Quintessence

by David Walton

  Father stood with a stony expression, twitching with rage. On her other side, Mother participated in the devotions with obvious plea sure. It was confusing. These men were villains, but Mother could look past their villainy and see a tradition of faith and practice that her family had followed for hundreds of years. Had the Reformers been right to dispense with the worship of the last millennium? Had God changed?

  Tavera grasped the paten on which the bread sat. This would be the moment— those who were not willing to trade their convictions for their lives would look away when the host was raised. But something was wrong. Tavera was struggling to lift it. Despite his size and obvious strength, he strained as if the bread and paten were made of cast iron. He managed to lift it a small way off the altar, but it slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor.

  A few people stifled a laugh, and Tavera looked up with blazing eyes. A chill spread down Catherine's back. Tavera scanned the crowd in unmasked fury, looking for the source of the laughter. His eyes stopped when he saw Matthew.

  "Seize him."

  Matthew stood half to his feet as if to run. "No," he said. "I didn't . . ." Soldiers converged on him through the crowd. He turned to Catherine. "I swear, it wasn't me."

  Tavera was laughing now, a low chuckle almost too deep to hear. "Bring him here."

  Catherine tried to stand, not even knowing what she intended to do, but Mother held her down with a viselike strength.

  A slow, amused smile spread across Tavera's face as Matthew was brought forward, and Catherine could tell he didn't really care if Matthew had done it or not. "The young Master Marcheford," he said. "I knew we'd be bringing you in sooner or later. I suppose it will be sooner."

  Catherine could see the fear in Matthew's eyes. "I had nothing to do with this," he said.

  "He has desecrated the host," Tavera said. "You are all witnesses." To the soldiers: "Take him away."

  Matthew didn't struggle. Everyone sat stunned as the soldiers escorted him down the aisle. She believed that he hadn't done it; he'd obviously spent last night solving the problem of their return to England, not devising a way to make bread much heavier than usual, as someone had obviously done.

  And what had been the point? A little joke? Make Tavera look stupid in front of everyone? Now here Matthew was, being dragged off to be killed. Tortured, if nothing else. They would want to know how to bring the treasure safely back home, and if they found out he knew, they wouldn't relent until he told them.

  All too briefly, she saw his head reach the door and duck through it, and then he was gone.

  AS soon as the Mass was over, Catherine grabbed Blanca and pulled her into the shadows between two buildings.

  "What will they do to him?" she said.

  Blanca looked as scared as Catherine felt. "I don't know."

  "Please, tell me. What did the Inquisition in Spain do to those who resisted them?"

  "There were many things." Blanca swallowed. "They were . . . creative."

  "What do you remember?"

  Her eyes grew distant. "They twisted ropes around people's arms and made them tighter turn by turn. They dripped water down their throats for hours, making them swallow continuously lest they drown. They imprisoned them in cages too short to let them sit up, but too full of water to let them lie down. People always talked eventually. But Matthew doesn't have anything to tell them, does he?"

  "He does! He figured out how to bring quintessence back to England."

  "What?"

  "Just last night. He didn't even get a chance to tell me how." Catherine covered her face in her hands. "Now they'll force it out of him, and he'll try to be noble and brave, but they'll make him tell anyway."

  "If they name him a heretic, they'll burn him once they wring him dry of information. The same goes for Sinclair, or your father, or anyone."

  They stared into each other's eyes.

  "You're going to try to rescue him, aren't you?" Blanca said.

  "I have to."

  Blanca nodded. "I know."

  They slipped out of the shadows and rejoined Mother and Father in the crowd leaving the church. Mother gave them a sharp look, but said nothing. All four of them stopped short when Tavera, flanked by two soldiers, blocked their path.

  His huge body and shaggy curls seemed to block the sun. "Lady Parris," Tavera said. "It's good to see you re united with your husband."

  Mother curtsied. "Thank you, my lord. It was a plea sure to celebrate the Mass this morning."

  Tavera's eyes looked past her and settled onto Blanca. He lifted her chin and examined her face. "This is a pretty one," he said. "Who is she?"

  "Our family's servant," Parris answered. "She came with us from London."

  "Have we met, my dear? Where are you from?"

  "From France, my lord," Blanca said, her voice shaking. "A small village near Calais."

  He turned her chin to study her profile. "Truly lovely," he said. "You could almost be Spanish." There was a certain tone to his voice, and Catherine thought: He knows.

  Blanca curtsied. "Thank you, my lord."

  "A fresh young girl is a delight to the soul," Tavera said. "How would you like to work for me?"

  "My lord?" Blanca flushed. Her eyes darted to Catherine for help.

  "My wife and daughter have need of her," Father said. "Surely there are others."

  "No, I want her." Tavera gestured to his soldiers. "Take her to my house, please."

  Father stepped in front of Blanca. "You can't take her," he said. "She's not a slave. It's not right."

  "Not right? Tell me, Parris, are you still mutilating corpses? Should I start inquiring around the settlement about your experiments?"

  "That's nothing to do with her."

  "Then perhaps I should inquire more about her instead. If, for instance, she's ever been to Castile or seen a Jewish family burned for heresy?"

  Blanca stepped forward. "I'll go."

  "No!" Catherine tried to hold her back.

  "I have no choice," Blanca said. "You don't understand."

  Tavera smiled. "Good girl," he said.

  CATHERINE knew she couldn't rescue them both on her own. She would just end up in chains herself. She needed help. Father would never let her try, and she wasn't certain whether Sinclair would turn her in or not. So she'd gone for help to the best source she had.

  Chichirico shimmered into visibility beside her. They stood in the shadows, looking at the prison, which had been built only the day before in the center block of the soldier barracks. Like most Horizon buildings, it was made of diamond, and though she couldn't see inside, the walls shone with flickering torchlight from the interior. She could hear raised voices and moans. Two guards stood outside a large door. She and Chichirico were bonded, which made her a bit dizzy, now that she was up and moving around.

  Go, she thought.

  He disappeared again and ran toward the building. She closed her eyes, and she could see what he saw, the diamond walls getting closer, then straight through them into the room inside. Chichirico was taking a risk for her. The Spanish soldiers had massacred the gray tamarins at the wall, and if the guards were using skink tears and waxed bullets, he could be killed. In his mind, she could feel that he wasn't afraid, and something more, that affection for her motivated his help.

  Inside the prison, through Chichirico's eyes, she saw a single high room with evidence of ongoing construction to section it off into cells. In the center of the room, Matthew hung from his hands, which had been tied behind his back, forcing his arms up and backward in a position that seemed excruciatingly painful. His head hung forward, and he moaned softly.

  Two men stood under him, one a Spanish soldier and the other a giant in a black cloak, Diego de Tavera himself. "We'll give you a few hours to think it over," Tavera said. He turned to leave, and his eyes swept past where Chichirico crouched. Catherine gasped, but Tavera didn't react. He couldn't see him.

  The Society had not yet duplicated the tamarins' ability
to turn invisible, but Catherine had done the best she could. She'd brought some of the black sludge from a Shekinah flatworm jar and now spread it on her arms, face, and clothing. It caused a prickly sensation on her skin, and she didn't know if it would ever come off her clothes, but it made her very hard to see in the dark. The shadows around her grew deeper as the sludge drew in the light.

  Catherine sneaked as close as she could along the edge of another building. She was within a few steps of the guards, but from this point she would have to cross open space. The light from inside the prison shifted, and she heard a rattle at the door. She shrank back just as it opened and Tavera and the other man came out, each holding a torch. Tavera laughed heartily, clapped the man on the back, and turned away from her. She saw her chance and slipped into the doorway behind one of the guards.

  The door closed, leaving her in near- darkness. Ahead, a short corridor ended in another locked door. It was risky to shine any light, but she had to see what she was doing. She had one Shekinah flatworm with her, wrapped up in dark cloth. She pulled it out of her bag and unwound it slowly until a glow shone through the wrapping, faintly illuminating her surroundings. There was Chichirico, and Matthew, just as she had seen him.

  She called Matthew's name. He groaned and turned his head, but with the darkness and the sludge on her skin, he couldn't see her.

  "Who's there?"

  "It's Catherine."

  "No!" His eyes sprang open wide, and he shook his head frantically at her. "Get away from here. Go home!"

  She followed the line of the rope that he was hanging from over to the wall, where it was tied to a hook. She untied it, intending to ease him to the ground, but he was too heavy for her, and the best she was able to do was slow his descent. He crashed down and collapsed like a doll on the floor.

  Catherine rushed to him. His voice was hoarse but clear. "Please go. Don't let them catch you."

  "I'm getting you out."

  "And then what? Where will we go?"

  "Stop arguing. Just get on your feet."

  "I don't want you to . . ."

  She wanted to kick him. "Get up, you idiot!"

  He scrambled up and staggered, but kept his balance. She led him toward the door. She and Matthew couldn't pass through walls themselves, and there were no other exits. They would have to get by the guards again unnoticed, trusting to the sludge. She pulled a jar of it from her bag.

  "Can you run?" she said.

  He gritted his teeth. "If it means getting away from here, I can do it. I'm not sure for how long, though."

  She took some more sludge from the jar and rubbed it on his skin. The months of shipboard travel and outdoor work had tanned him and added muscle to the once- pale and skinny body of a preacher's son.

  "I'll do that," he said gruffly. He tried to continue the job himself, but winced as he moved his arms. She continued to apply it despite his protestations, and he submitted. The stuff really did work well. He didn't just look blackened; he looked like a hole in the air.

  She paused at the door. Chichirico slipped through first without opening it, and she looked around through his eyes. The two guards were still there, and she knew she could never slip out without them noticing, even with the sludge. Just opening the door would get their attention immediately. Chichirico slipped back through the door to join them.

  Give me the worm, he said, and a vision flashed through her mind of what he intended to do.

  Thank you, she said, and gave him the wrapped flatworm. "Shield your eyes," she said to Matthew.

  Throwing one shoulder against the door, she ran out between the two surprised guards. Chichirico flung off the wrapping and held the now- blazing flatworm aloft, running out to the left, shrieking. The soldiers shouted in alarm and shielded their eyes, and Catherine and Matthew ran out in the other direction. If they could reach the shadows between the buildings, they would be much harder to see. The soldiers would turn the place upside down looking for them, of course. They would have to leave the settlement and live in the forest.

  She ran into the darkness, her own eyes dazzled from the worm's light, until she collided with someone. Strong arms wrapped around her and she shrieked, writhing and kicking to get free. She heard Matthew shouting nearby. A torch flared, and she saw that they were surrounded by Spanish soldiers. One soldier held Matthew with an arm around his throat. Her hair was twisted and gripped painfully. She turned with difficulty and saw the grinning face of Diego de Tavera.

  "Predictable," he said. "They always are."

  She could still see the dancing light of Chichirico, running away in the distance. A matchlock fired, Catherine felt a sudden blinding pain in her mind, and her connection to him was suddenly severed. The light fell to the ground and lay still.

  Catherine screamed and shouted Chichirico's name. She kicked and tried to pull away, but Tavera knocked her legs out from under her, letting her fall to the ground, and kicked her in the head.

  "No!" said another voice. Catherine rolled over, her head ringing, to see Father's cousin, Francis Vaughan.

  "What did you say?" Tavera said.

  Vaughan looked nervous. "I . . . she . . . there's no need to hurt her."

  A smile spread across Tavera's face. "I'm looking forward to breaking this one," he said. "I thought perhaps the screws."

  "No," Vaughan said.

  "No? You think she's innocent?"

  "She's just a child."

  Catherine's vision swam for a moment, and she caught a glimpse through Chichirico's eyes. He had been hit in the shoulder, but he was still alive. The wound was healing quickly, and he was making his way invisibly back to the forest. She let out a breath. At least Chichirico was safe.

  Tavera's smile turned menacing. "A child can belong to the devil as much as anyone. And do far more damage."

  "I know it," Vaughan said. "But she's so . . ."

  "Young?"

  Vaughan nodded.

  "Pretty?"

  Vaughan nodded again, more slowly.

  "You wanted her for yourself, didn't you? After this was all over, you thought . . . if she had no one else to turn to . . ."

  Vaughan stared at the ground.

  "I think you're right," Tavera said. "This one isn't right for the screws." He slid a pistol from under his robes and pointed it straight at Catherine's eyes. "She's too dangerous by far."

  His finger pulled back against the trigger. Catherine opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, the muzzle flashed. A blinding pain slammed into her head and erased the world.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  PARRIS was watching through the window when Vaughan carried Catherine's dead body to the house. His mind went blank, and for a moment he froze, unable to believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be true. It was someone else.

  Vaughan dropped her on the front step, pounded on the door, and ran away like a frightened rabbit. Not that it mattered. Parris saw the bullet hole as soon as he opened the door, and his mind couldn't deny it was Catherine anymore. He shook her body, shouting at her to wake up, barely aware of what he was saying. Blanca came running, and in between her wailing sobs, he understood from her where Catherine had gone and why. The details didn't matter. Tavera or one of his men had killed her.

  Joan appeared on the doorstep a moment later, her fists raining down on him. "I told you!" she shouted. "I told you this would happen if you brought her here." Her voice was sharp and cruel. "You killed her, Stephen. You killed her."

  The words cut into him. It was the thing he most feared, the very thing he had come here to prevent. His son, dead. His daughter, dead. Both of them because of his own ignorant choices. But no. He hadn't brought Tavera here. It was Joan who'd done that. A great rage swelled in his chest, and he raised his hand to strike her, to drive her and her painful accusations away.

  As he did so, he caught a glimpse of her eyes. They weren't pitiless and harsh like her words, but full of desperate pain. Her eyes looked so much like his own heart fel
t that instead of pushing her away, he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her into his chest, pinning her arms between them.

  "It's not your fault," he said. "You didn't know."

  She struggled and tried to keep hitting him, but he held her fast.

  "You did what you had to," he said. "It was Tavera. Not you."

  Slowly her struggles weakened, and she crumpled in his arms like a bird with broken wings. She was so vulnerable in that moment, nothing like the lioness that had kept him at arm's length since Peter's death. He suddenly understood that all her fierce strength was only to keep back the pain, and he saw how deeply he had failed her. Too late. He wanted to rewind the years, to see past his own sadness and recognize hers. She had been the strong one, the one who had pulled him through, and he'd wallowed in his own grief and guilt instead of paying attention to her. She'd never been able to open her shell, and he'd never been able to see past it.