Court of Conspiracy Read online

  “Thieves usually come in the night,” he said at last.

  “I am no thief,” she said, her head high. “I needed shelter.” Her accent was not local, and she clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering with cold. Humanity overcame caution. Here was a soul in need and he could not in all conscience turn her away.

  “I have breakfast enough for two. You will find a pump further down near the fleshing house.” He pointed at an inner door. “When you come back I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  A few minutes later, Luke noted that his intruder had made a fair job of cleaning her face and hands and tried to make her hair presentable, but the shock of cold water had intensified her shivering. He could see that the gown had once been of excellent quality and wondered what misfortune had brought her to this pass.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Hampton Court Palace,” he said, nodding to the stool opposite his chair. “Sit down. Eat what you will. The food will warm you.” He put slices of beef in a dish on the floor and Joss ate them with the delicacy common to the greyspring, unlike his human guest who was trying to cram everything in her mouth at the same time, protecting her trencher with a curved arm.

  “Take your time, girl. Nobody will steal it, and your stomach won’t thank you for dumping that lot into it half-chewed. I shall be dosing you. What is your name?”

  “Philippa Garrod,” she said through a mouthful of bread and honey. “But the old cook used to call me Pippa. Who are you, sir?”

  “Luke Ballard, apothecary.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you physick the King?”

  Luke burst out laughing. “God’s wounds, no. The royal apothecaries do that, and very thankful I am about it. I do not treat the court, just the poor and the workers. That said, being nearest to the Tiltyard, I do get the occasional noble head to mend.”

  “But you know the King?”

  “Few know the King and I am no exception, but His Majesty is aware of the existence of those who work within the confines of his palaces, and I expect I am no exception to that, either. Where do you hail from, Mistress Garrod?”

  She sat quite still, her eyes wide as if in shock. It took Luke a few moments to realize that she saw nothing of the outward world. He walked toward her, stopping only when Joss moved to stand between them, gazing at him, her head on one side. Then he understood. This girl was in an elemental trance, which meant only one thing. That, like him, she was an elemancer. No dog accompanied her, so it was almost certain her talent was unrecognized.

  Luke remembered when his gift had been confirmed by the old Elemagus, Kolby Verrall. His reaction to the news had been mixed. He had been excited and elated that he could perform elemental magic. That had been outweighed by relief that his visions, and the occasional spontaneous combustion of rushlights or his ale becoming hot when he was agitated, was to be expected, his element of affinity being fire.

  He frowned, considering the repercussions that might ensue from this girl’s intrusion into his world. Had she been guided to his house by her talent? Had another elemancer sent her here, and if so, why? Would he be expected to train her and hone her skills? He hoped not. He had no desire to change his way of life, being settled and respected by his neighbors. His frown deepened as he pondered the subject of her trance. Logic dictated that a higher power had directed her steps to him, but was that a power for good or evil? Time would tell.

  Leaving the connecting door open, Luke tiptoed into his shop, from where he could hear the clash of arms from the Tiltyard only too clearly. Joss would come and tell him when the girl was back from wherever the trance had taken her. He began stripping the leaves from the hemlock and henbane stems, his hands shaking a little. He knew that undiscovered, untrained elemancers existed, but he had never encountered any. And now one had suddenly appeared in his shop. His hand stopped as he considered this further. Surely had she been sent by someone from the malus nocte he would have sensed it?

  “It must be God’s work,” he said aloud. “I am in need and He has sent me a helpmeet, even if she is a woman. I must give thanks and not question His ways.” He dropped to his knees on the earth floor by the counter and muttered a prayer of heartfelt gratitude.

  Luke added oils to the mortar, wondering what the girl’s element of affinity was. He tiptoed back into the kitchen, his eyes flicking around it. She was nowhere near the fire, so it was not that. She was also covered with enough earth to rule that out, too. His eyes dropped to the bucket of water by the stone sink just behind where she sat. Should he move it? He transferred his gaze to her. How old was she? Seventeen? Why was she not married? Or mayhap it was a husband she had deserted. Was she a wraith that had sprung from out of the mist—or something altogether more ominous? His initial reaction, that she had been sent by God, wavered. Few were safe from the strictures of life under the Tudors. Anything not understood or accepted by the authorities rendered the victim liable to a horrible death. Had someone outside the Guild of Elemancers become aware of his talent and sent this girl as a spy to entrap him? He must tread carefully.

  Joss padded through to him, wagging her tail. Perhaps his unwanted guest was waking up. He followed the greyspring back into the kitchen and approached the table. Joss made no move to stop him as she would have done had the girl still been entranced. A few seconds later, Pippa’s eyes opened.

  “Where am I?”

  “Don’t you know?

  She sprang up, nearly falling over the bucket, her eyes still befuddled with the remnants of the trance.

  “Have no fear, girl. You’re quite safe.”

  “My aunt said they would burn me as a witch. She threatened to tell the authorities. That’s why I ran.”

  “When you fall asleep like that, what do you see?”

  Pippa stared at him, her fingers to her lips, fear and distrust clouding her eyes.

  “Does this happen often?” He saw the answer in her face. “Aye? Good.” Luke could not prevent excitement coursing through him.

  “What’s good about it?” she asked. “All it’s ever done is get me into trouble.”

  “Have you noticed that certain conditions set it off?”

  She shook her head.

  “When did it last happen?” he asked.

  “Yesterday evening when I crossed the river. Why? What is it?”

  Luke opened his mouth to explain, but closed it again. He needed to know much more about her before he uttered the word elemancer. Mayhap he had already said too much. “Will your family be searching for you?”

  “They’re probably on their knees saying masses and prayers to St. Jude and the Sacred Heart of Jesus, grateful that I have gone.”

  “Catholics?” asked Luke, his voice sharper.

  “Aye. The old religion shines bright for them.”

  “And you?”

  “They delighted in telling me I would burn in hell for being the daughter of a heretic, if I didn’t burn as a witch.”

  “’Tis them will burn, not you. I thank God that King Henry IX follows his mother’s religion.”

  The girl brightened. “My mother was a serving maid at Hever when Her Grace met the late King. Aunt Margaret said that Hever was where Mother was corrupted. They call Queen Anne the Great Whore even now.”

  “You should report this for your own safety.”

  Pippa shrugged. “Who would believe my word against theirs? You seem to know a lot about my...dreams. How?”

  “Joss told me you were in a trance. She’s a greyspring. A greyhound mated with a springing spaniel. They have the sight ability of the greyhound and the scent ability of the spaniel.” He clicked his fingers and Joss nuzzled his hand. “She was protecting you.”

  “From what?”

  Luke cursed himself for a fool. Unused to company, he had allowed his tongue to carry him away. Hi
s excitement had betrayed him, and he sensed the girl would keep probing. Joss trusted her, though, and Luke trusted his greyspring implicitly. He also kept in mind that his busy season was almost upon him. When the days grew hot, his shop would be thronged by those whose physical work caused the body to overheat, leading to many minor ailments. The days when the constant drain on his stocks and his energies left him almost unable to string two words together by nightfall. The days when he longed for someone to assist in the shop.

  The girl folded her arms. “You may as well tell me.”

  He had only moments to make a decision. Was she an ally or his enemy? If the latter, then who had sent her, and how had he been betrayed? If the former, she was indeed an answer to his prayers. His heart beat so fast and loud, he was surprised she could not hear it. He took a deep breath, deciding to trust his instinct and his dog.

  “You are an elemancer. We go into trances, see the future, or something that is taking place elsewhere. Anything that disturbs the cosmic balance. Intense emotion or violent action can trigger a vision.” He swallowed as he looked at her disbelieving face. “We have magic skills and use the elements to perform our spells,” he said. “We work through the grace of God for the good of all. Greysprings are the only breed responsive enough to help us. They protect us from harm until we awake. Trances come when they will, and the time is not always propitious.”

  “You mean, you’re one as well?”

  If she was not a spy, now was the time to frighten her into silence. “Aye, but, mark this. We do not noise it abroad. Elemancers are little known and even less understood. People who can perform magic are regarded with fear and thus at risk. Speak to no one of this. We could end up dead, or worse. Tell me what you saw in your trance.”

  The girl was staring at him, her face showing confusion and distrust. Luke read her as easily as he would a leaf of parchment. She thought he was a madman, but he could discern no deception in her. He wondered if her talent had led her to his house. More likely dark magic, his mind insisted. Who was to say she was not a sunderer, come to lure him to destruction? They were the deadliest enemies of elemancers, always seeking to destroy what they had once been before they turned to the dark path, the malus nocte. He stayed silent waiting for her to speak and betray herself.

  “Same as I have for the last three days. I saw a tall black-eyed man lying in mud.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “I couldn’t see that.” She looked round. “This is a big house for an apothecary, is it not? You’ve even got glass in the windows.”

  “God blessed me. I came to my master as an apprentice when he had just lost his wife in childbed. He came from a good family, but none were living when he died. He left me this house.” Luke paused. Part of him still urged caution, but he was more inclined to trust Joss’s reaction to the girl. “I find I cannot manage shop and house by myself. Are you seeking work?”

  Pippa ceased her scrutiny of the range of cooking pots. “I know how to keep house well enough,” she said, looking round. “A good deal better than you,” she added, scraping away a layer of congealed fat from the table with a fingernail, her mouth twisting in disgust.

  Mayhap she was genuine. Luke’s shoulders relaxed and he became aware of a crescendo in the clamor outside. Frowning, he hurried back into the shop. A tall black-eyed man stalked through the door, his doublet streaked with mud, a cut on one cheek oozing blood. Several attendants, all in silks and velvets, pressed in after him. After the briefest of pauses, Luke fell to his knees, his head bowed, his mind trying to remain calm. Do you physick the King? she had asked. It looked as if that might well be the case.

  The young man spoke, his voice as friendly as if addressing a high courtier. “Master Ballard, we need a speedy cure for this headache. Get up, man, and make one of your potions.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Using the counter as an aid to his suddenly unsteady legs, Luke pushed himself to his feet. One of his colleagues in the Guild of Apothecaries had told him that Henry IX’s humor was choleric, so he must factor in the spleen. Luke took a deep breath and forced his mind to focus. Apprehension made him double-check the required elements and quantities. Moving with concentrated purpose from jar to jar, he weighed out centaury and comfrey, checked the measures again and stirred. He sensed a movement of impatience, but not on the part of his royal client.

  “God’s death, man, you are too slow. You serve the King.”

  Luke glanced at the speaker. “Better too slow, my lord, than fast and slapdash,” he said, putting the powders in a goblet, adding wine and proffering it to the King. He saw the speaker’s cheeks flush with anger.

  “Sir Nigel Kerr is ever mindful of the King’s well-being, Master Apothecary,” said another courtier, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners to alert Luke that he spoke in jest. “As are we all,” he went on. “I am sure that were you to treat His Majesty, Sir Nigel, you would concentrate every bit as much as Master Ballard here.”

  Kerr bowed his head. “My lord, you are, as usual, in the right.”

  The King laughed and slapped the brown-eyed man on the back. “Thomas, Thomas, do we detect the possibility that Sir Nigel has wagered you will best me at dice?” Turning to Luke, he swirled the contents of the goblet and drained it in one draught. “You must forgive my lord of Norfolk,” he added. “He is anxious for our headache to be gone so that there is no chance he might be accused of winning by unfair means.”

  Luke joined in the burst of laughter and bowed. “May I assist you further, Sire? I think the cut on your cheek needs attention.”

  “You have leave. One of our idiot stable boys failed to notice a stem of thorns under Jasper’s saddle. Jasper did not like it. He just heaved us into the mud. We have injured our arm in addition to other hurts.” He turned to Norfolk. “Deal with the stables, Thomas.”

  Norfolk bowed. “Already in hand, Sire.”

  Luke cleaned the wounds, applying an ointment of arnica and mandrake, then bowed again as Henry swept out followed by his retinue. Sir Nigel Kerr hung back and threw a bag of coins on the counter. “A good job you do not charge by the hour, Master Apothecary, or you would be the richest man in Christendom.”

  Luke, in the midst of tidying his counter, ceased all movement. With slow deliberation he lifted his gaze to meet that of the man opposite.

  “I prithee pardon, Sir Nigel,” he said without expression. “It is the first time I have treated the King.”

  “And on that showing, it will be the last.” Kerr strode from the shop, almost slipping in the patch of mud from water off the roof.

  “Droning tosspot,” Luke muttered, following him to the door.

  “That was the man in my dream,” Pippa said from the shadow of the kitchen doorway. “The tall black-eyed man. The one you gave the potion to.”

  Luke swung round to face her. “The King? You are certain?”

  “By my troth, I swear it.”

  Luke stared at her. Was this why God had sent her, to give him timely warning of the King’s injury? But why? None knew better than God that treating cuts, bruises and strains did not require complicated concoctions. The appearance of this unknown wench and her trance foreshadowing the King’s fall brought his fears back tenfold.

  He turned, watching the now-distant royal party. “A black-eyed man lying in mud,” he said almost to himself. “All because a careless stable lad did not notice that there were thorns under the King’s saddle.”

  “What did the King mean when he asked that man to deal with the stables?”

  Luke shook his head. “It is best you do not know, girl. Physical proximity to the court breeds the skill of ignorance in the likes of us. If you desire to keep your life, then see nothing and say nothing.”

  Chapte
r Three

  “The dog still lives.” The woman at the table read the message again, but however many times she tried to find a difference in the words, it still said the same. Only the glow from the fire and a nimbus of light around the solitary candle lit the room. The flame guttered as the draught from the windows swung the tapestries away from the stone walls with a muffled clacking sound. At once, her head swung round to check the door, every muscle tensed in fear. She clenched her fists, her eyes closing in relief, but her imagination felt the bite of the axe across the back of her neck and heard the gloating excitement of spectators on Tower Green. One false move and she was lost.

  “Calm. I must remain calm,” she said aloud, forcing her shoulders to relax, hoping that hearing the words aloud would reassure her. “You will hear the latch on the door before they come in,” she added, praying that it would be warning enough.

  She anchored the parchment with one finger, reading each letter of the message and double-checking that she had deciphered it correctly. Perhaps she had been too confident of immediate good fortune. In frustration, she jumped to her feet heedless of the heavy oak chair that tipped over backward to the floor. The next second, she swung round to face the door, whispering a short prayer of gratitude that the rushes had deadened the sound. Her pacing sent shadows fleeing around the room, and it took a few moments before she could regain enough presence of mind to concentrate on controlling her breathing and get her thoughts in order. She checked an automatic impulse to summon one of the servants on the other side of the door and, with difficulty, levered the chair back to an upright position.

  For a few moments, she put her face in her hands, but now was no time for weakness. She raised her head and heaved a sigh of resignation. What had Richard Taverner written? A dogge hath a day. She must hope that Henry IX’s day had come and gone. Surely this latest failure would be their last. It must be. Time was not on their side.