Authors: April Taylor
Chapter Two
“Praise the Lord you are back. They are here, Master Ballard.”
As he opened the door into the kitchen of his apothecary shop and house in the Outer Green of Hampton Court Palace, Rob rushed to take the basket of medicinal plants from him.
Luke closed his eyes. The summons had come already. He looked towards the door that led into the shop.
“Her Grace is here?”
Rob frowned.
“No. Your first customers. I can’t serve them.”
Relief had Luke leaning against the doorjamb, laughing. “Never fear, lad. You get some food on the table. I will be back soon.”
When he encountered the men in his shop, Luke ceased to wonder why Rob had been so unwilling to attend them. Overbearing and arrogant, staring down their long noses at him, they demanded he visit their master who had taken an ill-advised dish of oysters. Luke knew the glutton of old. He maintained a smiling façade and simply handed them a large phial of stomach potion along with unnecessarily complicated instructions and charged them three times the going rate before seeing them on their way. At least he would recoup some of the past weeks’ losses, when he had treated the poor for free.
Feeling the beginning of fatigue, a regular occurrence since the onset of the sickness, Luke made a large flagon of his restorative. Although the palace itself and the villages on the north side of the Thames remained free of the sweating disease, he had spent the last six weeks in a largely fruitless attempt to fight its ravages on the south bank. His few successes, far outweighed by failures, had left him physically and spiritually drained. If his surmise were correct and the court had brought him another tangled web to unravel, he would need as much help as he could muster.
He drank a full goblet and felt the buzz of vitality surge through his veins. The gold-flecked liquid had not just kept Luke free from the sweats, but those closest to him. Corbin Quayne, head of the guild of apothecaries had not gone out to tend the sick, mainly because his customers were from the higher classes and, like the merchant, sent servants for medicines. Even so, Luke had made sure that Corbin and his adult children, Will and Bertila, dear to Luke as any brother or sister, were safeguarded. The two other people whose health he had secured were Rob Panton, Luke’s kinsman and servant, and Byram Creswell, Captain of the King’s Personal Bodyguard at Hampton Court. All were under the continual protection of Luke’s magic.
Much to his surprise, no summons came from the palace that night or the next morning. He breathed a sigh of relief that his assumptions had been wrong and spent the morning out and about among the poor and sick, returning to the apothecary shop when his hunger was such that he could no longer think of anything but food.
After eating, Luke made up the remedies from his morning’s harvest. The familiarity of the formulae gave his mind freedom to ponder on the Queen Mother’s demeanor the previous day. His misgivings returned in full. He felt certain he was about to be thrust once more on a life-threatening mission. The task she had inflicted on him the previous summer, culminating in a battle with a kaygin sunderer called Asmodeus, had taxed him to the limit. Hopefully, if, as he feared, he was about to be tested again, he prayed that as a Dominus he would have skills enough to conquer the enemy.
The sickness forced people to stay in their homes in an attempt to avoid it but for once, Luke was not unhappy at his lack of customers. He sat by the fire with his greyspring, Joss, draped against his leg. When she turned her nose away from some tough strips of beef Luke held under it, she confirmed his opinion that Rob’s culinary abilities had not improved. Greysprings were known for their delicacy in all matters, especially food. A mix of greyhound and springing spaniel, only greysprings had the sensitivity to be elemancers’ guardians when trances enveloped them and, as Luke knew only too well, trances descended at the most inopportune moments. Joss had been his helpmeet since the day of his induction as an elemancer. She would be with him until he died, whereupon she, too, would go back to dust.
In the soporific heat from the fire, Luke drifted into a light doze. He was briefly aware of Joss standing up, her nose nuzzling his hand before he found himself stumbling along a path covered by a thick mist. However, it could not mask the evil swirling round his ears, intent on smothering him. In an instant, he had cloaked himself in a barrier not even this penetrating miasma could permeate. At the far end of audibility, he heard scornful laughter.
“Do not think you can best us,” a disembodied voice said in his ear.
“Asmodeus?”
Luke was instantly at full vigilance, only now aware of how much he had craved meeting this enemy again. Cackling mirth exploded around him. Here was not just one entity: he was surrounded.
“The demon of wrath?” The voice was at once mocking and gleeful.
Luke felt his senses being battered by arrows of malice. At the same time his body experienced painful pummeling from invisible fists.
“You are not Asmodeus?”
“Do not confuse that pathetic trifler with us. He thought he could rule. He knows better now. We are all powerful.”
“We?”
“We are one and we are many.”
“And all powerful.”
Despite his pain, Luke could not prevent his tone betraying mockery and amusement. The laughter ceased on the instant.
“Heed this warning. Do not fight us,” the voice hissed into the silence. “Or you will feel our strength.”
The sheer malevolence of the response hurled Luke from his trance, depositing him, panting and sweating, on the kitchen floor like an unseated horseman in the joust. Never before had his essence suffered such a paralyzing shock.
Joss stood over him, growling softly in the back of her throat, her stance rigid, all senses alert. For a few moments, Luke lay winded, but Joss’s continued vigilance combined with her concentrated attention on the back door forced him to stagger to his feet. Stumbling to the door, he wrenched it open, peering into the dusk.
All appeared calm and serene, but the faint whiff of diablerie came to his nose. Bastard sunderers. Luke would have hazarded half the contents of his shop that there had been one or more of the
malus nocte
standing outside only a few moments ago. The old Luke would have thought twice before action, but twelve months of study and a desire for vengeance had brought him the status of Dominus Elemancer, one who would not flee from any sunderer. He leaned over the fence, tuning his mind into the path his enemy had taken, preparatory to pursuit, but Joss had other ideas. She stood blocking his way, looking up at him with such love that he could almost hear her thoughts.
“Aye, girl, you are right. Now would not be a good time.”
He turned back to the house as Rob came through into the kitchen from the shop.
“I’ve cleaned everything as you asked, Master.” Rob stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Are you unwell, Luke?”
Luke shook his head.
“Just the stink of sunderer in my nostrils. No, do not fly to the door. The wretch is long gone.”
Rob looked from Luke to Joss and back again.
“Marry, boy, do I look that bad?”
Rob pointed to Luke’s arm.
“Those black smudges look like bruises. Who did that?”
Luke looked at his forearms, which were mottled with fingertip-sized contusions.
“This is powerful devilry,” he said. “I have never heard of physical injury sustained in a trance. Mayhap my first reaction to pursue them was right.”
“I think it better you do not, Master.”
“I will be fine. You stay and guard the house. I could put a protection spell around it, but there is little need to show them that we are aware of their presence in such an obvious manner or to give them outward cause to think they worry us.”
A knock on the shop’s drawn wooden shutters made them both swing round. Luke gestured for Rob to answer the door and took up his place in the kitchen where he could hear unseen. If this were an urgent summons, he would need all his strength, and the recent encounter had tired him. If it were another dark challenge, he would have to trust to his wits and rely upon Joss and Rob’s unswerving courage and loyalty.
He heard Gwenette Paige’s voice over a mumbling sound he could not identify. The tone of Rob’s replies made Luke hesitate to move. Was this the summons from the Queen Mother? If so, why had Rob not yet admitted Gwenette? What had the boy seen that Luke did not sense? He stepped forward just as Rob pulled the door open to allow their visitor to enter. Luke stopped short when he saw Gwenette helping a stooped old lady wrapped in a shawl against the growing chill of evening. She was the source of the continuing muttering. Still untrusting, Luke remained wary.
“Well met, Mistress Paige. How may I help you?”
Gwenette, eyes brimming with unshed tears, flashed him a brief smile.
“Master Ballard. This is Goodwife Brook. She has had grievous news. Her granddaughter is dead.”
Luke opened his mouth, but Gwenette, knowing his first instinct was to interrogate his patients, shook her head.
“The shock has befuddled her wits. Can you aid her?”
He contented himself with helping the old lady to the settle, feeling her pain and confusion and cursing the quirks of the sweating sickness. It would take the young, but pass over the elderly. His heart ached for the strength of her grief.
The beldame’s hands were cold and her body shook as if she suffered from an ague. She stared at Luke but he was not certain she saw him. He finally identified her steady babbling as the old form of prayers for the dead. Luke felt torn between pity for her and apprehension at the implications of this visit. Gwenette’s presence indicated a link with the royal household. “Goodwife Brook. I am grieved for your loss. If I make you a soothing potion, will you drink it?”
The old woman made no acknowledgment. Joss put her head on the woman’s knee, but again, the woman made no sign that she was aware of this comfort. However Luke breathed a sigh of relief. If Joss could sense no evil in the grandmother, it was good enough for him. He bent down and tried to catch the old lady’s attention.
“Goodwife, can you hear me?” He turned to Gwenette. “I think you are right and the shock has broken her mind. Do you know her, Gwenette? It is difficult to identify her humor when she has been so badly shaken.”
“I know her a little from when I helped mend the Cardinal’s tapestries.”
So that was the connection with the palace. He glanced at Rob and indicated the kitchen. Rob took the hint, muttered about checking the small beer. When Luke heard the door close he turned back to Gwenette.
“I will prepare something. Will you sit with her? It may take me some little time.”
Luke hurried behind the counter, took rosemary and elderflowers, steeping them in wine. Turning his back on the two ladies, he summoned his element of fire, warming the bowl between his hands until vapor began to rise from it. Then he added a pinch of valerian, honey and, after some thought, specific quantities from two small jars at the back of his shelves. Mixing with a spoon, he poured half of the potion into a small goblet before walking back to the settle and handing it to Gwenette.
“Try and make her drink some of this. I have another for you,” he said, allowing his eyes to rest on her ashen face. “You have suffered a shock, too.”
Gwenette’s smile of gratitude would have melted the heart of a stone, but Luke merely nodded. He knew that Gwenette favored him, but the knowledge only made him determined that he would never give her any cause to believe that he returned her feelings. She was a friend, nothing more. Gwenette urged Goodwife Brook to drink the entire goblet before taking the one Luke had left on the counter for her and draining it.
“Marry, that is delicious. No wonder I had no trouble persuading her to drink it.”
Luke glanced at her face. The color was returning and her eyes, which had been dull with anxiety, were clear and sparkling. He might not return her affections, but Luke glowed with the satisfaction that he had succeeded in lifting her mood.
Nodding, he turned to the old woman. She, too, seemed to be regaining some color and life. The babbling prayers had stopped and, apart from an occasional hiccup engendered by the intensity of her grief, she was calm and composed. Luke took her hand.
“Goodwife Brook. My name is Luke Ballard. I am an apothecary. Mistress Paige brought you to me. I can make you a potion to take home that will ease your grief. Would you like that?”
His kindly tone and open countenance loosed the floodgate of her tears, but these coursed silently down her face. She seized Luke’s arm, shaking it with each word.
“She was my little Edith. Twelve years old and as sweet a child as you could wish for. My little poppet. I had her from a baby when her mother died and her father was killed working on the roof of the palace. She was the light in my life and now she is gone. My Edie. My babe. I am lost.” Her sigh was ragged. “I can scarce take it in. So proud I was when she began working for the new Queen. She left home so full of hopes and excitement. And now she’s dead.” Goodwife Brook’s voice took on a tone of pride. “She was a good girl and the Queen thought highly of her. The Queen Mother sent for me this morning and told me so herself. I heard it from her own lips, she spoke to me so kindly.” Then the depth of the old lady’s anguish returned. “What’s to become of me now? What shall I do? My little sweetheart. Edie, oh Edie.” Her head dropped and tears fell on Joss’s fur.
Gwenette put her arm round the old woman’s shoulders. “Come along, now. I shall take you home.”
“Nay, lass. You’ve been more than kind, but I want to be by myself. I need to be alone to grieve for my girl.”
With a dignity that made Luke swallow and tighten his lips, she pushed herself upright from the settle and shuffled out of the shop. They stood looking after her in silence for a few moments before Luke put a hand on Gwenette’s arm.
“Tell me what you know.”
From the first mention that Edith Brook had been in Queen Madeleine’s service, his breathing had become uneven. If the sickness had reached the palace, it proved that the epidemic was escalating. But what did a maid-in-waiting dying from the sweats have to do with either Anne or himself? He indicated to Gwenette that she should sit, and placed himself on the opposite settle, hands on his knees, his blue eyes fixed on her face, counseling himself to patience.