by April Taylor
The Lord grant her the strength to continue the fight. She had to go on. God was merely testing her, that was all. How could He fail to bless this enterprise when she undertook it only for His glory?
Fool. She had allowed her despair to override her fear of discovery and, more important, to plant a momentary doubt that God was with her. She promised that she would say extra penances and beg His forgiveness. She seized the original coded message and her decryption and pushed her chair back again. In her haste, the heavy sable wrap caught on one arm of the chair, nearly making her fall. The hand holding the parchments smashed onto the table, jarring her wrist. Pain shot up her arm intensifying her panic. With an effort, she steadied herself, walked to the fire and thrust the incriminating documents into the flames, watching until they were entirely consumed.
Just in time. She swung round at the sound of the door latch being lifted from the outside.
* * *
Gethin Pitt wished he had never seen a horse, let alone found work in King Henry’s stables. He played over and over in his mind the events preceding the accident. The day had started when dawn’s gentle light had begun to penetrate the shadows. Jasper had whinnied a soft greeting, nuzzling Gethin’s hand and chomping the apple the boy had brought. He remembered brushing Jasper’s coat until it gleamed like molten copper. He saw himself pick up the saddle. Had the thorns been stuck on the underside of it then? Surely Jasper would have danced and skittered if they had?
His nightmare had truly begun when two richly dressed men, accompanied by five of the King’s guard, had arrived. They had come straight to the stall and one of the guards had flung him against the wall. Through the blood coursing down his face, Gethin stared at a short thick stem covered in thorns, thrust under his nose by one of the richly dressed men.
“Attend, you poxy rascal. Why did we find this under His Majesty’s saddle?”
“Jasper’s saddle?” Gethin frowned at the length of the thorns, but danger did not register in his brain. Yet. “This was under Jasper’s saddle?”
“Do not play the innocent with us. You put it there expressly to imperil the King.”
“I swear, sir, I did not.” Gethin was beginning to sweat. He knew with a sudden deadly certainty that he was in the worst trouble of his entire life. “I did not,” he repeated.
One of the guards hit him around the head with the shaft of his halberd. “Do not speak to His Grace, the Duke of Norfolk, in that fashion.”
“You lie,” Norfolk said, viciously poking Gethin under the chin with his gloved finger. “Who else could have placed it there?”
“I do not know, sir, but I wouldn’t do nothing to harm Jasper.”
“Did you hear that, Sir Nigel? The wretch would not harm Jasper.”
The other man snorted his disdain. “The horse, knave, is fine. The King is not.”
Gethin fell to his knees, his face drained of color. At this moment his mother, alerted by another stable boy, ran in and tried to reach her son.
“Sir, sir, I pray you release my boy. He would not harm a hair of the King’s head, sir.”
A guard swung her by the arm and thrust her sprawling into the soiled straw of the stall opposite, directly under the hoofs of the horse occupying it. The animal kicked out, catching her rump and sending her flying into the wooden partition. The guard laughed. Gethin tried to reach her, but at a signal from the man called Sir Nigel, the other guards seized him, pinioning him by his arms and dragging him outside. A small crowd had gathered in the road outside, silent and watchful. Gethin knew none would dare to speak up, but Norfolk appeared to be taking no chances. He spoke to the guards in an undertone.
“Take him by river, lest his liberty be attempted.”
Gethin could hear his mother’s wailing and lamentation as he was bundled the short distance to the river and thrust into a boat. He could see her running along the bank trying to keep up, but the oarsmen were strong and fast. He tried to call out to her, but one of the guards kicked him in the mouth. Gethin tasted blood and spat out a broken tooth. There had to be a sensible explanation for this mistake, and the sooner he could talk to someone who would listen, the better. This was not the first time he had fallen foul of authority, but it promised to be the most frightening. He had only the certain knowledge of his innocence to maintain him, but he knew only too well that when it came to the word of a rich man against that of a peasant, the outlook for the peasant was grave.
Gethin stayed quiet, watching the river bank. Some of the neighbors had caught up with his mother and turned her away, walking her back toward the palace. She was still crying and it was only when they rounded a bend of the river that he could no longer hear her.
His arrival at the Tower caused some concern until it was understood that this prisoner was guilty of attempted regicide. Gethin was dragged down to a dark, dank dungeon and thrown through the door into slimy, filthy straw. Only as he examined his surroundings, feeling cold despair leaching from the stone walls, did the first inkling of his true situation commence. He began to utter prayers for his salvation.
* * *
“You mean I’m going to be able to do magic?”
Pippa stared at Luke, her eyes wide and shining with excitement. Seeing that she was exhausted, he had suggested she spend the morning on the pallet by the fire whilst he attended to his customers. Several hours’ sleep had rendered her excitable and talkative.
Luke could feel her exhilaration streaming across the kitchen toward him. Perhaps he had been too precipitate. He knew nothing about this girl except what she had told him, and heaven knew how unwise it was to accept anything at face value in these hazardous days. Danger lurked everywhere, waiting to snare the unwary.
“Just because you have talent does not mean that you can walk into magic,” he said. “The process is long and the study hard.”
“I won’t have to read, will I? I can’t read. The unwanted relation wasn’t allowed to learn.”
The girl’s face dropped into a sulky frown. Luke’s misgivings grew. He would do well to retreat on the subject of elemancy. In fact, it would have been much better had he not allowed his excitement to loosen his tongue and tell her about it in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became, despite Joss’s apparent trust. If she turned out to be a spy, his only counterclaim would be that she had terrified him by going into a trance and he felt that by humoring her, he was safeguarding his own life.
“I think our first priority must be to clean you up,” he said at last. “You are riper than a year-old cheese.”
“Do you think I am used to being so filthy or that I enjoy it, you stupid oaf?”
“I am glad to hear it, but I think calling me an oaf when I have fed you leans towards ingratitude. If you wish to remain in this house, keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Is it the effect of a full stomach that makes you so bold?”
Pippa curtseyed. “I beg pardon. I wasn’t allowed to bathe much after I was banished to the kitchens, but I have never been in such a state as this. I’ve tried everything. Rose water, lavender, sage, bay. Nothing works for long, does it?”
“No,” Luke said. “In fact, I believe that when the princesses from Cleves came to visit his late majesty, the fact that they seldom took baths offended him.”
Pippa surveyed her filthy apparel. “I cannot wear this again. It is beyond recovery, I fear. My aunt had it made for me when she thought I was blessed with holy visions. Of course, cousin Cecily had to have one specially made too.”
Luke thought for a moment. “I’ll go and ask Mistress Paige. She’ll know what to do. Stay in this room whilst I am gone. Do not go into the shop.”
“Why? And who is Mistress Paige?”
“The shop is full of traps for the unwary and the ignorant. Liquids that burn, powders that can render you senseless. You would not be the first to suffer disf
igurement or worse. Mistress Paige is a friend. You need have no fear of her. I believe she can help us. I shall return anon.”
Luke clicked his fingers and Joss followed at his heels. The short walk to the palace past the victualing houses provided him with an opportunity to ponder the disquieting news from one of the morning’s customers that Gethin Pitt had been taken to the Tower. The poor lad’s widowed mother would be distraught. A devoted son, Gethin had looked after her since his father’s death. He had put his hand to anything that brought in enough money to feed and keep the two of them. Luke had encountered the lad a few times and sensed in him a clear honesty and good heart. He felt certain Gethin was innocent and wondered what, if anything, he could do to prove it.
He hurried past the fleshing house with its relentless stench, nodded to the guards at the west gate of Hampton Court and ran up the stairs into the Great Hall. Gwenette Paige was in the Great Watching Chamber repairing one of the wall hangings, her nimble fingers flying to finish her task before the King entered for his daily walk through the public rooms to the Chapel Royal.
Luke waited until he caught her eye, not having the courage to ask the yeoman on duty if he could pass into the room. Gwenette saw him as she was finishing. She wove a needle into her bodice, picked up the rest of her sewing materials and came to him, a smile of welcome on her face.
As Luke explained, he saw her face pale and her breathing quicken. She put a hand to her breast. Without thinking he gave her his arm to lean on. “Mistress, are you ailing?”
She smiled, but did not take his arm. “No, not at all. I have been here since sunrise trying to finish off my repair. I have not yet broken my fast.”
“Then why not come back to my house? I have food and ale. You could meet this girl. Truth be told, I am more than a little embarrassed at the situation. I would value your advice and assistance.”
Gwenette laughed. “I accept your kind offer of food, Master Ballard. One of these days, you will help a starveling once too often. Come, let me see this refugee from Catholic oppression.”
She spoke loudly and laughed again, but Luke, only too aware that the palace had ears everywhere, cast nervous glances all round. “Prithee watch your tongue, Gwenette. You know not who is listening.”
* * *
They came for him less than an hour later. A tall man, in neat sober black; a shorter man with red hair; and two guards. The tall man seemed to be in charge and spoke, but Gethin, who had eaten nothing since the day before, could not concentrate through the fog of stomach-gnawing hunger.
“I am Sir Anthony Kingston, the Constable of the Tower,” the tall man said. “I am responsible for this place, and for the King’s enemies housed within it.”
Gethin’s swollen tongue and bloodied mouth made speech difficult. “I am no enemy of the King, sir,” he said.
“I’m afraid, Master Pitt, that the facts speak against you.”
The boy thought that nobody save his mother had ever spoken to him in such a gentle tone. He promised himself he would never complain about anything ever again if this gentleman would believe him, and he could get back to the stables and Jasper.
“My mother spoke true, sir, when she told the gentlemen that I would not harm His Majesty.”
“The problem we have, you see,” Sir Anthony continued in the same soft tone, “is that only you could have put the thorns under the horse’s saddle.”
Gethin began to cry, his tears cutting pale streaks down his grimy bloodstained face. How could he make this man understand that he was innocent? “Sir, I will swear on the Bible that when I saddled Jasper, there wasn’t nothing under it.”
The red-haired man signaled for the guards to take hold of Gethin’s arms. They formed a procession, manhandling the boy out of the cell and down some stone steps. He tried to turn to implore the tall man for mercy but the guards yanked him round. “Please, sir, do not hurt me. I’ve not done nothing,” he screamed, before being dragged down the last few steps and hauled into a large chamber.
Sir Anthony followed the procession. They stopped just inside the door and, through his mounting panic, Gethin observed ropes and iron bars. Along one wall, there were several devices he had never seen before. He began to tremble as if he had an ague. At the other end of the chamber, a large lit brazier glowed red, warming the atmosphere, but Gethin felt icy spikes of terror spear into him. His mind went blank.
Sir Anthony took him by the arm, supporting him as they walked the length of the room, stopping before each piece of equipment and explaining its use. His voice never lost its softness; he spoke as if he understood that Gethin was a frightened child, just as his mother had when he had scraped his knee or been beaten by bigger boys. He began to relax a little. Surely Sir Anthony accepted that he was guiltless—otherwise wouldn’t he be shouting?
“Look, Gethin. This is the brake. Some call it the Scavenger’s Daughter. It will fold your body into three, your calves crushed against your thighs, which are then crushed against your abdomen. Believe me, it is very painful. Here is where we put your arms, and here, your ankles. Tell me who ordered you to put the thorns under the saddle.”
“As God is my judge, sir, there wasn’t nothing there when I saddled Jasper and led him out. He’s a fine horse, sir, but delicate in his feeling. He would have danced about. He would not have borne it.” By now, Gethin was trembling so much he could hardly speak, and his voice was thick with tears.
Sir Anthony affected not to hear him. They proceeded to the next instrument. “This is the rack, Gethin. If you would like, we could add almost a foot to your height, although the crack of bones and sinews is distressing to hear and much worse to feel. I regret that you would be unable to stand up afterwards. Would you like that?”
“No, sir. I’ve not done nothing, I swear I have not.” Gethin could not stop sobbing.
“Then you must tell us what we want to know. Who gave you the rose stem?”
Gethin fell to his knees, his hands raised in supplication. “Please sir, there never was no thorns there when I put the saddle on.” It was clear to him at last that this man did not believe his frantic denials.
“And here are the manacles,” the other said, pointing at the iron rings set high in the wall. “I think we will start with these.”
* * *
The two women greeted each other with a watchful caution. For some reason Luke could not fathom, the tension he had sensed in Gwenette disappeared. Her smile broadened and her shoulders relaxed. “Good morrow, mistress. I understand you are in need of apparel.”
For answer, Pippa held up the hems of her gown and kirtle, looking down at the dirt and biting her lip. “These are all I have, mistress.”
Gwenette took the skirt of the gown in her hands. “This material is very fine and there is too much wear left in it to throw it away. I am sure I can clean it, and I can launder the kirtle quite easily.” She looked Pippa up and down. “You are very tall. Indeed, I can only think of one person who could match you for height. Now, I wonder...” She turned to Luke. “Forget about food, Master Ballard. If you help Mistress Garrod to line the bath and fill it, I will be back soon.” She turned and sped through the shop door into the sunshine.
Luke dragged the wooden bath into the center of the room. He handed Pippa some coarse sheets to cover the interior, before going out and returning some minutes later with a pail of water from the courtyard pump.
“That will be freezing,” Pippa said. “You are trying to kill me.”
He ignored her and repeated the exercise until the bath was over half full. Pippa’s frown grew deeper with each succeeding pail. She tried speaking to him but he made no reply or just grunted. Finally, she gave up and stood with her arms folded. The afternoon was chilly after the previous night’s rain and the water very cold to the touch.
“If you think I’m jumping half-naked into tha
t, you’re in for a shock,” she said.
Luke ignored her.
“What would you like in the bath?” he asked when the water level had risen a little more. Since the news about Gethin’s imprisonment, he had tried to carry on as normal, but most of his mind was imagining the horrors being visited on the boy. He had never seen the instruments that teased truth from reluctant mouths, but he had no illusions about their efficacy in the hands of skilled interrogators.
“How about some heat?” Pippa’s sharp tone cut a welcome swath through his thoughts.
“Heat? No, I meant, would you like chamomile or rosemary, once we have the water warm enough.”
“Should you not have thought of heating the water before you put it in the bath?”
Luke looked with some surprise at the water level in the tub. This was how he prepared his own bath, and he had not thought much about what he was doing. Only now when it was too late did the possible danger come home to him. Gethin’s troubles had induced this thoughtless folly. That and the arrival of this girl had robbed him of all wisdom and caution. Too late now. On the other hand, it was a perfect opportunity to frighten her into silence.
“Watch.”
Luke moved to the pail of water by the sink and doused his head and hands, letting the water slide off his hair, skin and shirt, making no attempt to dry himself. Then he walked to the bath, relaxed his shoulders and closed his eyes, his lips moving in what looked like silent prayer. Joss padded to his side and sat between her master and the girl.
Luke’s hands lifted slowly, palms downward over the water. Pippa moved to look into the tub. The greyspring stood, her body tensed, her lips drawn back over her teeth in warning. When Pippa stepped back, Joss sat down again. Wisps of steam rose from the water. A few minutes later, the steam was ascending in great clouds. Without opening his eyes, Luke turned and waved his hands over the sticks in the grate. They began to smolder and in moments, a flame licked along them. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Joss stood up and moved toward Pippa, wagging her tail as if in apology.
