Taste of Treason (23 page)

“Was it any use?” she asked.

“Possibly,” Luke replied. “You mentioned a Mistress Sarah who was supposed to prepare the Queen’s bath but who had a quinsy.”

Gwenette frowned as if trying to chase down a memory. Then her face cleared.

“Oh, aye. She is lately come to the court and is as yet unversed in ways of serving the Queen. I believe her father petitioned the King for the place.”

“What is his name?”

“Sir Stephen Rivers.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Gwenette put a shaking hand to her lips.

“‘And I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river and they shall be turned to blood.’ Rivers. Sarah Rivers.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bertila felt a flush of pleasure as Master Roland Dufay complimented her on her currant cake, declaring it the best he had ever tasted. He had knocked on the door, identifying himself as a friend of Luke’s recently returned from Paris.

At the mention of France, Bertila experienced a twinge of recognition she was unable to pin down. It unsettled her but, mindful of her manners as a hostess and somewhat in awe of this well-dressed man, she invited him in. The cake was supposed to tempt Corbin’s appetite. Since his ordeal in the Tower, he had lost flesh as well as suffered greatly in his mind. Seeing that Dufay had eaten the first slice, she cut him another, and he did not refuse.

“It was a recipe from my mother. She insisted on mace and rosewater to enhance the flavors.”

“I think I remember Luke telling me your mother has passed.”

“Aye, sir. She died three summers ago. With my brother being married and having a family of his own, there is just Father and me now.”

“And how is Master Corbin?”

When Dufay fixed his gaze upon her, Bertila forgot her reserve. There was something about the way the skin crinkled around his green eyes, the kindness and compassion she could read there and the sympathy she heard in his voice.

Before she knew it, she had detailed every moment of their tribulation. Dufay’s eyes never left hers. When she had finished, he leaned over and took her hand, his voice a little husky.

“This is grievous news. May I pay my respects to your father?”

Quite how it came about, Bertila was not sure, but she found herself introducing this compassionate stranger to the unmoving figure in the bed. Corbin’s eyes were open, gazing towards the window, but she was sure he saw nothing of the room. Out of habit, she made her voice cheerful.

“How now, Father. Here is Master Dufay to see you.”

Corbin did not even turn his head. “I am too fatigued,” he said with difficulty.

Dufay walked around the bed so that he would be in the older man’s direct line of vision. Bertila marveled that at once, Corbin’s eyes focused on the visitor. “My friend,” Dufay said, putting a hand on the other’s forehead, “I can tell you are sore troubled. But you have no need. None of this was your doing and you could not have prevented the interrogation, nor shielded your daughter from it. That is what has been uppermost in your mind, has it not?”

Corbin nodded. “Father protects child,” he mouthed.

Dufay smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I am a friend of Luke Ballard’s. You may trust me as you trust him.” He turned to Bertila. “I need not ask such an accomplished housekeeper if you have sage and basil.”

“But of course.”

“Then could you please place a few leaves of each in boiling water, allow them to steep a few minutes and then strain. Flavor the mixture with honey and bring a jug of it upstairs.”

Bertila rushed to do his bidding, having no qualms at leaving her father in the company of this visitor. She tingled with excitement at the remembrance of his obvious pleasure in her culinary skills, and the sudden flush of delight that swept through her made her concentrate on making the infusion as perfect as possible. When she once more went up the stairs, she found Corbin, his speech much easier, exchanging pleasantries with Master Dufay.

“Ah, Mistress Bertila approaches,” Dufay said, smiling at her. It was quite ridiculous the way her skin flamed as if she were a chit of fifteen.

Dufay poured a little of the infusion out and then cocked his head as if he heard something, and walked to the window to look out. He immediately stopped still, the smile fading from his face as someone beat a tattoo on the door downstairs.

“I fear you have visitors,” he said, turning to face her.

* * *

When Clifford Parry shuffled into the office, Will had to force himself not to let his jaw drop. He winced at his master’s bloodshot eyes. Another night soused in drink, no doubt, but he dared make no comment or show his resentment. Parry on a good day could be testy and exacting. Today was not a good day and clear heads were needed, for the new strictures the Chamberlain had put in place since the incident of the apricots were both complicated and time-consuming.

There were also the final estimates for the christening festivities to clarify and orders to write concerning all manner of things for the Queen’s confinement. At this rate, Parry would be ousted from his place and exiled to his estates and that would not help Will’s career. He made sure his voice was full of sympathy.

“Master, have you broken your fast?”

“I slept rather more deeply than usual,” Parry replied. “I have been checking the pantries and scrutinizing our stores. It does no harm to let others see that you are scrutinizing their work and ensuring they carry out their responsibilities,” Parry continued, refusing to meet Will’s gaze.

“Shall I send a page for food and drink, sir?”

“Thank you, Will. That would be most kind.”

Things must be bad. He never called Will by his given name. After giving the order, he waited for Parry to break the ensuing silence. He was not disappointed.

“I do hope I am not sickening for something. My head is so full of the things to be done that I cannot remember what I did the previous day.”

“You work too hard, Master,” Will replied, fervently begging God’s forgiveness for such a blatant falsehood. Parry was neither diligent nor organized. When things went amiss, he loaded blame on his underlings. All the same, Will could not help a pang of compassion. The man was clearly suffering.

“I hope it is just that. My head.” Parry put his hand to his brow.

“A stomach full of food will aid that, sir. Look, here is the page. Sit and eat. There is no need to worry. We have all under control. Why not keep a journal to remind you of what has been done each day and which tasks remain?”

Parry looked at him in surprise. “A fine notion, Will.”

After picking at the food on his plate, Parry pulled a fresh sheet of cleaned paper from the other desk drawer, and frowned as he dipped his pen.

“Now, we need to see the King’s cook and discuss dishes and requirements with him and after, set about arranging the entertainments,” he said.

The door opened revealing the spare figure of Colin Fry, the King’s Chamberlain. Parry jumped up, knocking some papers to the floor. Only Will noticed the fleeting expression of distaste on Fry’s face.

“Come in, Master Fry,” Parry said, wincing and rubbing his forehead again. “What can I do for you?”

Fry simply stood inside the doorway and stared until Parry’s temper gave way.

“Well, man, out with it. What ails thee? Have I suddenly grown two heads?”

“Nay, Master Parry. It is just that you look somewhat disheveled.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mayhap young Quayne has not noticed, but have you looked in the mirror this morning? Is it your usual practice to come to your desk without cap or doublet? And do you not possess a clean shirt?”

* * *

Byram Creswell sat opposite Luke in the apothecary’s kitchen. Since the captain’s statement the previous evening, Luke had been relieved that he no longer had to be so secretive around this man who was fast becoming a close friend. Byram watched him closely, saying nothing.

“You appear to be in some distress of mind today, my friend,” he said at last. “I can tell that your confrontation with that creature last night has taken its toll. Mayhap you would be better closing the shop today and resting.”

“You faced it too,” Luke replied. “I do not see you resting.”

“Ah, well that is because I may not. The strain of the tight security around the King is beginning to tell on the guards. I found a couple of them standing asleep at their posts at the water gate the other night.”

“Surely that is unusual?”

Byram laughed. “When on guard duty, one soon learns that sleep comes at any time and the only remedy for it is to keep moving. However, with the sickness, these strange incidents and the anxiety of waiting for the birth of the child, we are all more fatigued than usual. I have noted an inexplicable air of tension around the palace of late. And Luke, you have still not explained how your door came to be damaged.”

“That is because I have no explanation, at least, not one I would want to speak of.”

“Does it have to do with our experience last night?”

“I fear it may.”

“In that case my decision to step up my patrols of the palace day and night is the right one. It seems to me that you need to be looking inside the palace for your enemy.”

“How so?”

“Because that is where you found him last night, of course.”

“That does not follow, Byram. Think for a moment. He could have come in from outside, merely by waiting until your men slept. Then he would be able to slip past unnoticed. Either in or out.”

Byram bit his lip. “I had not considered that, but, as usual, what you say is logical.” He put down his jack and filled it from the jug sitting between them. “If you are right, Luke, then what counsel do you give me to plug that particular hole? It would seem he comes and goes as he pleases and, far from the palace being the secure fortress the King believes it to be, his Queen is as much at risk there as she would be sitting in the park at the mercy of thieves and worse. At least the French priest leaves openly.”

“Father Reynard?”

“Aye. He leaves the palace for a late night walk by the river several times each week. Told my deputy, Pickering, that it helps him to think things out and get some respite from the rigors of the court.”

Luke frowned for a few moments, letting his hand drop to the silky comfort of Joss’s head.

“That I can well understand,” he said, pausing before taking a deep breath. “Tell me, Byram, did you mean what you said in that foul chamber?”

“I would trust you with my life, just as you may safely trust me with yours,” Byram replied, his voice even, his brown eyes steadfast. “And I know you would do nothing evil.”

Luke sat, turning things over in his mind. His heart told him that his friend spoke nothing but the truth. He climbed to his feet and beckoned the captain into the shop. Taking several jars from the shelves behind the counter, he began measuring quantities into the big brass mortar and pounding the ingredients to a fine powder. Sniffing the mixture to judge its strength, Luke smiled.

“There is a barrel of ale in that corner, Byram. Lift it over here. What you are about to see, my friend, is a little concoction of mine. We remove the top of the barrel, thus.” Striking the lid firmly with his open hand, Luke lifted it off.

“How did you do that? You can’t get the lids off once they’ve been hammered down.”

“Just think of it as a knack I have. Now, let’s add this.”

Both men heard the mixture bubble and saw a soft golden haze rising from the contents. A honey-smooth fragrance filled the room, so strong that Byram dropped onto the settle, shaking his head.

“God’s wounds, what is that?”

Luke answered with a mischievous grin. Muttering under his breath, he slapped the lid back on and nodded with satisfaction at the thud with which the barrel resealed itself. Then he looked at Byram and grinned.

“This should work. You need to let it be known amongst the guards, but as a close secret, that you are so impressed with the way they have attended to their duties in these difficult times, you have obtained a barrel of the finest ale. Each guard may have one beaker full as he comes on duty, but one beaker only. You must ensure that someone trustworthy sees that they take no more.”

“Why?”

“Because one will keep them awake through any kind of somnolence spell, which is what I think has been visited on your men.”

“And more than one?”

“Will addle their brains. Make no error, Byram, this is very potent. You may rest assured that under its influence, nobody will sleep.”

A knock at the shop door made them both jump. Luke grasped the barrel and shifted it to the floor.

“Send one of your men for it as soon as you return to the palace.”

He opened the door to reveal Gwenette, her face still pale from the horrors of the previous night.

“Master Ballard, my mistress begs your presence.”

“Is something amiss?”

“Aye, the Queen is unusually fretful and not even Queen Anne can calm her.”

Luke looked at Byram, who rose to his feet.

“I will get this barrel into the guard room and see you later.” Bowing to Gwenette, he hurried out.

Luke grabbed packets and bottles from his shelves and, pausing only to thrust them into his scrip, hurried out of the gate, to the mews and through the secret passage.

Arriving in the Queen Mother’s apartments, he could hear distressed cries as soon as the door from the bedchamber opened. The pregnant Queen sat on cushions, her face scarlet with tears and temper.

“Your Grace,” Luke said, bowing before taking her wrist in his fingers. The beat of her pulse was rapid and thready. “I beg you to allow Queen Anne’s ladies to help you to a chair.”

“I do not want a chair. I want to go home.”

“My child, you are home,” her mother-in-law answered.

“No, I mean home to Scotland.” She drummed her feet on the floor. Queen Anne looked at the apothecary. He bent down until he was level with the tearstained face.

“Your Grace, that is a very natural feeling, but the journey is long and tiring.”

“I care not. I will go. I will go now.”

There was something here that Luke could not comprehend. He squatted beside Madeleine as she sobbed. Already her eyes, swollen with tears, were almost closed.

“Is this her usual behavior?” he asked the Queen Mother in an undertone.

“Never as bad.”

Luke stood up, frowning as he looked at Anne.

“Ah. I think I see. Your Grace, I need a goblet of wine.”

One of the ladies ran to fetch it. Luke took a few items from his scrip, added them to the wine and then stirred in some honey and held it between his hands. To the ladies, it would merely look as if he was making sure he had made the potion properly. Only Anne Boleyn knew that he was warming the mixture not only to make it more palatable but also to speed its effect. Once he was satisfied, he kneeled by the Queen.