Court of Conspiracy

by April Taylor

  Twelvetrees regarded him with narrow eyes. “You seem upset at the death of this traitor, Master Ballard.”

  “Godwin, I am always upset at the loss of a young life,” Luke replied. “Thank you for taking us and even more for bringing us home.”

  The baker gave a curt nod and turned toward the bakery at the other end of the row. Luke and Pippa walked around to the backyard in silence. When they arrived in the kitchen, Luke experienced a faint jolt of surprise that it looked so normal when so much had changed. He felt as if he had been away for days and that, by rights, everything should look different. It was certain that, for him at least, nothing would ever be the same again.

  He urged Pippa to sit down and filled a pot with water from the pail by the sink. Taking it through to the shop, he heated the water with his hands, chose some chamomile leaves and put these in a small jug, pouring on the hot water and leaving it to infuse. Then he found the last of the dried apple, put it in a bowl and added warm milk and honey. He put the bowl in front of the girl and a beaker of the chamomile infusion by its side.

  Pippa looked with clouded eyes at the bowl. “I can’t eat, Luke. I think it would come straight back.”

  “No it won’t. Trust me, this is exactly what you need. I am taking some of the chamomile, too. It will calm you and help you to sleep.”

  “Sleep is the last thing I want. I’m afraid to sleep, but I feel so tired, even more tired than when I ran away from Aunt Margaret.”

  “That I can help.” He had intended to question her about the thunderstorm, but decided that this had better wait until her mind was not so overshadowed by fear and horror. He would have to cast a sleep spell for her and hope that he had enough strength left to make it effective. His work at Tyburn had depleted his energies more than anything he could remember. He drank the chamomile and smiled at Pippa when she pulled a face at the first sip.

  “Add honey to it,” he suggested.

  He could see that she was drooping, but knew that as soon as her eyes closed the sight of Gethin’s struggling body would sear itself into the darkness behind her eyelids. He busied himself with the pestle and mortar and poured in a mixture of heated oils. Luke told Pippa to close her eyes and he concentrated on directing the fragrant steam so that it surrounded the girl’s head in a swirling mist.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Pippa. I want you to gather all the dark thoughts and imagine putting them into a sack. Good, that’s it,” he said, watching her frown. “Now, when they are all in the sack, twist the top closed and visualize bringing it up into your throat. Good. Now breathe it out through your mouth.”

  The girl’s mouth opened. At first, nothing happened, but gradually the air around her head began to turn black. Immediately, the mist from Luke’s spell spread round it, enshrouding the darkness. Warning Pippa to keep her eyes closed, he waved his hand at the almost solid mass. It began to spiral upward, slowly at first, then quicker, and finally, it arced toward the fire in a long stream of silver and disappeared up the chimney. Luke waved his hands over the mortar again and a thin stream of vapor once more surrounded her head, but this time, it disappeared into the folds of her hair, and, as she breathed in, up her nose and in through her still-open mouth. When Pippa finally opened her eyes, Luke could see they were clear and bright.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll have some bread and honey and then, I think we save anything else for the morrow.”

  Pippa nodded and moved over to the pallet.

  “There is another room at the front upstairs. I can clear it if you would prefer to sleep there,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “Tonight, I just want the warmth of the kitchen. Goodnight, Luke.”

  When Luke came down into the kitchen the next morning, Pippa was still asleep on the pallet by the fire. She began to stir at the noise of him coming down the stairs and leapt up when she realized that he was standing over her. She answered his questioning look.

  “Aye, very well. I dreamt about horses and jumping fences. Isn’t that strange? I haven’t been on a horse since I was very small.”

  Stranger than you know, girl, Luke thought. “I’m going to collect herbs,” he said. “I notice we’re running short of betony and rue.”

  In reality what Luke needed was time to think and he thought more clearly when walking. There were many injustices in life, but the manner of Gethin’s death and the speed with which it had been accomplished touched him to his core. He felt more strongly about the boy’s judicial murder than he had about anything since he was a boy himself. Despite his dreamless sleep of the night before, he suffered a bone weariness that he had never before encountered, not just a lethargy of spirit, but an intense physical ache in his shoulders, arms and legs. It took a couple of miles striding out along the riverbank before he reasoned that his efforts to help Gethin on the gallows had drained him of more energy than any spell he had yet cast. This was partly because the magic had been at the very limit of his abilities, but also because he had turned it into a personal quest. It was a valuable lesson and one that he was still turning over in his mind when he came back into the kitchen.

  Pippa had put out bread and honey for herself and some mutton for him to break his fast. She drank milk whilst Luke downed a couple of jacks of ale. Looking across at her, he decided the time was right for the questions he needed to ask.

  “You said yesterday that you had experienced a thunderstorm like that more than once. When?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s happened three or four times, usually when Aunt Margaret beat me for something Cecily had done. My cousin is a born liar. I was no threat to her, but she couldn’t resist tormenting the unwelcome relation. So, on those occasions when I had answered back or retaliated, she would break something, do anything she could think of and then tell Aunt Margaret I had done it. Mostly, I just accepted it, but a few times, it was so unjust I couldn’t stop the rage from bubbling up. I could almost taste it. The thunder came then and the rain, too. It was funny because as soon as the first peal sounded, Aunt used to drop me and run out of the room. After a while, she stopped beating me. That was when Cecily’s lies got me sent to the kitchens.” She paused. “Luke, are you sure Gethin was innocent?”

  “You are as likely to have done it as him.”

  She seized his wrist as he raised the jack. Her voice was high with shock and fear. “But I didn’t. I don’t even know where the horses are kept.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Don’t be so stu—”

  “Ah, now you see how easy it is. You cannot prove you have never been to the stables, can you? No. And if the likes of my lord of Norfolk decide you have, there is precious little you can do about it.”

  “But that’s neither fair nor just.”

  Luke thumped the table with his clenched fist.

  “What does fairness or justice have to do with the matter? I am talking about reality.”

  “But what about a fair trial?” Pippa’s brow was furrowed in confusion, and Luke took a few deep breaths to tamp down his frustration.

  “Look, Pippa. I will explain all this once more and you must accept that I am right. Your life might have been privileged once, but it isn’t now. You are a peasant, and we are the playthings of our lords and masters. If they want to throw us off the land we have tilled for generations and put sheep on it, they can. They have. If that means we are turned out of our homes and reduced to begging, then that is our lot and we have no redress.” He put up his hand to stop the flow of indignation he could see about to issue from her mouth. “Listen. You now live in close proximity to the court of His Majesty Henry IX and, by definition, to the men surrounding him. They jostle for position to gain favor and riches. Some of them will fabricate stories, blame others and try to make themselves look worthy of the King’s regard. They are rich and powerful and will be believed when such
as us are dismissed as thieves and liars.”

  “Does not the King realize this?”

  “Whether he does or not is irrelevant, Pippa. He needs them as much as they need him for he cannot govern without the money and influence they bring with them. Appearance is everything. And whilst I think on it, I am happy for you to call me Luke when we are alone, but in the shop or in company, you must call me Master Ballard. It would do neither of us good to become the subject of gossip. You must watch every word, think through every action. Learn from that example of justice you saw yesterday. Do you truly think that everyone in that mob believed Gethin Pitt to be guilty? No. They were only too relieved that they had not been in the wrong place at the wrong time. One word taken amiss and you could be burned at the stake. A slip of the tongue and I could be boiled alive. Now do you understand?”

  Chapter Seven

  The next few days were busy ones for Luke. There seemed to be an epidemic of headaches, toothache and quinsy. So much so that his supplies of St. John’s wort and bee-glue ran dangerously low and he had to find a new source of feverfew because the palace gardens had been picked bare. The bustle of patients requiring his skills put what had happened to Gethin toward the back of his mind. It was not until a week after the execution that he had an opportunity to discuss it further with Pippa.

  To all outward appearances, since his lecture, she had been almost submissive, always making sure that she stayed in the kitchen when he had customers and keeping her eyes fixed on the ground when she went to market. Part of him could feel only relief that he had finally convinced her of the real danger they ran. She had never asked him what spell he had woven on the day of the execution, but it became clear that it was much in her mind.

  One morning as they sat in the kitchen, Pippa working at her letter blocks before beginning her duties, she lifted her head and looked at him.

  “Luke, I am glad you helped Gethin.”

  Luke nodded and went into the shop, surprised by the shaft of sadness that shot through him at the remembrance of the boy’s terrified face. Pippa loomed large in his mind, too. There was no question that his life had been less stressful before she had come into it. Part of him longed for the quiet days before this troublesome sprite had emerged from the fastnesses of his empty gallipots.

  As he moved through his morning routine, Luke pondered on the difference in her behavior. She seemed to sense his preoccupation, for apart from casting sidelong glances at him, she left him alone. Whether it was the lecture he had given her or that he had frightened her by the extent of his magic, he did not know. Her reading was becoming more fluent as each day passed. Perhaps it was time to initiate her as an acolyte elemancer and commence her training.

  When they settled down for her usual reading lesson that night, he sensed in her a steely determination that had not been apparent before. She gave a fierce concentration to her letters, so much so that when he suggested they stop, she refused. He spent some time gazing into the fire, trying to rekindle his energy and using the flames as a cleansing invigorating force. It was some time before he noticed that Pippa had fallen asleep over her blocks. He rose to his feet and put out a hand to shake her awake. Then he heard a muffled knock at the door, and with every sense newly alert, he ran through to the shop and put his ear to the wood.

  “Who is there?”

  “Master Ballard, I come from the King,” a low voice answered. “Open in his name.”

  Luke looked at Joss, who had followed him, but she exhibited no signs of fear or impending danger. He undid the door. A hooded figure, accompanied by another greyspring, slipped into the shop. Luke relaxed.

  “Mistress?”

  “Master Ballard, we must talk.”

  “You said you came from the King. How can I aid His Majesty? Are his own advisors not available?”

  “You have an opportunity to serve the crown and, by doing so, England.”

  “I do not talk to faceless people, Mistress. How do I know you come from His Majesty?”

  The stranger threw back her hood. Luke dropped to his knees more in shock than respect. Now he knew he was in deep trouble.

  “You may rise.” The Queen’s voice was quiet, but Luke heard the steel in it.

  “I do not understand how I can help you, Your Grace.”

  “You knew this boy that was hanged?”

  Luke paused to wonder how Gethin’s death affected her, but he dared not stay silent.

  “Certainly.”

  “And you believe he was innocent? Speak your mind without fear. We have no time for prevarications and from my intelligences, I understand that the baker has questioned your loyalty because of your seeming grief at the boy’s death.”

  Luke felt the blood drain from his face and cursed himself for a fool. He should have known Twelvetrees would curry favor by denouncing him. He glanced at Anne Boleyn’s face. She looked back at him without expression, save for delicately raised eyebrows.

  Through his fear, Luke felt his chin lift in resolution.

  “Aye, Your Grace. I knew Gethin. He loved horses. He would never have harmed the King or Jasper. I believe with all my heart that he was a loyal, truthful boy, falsely accused.”

  “I am glad you do not mince your words. It is as I feared then. The boy was merely a scapegoat?”

  “I believe Gethin Pitt was a loyal subject, wrongly executed. It was an injustice.”

  The Queen paced the earthen floor of the shop. Her greyspring stayed by the door. “What care I for the fate of some ragamuffin boy when I have the King’s safety at heart?” she asked.

  Luke bowed. “I know that we minnows are of little account, Your Grace, but Gethin’s mother is left destitute without his wages, and his death touches all who knew him.”

  “Prove that he was innocent and I will give the woman a pension.” Her eyes, hard with determination, met his.

  She was not a woman to cross. The final years of Great Harry’s reign had proved that. Luke tried to swallow the sudden spear of dread and knew by her smile she had seen it. The two greysprings, heads high, watched with unwavering concentration as their owners sat opposite each other on the settles in Luke’s shop.

  “Aye, Master Apothecary. You know me by my dog just as I know you by yours. The Great Whore they called me, but none can deny that it was my name, Anne Boleyn, that his late Majesty called in his last delirium and I who gave him the son he craved. They accused me of witchcraft, but I am an elemancer, just as you are.”

  Luke sensed a huge chasm opening under him, imagining the agony of hot irons on his feet and the bite of the rope as it throttled life from him. He wondered what enemy had betrayed him to this most powerful of women. He licked dry lips, his fear and confusion heightened as he realized she found his mounting terror amusing.

  “How can such as I aid Your Grace?” he asked, mortified at the audible shake in his voice.

  Her lip curled. “You will discover who conspires to kill our son. They have failed twice. They will try again.”

  Whatever Luke had expected, this was not it. The reproof was out before he could stop himself. “You know we are not permitted to use our gift to trap people, that we have sworn to work only for the good of all. Surely there are those at court more fitted to investigate such a matter?”

  She jumped to her feet, leaning over him, her black eyes searing into the depths of his blue ones. “Do not play the fool with me, Master Ballard. You must realize that it could be those closest to His Majesty who plot his death. It is no transgression to gather evidence, or to use your skills to confirm theories.”

  Luke, trapped by the magnetism of her eyes, caught a faint scent of musk and ambergris wafting from her warm skin. Her powers of attraction were undiminished, as was her autocratic certainty that he would do her bidding. As men had done since she was a child at the French court.<
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  She returned to her seat. “Do you want Spanish Mary feeding true hearts to the fires at Smithfield? As a woman, you know I can do nothing, save work to safeguard our son, his throne, and this realm. You will use your talent for us, root out the traitors. You will keep Henry IX on the throne and England secure and you will do it in secret.”

  Every nerve in Luke’s body shouted at him to find a way out, keep well away from this. He had a fleeting vision of the gates of the Tower closing behind him and he knew from the mind link with Gethin on the scaffold just how much pain the crown’s interrogators could inflict.

  “Your Grace, please forgive me, but why me?”

  “You were recommended.” She held up a hand. “Do not ask—we shall not tell you. Enough for you to know that a person whose opinion we trust suggested you for this task. He spoke highly of your talent and said you were so much more than you appeared, even to yourself. He is seldom wrong.”

  “I don’t understand. What skills do I possess that make me fitting? I am a journeyman elemancer, not a Dominus.”

  Queen Anne’s mouth pursed in impatience. “God’s death, is it not enough that we give you this quest?”

  “I know that if I refuse, you can have me tortured and executed, so that gives me the courage to ask again. Why me?”

  She gave a short bark of laughter.

  “Our informant was right. You are no sycophant eager to curry favor and promise what you cannot deliver. That is all to the good.” She paused, frowning at the floor. “Master Ballard, let me speak to you not as your Queen, not even as the mother of your King, but as the mother of a boy not yet sixteen who is beset with dangers. I will not use honeyed words, but speak plainly. Master Ballard, you know the common people who live and work at the palace. I can and will keep watch over those who come near His Majesty in the court, but he is, like his father, a man of the people. I cannot keep him like a butterfly in a cocoon shrouded from everyone all the time. Have you ever seen the lions in the Tower?”