“Tom was nowhere to be found this morning. Besides, do I require an excuse to call upon you now?”
“You did not come to call upon me. You came to see her and after you promised to stay away.”
“I don’t recall that I exactly promised.”
“You agreed it would be for the best.”
“Mayhap I did, but if I do feel a certain interest in Mistress Wolfe, I don’t know why it concerns you to such a degree. You might deplore my amorous pursuits, but you have never sought to interfere.”
“Mistress Wolfe is far different from one of your doxies. She is a guest in my household, under my protection.”
“And do you mean to protect her?”
To Blackwood’s unease, Graham avoided the question. Instead he fired back one of his own. “Have you been enchanted by her?”
The question was so ridiculous Blackwood laughed. But Graham was obviously quite serious.
“I am glad you find the idea amusing because I don’t,” he said. “I have never seen you regard any woman as tenderly as you do her. I fear you are in danger of being bewitched by her.”
“You’re daft.”
“I hope so. Margaret Wolfe may call herself a healer, but she admits to knowledge of white magic and she is a confessed pagan. To become enamored of such a woman would imperil your immortal soul.”
“My soul?” Blackwood could not help but laugh again. “We both know I am well on the road to hell.” He sobered as he added, “But I never wanted you marching alongside me. Graham, whatever you are conspiring, I beg you to stop.”
A haunted look shadowed Graham’s face. “I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t, even if you endanger Margaret Wolfe and destroy yourself in the process.”
“Sacrifices are often necessary when one acts in the name of God and justice.”
“Justice! I hate it when you turn sanctimonious. At least be honest with yourself and acknowledge your plot for what it is.”
“What would that be?”
“Revenge.”
A muscle worked in Graham’s cheek, his only response to the accusation. “I must collect Mistress Wolfe and be off to Whitehall. It would not do to keep the king waiting. Your servant, Blackwood.”
Graham accorded him a curt bow before striding toward the house. Blackwood suppressed the urge to charge after him and try to thrash some sense into the man. It would do no good. That steely glint had sparked in Graham’s eyes, that fanatical expression Blackwood so hated.
Blackwood strode off in the opposite direction, angry at Graham for being so obdurate, at Meg for not having the sense to stay on Faire Isle, and at the king for … far too many reasons.
Most of all Blackwood was angry at himself because all he wanted to do was return home and drown in strong drink. When had he turned into such a worthless piece of dung?
As he stalked past the apple tree, he caught sight of something glittering on the ground. He drew up short for a closer look.
“What the devil?” He bent down and retrieved the strange object, a white rose frosted with something so silvery, it sparkled in the sunlight. Blackwood had never seen the like.
He studied it as he let himself out the garden gate. The flower pricked his thumb and he swore. The rose’s thorns were as sharp as the tip of a knife.
Blackwood fumbled in his purse and produced a handkerchief in which he carefully enfolded the flower. His thumb was bleeding and he sucked at the tip of it, to stop the flow.
He had never seen a flower as perfectly formed as the silver rose. It was beautiful, but so unnatural, it filled him with unease. Who could have created such a thing? Not Chalmers, that was certain. He was a good gardener, but hardly a clever man and not given to any sort of grafting or experimentation.
Chalmers had said that Meg had been helping him in the garden. Far more likely the rose was something of her fashioning, but for what purpose? Did it have some extraordinary healing properties? Then why would she have been so careless as to drop it? All good questions that Blackwood needed to ask her. It would give him a marvelous excuse to see her again.
The woman has you bewitched. Graham’s accusation resounded through his mind.
Nonsense, Blackwood wanted to sneer. But he could not help reflecting that perhaps Graham was not the only one being less than honest with himself.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”
As he strode away, he never noticed the old woman observing him from a safe distance.
As the woman watched Blackwood making off with the precious silver rose, she quivered with anger, banging the tip of her cane on the ground.
“Damn, damn, damn!”
She whirled and headed in the opposite direction, her youthful steps belying any need for a cane. Her white wig itched something dreadful, and the first thing Amy did when she joined her sister was snatch the hairpiece from her head.
“Well, how did it go?” Bea asked.
“The test failed,” Amy cried.
Bea rolled her eyes. “I might have known you would bungle it. I should have gone myself.”
“You couldn’t have done any better! It was all going well enough. The lady spied me in the garden and I am sure she must have seen me drop the rose.
“I thought she would come rushing out at once, so I hid myself to watch and see how she reacted to the silver rose, because then we would know for certain if she is Megaera.”
Amy waved the cane in agitation. “I waited and waited and she never came, only Dr. Blackwood and that gardener, so I was obliged to slip out of the garden before I was caught. I didn’t know what to do so I lingered outside, hoping I could steal back after Blackwood left, which he finally did. With the rose!”
She concluded her breathless recital with a vexed sigh.
“You allowed Blackwood to take the rose?” Bea chided. “Oh, Amy, you little fool.”
“I could not prevent it, I tell you.” Amy was so angry and distressed, tears started to her eyes.
“Now we will have to fashion another rose and we shall have to try the test again.”
“It is not my fault. It was Blackwood’s. What was he even doing there? He pricked his thumb on the rose and it serves him right. The spineless, useless sot! Ohh, I would like to put a curse upon him.”
“If he got pricked by the thorn, cursing him would be a wasted effort.” Bea shrugged. “The man is as good as dead.”
Chapter Ten
WHITEHALL SPRAWLED OVER TWENTY-THREE ACRES, A MAZE of courtyards, passages, offices, and apartments. The towering brick walls of the palace spanned King Street, the wings connected by the arched bridge that formed the upper stories of the gatehouse.
Escorted by Sir Patrick, Meg made her way along the congested street, peering upward at the palace skyline, a dizzying array of towers and chimney stacks. She was assailed by a rush of memories, of the time she had made this journey alone as a child, frightened but determined to see Queen Elizabeth.
Meg could only marvel at the courage of her former self. Had she been so much braver then or only more naïve about the risk she took? So much ill could have befallen a girl venturing alone through London to cast herself before the queen known as Gloriana. Vacillating in her moods, Elizabeth could be cruel when her formidable temper was aroused, or kind, warm, and generous as she had shown herself to Meg.
Meg prayed she would fare as well with James Stuart, a man she knew only as the notorious destroyer of witches. As they neared the main gate, Meg’s stomach knotted with apprehension and Sir Patrick’s demeanor did nothing to reassure her.
Sir Patrick evinced none of the courtesy she had come to expect from him. He had scarce spoken to her during the journey to Whitehall. As the carriage creaked slowly through the crowded streets of London, he had stared out the window. But Meg would have wagered that he had seen none of the half-timbered houses or bustling shops. His gaze had appeared focused on some vision apparent only to himself.
Whatever it was, i
t had afforded him no pleasure. The set of his mouth was tense, the expression in his eyes alternating between sorrow and something harder, determined. Did his grim mood have something to do with the upcoming meeting with the king or Armagil Blackwood? When she had reluctantly left the two men alone in the garden, Meg had been certain they were on the verge of a quarrel.
When Meg had mentioned her fear to Seraphine, her friend had teased her, congratulating Meg on her conquests and setting the two men at odds over her. Meg had rolled her eyes at Seraphine’s nonsense. But it was obvious from Sir Patrick’s dark mood, he and Blackwood had fallen out over something. Meg would have given much to know what had passed between the two men, but Sir Patrick’s shuttered expression invited no questions.
Sir Patrick did recall his manners enough to offer her his arm, and although it felt stiff and unyielding beneath her touch, Meg was grateful for the support. The traffic was at its worst outside the court gate, where courtiers sought access to the palace under the watchful eyes of the warden. Servants, forbidden entry, lolled about as they awaited the return of their masters. Adding to the throng was a cluster of high-spirited young gallants who lingered to ogle arriving ladies, hoping to catch a glimpse of ankle as the bejeweled and satin-clad beauties alighted from carriages.
Observing the overwhelming press of people, Meg could only shake her head as she mused. “My memories of the last time I was here are so blurred. I wonder now how I ever managed to slip inside to see the queen.”
Sir Patrick halted, staring down at her, his eyes hard with suspicion. “You have been to Whitehall before? You never mentioned that.”
Meg already regretted her impulsive comment. “That is because there was little to mention. I believe I did tell you I lived in England briefly with my father and I was fascinated by tales of Queen Elizabeth, so one day I ran away from Papa and somehow stole into the palace to catch a glimpse of her for myself.”
“I doubt it would have been that difficult for you. The late queen was much more accessible to the common people than King James. His Majesty abhors crowds.”
He lapsed into silence again as he steered her away from the court gate. They crossed a plaza that led past the tiltyard, the royal lists that had been the site of many famous jousts during the reigns of Elizabeth and her father, the formidable Henry the Eighth.
Meg was distracted for a moment, imagining the pageantry of the tournaments, the pennants snapping in the breeze, the sunlight glinting off the armor of the knights and their richly caparisoned horses, the shouts of encouragement from excited spectators.
The tiltyard bore an aura of emptiness and neglect on this quiet autumn afternoon. When Meg remarked upon that, Sir Patrick unbent enough to reply, “King James has little taste for public spectacles.”
“Not even a tournament?”
“No, he dislikes any sort of military display. He actually shudders at the sight of naked steel.”
“He is a man of peace, then?” Meg asked dubiously.
“Yes, at any price.”
The remark was so curt, Meg wondered if it indicated Sir Patrick’s disapproval of his king’s policy. She doubted that because Sir Patrick was such a gentle man himself. If he disapproved of anyone, Meg had the strong feeling it was her.
He guided her toward the corner of the tiltyard where a flight of wooden stairs led up to another gallery of the palace. Unable to endure any more of Sir Patrick’s frosty behavior, Meg dug in her heels.
“Sir Patrick, have I done something to offend you?”
He appeared disconcerted by her blunt question. He started to frame some polite denial when Meg cut him off.
“Is it my new gown?” She self-consciously smoothed out the velvet folds. “I know you advised against any finery but—”
“No, the gown is fine. It makes you appear quite respectable.”
“Very respectable, and not in any way as elaborate as the gowns of those other ladies I saw arriving, nothing to draw the sort of notice you wish to avoid.”
“And yet you certainly attracted enough notice from Dr. Blackwood.”
There was an edge to his words that caused Meg to wonder. Could Seraphine possibly be right about Sir Patrick being jealous of Blackwood? No, surely that was ridiculous.
“I gather that you have quarreled with Dr. Blackwood and I am sorry for it.” Meg added uncomfortably, “And I should be sorrier still if I am somehow the cause of it.”
She waited for him to deny it. Her dismay deepened when he failed to do so, lapsing into silence and staring fixedly at the ground.
When he finally looked up at her, his face had softened and he ventured to take her by the hand.
“Mistress Wolfe, you must understand. I brought you to England and thus that makes me responsible for anything that should occur. My friend Blackwood’s conduct toward women—” Sir Patrick sighed. “Well, let us just say that his behavior is not always as moral as it should be. It is a weakness in his character, and you would be wise to keep your distance from him.”
“I assure you, sir, that while Dr. Blackwood has a tendency to flirt, it is merely idle play. Nothing of an unseemly nature has happened between us.”
“No, no, I did not mean to imply that it had. Blackwood is in essence a good man, but there is a great spiritual emptiness in his heart that leaves him vulnerable to temptation. His loneliness is responsible for most of his sins. Sometimes I think that I am his only true friend.”
“Has he no family?” Meg asked.
“I believe none that he acknowledges or cares for, but it is difficult to tell. You may have noticed that Blackwood is rarely ever serious about anything. Between his jests and his lack of tact, the man holds people at a distance. He is often enough to provoke a saint, which I am not.
“We have disagreed before, but our quarrels are soon mended. If I have been out of sorts and rude to you in consequence, I do beg your pardon.”
Sir Patrick smiled and carried her hand to his lips. Meg acknowledged his apology, but her mind whirled in confusion. Patrick Graham and Armagil Blackwood claimed to be such good friends, but in the span of a few hours, each of them had warned her against the other. So which man was to be believed?
And what did Sir Patrick mean, that Blackwood had no family he acknowledged? Blackwood was one of those men whose quick wit, wry humor, and blunt honesty could leave one deceived into a feeling of false intimacy, that one knew more of him than one did.
But she knew even less about Blackwood than she did of Sir Patrick, his personal history, his family background, where he hailed from. She would have liked to ask Sir Patrick a great many more questions about his friend. But he forestalled her with another smile as he urged her up the stairs.
“We must not keep the king waiting.”
Sir Patrick clearly meant to tell her no more about his friend and perhaps regretted having said so much. But what did it matter? Meg had not come to England to make a study of Armagil Blackwood, she reminded herself.
Her sole purpose was to sort out the truth about the possible reemergence of the Silver Rose coven and the fate of her mother. To do that she first needed to confront James Stuart, the witch burner. As she trudged up the steps, her heart thudded like a prisoner mounting the gallows.
Sir Patrick seemed to sense her tension. Behaving more like his amiable self, he attempted to reassure her, “This way leads directly into the most private part of the palace. It is reserved for only the most privileged of the king’s courtiers and guests.”
His smile should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. If she was being treated like an honored guest, she realized how much was expected of her, that she would either cure the king of his curse or convince James that she had.
Meg well knew the way of these things. Succeed and she would be hailed as a wise woman. Fail and she could be called a witch, and it was well known what James Stuart did to witches.
Sir Patrick exchanged a few words with the yeoman of the guard and they were permitted to pa
ss through the gate above the arched roadway. They followed the passage through to the bewildering range of chambers that composed the heart of the palace.
Sir Patrick pointed out the rooms as they passed. “There is the chamber where the privy council meets. That way leads to the Chamber of Ordinary Audience, where nobles hoping to the see the king are obliged to wait. Beyond that door is the king’s own cabinet. That passage connects to the king’s withdrawing room and bedchamber.”
He spoke rapidly, as though his own tension had increased. The way ahead of them was barred by a cluster of courtiers, all men. Gathered in a tight knot, they were discussing a matter that must have been of some importance, from their grave expressions. Meg could not understand what was being said, their voices low and many of them thick with Scottish accents.
Sir Patrick leaned down to murmur in her ear, “The king’s inner circle of private attendants, his closest friends and advisors.”
If that was who these men were, it appeared as though the king had chosen to surround himself with many of his fellow Scots. Meg could only speculate as to how much resentment that must have caused among his English subjects.
As she and Sir Patrick approached, one of the men broke away from the group and strode forward to meet them. Sir Patrick introduced him as Thomas Percy, one of the king’s gentleman pensioners, his private bodyguard. Percy was tall with an imposing frame. His face was that of a man not much older than forty, but his hair had turned prematurely white.
“This is Mistress Margaret Wolfe,” Sir Patrick said.
As Meg dipped into a curtsy, Percy’s gaze swept cursorily over her. “Ah, the cunning woman you have brought to cure the king.”
“I will do what I can, but …” Meg’s words trailed off as she realized Percy was not even listening.
He turned to Sir Patrick, speaking in low tones. “There has been another incident today. I am sure you shall hear of it from the king. He is much disturbed, so distressed he speaks of retreating to his palace at Nonesuch and again canceling the opening of parliament. You know how vital it is that he should not do that.”
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