Quintessence
Page 7
Chapter Six
PARRIS took a wherry to Greenwich. He preferred the water route, especially on a day like this, when the storm left the roads awash in mud. The boat's canopy kept the rain off , and the Thames was only marginally slower than the traffic- clogged Dover Road.
The boat maneuvered between the massive starlings of London Bridge, under the shadow of its shops and houses, and continued on toward the wharfs, where oceangoing vessels too tall to pass under the bridge stopped to unload their cargo. A forest of masts crowded the riverbanks as the ships jostled for room, the queues backing up past Wapping and Rotherhithe and clear around the Isle of Dogs.
He found himself reading the names of the ships: the Katryn Belle, the Plenty, the Sancta Clara, the Black George. Then he saw it: the Western Star, tied up at anchor and rocking gently against the pier. Parris knew little of ships, but he could tell this was a carrack, the work horse of trade with distant lands like Africa, the Indies, and Cathay. He noticed how warped its planking was, how the ends of boards stuck out from the line of the hull, though he didn't know if such damage was superficial or serious. Its sails were weathered and gray, its decks deserted.
It was still full of preserved corpses, too, unless something had changed. Which was odd in more than one way. Under normal circumstances, a crew would sew their dead into sacks of sailcloth and tip them into the sea, not transport them home. They must have died so quickly and in such numbers that the others had not the strength or the stomach to dispose of them properly. Fear of ghosts or no, he was surprised that the harbormaster hadn't ordered the ship cleaned by now, or even burned. Perhaps he had, and Sinclair had somehow prevented it.
At Greenwich, they tied up at the king's pier. Servants held the palace doors open wide, and Parris navigated through sumptuous rooms to the private chambers where the boy king was spending his final days. He met another of the king's physicians, George Owen, just leaving the room.
"How is he?" Parris asked.
"A bit stronger today. He's hearing a suit and arguing about it with the duke."
"Whose suit?"
"Some fool who wants funding to repeat the Mad Admiral's expedition."
Parris gaped. "Christopher Sinclair?"
"That's the name."
"He's in there right now?"
Owen nodded. "I'd slip in quietly."
Parris thanked him, opened the door, and tred softly past the posted guards. The cavernous bedroom was decorated in the Italian Renaissance style, not yet touched by Tudor renovations. Tall gilded mirrors faced ancient portraits over acres of red carpet, and on the ceiling Endymion reclined in the arms of Morpheus, the god of sleep.
Edward was sitting propped up in bed, his frail form lost under layers of rich cloaks. The bed was draped in damask and cloth- of- gold, and cherubs cavorted with peacocks on its high wooden panels. A servant hovered nearby with a cool cloth for the king's head and another to wipe his face when he coughed. On Edward's right was the Duke of Northumberland, an imposing gray- haired man with a reputation for political ruthlessness, who ruled as Edward's regent until he came of age. To his left was Sinclair, still wearing his robe and turban, orange eyes alight with passion.
"I'd sooner have this man drawn and quartered than furnished with further coin," Northumberland said.
Sinclair chuckled as if this were a jest. "My lord, I seek only to enrich the crown."
"With dirt and salt water, sir? Where is the profit from the crown's first investment?" Northumberland said.
"The profit is only delayed."
Parris padded quietly to the side of the bed, avoiding eye contact. Edward shifted aside the fur cloaks and unlaced his doublet to reveal his sunken chest. Parris made a neat incision, just above the lungs that caused the king such distress. With tongs, he lifted a leech from a leather pouch and placed its greedy mouth over the wound. Physics were divided over the use of leeches, but Parris found that no other method so cleanly and swiftly drew out the blood.
The king coughed hard several times, then spoke in a weak voice. "Master Sinclair."
"Your Majesty?"
"Lord Chelsey's voyage took three years. We wish to know how you propose to return in one."
"Your Majesty, Chelsey was charting unknown seas, conquering a wild climate, and hewing a settlement out of the wilderness. At the very edge of the world, he found an island which he named Horizon. He left half his men there in a thriving colony, stockpiling gold and spices. A ship need only load the cargo and return home."
"Forgive my ignorance," drawled Northumberland, "but Chelsey's cargo was a ship full of dirt. You claim he left a colony. But like any street charlatan with a foolproof method to make gold from goose feathers, you ask us to pay handsomely now for a wonder yet to come. How can we be sure these riches will not simply transform to dirt again? If they ever existed at all."
"Because not everything transformed," Sinclair said. At this, he produced from his pocket a golden fruit the size and shape of a fig, round at the bottom but rising into a thinner stemmed neck. It was exquisitely made, with a minutely carved gold stem and subtle vertical striping.
"Are you asking us to believe that this grew from a tree?" Northumberland said.
Sinclair held it as delicately as a blossom. He proffered it to the king. "Touch it, Your Majesty."
The king took it and gasped in surprise. Parris tried to keep his eyes on his work, but he couldn't help watching. The fruit was airy and fragile, like a thing made of eggshells instead of gold.
"How did such a thing come into your keeping? And why was it not produced before now to support Lord Chelsey's lunatic claims?" Northumberland said.
"Chelsey gave it to me before he died. He lived only hours and was in great pain and confusion."
"It is marvelous," the king said, still turning the fruit in his hands.
"Peel it, Your Majesty."
King Edward pressed his thumbs into the fruit and pulled the edges apart. The thin gold tore, revealing another layer. The king took an eating knife and neatly cut the fruit in half, revealing a shining latticework of golden seeds and rind. His face showed his amazement. "We have never seen such a thing before."
He passed the wonder up to Northumberland, who took it between two fingers as if it might soil his hands. "How many of these do you have?"
"Only the one," Sinclair said.
Northumberland crushed the fruit in one meaty fist. He opened his hand to reveal a tiny crumpled golden ball, hardly bigger than a grape. "This wouldn't pay for my supper," he said. He threw it on the floor at Sinclair's feet.
Parris doused the leech with vinegar to make it loose its hold, then pressed a cloth to the wound. Edward coughed shallowly, unable to clear the fluids that were drowning him.
"The king is tired," Northumberland said, but Edward held up his hand.
"How many of these trees are on the island?" the king asked.
"I don't know," Sinclair said. "Perhaps hundreds."
"And there are spice trees as well, you say?"
"Cloves, cinnamon, pepper, sandalwood. We have only to send ships to gather them in."
"Then we see no reason why you should not do so."
"Majesty," Northumberland said, "the expense of such a venture . . . we do not have the coin."
"Then take the coin from somewhere else. We believe in Master Sinclair."
Northumberland's voice was smooth. "It is not possible. There is important business of state and law to which our coin is committed: think of the reforms, Your Grace."
Parris saw the boy king's face slump, and knew that as always, Northumberland's word would stand. Parris was surprised Edward had crossed Northumberland as much as he had. If Sinclair really wanted this venture to succeed, he should have directed his energy into convincing the duke, not the king.
"I would not dream of asking the realm to bear the burden for this venture," Sinclair said. "That is why I requested that Stephen Parris be present."
Parris jumped. His shift
s attending the king were determined by the palace chamberlain and not, as far as he knew, at the whims of eccentric explorers.
Edward seemed to see Parris for the first time. "My physic?"
"Yes, my lord. It has come to my knowledge that Master Parris has corpses brought in secret to his home, where he desecrates them and performs unnatural rituals."
Parris couldn't move. He stared in shock at Sinclair, who met his gaze calmly. Why would Sinclair betray him? It didn't make any sense. Parris fell to his knees in front of the king and tried to speak, but no words came out. Edward might be under Northumberland's thumb, but he was still a Tudor, and his rage was a fearful thing. He was not much older than Catherine, but if he chose to order Parris's execution, no one would stop him.
Edward's face flushed and his hand flew to the incision on his chest. He started coughing into a cloth and couldn't stop; by the time he caught his breath again the cloth was bright red. The servant took the bloody cloth and gave him a goblet of wine.
Rage shook Edward's boyish voice. "Is this true?"
Parris thought furiously. If he lied, he'd be in much worse trouble when he was found out. Better to stick to the truth. "I perform studies of natural philosophy. It is for the education of the mind only."
"What other reason could there be than to consult demons about the hour of your majesty's death?" Sinclair said.
"No, Your Grace! I am your faithful servant."
"I can produce witnesses," Sinclair said. "Ask him where the bodies are now that were delivered to his home."
Parris said nothing. He could hardly tell the king they were cut into pieces and buried in an unmarked grave.
"I trusted you with my life," the king said. "And you repay me with treachery?"
"Perhaps it is fortuitous," Sinclair said.
Edward regarded him incredulously. "Fortuitous?"
"We were speaking, after all, of my expedition."
"What possible value does a treasonous physic have to your proposed voyage?"
"If he has committed treason," Sinclair said, "then all of his possessions are forfeit to the throne."
The king smiled slowly. "They are indeed."
"A considerable estate in Derbyshire, so I'm told, and lands with forests and two coal mines besides."
Now Parris understood. This morning he'd thought Sinclair a friend who valued his input. Now it was clear the man only wanted to rob him. He threw himself at the king's feet. "Your Majesty, I beg to speak."
"What's more," Sinclair said, "I have need of a man like Master Parris on my voyage."
The king frowned. "There are many physics in England."
"It is not for his knowledge of physic that I need him. It would seem he is also knowledgeable in the dark arts."
Edward's frown deepened. "That does not commend him for any righteous task."
"But Your Grace, I am told there are native peoples on this island. I wish to evangelize them and bring them to the knowledge of the true Protestant faith of the Church of England."
"A worthy mission," the king said with passion.
"But the devil is strong in such faraway places. He will fight our progress with invisible spirits and all his wiles. If I take a man such as this along— in chains, of course, as my prisoner— he may see the work of the devil for what it is, and so give me warning. Besides"— Sinclair's scarred mouth twisted into a frightening smile—"such exile is a worthy punishment for one who has betrayed you so wickedly."
"I like this plan," the king said. "It is just and fair, and it will aid in furthering the gospel to the ends of the earth. Go, with my blessing."
"Your Grace!" Parris said. "Have mercy, I beg you. It's true that corpses were brought to my home, but not for devil worship!"
Northumberland laughed. "He condemns himself with his own mouth. Take him away."
Soldiers grabbed his shoulders, but Parris shook them off . "No! Your Grace!"
The hilt of a sword slammed against his head, dazing him. He felt himself hauled to his feet by strong hands under his arms. Sinclair spoke in a whisper: "Well done, but don't overdo it. Come out quietly."
Parris lashed out with his fists and struck Sinclair in the head once, twice. Sinclair staggered. His turban slipped off his head and onto the rug.
Parris tried to hit him again, but the soldiers wrenched his arms behind his back and held a bayonet in his face. Sinclair scooped up the turban and put it back, but not before Parris saw what it was meant to hide. Sinclair's bald head was traced with a glowing filigree of light that shone through his skin in organic loops and whorls like a thousand fingerprints intertwined.
The king and the duke had not seen; their view was blocked by the soldiers. What could it mean? Parris had never seen anything like it.
"I will take Master Parris into my own custody," Sinclair announced. He bowed. "I thank Your Majesty for your most gracious support."
Parris stumbled through the palace, dragged along by the soldiers. Sinclair's African servant awaited them.
"Leave him with me," Sinclair told the soldiers. "Maasha Kaatra will make certain he doesn't escape."
Parris took one look at the African's cold dark eyes and had no doubt it was true.
Chapter Seven
PARRIS couldn't believe it. Sinclair had betrayed him completely, and now he was laughing as if he would never stop. The African, too, was grinning broadly. Sinclair clapped him on the back. "I could have cut glass on your glare," he said. "You had half the court terrified. And you!" He gestured at Parris. "You looked about to tear my throat out, and that punch! Very convincing, though a bit painful." He rubbed at his head where Parris had struck him.
They rode back toward the city through the ankle- deep mud of Dover Road. The ancient track was part of what had once been a Roman road connecting London to Canterbury. The mud was so thick the horses' hooves made sucking noises as they stepped their way through.
"You find it funny to ruin a man's life?" Parris said.
"You're serious? Come, man, it's what you want. You were planning to come along anyway."
That doesn't mean you had to force me.
"Your secret's getting out. That cousin of yours has been dropping hints around the court; it was only a matter of time. If anyone else had told the king, you would have woken up in the Tower, and that wouldn't have helped either of us."
"And my fortune? My lands?"
Sinclair shrugged. "You would have invested anyway."
"Not all of it."
"So we'll leave you an estate. Relax. This was the way it had to happen."
Parris was still angry, but he felt some of the panic bleeding away. Sinclair was right; in fact, he had already planned to liquidate some of his holdings to finance the expedition. But he didn't like to be manipulated.
"I forget myself," Sinclair said. "Stephen Parris, this is my friend and fellow conspirator, Maasha Kaatra."
Parris eyed the African warily. "Why do you call him that?" he asked Sinclair. "It's an unusual choice." Most slaves were given proper English names like James or William.
"That's his name," Sinclair said. "And he's no slave. He was a prince in Nubia, before his father sold him and his family to the Portuguese."
"Why does he wear livery, then?"
"It is sometimes convenient to appear to be what others expect," Maasha Kaatra said.
"You should have warned me," Parris said. "Why didn't you show me that golden fruit before, when you were at my house?"
"Why didn't you show me that golden fruit at my house?" he asked.
Now it was Maasha Kaatra's turn to laugh. "That fruit never came from a golden tree. It was crafted in Sumatra. Stolen from a pagan temple by the same Portuguese raiders who took me from my home."
Parris blinked rapidly and coughed. "You swindled the King of England?"
"For a good cause." Sinclair said. "Horizon holds more wonders than those provincials at court could ever dream of. My message was in essence true."
"And now w
hat? Am I to be confined on the ship?"
"What nonsense you speak. Go home to your family. Tomorrow, we begin. There is much to do before we can sail."
As they neared the city, Parris could see the lights of Whitehall Palace and Westminster behind it. To his right, two cows wallowed, escaped from nearby fields. He imagined Joan waiting at the door for him, anxious for his safety, but she wasn't that kind of woman. He found her in a rocking chair by the kitchen fire, almost a mirror to how he had left her: still knitting, the chair groaning a slow rhythm while the flames crackled. She didn't even look at him.