The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  Sir Patrick looked as somber as he had last night. Even the wind tugging at his short cloak and feathered cap did little to ruffle his aura of calm. Seraphine on the other hand resembled a wrathful goddess, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in a wild tangle, one hand twitching on the hilt of her sword.

  Blackwood stiffened beside her. He also had caught sight of the pair. He swore under his breath, not the sort of reaction that Seraphine usually engendered in men.

  But as Meg and Blackwood descended the rocky slope to meet the pair, Meg realized that Blackwood did not even appear to notice Seraphine. His unwelcoming scowl and his stony regard were directed at his friend.

  Sir Patrick bowed to Meg, but before he could speak, he was cut off by Seraphine. “Damnation, Margaret Wolfe, you frightened me half to death. What did you think you were doing, disappearing this way?”

  “I was searching for la Mère Poulet. You do recall that was why we split paths and took separate directions.”

  “Which I never thought was a good idea. But I thought you would at least have the good sense to confine your search to the village, not go wandering off to some remote spot with this—this—” Seraphine gestured toward Blackwood.

  “This doctor,” Meg filled in before Seraphine could come up with a more insulting epithet. “I am sorry if I worried you, but all is well. We have found la Mère Poulet, or rather we must thank Dr. Blackwood for that.”

  Seraphine appeared more inclined to run the man through than thank him. She glowered at him as though she had caught him attempting to ravish Meg. But the doctor was oblivious to Seraphine’s murderous look, his attention focused on Sir Patrick.

  “Graham, you should have waited back at the inn. There was no need to come in search of me. I told you I could handle this matter.”

  “I was sure that you could, at least with regard to the old woman. I did not come here in search of you.” Graham’s tone was as mild as Blackwood’s was curt. The knight shifted to address Meg.

  “It was you whom I needed to find this morning. I was hoping that I could speak to—”

  “So there she is. Speak,” Seraphine said.

  “I would speak to you alone,” Sir Patrick continued as though he had not been interrupted. “Would you honor me with a few moments of private conversation?”

  “No!” Seraphine and Blackwood snapped in unison.

  “This is a waste of your time, Graham,” Blackwood added. “She will not be interested.”

  Seraphine scowled. “And there is nothing you could have to say to her that I cannot hear.”

  “She is standing right here,” Meg said tartly. “So will you kindly allow her to reply?”

  Seraphine grabbed Meg’s arm and dragged her aside. “Meg, you should not go anywhere alone with that man. You were foolhardy enough to wander off with that drunken doctor.”

  “I thought you had decided Dr. Blackwood and Sir Patrick were naught but a pair of idle travelers. You even teased me for being so nervous about them.”

  “I have changed my mind. There is something amiss with both of them, especially Graham. He has been asking far too many questions about you at the inn, among the villagers. He even had the impertinence to press me for details about how long you had been the Lady of Faire Isle, where you hailed from before that. I get the impression the man wants something from you. I have no idea what that might be, but I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I. But would it not be better to speak with Sir Patrick and find out?”

  Seraphine pursed her lips. “I suppose. My father taught me it is always best to know as much of one’s enemy as possible. But only go a few yards down the beach with that man. You stay within my sight.”

  Meg nodded in agreement and then stepped toward Graham, who patiently awaited her decision.

  “I cannot imagine what you have to say to me, Sir Patrick, but I am willing to listen.”

  Blackwood muttered something and Meg half expected him to protest again. But when she looked at him, he merely shrugged as though the matter was no longer of any consequence to him.

  “Five minutes,” Seraphine warned Graham. “That is all the time the Lady can spare. The two men—the two very large, muscular young men—who rowed us over from Faire Isle are preparing our boat to launch. Jacques and Louis fear we are due for another rainstorm, so we must gather up the old lady and go.”

  Meg looked up at the hut. The canvas stirred and she saw Hortense observing them. When she realized she had been spotted, Hortense ducked back out of sight.

  “Er, Seraphine, that may prove a little difficult. I don’t think la Mère Poulet wants to be gathered.”

  “Where is she? Hiding up there beneath that pile of wood? I’ll fetch her out fast enough.”

  Seraphine started up the hill only to have her way barred by Blackwood.

  “I’ll fetch her. I can persuade her far more readily than you.”

  “How?” Seraphine sneered. “By trying to get her drunk? Regaling her with bottles of wine as you did the entire taproom last night?”

  “No, by tossing you into the channel. I am sure Hortense would find that far more entertaining.”

  “I should like to see you try it!”

  Blackwood strode toward the hut with Seraphine hard on his heels, the two snarling at each other the entire way. Meg watched them go uneasily.

  “You need have no fear for your friend, my lady,” Sir Patrick said. “Blackwood might roar and bluster, but he would never harm a woman.”

  Meg turned toward him. “Actually it was not my friend I was worried about.”

  “Yes, I have observed that Madame La Comtesse can be a trifle … forceful, but Blackwood is equally hardheaded. I fear that yon slope might be about to witness a battle to rival anything between the gods upon Mount Olympus. Perhaps we might retreat to a quieter distance.” He offered her a rueful smile and his arm.

  Meg hesitated. Seraphine had referred to Graham as the enemy, but Meg was having difficulty thinking of him that way. Not just because he was a handsome man, which he was. He had the sort of Adonis countenance capable of melting most women’s defenses.

  Unlike the unkempt Blackwood, every article of Graham’s clothing was neat and clean. The only thing at all out of place was a single gold-tipped curl that persisted in straying across the man’s forehead, but only added to his charm.

  Yet it wasn’t his physical appearance that Meg found attractive, but his courteous manner, his gravity, the melancholy in his gaze that tugged at something in her own heart. When he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes, but not in the chilling manner she had observed in cold, calculating men.

  It was more as if Sir Patrick had long since forgotten how to smile and had to struggle to remember. Meg could understand that all too well, weighed down as she often was with memories of her mother, the fear of the past she had buried rising up to haunt her again.

  So what was Sir Patrick’s great burden? Meg wondered as she rested her hand upon the crook of his arm and they strolled along the shoreline.

  “I hope that my request for this talk did not alarm you,” he said.

  “That will depend on what it is about and who you are.”

  “I told you. I am Sir Patrick Graham and—”

  “I know your name.” Or at least she believed she did. He could well be traveling under an assumed identity, although she had no reason to think so.

  “A name tells one nothing,” Meg went on. “It gives me no idea of who you are.”

  “I am no one of any particular importance, the oldest son of a modest but respected family from Middlesex. After being educated at Oxford, I journeyed to London to make my fortune, as so many young men do.

  “I have achieved neither great success nor great failure. At present I am engaged as clerk for the king’s privy council.”

  “That sounds quite important to me.”

  “There are many such clerks, overworked and poorly paid. Still I do not complain. It is a mark of good fortune
to acquire any post at court, no matter how minor.”

  “Then I congratulate you, but I am more confused than ever. What brings a clerk of the English privy council to such a remote place as Pernod?”

  “Pernod was not my final destination.” He stopped and stared down at her. “You were. I was coming to Faire Isle in search of you.”

  “I see,” she said, forcing a light note to her voice. “Should I be alarmed or flattered?”

  “I do not think you are the sort of woman who cares to be flattered. But you should know that the legend of the Lady of Faire Isle is known and spoken of, even in London.”

  Meg could endure that, as long as it was the legend of the Lady under discussion. Not Margaret Wolfe or, worse still, Megaera.

  “So what did you hear about the Lady of Faire Isle that induced you to come in search of her?” Meg asked.

  “That she—I mean you were a sorceress of incredible beauty and power, well versed in all the arts of magic and healing. I confess I did not believe it. I thought it must all be a myth.”

  “Now that you have met me, you can see that it is.”

  “On the contrary, after what I witnessed at the inn last night, I realized that the stories about you are all true. The way that you resolved the matter of Mistress Tillet’s bewitchment—”

  “The girl was not bewitched! I did nothing but expose her trickery. That was all.”

  “All? You saw through her lies when no one else did. You knew she was faking.”

  “Apparently so did your friend, Blackwood.”

  “But you were the one who brought an end to it. I am told you have much experience in these matters of feigned bewitchment.”

  “From time to time, I have been called upon to deal with someone behaving as if they were possessed, claims that always prove to be false.”

  “Always? Then you do not think that there is such a thing as bewitchment, that someone really could be cursed by a sorceress?” Graham searched her face intently. “You do not believe in the existence of evil?”

  Meg thought of her mother and suppressed a shiver. “I do not dismiss the possibility of such black magic, but I pray it would be rare.”

  “If someone was damned by a witch, could you help them? Could you remove the curse?”

  “I don’t know.” Meg frowned up at him. “Whom do you believe has been cursed, Sir Patrick? You?”

  “No, I thank God.”

  “Then some friend of yours?”

  “I cannot presume to call him that.”

  Graham’s hedging started to irritate Meg. “Then what can you presume to call him? What is this man’s name?”

  Graham paused and finally said. “James Stuart.”

  “James Stuart?” Meg stared at him, incredulous. “You cannot possibly mean—”

  “Yes, I do,” Sir Patrick replied gravely.

  “James Charles Stuart, the king of England.”

  Chapter Six

  MEG REGARDED SIR PATRICK IN STUNNED SILENCE, WONDERING if she had lost all ability to judge a man’s character. She had believed Graham to be sober and sensible, but it would seem as though he was as mad as his friend.

  “I am sure I did not understand you,” Meg said. “You are telling me that you believe the king of England is possessed?”

  “Not possessed, cursed. His Majesty labors under the weight of a terrible curse that was laid upon him.”

  If Blackwood had told her such a thing, Meg would have been tempted to dismiss the remark as more of the man’s odd humor. Graham looked so earnest, she did not know what to think.

  “I fear I am explaining all this very badly,” he said. “Perhaps I should start over again at the very beginning when all these tragic events were first set into motion.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should.”

  They walked for a moment in silence as Sir Patrick strove to marshal his thoughts.

  “It all began nearly fifteen years ago in Edinburgh. James Stuart had not yet succeeded to the English throne. He was but the king of Scots, a young man and in need of a bride. His choice settled upon Princess Anne of Denmark and James made an extraordinary gesture for a sovereign king. Rather than having his bride fetched to him as is the custom, James sailed across the waters to wed the princess in her own land.

  “It was a romantic decision rather than a wise one. Our country has never been a tame—”

  “Our country?” Meg echoed. “But I thought you said that you hailed from Middlesex?”

  Sir Patrick looked discomfited by her interruption. “My mother was from Scotland, so as a lad I spent many summers on my uncle’s manor and felt quite at home there. But to continue what I was saying, Scotland is a rough land with a long history of rebellion, powerful lairds rivaling each other for power, constantly ready to challenge the king, especially one who displayed any sign of weakness.

  “James had one subject who was particularly troublesome, the Earl of Bothwell. He was the nephew of that same Bothwell who had abducted the king’s late mother, Mary Stuart. I fear the lairds of Bothwell have always been unruly, troublesome subjects.

  “The present earl took full advantage of the king’s absence to lay a plot against His Majesty of a most dark and unexpected nature. When King James tried to sail home to Scotland with his new bride, the royal fleet was beset with storms.”

  Meg stiffened beside Sir Patrick, aware of the direction his tale would take.

  “It was a miracle the king was able to come to safe harbor. It did not take long after that for it to be discovered—”

  “That a coven of witches was responsible,” Meg said. “You need not continue, Sir Patrick. I am sorry to say I am quite familiar with what happened next.”

  “How could you be? You could have been no more than a child when this all occurred.”

  “I was old enough and we have a collective memory for sorrow on Faire Isle, particularly where it concerns the fate of wise women. When word of the Scottish witch trials reached our island, we all went into mourning. All of those poor lost souls, hundreds of innocent women and men as well, accused of conjuring against the king, being arrested and tortured. So many put to death, burned at the stake.”

  Meg closed her eyes briefly, willing away the terrible image. “It is the secret dread of every woman who dares to practice the arts of healing and keep the ancient knowledge alive. You cannot possibly imagine—”

  “Yes, I can and I share your horror of such a death.” Something caught in Sir Patrick’s throat and he coughed to clear it. “But not everyone who was arrested was innocent. There was a coven of witches who gathered at midnight in a church. They profaned that holy place with their satanic rituals, burning wax figures of the king, chanting evil spells to brew up storms to destroy his fleet.”

  “Evil and profane, certainly, but still nonsense. I have never known anyone with the power to conjure storms or cause harm by playing with wax poppets. Your king should have directed his anger at whoever instigated this treasonous plot against him.”

  “That was thought to be the Earl of Bothwell. He was also accused of witchcraft, but the charges were eventually dismissed. No one could link him to the witches and many believed the charges were false, an effort to discredit the earl. Bothwell had many powerful enemies at the king’s court and then there was the strange matter of the woman known as Old Tam.”

  “Old Tam?”

  “That was what most people called her, but at her trial she was listed as Tamsin Rivers. Out of all those tried and condemned, she appears to have been a genuine witch.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His Majesty claims that she knew things about him, intimate details that no stranger should have known. It was Old Tam who cursed the king. She did so with her very last breath as she was being consumed by the flames.”

  “If I was being burned alive, I am sure I would have hurled curses at him, too.”

  “No, you would not have. Not from what I have witnessed of your courage, kindness, and for
bearance.”

  Meg was flattered by the warmth of his praise, although she did not deserve it. Sir Patrick did not know her, what she had almost done. Few people did.

  She thought of the blackest moment of her life when she had hovered by the bedside of her enemy, Catherine de Medici, the witch blade laced with poison hidden in the folds of Meg’s skirt. More than the queen’s life had teetered in the balance that day. Meg’s soul had as well. She had come so close to surrendering to the darkness that day, only saved by a breath of hesitation, a whisper of sanity. The memory would always remind her of what she was capable. If she did not remain vigilant, it would be far too easy to become her mother’s daughter.

  “It was a most terrible curse that old woman laid upon the king,” Sir Patrick continued. “Damn ye to hell, James of Scotland. May ye one day also perish in fire. My curse upon the House of Stuart!”

  Meg started at the change in his voice, thick with a Scottish accent. Meg’s father could easily have pulled off such a performance. Martin Wolfe was a gifted actor, but Meg would have thought such skill of mimicry beyond the quiet Sir Patrick. Was the accent some holdover of memory from his boyhood summers in Scotland?

  She regarded him curiously. “How well you remember all of this, Sir Patrick. Were you present at the old woman’s execution?”

  “No, I but repeat the curse as I was told by the king. These words have preyed upon His Majesty’s mind ever since that day.”

  “And therein lies the power of a curse, the mental torment that it can inflict upon its victim. Obviously the curse has not come true. Many years have passed and the king remains unharmed.”

  “Thus far. But of late, the king has been much tormented. He claims to have received notes that appear to be written in blood, notes that threaten him. The curse is upon you, James Stuart. Soon you will burn. Even more disturbing, His Majesty has seen her.”

  “Who?”

  “Tamsin Rivers.”

  “The woman he executed? Impossible!” Meg exclaimed. “Surely the king was mistaken.”