Shouts arose—his father’s name cursed as rotting fruit sailed over Gaelan’s head toward the wagon upon which his father stood, upright and still, searching the crowd. “Father!” he heard himself shout before the guards yanked harder on his hair. The crowd swam in and out of Gaelan’s vision as his scalp burned.
“Silence!” they growled.
Gaelan shouted again, ignoring the pain in his arms and head, hoping his father would know he was there. No longer courtier and alchemist, physician and friend to the king, Lord Thomas Erceldoune, stripped now of title, lands all forfeit to the Crown, looked down from the back of a wood cart, his gaze fixed on his son. Relief flooded briefly through Gaelan’s veins as Thomas nodded once in his direction. But Gaelan could neither forestall the tears nor the terror, knowing what lay ahead for his dear papa—for them all.
Had it been only a fortnight ago they had celebrated his eleventh birthday right above this courtyard, in the palace nursery?
Thomas was shoved, bound and shackled, onto the platform, but he did not fall, remaining upright, proud, and defiant as his accusers addressed him.
“How the mighty have fallen, Erceldoune—sorcerer, betrayer of the very one who has been for these years both sovereign and protector. Do ye not know the magical arts are outlawed?”
Gaelan’s father only stared ahead.
“You have been condemned to die for magical healing, a capital crime against the Crown. Witness upon witness has testified to ‘miraculous’ recoveries after the touch of your hand and the potions of your cauldron. What say you, Erceldoune?”
Gaelan’s father stood unmoving, defiance, not fear, in his countenance.
“Answer, prisoner!” The executioners, dressed in black from head to toe, bound Thomas to a lone pike in the midst of the platform, surrounded by bales of straw.
Gaelan tried to pull away from the guards, run to his father, do something to help him. He searched the crowd again for his mother, his sisters, but could not find them as the guards forced his face forward toward his father. The crowd grew precipitously louder, more insistent in its taunts. Finally, his father spoke, and Gaelan knew he was speaking directly to him, voice even and calm as ever it was.
“It is for all men that come into the world to die, and after death the judgment! Death be a debt all must pay; it is but a matter of small moment what way it be done. And aye, I am come hither to die. Providence having brought me hither, it is upon me to clear myself of some aspersions laid upon my name for the sake of my children—my young son and his sisters, and for my goodly wife and my father’s good name.
“It was the king called me to such vaunted estate, to be his physician and counselor. But I have offended my prince, for which I humbly ask him heartfelt forgiveness. I beseech you, my sovereign, and pray to God Almighty that he will forgive me my offenses. Ne’er it was my intent to commit offense, magical or otherwise, as it has been my sole purpose to serve His Majesty, my Lord, and see to his well-being. Many have called me a purveyor of magical healing, sorcery, and I say here that this is untrue. Yet I am not without sin, and I am ready to die and go to my Lord God. But as I do so, I desire with a full heart for my son, my daughters, my wife, and all who gather here today to witness this death, pray as do I for the king’s grace, that he may long live with you, may long reign over you.”
Gaelan did not understand his father’s words. Why was he begging the king’s pardon, asking for forgiveness? Confessing guilt? His father was guilty of nothing.
He heard the shout from the platform. “Enough of this!”
Gaelan fought again to pull himself from the guards’ grasp, clamp shut his eyes as torches appeared from nowhere, fierce orange banners of flame as they bent to touch the pallet of straw and wood. Now the inferno filled his vision; the crackle and spit of the fire drowned out all else as his father melted into it, indistinct from the hellfire that consumed him whole. . . .
Gaelan gasped as he focused on the familiar quiet of his bedchamber, no longer in the palace courtyard. The orange of the flames faded, replaced by beams of yellow sunlight snaking through window blinds. It had been a dream . . . that dream.
Fighting for air, he tried to still the trembling in his hands. Cold beads of sweat skated down his back, and Gaelan pulled the bedcovers higher. It had been many years since those images had plagued him, yet they were vivid and fresh, seeming but days, not long centuries since . . .
The book must have resurrected that accursed day from the farthest regions of his mind.
When he was burned, Thomas had only just begun tutoring Gaelan on the peculiar ouroboros book. “It is your legacy, my son,” his father had told him with great seriousness and pride. “We shall turn it and turn it, and turn again until you know it as I do, as did my father and his before that. In it are held all the laws of medicine and nature, and only when you are ready, you shall use it. But it will require of you years of study, perhaps five, perhaps ten, perhaps a lifetime.”
Thomas turned the pages slowly, not reading—not yet, he’d explained—but pointing out the images, their significance, the languages, and the weight of their history. And then his father was ripped from them with a summons to the palace brought by two of the king’s guard.
It was not uncommon for Thomas to be called, even late at night, to King James’s study. But this time had been different, leaving his mother trembling, his sisters weeping and gripping Gaelan’s hands so tightly he could feel it even now if he concentrated.
“You must go, Gaelan, to my father’s house,” Mama sobbed, holding him to her bosom. “It is the only way. Quickly. You know how to get there, and he will take you where it is safe.”
He’d not wanted to leave them; he did not understand at all. “But, Mama—”
“Wait. Take this book; show it to no one, not even my father, who will seize it from you and burn it. Say no more, my lovely son. Your grandfather will keep you until—”
She placed the ouroboros book in a satchel along with his clothing and his study books, shepherding him from the door and into the night. It was the last time he had seen any of them safe.
Gaelan scrubbed the tears from his cheeks as he observed the morning light casting the book’s cover in an almost unearthly glow. It would not be long now until Simon Bell appeared at his door for the elixir.
The dream left with Gaelan an uneasiness he could not shake. Unanswered questions from the night before hung before him. What if something should go wrong? What if this was not cancer, but some other disease ravaging Sophie Bell’s body? He’d neglected to inquire of other intervening issues. A poor constitution? Fevers? Yet surely Bell would have mentioned it. But could Bell be trusted? Could any desperate man?
Gaelan dispelled his doubts as he descended the stairs to the shop. After placing the cobalt blue phial on the counter, he opened up and waited for Bell. Breathing in the scent of drying herbs, aromatic oils, and teas, Gaelan assured himself that all would be well.
The doorbells jingled, and he looked up from his Times and into the hard-eyed countenance of Lyle Tremayne. He was an intimidating presence—not big, but tough. A well-attired monster in frock coat and cravat. He was too near, his heavy breath oppressive, and Gaelan struggled not to gag on it.
Gaelan had run into the Tremaynes of the world far too often—bullies all. This one owned half of Smithfield, and more than half the merchants and tradesmen cowered in fear of him, paying him handsomely just to stay in business and stay alive.
“And what might I do for you this fine morning, Mr. Tremayne? I’ve a fine new—”
Tremayne’s gaze roamed the counter, resting upon the cobalt phial. “Shut it, Erceldoune. You know what I want. I want you to leave my girls alone. Fix ’em up; send ’em back to me. That’s it. No sweet-talking them, no trying to convince them to go back home to their folk. You cost me plenty, apothecary, and I’ve good mind to see you ruined.”
Gaelan refused to be daunted by either Tremayne’s tough talk or the gang of ruffians th
at followed in his wake. “I keep them in good health, best I can, Mr. Tremayne, have done these past ten years and more—as promised. But if you work them when they’re diseased, they’ll only worsen—make your . . . patrons . . . ill, as you well know, especially if they’re plagued with certain—”
Tremayne took another step forward, now mere inches from Gaelan’s face. “You just mind your own bloody business. I’ve got my eye on you, apothecary. I know a bit about you, what you conjure up in that laboratory of yours—” He scooped up the cobalt phial, turning it in his large fingers, stopping to closely examine the skull and crossbones.
Gaelan froze. It was a provocation, nothing more. “I’ve nothing . . . nothing here but goodly medicines, as you well know—”
“Is that right? Not what I’ve heard. Plenty of rumors round ’bout how you bewitched Lord Kinston’s only daughter that night so many long years ago. Gave to her potions and such—” Tremayne set the phial emphatically on the counter. Point made.
“I’ve no idea why you might think it so. I—”
“You are not what you seem, if you catch my drift. I’m no fool, Erceldoune, but I’ve held my tongue all these years for the good you’ve done me and my men . . . and ladies. However—”
A threat dangled in Tremayne’s unfinished sentence. Gaelan exhaled shakily, determined to stand his ground against the thug.
Another customer entered the shop, and Tremayne backed away quickly. “Mind my words, Erceldoune.”
CHAPTER 7
Simon awoke at Sophie’s side. He had collapsed in her rocking chair, their hands yet entwined. Morning brought little change, for good or ill. Still she slept peacefully, the rise and fall of her chest a comfort.
After untangling his limbs, Simon crossed the room to her bureau, the sight of her hairbrush leaving him nearly undone. Infused with his favorite fragrance—Eau de Sophia—it called out to him with memories of better times. He brought it to his face, running his fingers along the polished walnut, the soft bristles . . . How many times had he sat beside her and brushed her long, dark hair?
She would grow impatient, admonishing him with mock anger and a seductive grin. Firm strokes with the brush would evolve into caresses, soft and sensual, his fingers meandering through her curls. Soon enough she would surrender with feigned irritation, hairbrush tumbling to the floor, a forgotten prop.
Their marriage was something rare and beautiful—friends and lovers, she would say with some pride, when women were prized possessions but seldom equals. She would ever blush when he’d proclaim to a room of dinner guests that her brilliance far exceeded his own.
Simon loved to watch her from the library threshold as she perused his collection with the delight of a child on Christmas morning. History, literature, philosophy: her appetite for learning knew few bounds. The thrust and parry of their debates were always a singular joy, even when she challenged his ideas of medicine and science, society, theology.
“Oh God, my Sophie. What shall I do without you here to keep me tethered? I cannot let you leave me, my love. I cannot!” A sob escaped him, evaporating into the chill morning air of the boudoir as he bounded once again for her bedside, burying his face in the bedcovers.
Her skin was hot as a boiling kettle as Simon raised her hand to his lips, kissing her palm. Would this tenacious fever ever subside? He did not want to leave her side, but he’d an appointment with the apothecary and, with it, the faintest hope of keeping Sophie alive.
“I’ll return soon, my love,” he whispered, placing a final kiss on her temple before leaving quietly for Smithfield Market.
Simon’s abdomen gnawed with doubt as he crossed Smithfield, watching his footing in the muck and dung of market day. He had a hard time believing Erceldoune a fraud after all the time they’d known each other. But he must stay on his guard. What if James was right and this exercise was but another futile, foolish bit of false hope? And what of it? Doing nothing at all meant her certain death, and soon. That was the cruel truth.
Erceldoune was engaged in animated conversation with an elderly woman when Simon arrived at the shop. Brushing straw and coal dust from his frock coat, he was grateful for the quiet—a stark contrast to the market day commotion with its cacophony of cows and pigs, lambs and goats, street sellers hawking their miracle cures and sticky buns. Although, the walk had done him good. The rain had stopped as well, and the sun had tried all morning to make an appearance through the haze.
The woman took a small sack from Erceldoune’s hands. “Good day, then, Mr. Erceldoune, and thank you for the poultice. A miracle, indeed, you conjured for my Eddie.” She nodded, bowing slightly to Simon as she scurried into the autumn morning. A new customer entered the shop. Too bad.
Erceldoune glanced up from his ledger, setting down his pen. “Ah, good morrow to you, Dr. Bell. You look much improved this morning. If you don’t mind, let me see to Lil’s needs and then I shall close up the shop that we might speak in private.”
Good. Hopefully it would be quick. “Indeed, Mr. Erceldoune, but I am in quite a hurry, as you might imagine, sir.”
Erceldoune held up a hand, motioning the young lady to a curtained area behind the counter.
“A moment, sir! I’ll be but a moment.” Erceldoune turned away from Simon, ushering the girl behind a threadbare curtain.
Simon roamed the shop, anxious, trying to find a distraction in reading the Latin labels on bottles of colorful liquids and jars of aromatic herbs. Erceldoune and the girl spoke in hushed tones, yet it was impossible not to overhear them.
“Ah, Lil, what have you got yourself into now, lass?” Erceldoune admonished the young woman, who could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years.
“Mr. Erceldoune, I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr. Tremayne, he—” The girl sobbed as she explained what this “Lyle Tremayne” did to her.
Simon’s patience waned as the minutes ticked by, no longer distracted after two circuits around the small shop. “Mr. Erceldoune,” he called through the curtain. “I must forthwith return to my wife—”
Erceldoune reprimanded the girl, not unkindly, and not, Simon thought, for the first time. “Please, Lil, you must heed me, lass. I shall give you this remedy, but each time the medicine works less and less well. You must allow yourself time to heal. Lyle Tremayne is an evil bastard, and you should run as fast as you can to leave his influence. An aunt, a cousin . . . anyone would be better than staying under his roof. I fear you should not be long for this earth should you insist on working for him and his monstrous lot.”
As they emerged, Erceldoune removed a pair of gloves, setting them in a basket behind the counter. The girl nodded, her hand on the doorknob before the apothecary stopped her, handing her several coins.
“Mr. Erceldoune, I . . . It is I should be paying—”
“I worry about you, y’know, lass. This should tide you over a fortnight, until you might again be able to work. If you’ve a need I can give you more—even enough to leave this place, if you would only allow me—”
She nodded, taking the coins. “Thank you, Mr. Erceldoune.”
“Help yourself to a cup of my special tea; kettle’s hot. It’ll do you a good bit of good, but mind you keep the door locked as you leave.”
“I will, Mr. Erceldoune, and thank you.”
Erceldoune hung the “Closed” sign and led Simon through a door and into his private office.
“Forgive me,” Simon whispered, certain the young lady might hear them through the door. “I could not help but overhear . . . ?” Time was short, but he was curious.
“Ah,” sighed Gaelan. “Lil is a good girl. She got herself into some trouble with her family, and now she’s come to this merciless paradise, run away from a drunken father and an indifferent mother. She’s no choices, no future. Hundreds like her out here in these streets. Quite disheartening. But I do what I’m able.” He shook his head. “Now she’s got herself in with a very bad sort. Lyle Tremayne is more than a whoremonger; he’s a ru
thless, murdering scoundrel, but do not allow me to get started on that blackguard.”
“Why is he not in prison?”
“Ha! Indeed, Lyle Tremayne possesses much influence for all his foul deeds—friends in Parliament, at court—a clientele, which, as it were, he keeps in a small ledger. None dare take him on; he’s the means to wreak much havoc in many in high places. As for myself, I stay out of his way and keep his girls healthy as I’m able. For that he leaves me be to ply my trade—for the most part, at any rate.”
Simon sat in a faded but comfortable wing chair alongside the small oak table where they had shared over the years many an ale, many a conversation. He’d missed Erceldoune’s company, and perhaps if . . . when Sophie was again to rights, they might again be friends. But now he must get down to the business at hand.
Producing a small cobalt glass phial from his pocket, Erceldoune explained, “It shall work quickly on the tumors; the cancer should be gone within three to four days.” Setting down the bottle, he went on, his gaze fixed directly on Simon. “The potency of the elixir is such that especial care must be taken in its handling. I pray you heed my instructions—to the letter.” Erceldoune tapped the attached parchment scroll. “Do not vary from them by a single word. If you do, I shall not be accountable for the consequences!”
The dire warning alarmed Simon as he pocketed the blue phial. “And you’re certain it is safe?”
“To erase a cancer, you cannot simply administer laudanum, bleed her, and pray, sir! Danger oft times goes hand in hand with strong medicine, but if you take care—”
“Thank you, Mr. Erceldoune. Might I, in happier times, when my wife is again full of vigor and free of her cancer, visit you here? I do miss our conversations.”
“Aye, I think it would do me good as well.”
Simon took Erceldoune’s proffered hand. The girl was yet in the shop, sipping from a bone China cup.
The Apothecary's Curse Page 5
