“But why would someone kill the King?” I ask, ashamed of my ignorance.
“Revolution.” Dr. Carburi wipes his brow with a crimson silk square. “Murder the King and chaos reigns, just long enough for a fresh crop of tyrants to seize power. Come inside now; we have climbed as high as we can, and it is almost time –”
He steps through a small door into the auditorium.
We follow. The view from this uppermost tier is dizzying, like looking down a well. The coffin-shaped table waits below.
“What a view, eh?” He turns once more to the signora. “The Orto botanico – are there not plants within it that could be used to cause harm?”
“Of course there are, for one who has the knowledge and skill.”
He nods. “Be careful who enters. Be wary of theft. It is a pity the plants themselves cannot stand guard. The things they must witness! If only they could speak…”
From the seats below us comes a ripple of excited chatter, as two men in blood-stained smocks enter. Together they lean on one side of the dissecting table, until it rotates all the way around. A woman’s naked corpse lies strapped to the other side. The crowd gasps and applauds.
“Bravo!” Dr. Carburi throws off his cape, revealing a slightly crushed orchid boutonniere pinned to his lapel. He removes a small telescope from his pocket. “That double-sided table is a marvellous touch.”
Beware, the dying orchid whispers.
As the two assistants lock the table in place, a tall man in a flowing white coat strides into the theatre and takes a low bow. When he straightens, he lifts his right arm. He holds a gleaming silver knife in his hand.
“Professor Scarpa,” Carburi says eagerly, extending his opera glass and holding it to one eye. “The dissection is about to begin.”
“Why?” I whisper under my breath. Signora Baglioni gives me a startled look, but says nothing. Carburi is too busy focusing his opera glass to notice.
The violinist raises his instrument, and the other players follow suit. As the knife makes the first cut, the musicians begin to play.
I lean forward, as if to see better, but in truth I seek to get closer to the fading bloom. With its last morsel of strength, the orchid says: When the Prince of Poisons wants the world to know his might, what better way than to poison a king?
14
BE CHARMING, LOVELY. That was Oleander’s final instruction. These men do my bidding, though they do not know it. They think the voice of providence speaks to them, or the voice of their own ambition, but they obey me nevertheless. I want you to serve them freely, for their purpose and mine are aligned – for now.
I direct the coach driver to let me off at the servants’ entrance of a nobleman’s estate. A silent butler with thinly-arched eyebrows bids me come inside and leads me to a private chamber, richly appointed. I still have not been told the purpose of this summons.
I count six men, seated in chairs around the fire or standing, leaning against the back of a divan or examining a book from the library shelves. The three youngest are no more than thirty and seem virile and eager, with flaring nostrils like racehorses. The older men are full-bellied and bandy-legged, foolish in their white wigs, ruffled lace shirtfronts, and velvet waistcoats.
They eye me with grave curiosity, and some scepticism.
“This?” a younger one says to the eldest man. “This pale wraith is the skilled one you spoke of?”
“She is. Come in, my dear. Someone get our guest a glass of whiskey.”
“Perhaps later,” I say quickly. I have already taken an extra dose of laudanum to steady my nerves. I am at my best now, fearless and without shame, but anything more will make me reckless.
“As you wish. We have been told you are a young lady of the utmost discretion, is that so?”
“Yes.” I look around. All eyes are upon me.
“In that case, welcome. We are the founders and members of a private club. Our membership is select, our existence secret. Do you know what a scorpion is?”
His patronising tone makes me bristle. “I prefer to work with plants, not insects,” I retort. “But yes, I do know that scorpions poison their prey. Most are not venomous enough to be lethal to larger animals; only a few are dangerous to humans.” I meet his challenging gaze. “And, given the right boot, all can easily be crushed underfoot.”
He laughs. “Well said! You live up to your reputation quite well. You have arrived just in time, Miss Belladonna. We of the Scorpion Society always begin our meetings with a prayer. Gentlemen, please join me in speaking the assassin’s creed.”
The men bow their heads and recite.
“The Old One asks: Is it better to be the assassin, or the king?
Surely, my lord, it is better to be the assassin.
For the names of murdered kings are soon forgotten.
But no one forgets the glint of the blade.
The strangling cord.
The poisoned chalice.
These are the weapons the people fear.
These are the weapons that haunt their sleep.”
“And whatever weapon the people fear gives power to those who wield it. May that power be ours; to use it as we see fit,” the man finishes, to which his fellow conspirators reply, “Amen.”
These are the Hashshashin, I think. And I am one of them now.
They gather chairs in a circle and invite me to sit with them. Then the plotting begins. They call one another by secret names, each taken from a different killing plant: Foxglove. Chrysanthemum. Rhododendron. Narcissus. I listen as they spin their web of schemes, each treasonous thought a fresh log on the bonfire of wickedness they build together – it seems they will not stop until the blaze consumes all of England. Each speaks in turn, but their purpose has a single voice.
“Revolution is a healing plague that leaps across borders and spreads from one nation to the next. Our country already has the blessed infection. Many in England long for change, and we count ourselves among the most powerful of these. As such, we wish to bring the sickness to a head, so to speak, so that the purge may run its full course.”
“As a doctor lets blood to release bad humours, we too must bleed this patient, this England, until the dross has been emptied from its veins.”
“There will be blood, make no mistake. Blood in plenty. But first, there is a tumour to be excised. A tumour in the shape of a crown…”
Their plan reaches beyond England’s borders, for it will be safer that way, abroad and out of reach of the royal guard. There is mention of a ball, fancy dress, a masquerade… a sealed bottle of wine, uncorked in front of the King to allay suspicion… a deadly glass to be prepared at the last moment, tainted and served by a deceptively attractive messenger, ruthless and beautiful, lacking all fear….
The grey-haired man whom the others call Monkshood abruptly pulls me onto his lap. With one liver-spotted hand he holds me fast; the other strokes my thigh, as if I were a pet Pomeranian dog. I writhe from his grasp. When he does not let me go, I slap him hard across the face.
The crack of the blow silences the room. Free of his grip and on my feet, I am quickly seized by two of the men.
The grey-haired man wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and smiles. “Ruthless indeed. And beautiful,” he says, as if I am not in the room. “A dish fit for a king.”
The others chuckle. I struggle to free myself but cannot. The one called Narcissus takes my chin in his hand and jerks my face to the light. He looks at my eyes with a clinical interest, first one, then the other.
“In addition to your other virtues, you, my dear, are an opium eater of the first rank,” he concludes. “How charmingly decadent. I hope it will not interfere with the efficient execution of your duties.”
The men nod approvingly at his choice of words.
“It gives me courage,” I retort. “It frees me to do my work.”
“Does it? Give her some more, then,” one of the men instructs, laughing. “Perhaps it will make her a
bit friendlier.”
They fetch me a drink, whiskey and laudanum mixed, and then another, and soon I am laughing too, my head thrown back, as I toss my raven-black hair and dance before the fire for my appreciative fellow assassins.
No broken, lost soul am I among these powerful men. No; I am triumphant; I am all that they wish me to be, and more. The poison in my veins thrums with the joy of a homecoming.
And all the while, Oleander’s words bear me aloft like warm, caressing wings.
Dance, my beautiful, deadly beloved. Forget about these panting fools, and dance with abandon, for me alone… for soon you will be mine… but first, you shall be the king’s…
15
3rd November
Later I told Signora Baglioni about the warning I received. We both agree; the orchid’s meaning was clear. Oleander himself is behind this plot to kill the king.
Why? To demonstrate his power, no doubt. To loose fear and chaos on the world, for that is his pleasure. Yet it is Jessamine who holds the key to his strength. And what could Jessamine have to do with such an evil deed as this one?
The discovery has made our work all the more urgent, for Martinmas is scarcely more than a week away.
For two days and two nights, Signora has devoted herself to creating the different formulas for mithridatum that Dr. Carburi gave her. Untested, they are of no use to us, but when I remind her of this, she waves me away and keeps working, all the while muttering and cursing aloud in her native tongue.
Again and again she has sent me to the garden to gather the required leaves and herbs. This morning she finally completed three vials of the legendary antidote – one of each formula.
“One of them will save the life of your king, but which? Take them all,” she said, exhausted, for she has scarcely slept. “Bring them to the garden. See if the plants can advise us.”
In truth, I care little for the fate of this king, or any other. The fields and forests do not follow the boundaries of nations. But if Oleander would use this royal murder for his own ends, I will do what I must to stop him.
And if the poison prince is close, I fear – and hope – that Jessamine cannot be far away.
I will be ready.
THE TREE SIGNORA CALLS the Palm of St. Peter is the oldest plant in the garden, and the wisest. It is not happy to see me, but there is no plant I would trust more to test these precious vials.
“Again?” the palm says crossly when I kneel before it. “Already we have watched as you helped yourself to ginger, saffron, cardamom, shepherd’s purse, anise, St. John’s wort, cassia bark, and hartwort root, and at least two dozen others. Is there a plant left in this garden that has not been pruned to the ground?” Its fan-shaped clusters of leaves quiver with irritation. “Or have you come to harvest me this time?”
“Forgive me,” I say, my head bowed. The palm tree is not as big as the ancient oaks and pines of the Northumberland forests, but it is more than twice my height, and the authority it commands is great. “I know I have taken much from the garden. I come at the bidding of the signora. She is trying to create a remedy for poison. It is very important that she succeeds.”
“To you, perhaps. If foolish humans wish to poison one another, how does it matter to us?”
“It matters a great deal,” I say hotly. “For it is Oleander himself who is making his power known –”
“Silence!” The rough hairs on the palm’s grey trunk bristle in anger. “Do you think you know better than we what danger is posed by the upstart prince? He is not the concern of you humans.”
“He is surely my concern, for he is my enemy,” I snap back in anger. “He is a danger to Jessamine, my beloved – the girl I have asked you about so many times, the one you cannot seem to find, anywhere…”
I catch myself – I ought not to rage at this wise being, when I have come to beg a favour. Still, the palm’s tone softens. “Seasons change, Weed. Winter comes, and you cannot stand in the way of it. One must accept that.” Its leaves curl and uncurl again, in a gentle reproof. “Now. Why are you here?”
I take out the three vials. “These are the three mixtures of antidote the signora has prepared. We need to know if any of them has the power to stop poison.”
“Place a drop upon my broadest leaf. One drop of each, please.”
I obey. The palm quivers and mutters. “Yes. There is power here. One greater, two lesser.”
“Is the greater power enough to combat strong poisons in the body of a human?”
“It is great,” the palm concludes. “But I do not know how great a poison it will meet with. I do not know the strength of the human in question. I am old and wise, Weed, but I cannot know the unknowable. I cannot say whether it is enough for your purposes. Only that it is powerful.”
I know the signora will be disappointed with this answer, but the palm speaks the truth. “And which was the more powerful mixture? The first drop, the second, or the third?”
“One greater, two lesser,” the palm repeats.
My anger flares once more. “Surely one such as you cannot be afraid of the evil prince. Why will you not tell me?”
“You are the one who seeks this knowledge, Human Who Hears. You are the one who must pay the price of knowing.” After a time, the palm adds, “The Prince is evil, yes – but he is one of us. We cannot take sides with a human against him.”
I rise. “I understand. Thank you for your aid.” I cannot help myself from asking one last time: “Has there been any news of Jessamine?”
The palm sways thoughtfully in the breeze. “There is a girl,” it says, and chants:
“Her hair as black as raven wings.
Her lips red as a poppy flower.
Her heart as merciless as the belladonna berry.
Her will as deadly.”
“That cannot be her,” I say, my heart breaking.
“In that case – we cannot find the girl you seek,” the palm says, and falls silent.
Luckily the signora has stepped into the courtyard to tend to her grapes. It takes me but a moment to prepare the vilest mixture I can think of. Hemlock, hellebore, wormwood, arsenic, wolfsbane, plus a half dozen others. All equally deadly.
I could add honey to mask the taste, but there is no need. I will not give myself even a moment to reconsider; I lift the glass and drink. My body cries out against it, my throat gags as if a noose were tightening around my neck, but my will is stronger.
I drain the last drop of noxious potion, and look up. Signora Baglioni stands in the doorway, caught in midstride. Her eyes move to the empty glass in my hand.
“Signora Baglioni, I am sorry to impose upon you,” I say. I must speak quickly, while I can. “Very shortly I will fall ill. When I do, please administer your first formula for mithridatum.”
She takes a step toward me. “Weed – what have you done?”
“If I do not recover within the hour, give me the second formula. If that does not work, the third.” I pause. Something is wrong with my eyes. The room blurs, and my hand goes to my forehead. “If it comes to the third, it is probably best not to wait too long. I shall have to trust your judgment… about that…”
“Reckless fool!” she cries, seizing the glass from me and sniffing it. “What did you drink?”
I find myself leaning against the wall of her kitchen. Either I am slipping down, or the floor is rising up to meet me. My belly feels suddenly full of broken glass. “One of the three antidotes is likely to work. The Palm of St. Peter told me so. We only need to discover which one –”
“Likely to work! You idiot! You should not have risked yourself in this way. You are much too valuable – without you there is no hope –”
Those are the last words I hear.
The King of England is not as brutish as he might be, given that his most casual request carries the force of law. I should be grateful for that, I suppose.
Most days I am the one chosen to serve him his food. Afterwards I dance for him or sing to him. When
he is ill, I fetch a chamber pot for him to vomit into. I bathe his face with a cool, wet cloth as if he were a sick child and tell him our difficult journey will be over in another day or two, no more.
I am one royal handmaiden of many, but my orders were to make sure I became his favourite. This I have done. It was not difficult; he may be a king, but he is also a man. My lavish attentions made him welcome my company, and a few drops of a carefully prepared aphrodisiac guaranteed that he would prefer me above all others.
When he asks me to stay behind after the meal is done, I obey. When we are alone, I pretend just enough impudence to rouse his passion. When he wishes to quench a rebellion, I resist. But he is victorious, always, for he is the king, beloved of his people, God’s anointed ruler and on Earth supreme head of the Church of England.
And two days hence, I will kill him in cold blood.
Not here, in his private stateroom aboard ship, where it would be all too easy to do. No – I am ordered to do it in public, in front of the English court and before the eyes of Europe, so that my master’s will might strike fear into the hearts of the most powerful men in the world.
At last I can tally the true price of my bargain with Oleander. If I succeed in my task, I will be killed on the instant. If I fail, my fate is the same. My new acquaintances in the Scorpion Society made that very clear.
Either way, this is how my final days on Earth will be spent: on this rolling, stomach-churning journey in the belly of a ship, the traitorous bedmate of a seasick king. I would laugh, or weep, or leap overboard, if not for the laudanum.
And if not for Oleander. Am I mad to say it? I know he is my downfall, my destroyer, yet he is the only companion I have left. His incorporeal presence has become my north star. His constant devotion is all that has kept me from hurling myself into the sea.
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