stairs.

Rob sprang to his feet, placing himself between his master and the girl. Luke put up a conciliatory hand.

“Never fear, boy. I intend Alys no harm, but I believe she will be safer downstairs on the pallet by the fire where we can both keep an eye on her.” He examined the sleeping figure. “Her slumbers are sound.”

Rob cast a quick glance at him.

“You are tense, Luke.”

“Aye. We know she has slept little and eaten less since the death of the Brook girl.” He laid a hand on Alys’s brow. “She is fathoms deep and it may be from the meal and the fact that she feels safe, but I dare not chance it. Can you carry her downstairs, Rob?”

“I would carry her to the ends of the earth,” Rob replied simply, staring at the girl in the bed.

So this was the way the wind blew. He should have known it. There was too much going on in his life to cope with the new complication of Rob going goggle-eyed over some wench and one, moreover, who might easily be under duress from a dark sorcerer. Luke’s fists clenched momentarily. Was he never to be permitted a time of smooth water in which to live an uncomplicated life? First the sweating sickness. Luke was under no illusions that because the epidemic had seemingly abated, it would not return again in full force. It came and went like a cutpurse in a crowded street. Unseen, and only discovered when it was too late. Even the most knowledgeable doctors could not predict when and where it would strike. On top of that he had to deal with Nimrod’s machinations and now this tangle with Rob and the girl, Alys.

* * *

Corbin had enough presence of mind to ensure his voice sounded surly and reluctant. He had been granted little time to recover from his ordeal. His physical body was weak and shaking, but his brain was clear. He must ensure Bertila’s release. He did not care what they did to him.

“The physician was from France. He gave Bertila some special cream to put on thrice daily. The scar faded by degrees and was gone within the month.”

“Why did you not tell us this before? It would have made things go so much easier for you.” Boterel’s face wore a puzzled frown.

Corbin glared up at him, his voice still husky from the water torture.

“Why do you think? I am the head of the guild of apothecaries in London. What would it do for my reputation if it became known that some Frog doctor had cured my girl when I could not?”

“That is understandable, but surely not to the extent of allowing your pride to cause you such suffering.”

“Or mayhap, Master Boterel, it is just another lie.” Frayner was unconvinced.

“If I wanted to lie, priest, I would have done so straight off and saved myself all this, not to mention the indignities you will have heaped on my daughter. If you were questioned about something close to your heart, of which you were ashamed, would you disgrace yourself further by babbling about it?”

Boterel put his head on one side.

“The priest’s point is fairly made, Master Quayne, and I think you must answer it.” He reached down and undid the restraints, pulling Corbin up into a sitting position.

Corbin closed his eyes and sighed.

“I tried to find out what was in the cream,” he said. “That it had calendula and birch leaves in it I know, but what else I have no idea.”

“And the name of this supposed Frenchman?”

“I do not know. Bertila was ill. I think one of my colleagues may have sent him. All I know is that he made her well again.”

Frayner pounced with the swiftness of a cat starved of mice.

“The colleague you speak of would not happen to be Master Luke Ballard, would it?”

“Luke knows less than me and is not noted for his diligence. He deals with the poor and dispossessed. I would not trust him to physick my dog.”

“But you taught him.” Frayner seemed intent on laboring the point.

Corbin forced a laugh.

“Luke is a good lad and a loyal friend to my children but, Master Priest, just as you must have had pupils who did not shine, so did I, and Luke was one of them.”

“I am not satisfied,” Frayner said, his lip curling in disdain. “Satan acts quickly to put lies in his adherents’ mouths.”

Boterel stood up.

“I must remind you, sir, that the final decision here is mine and, for me, his words have the ring of truth. However, I will keep them in close confinement for a little longer, but mark me, there is to be no more questioning.”

* * *

The fire burned low, but the kitchen was warm to the point of sending them both to sleep. With some reluctance, Luke decided he would let it die. The heat had put strength back into him following the tribulations of the day. It would be no bad thing to allow the warmth to drop, thus increasing their vigilance.

They had, at first, stayed close to Alys, but several hours of inactivity, their nerves at full stretch, had dulled their reactions. If his surmise were correct, then something would happen before morning. On the other hand, if his supposition were wide of the mark, all he and Rob would suffer was a sleepless night. He poured small beer and added Aaron’s Rod to it, in an attempt to keep slumber at bay.

However, his fatigue was such that he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he jerked awake, the first tendrils of dawn had begun to lighten the sky. No birds sang as yet, so daylight was some time away. Through his post-sleep torpor, he looked first toward the fire. Alys was still there, sleeping. Rob also slumbered, head on his arms on the opposite side of the table. Luke sagged in relief. Nothing had happened. He had been wrong. Alys was what she appeared. A troubled child short of food and rest. He put out a hand to shake Rob to full wakefulness. The boy sprang up, his face a mask of fear and tension.