Only the king appeared indefatigable. James Stuart astride the saddle was a different man from the one who shambled through the corridors of Whitehall with his halting gait. A skilled horseman, he never showed the least sign of exhaustion even after a hard day’s ride.
If his shoulders looked stiff as the sun dipped lower over the horizon, it was owing to anxiety as the beaters tramped through hedges and bushes, searching for some trace of the missing dog. All of the hounds had returned from the chase save one.
“Jowler! Jowler, here boy!” the master of the hounds called, the cries accompanied by shrill whistles.
The king straightened in the saddle and bellowed out the dog’s name, then sat back waiting for a response that never came.
“Damn that fool dog. Where could he have got to?” the king demanded of Sir Patrick. James’s vexed laugh did little to disguise his mounting fear.
“I am sure he will turn up, Your Grace,” Patrick said, although he had difficulty concealing his own dread. Though neither of them voiced the thought aloud, Patrick was certain the same worry preyed upon them both, the image of a dead cat nailed to the palace wall.
Patrick tried to dismiss the notion, but he could not help reflecting. If anyone wished to wound or alarm the king, Jowler would be the perfect point of attack. James loved that dog as if it were his own child.
Patrick’s mind flashed back, remembering Amelia Rivers’s sly face and hate-filled eyes, and he silently cursed the woman. He should have throttled the witch when he’d had the chance. Or else swallowed his anger and feigned a smile to maintain her delusion that they were partners in the enterprise to destroy James Stuart.
He had had the stomach to do neither and this could well result in his failure. If out of spite those witches had harmed that dog, the only thing greater than the king’s grief would be his terror. Whatever magic Margaret Wolfe had invoked to ease James’s fears would all be undone. He would snatch up his family, retreat into seclusion, and the parliament would be canceled again.
All the planning, the amassing of all that gunpowder would have been in vain. Catesby, Fawkes, and the rest of his fellow conspirators would have to patiently await the next opportunity. Sir Patrick should be obliged to do so as well. Returning the true faith to England was all that mattered, far more important than Patrick’s own private vengeance.
But the locket hidden beneath his shirt containing the sacred strands of her hair had begun to feel heavier of late, a weight pressing against his heart like a silent reproach. He had bided his time far too long already, playing the part of faithful courtier, tolerating the king’s disgusting displays of affection while concealing his loathing.
Patrick could no longer endure it. If that dog turned up dead, he would not wait for James to react and go to ground like a terrified hare. Patrick would strike now, even if it meant the forfeit of his life—nay, his immortal soul.
A shout came from a distant stand of trees, one of the beaters bawling out, “Found him.”
Patrick observed the king tense with anticipation. The initial outcry was followed by an ominous silence. Patrick expected at any moment to see a stricken servant emerge from those woods bearing the bloodied remains of that hound.
His mouth dry, Patrick edged his mount closer to the king’s. His hand dropped to the hunting knife attached to his belt. He began to inch the blade out of the sheath when a blurry brown creature shot out of the woods.
Jowler streaked across the field, racing toward his master. The king let out a whoop of joyous relief, echoed by the other courtiers. Sir Patrick released a deep breath, his hand falling away from his knife. A tremor coursed through him, partly the product of his own relief and a curious sense of deflation.
He struggled to regain command of himself. Fortunately, all eyes were upon the king as James dismounted. He hunkered down to greet his dog, scolding Jowler in a jovial tone.
“You old rascal. Where the devil have you been?” James ruffled the fur around the dog’s neck, laughing as Jowler tried to lick his beard. “Nae, sirrah, your apologies are not accepted. Do you think to—eh? What’s this?”
James’s laughter stilled as he removed something that had been attached to the hound’s collar. Patrick craned his neck to see what it was; a small roll of parchment. The king straightened. As the king unfurled it, Patrick’s heart sank, fearing the witches had struck again after all, threatening James with the curse.
Ignoring the way Jowler nudged at his hand in a bid for more attention, James perused the note. The king was well out of Patrick’s reach. All he could do was study the king’s face as he read, expecting to see James blanch with horror. Instead the king’s mouth pursed with a strange expression, what appeared to be a mixture of amusement and irritation.
Curiosity was mirrored in the faces of the other courtiers, but no one said a word. Patrick, unable to tolerate the suspense any longer demanded, “What is it, Your Grace? What does it say?”
James shrugged and walked over to Sir Patrick. Handing the note up to him, the king bade him read it aloud.
Patrick accepted it and then read in a hesitant tone.
“Good Master Jowler, the king pays more heed to you than he does to his own people, so perhaps you would be so good as to convey this message to him. Instead of racing across the countryside, ruining fields and destroying crops in pursuit of his sport, the king should know that his time would be better spent back in London, attending to matters of state and his royal duties.”
Patrick blinked and then added, “It is signed, ‘A concerned friend.’ ”
Silence fell, the other men present uncertain how to react, everyone waiting to take their cue from the king. James scowled for a moment, then let out a huge guffaw. The other courtiers were quick to join him. Only Sir Patrick felt unable to join in the mirth.
Despite the insolent nature of the message, James had decided to treat it as a foolish jest. Bending down to scratch Jowler’s ear, he said, “You are a good messenger, but I doubt the rogue who had you fetch this thought to pay your fee. I suppose I shall be obliged to do so in the form of a juicy marrowbone.”
Sighs of relief could be heard all round as the king returned to his horse and gave the signal to return to the castle. As the entire hunting party moved off the field, only Sir Patrick hung back. He glanced about him, half expecting to see the author of the message emerge from hiding.
Patrick peered down at the note again, not able to credit his eyes. He recognized the bold hand that had penned those words all too well. There was no mistaking the distinctive flourish of the loop that formed the capital letter A.
Patrick crumpled the note in his gloved fist, rage coursing through him.
Armagil.
THE CASTLE AT NEWMARKET WAS MODEST COMPARED TO MOST of the royal residences. The king used it only when hunting, the palace too small to house the train of servants, courtiers, and ministers who followed in his wake. Many were obliged to seek lodgings elsewhere in the village.
Sir Patrick considered himself fortunate to have found accommodations at the local inn even if he had to share his chamber with two other courtiers. He had promised Catesby he would remain close to the king, keep a watchful eye over him. But his hatred and resentment of James seethed too near the surface these days. Any time away from the king was a welcome respite.
As he strode through the inn door, he found the taproom thronged with men. Most of those were of low rank, the sort who trailed after James in the hopes of presenting a petition or obtaining some mark of the royal favor. The sound of raucous laughter and loud voices assailed Sir Patrick. He was greeted by several of the men, urging him to come join them, but Patrick had ever despised such boisterous company. He declined curtly, heading up the stairs.
He had not gone more than a few steps when he espied a familiar figure ensconced in a far corner. Armagil had somehow managed to commandeer a stool. He leaned back against the wall, cradling a tankard of ale to his chest. No doubt he was already far gone in d
rink.
Sir Patrick’s lips thinned. Fueled by his anger, he lost all sense of cold and exhaustion. Descending the stairs, he elbowed his way through the throng until he loomed over Armagil.
His friend looked up and said, “Ah, here you are at last.”
“Here I am?” Patrick all but choked. “No, more to the point, here you are and I can think of no good reason why. What the devil are you doing here, Armagil?”
“Sampling some indifferent ale and waiting for you to return from the hunt.” Armagil’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Did the king find good sport today?”
Patrick sucked in his breath. Any doubts he might have had about the authorship of that note were dispelled by the unholy twinkle in Armagil’s eyes.
“Damn you!” he snapped. Armagil’s brows arched at his angry tone. It was all Patrick could do not to dash the tankard from his hand. Instead he withdrew the crumpled note from beneath his jerkin and flung it at him.
Armagil caught it one-handed while balancing his mug without spilling a drop, an adroit feat for a man who was half drunk. He glanced down at the note with a wry smile, but made no move to inspect it closer.
“Well? Do you not wish to read it?” Patrick demanded.
“I don’t have to. I know what it says.”
The coolness of Armagil’s admission only added to Patrick’s rage. His hands balled into fists. “Curse you, Armagil. I could—could—”
“I can well imagine, but smashing in my face will only draw attention that neither of us desires. It was only a trifling jest, man. Stop looking daggers at me and sit down, have a drink.”
Patrick glowered at him, but realized Armagil was right. The tension between them was drawing a few curious stares. Patrick managed to locate a stool and pulled it near Armagil. There was little risk of being overheard amongst this din, but he leaned closer as he ground out, “Only a jest? You lay in wait for the king’s dog—”
“I did nothing of the kind,” Armagil interrupted. “I was ambling along the lane when I came across Jowler. The dog must have remembered me from the time I treated his paw. He came bounding up to greet me and it was then I was struck by the notion of attaching the note to his collar. It was a mad impulse, nothing more.”
“An impulse? And you just happened to have parchment, ink, and quill tucked in your purse.”
“No, there was a modest farm nearby and the daughter of the house was more than willing to supply my needs.”
“Oh, I’ll wager she was.” Patrick sneered.
“I am talking about my need for pen and ink.”
“And why was this girl so terribly obliging to a complete stranger?”
“Her father’s lands have more than once borne the brunt of the king’s pursuit of his sport. When she realized what I meant to do, I had her full approval.”
“Stupid and heedless, the pair of you,” Patrick muttered. “Most especially you. You could have brought down the king’s wrath on that girl and her family.”
“If I had been caught, I would have taken the full blame. But I gather that I have escaped detection. Did the king even read my note?”
“He did. He was vexed at first, then he passed it off as a foolish prank.”
“A pity.”
“A relief. You could well have alarmed James enough to flee back to London.”
“I sense that would not have suited you, perhaps because you do not intend for him to ever return.”
Armagil’s soft-spoken suggestion jarred Patrick back to the moment on the hunting field when he had come so close to unsheathing his knife. He suppressed a guilty flinch.
“Don’t be absurd. I desire nothing better than for the king to return safely to London. It is of vital importance that he attend the opening of parliament.”
“Of importance to him or you?” Although Armagil’s eyes were lowered, he appeared to be studying Patrick intently.
Patrick was struck by the suspicion that his friend was not as drunk as he had supposed. Evading the question, he said, “You still have not explained what you are doing here. Why are you not back in London abed with your witch?”
He thought he saw a spark of anger in Armagil’s eyes, but if so, Armagil quelled it. “I have scarcely seen Margaret since the day she saved my life.”
“Is the spell she cast over you wearing thin? I pray it may be so.”
Armagil traced his finger around the rim of his mug. “Whatever happened that day in my chambers, I am the one to blame. Margaret is not a sorceress, Graham.” A smile touched his lips. “At least not an evil one.”
“Whatever she is, the woman unnerves me. You realize she accused me of being Robert Brody. Now where would she get a notion like that?” Patrick stared hard at Armagil.
“You know damned well she didn’t get it from me. I have told her it is impossible, but she is not convinced. She suspects you mean to destroy the king and she fears you will lose your soul in the process.”
“It is mine to lose, is it not? Is that why you are here? Did she send you to stop me?”
“Margaret did ask me to seek you out, reason with you,” Armagil admitted. “But I came of my own accord. I am concerned about you.”
Patrick laughed bitterly. “Since when?”
Armagil flushed. “I am your friend and always have been, albeit a poor excuse for one.”
Patrick softened in spite of himself. “No, you have ever been loyal from the time we were boys, keeping my secrets as I have kept yours. I believe you are a man of abilities with a great capacity for—for devotion. That is why it has nigh broken my heart to watch you waste your talents in such idleness and dishonor, wrapping yourself in your indifference. I—” Patrick checked himself. “Forgive me. You hate it when I lecture you, but—”
“No, you are right. I have made a poor use of my life and it shames me. I feel as though I have been asleep for a long time and have been jarred awake.” Armagil set down his mug and Patrick saw that it had scarce been tasted. Far from being drunk, Armagil was stone-cold sober.
“You ask why I am here? To do something that I should have a long time ago.” Armagil leaned forward, his eyes more intent and clear than Patrick had ever seen them.
“You want revenge upon James Stuart? I have come to help you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
THE COLD AIR SEEPED THROUGH THE WINDOWPANES. DESPITE the fire that crackled on the hearth, Meg could not seem to get warm. November had arrived on a chilling wind that spoke of the coming of winter. A gray pall had hung over the city most of the day, the light fading early.
Meg wrapped herself in her shawl as she lit the candle to examine the note that Tom had delivered to her from Armagil. He had been gone for over a week with no word from him. Her fingers trembled with eagerness as she scanned the lines that had obviously been penned in some haste.
Margaret,
The king has returned safely to London. I have talked at length with Graham and we have reached an understanding, but I must remain by his side so I cannot come to you. All is well for the nonce, but continue being cautious and remain close to your dwelling. No matter what transpires in the days ahead, there is something you must know, something I should have told you, but there is no time at present.
Graham is waiting for me. I must go. Forgive me.
A.
Meg read the letter several more times, biting her lip in frustration. She had waited on edge for days to hear from Armagil. How like the aggravating man to send such an abrupt message that conveyed so little.
She already knew that the king had returned to London unharmed. The entire city was aware that James was back in residence and preparing for the opening of parliament tomorrow. What did Armagil mean about reaching an understanding with Graham? Had he prevailed upon Sir Patrick to abandon his plans for revenge? Obviously not enough to trust him entirely or Armagil would not feel obliged to remain so close to his side.
And what was it that Armagil needed to tell her but had been unable to do s
o? That he loved her? Was that so difficult for him that he could not have taken another moment to pen a few words more? His note raised far more questions than it answered.
Meg shook her head in vexation, but folded up the note and tucked it inside her bodice as though it had indeed been a love letter. Doubtless it was the closest to one she would ever receive from Armagil.
She smiled wryly, trying to take some comfort from the fact that Armagil was back in London and for the moment the king appeared to be safe, at least from the vengeance of Robert Brody. But what of the Rivers sisters? Nothing more had been heard of the two women since the night of the murder. Seraphine speculated that they might have fled from London and she could well be right. It would certainly have been the wise thing to have done, but wise was not a word Meg would have applied to either Beatrice or Amelia Rivers.
She shuddered, remembering all the dark emotions she had sensed when she had touched that pentagram. Pain, rage, and torment that ran too deep for reason. No, those mad-women might have been forced to go to ground for a while, but Meg doubted they would so easily abandon their desire to be avenged upon James Stuart or their plans to revive the coven of the Silver Rose.
But how much longer could she and Seraphine remain in England to search for the witches? Meg had already neglected her duties as Lady of Faire Isle for too long and their funds had begun to dwindle. Seraphine was loath to draw upon more credit from her husband’s agents, so she had gone out to sell one of her brooches.
Meg had hated to have her friend do so, but Seraphine had merely shrugged and said she had never found the ruby becoming. Meg had strongly suspected that Seraphine was merely tired of being mewed up in the house. Her restless friend felt the need to be doing something, an emotion Meg well understood. She was restive herself.
Meg paced to the window and pushed open the murky diamond-paned casement. A chilling blast of air knifed through her woolen gown. She drew her shawl more closely about her and leaned forward to peer out.
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