“So you say,” Salisbury returned politely, but his eyes seemed to pierce her clean through. Several tense moments passed that felt like a lifetime to Meg before the man bowed and stepped aside.
“You intrigue me, Mistress Wolfe. We must speak again, I think. Very soon.”
MEG DID NOT FEEL ABLE TO BREATHE UNTIL SHE WAS OUTSIDE the palace walls. As she and Sir Patrick crossed the tilt-yard, it was all she could do not to run. Even hampered by her heels, she outstripped Sir Patrick. She wanted to find Seraphine and flee back to Faire Isle as swiftly as they could manage.
Lord Salisbury knew. He knew of her past, that she had once been Megaera. Even as that panicked thought raced through her head, the more rational part of her mind struggled to reassert itself.
Salisbury might suspect, but he was not sure or she would have been arrested before she had ever left the palace. And how could she leave England when this mystery of who was tormenting the king was no closer to being solved?
Sir Patrick caught up with her. He had said nothing in Whitehall where there was a danger of being overheard. But he seized her by the arm to slow her progress, his voice full of concern.
“What happened back there, Mistress Wolfe? What did Lord Salisbury want of you? You appear most distressed.”
“Distressed?” Meg wrenched her arm free and rounded on him. “Yes, I suppose that I am. What his lordship wanted was to interrogate me, which you might well have guessed. Why did you leave me alone with him?”
“Because no matter how politely Lord Salisbury couched his words, it was not a request. He is a powerful man, perhaps even more so than the king. I have known great nobles wait as much as four days for the honor of a private audience with his lordship.”
“I did not feel honored. I felt threatened. I fear he suspects me of being a witch, perhaps even the one behind this plot against the king. And I think he suspects you as well.”
“Suspects me? Of what?”
“Of being a Catholic.”
Meg expected Sir Patrick to stammer out a denial. He looked oddly relieved.
“Perhaps Lord Salisbury does suspect, but it hardly signifies. The king knows I am a Catholic.”
When Meg stared at him, astonished by his cool admission, Sir Patrick shrugged.
“His Majesty does nothing to prevent his ministers from persecuting Catholics, but he makes allowances for his favorites. His Grace once had a groom who was even a priest in hiding. James knew of it and did nothing. After all, the man was good with horses. Of course when Father Benedict was caught holding a secret mass, James felt obliged to let him be arrested. But the king is more than willing to turn a blind eye to your faith as long as you don’t inconvenience him by practicing it.”
There was bitter edge to Sir Patrick’s voice that Meg had never heard before when he was speaking of his king.
“You sound as though you do not appreciate the king’s tolerance. I thought you were completely devoted to him.”
“My feelings regarding the king are of no import. I am more curious about yours.”
“I fully expected to hate him,” Meg said and then admitted reluctantly, “but I could not. I pitied him more than I could have ever imagined.”
“You pitied him?”
“Yes. You would, too, if you had read his eyes as I did. He lived his entire childhood, indeed most of his life, in dread of being betrayed, murdered, of losing everyone he loves.” The same terror that Meg had experienced at her mother’s hands. “If you have never lived with such fear, you cannot imagine what it is like.”
“I believe that I could.”
“I am not excusing some of the horrible things James has done, but he is not some ruthless tyrant without conscience. He seemed full of genuine remorse when he spoke of the brother of that girl burned for witchcraft, the boy whose grief he could never forget.”
“Robert Brody?” Sir Patrick’s harsh laugh startled Meg. “You place far too much faith in the king’s conscience or his memory. James Stuart would not remember that boy, even if he tripped over him.”
Meg frowned. How did Sir Patrick know the boy’s full name? She was certain the king had never mentioned it. She started to ask Sir Patrick, but he had already turned away, striding ahead of her.
Not, however, before she caught a glimpse of his expression, the same one she had fancied she’d seen in her little mirror back at the palace. Only now she recognized it for what it was, a hatred that ran so deep, it was almost savage in its intensity.
Dear God, Meg thought. Robbie.
MEG FASTENED THE BUTTONS OF HER PLAIN FROCK, GRATEFUL to be shed of the finery she had worn to Whitehall. Seraphine had not yet returned, so Meg had had to summon one of the maids to help free her from the cage of the close-fitting velvet gown, layers of petticoats, corset, and farthingale.
As soon as she was released, Meg had dismissed the girl, needing to be alone with her thoughts. As she had shrugged into her own simple dress, she had hoped to feel more herself, her sense of equilibrium restored. But her mind was in turmoil over her recent meeting with the king, Lord Salisbury’s veiled threats, and most of all, her suspicions regarding Sir Patrick.
Or should she say Robert Brody?
No, surely she was mad to entertain such a notion. Sir Patrick Graham was the scion of an old, established household. Even descending from more modest gentry, his family had to be well known.
That a boy from Scotland bent on revenge could assume the identity of an English knight, gain a position at court, even obtain the favor of the king … it was impossible.
She had nothing to base her suspicion upon except for a few unguarded moments when Sir Patrick had allowed his mask to slip, when he had revealed he knew Robbie’s name and when he had made that acid remark.
“James Stuart would not remember that boy, even if he tripped over him.”
Little enough to sustain such a wild supposition, and yet somehow in her heart, Meg was convinced. Robert Brody and Sir Patrick were the same person.
She had tried to study Sir Patrick more closely on the journey back from Whitehall. But he had retreated behind his familiar courteous façade. It struck Meg that he took great pains not to meet her eyes for too long, understandably wary after her performance with the king.
But Meg doubted that she could have read Sir Patrick’s eyes, no matter how hard she tried. She had never met any man better at guarding his thoughts and emotions. If he was Robert Brody, he would have had years of practice.
The question was how long could a man who had suppressed such a bile of rage and hatred endure before he erupted with all the violence of a volcano? When they had returned to the house, Sir Patrick had excused himself, declaring he had an important meeting to attend.
But a meeting with whom? Thomas Percy, the gentleman pensioner who had accosted Sir Patrick at Whitehall? The mysterious Mr. Johnston? Or even, heaven forbid, the witches who were haunting the king?
The more that Meg tried to sort out this intrigue, the deeper she stumbled into a fog where even the landscape of what she thought she knew became unfamiliar.
Only one thing was clear to her. If Sir Patrick Graham was indeed Robert Brody, then James Stuart was in grave danger and very likely Meg was as well. Because if Sir Patrick hated the king and had no wish to save him, why had he taken such great pains to fetch Meg to London? What did he really want of her?
Meg wished that Seraphine would return soon so that she might ask her opinion. Could Sir Patrick in truth be Robert Brody, or was Meg losing all reason?
She could well imagine Seraphine raising one eyebrow in skeptical fashion and drawling, “Yes, my dear friend, I think your suspicions are correct. You are officially mad.”
Meg paced the bedchamber, wracking her brain for some way to confirm the matter one way or another. She might try questioning Sir Patrick’s servants, but she doubted that would avail her much. They were all of them as guarded as their master, which was exactly what one might expect in a household where the Ca
tholic faith was still espoused in defiance of the law. And perhaps even Sir Patrick’s most trusted servants were not privy to all his secrets.
Of course there was one person more than any other likely to know the truth regarding Sir Patrick. Armagil Blackwood insisted that he knew Patrick Graham from the days of their youth when they had been students at Oxford together.
But Blackwood also cheerfully admitted to being a notorious liar. He and Graham were such close friends. If Sir Patrick was plotting something against the king, it would be reasonable to assume Blackwood was part of the conspiracy.
But Blackwood had advised her to be wary of Sir Patrick. And Sir Patrick had done likewise, warning her to be careful of the doctor. It was enough to drive any woman mad.
Meg pressed her fingers to her temples, a headache starting to throb. She winced when a rap sounded at the bedchamber door, but she called out permission to enter. A breathless maid darted in to bob a curtsy.
“Oh, mistress, you must come down at once. There is a messenger arrived to see you and he declares the matter is urgent, one of life and death.”
“Who is the message from? My friend, the countess?”
“No, mistress. The messenger is young Tom, the lad who runs errands for Dr. Blackwood.”
Blackwood? Mystified and uneasy, Meg followed the maid to the hall below where a dark-haired boy awaited, pacing up and down and beating his fists against his thighs as though in an agony of apprehension.
He was red-faced and sweating as though he had run a marathon. But when he espied Meg, he rushed up the stairs, intercepting her midway.
“Mistress Wolfe?” he panted. Not waiting for her to confirm her identity, he clutched at her sleeve.
“My master, Dr. Blackwood, bade me to fetch you to him.”
“What is wrong?”
“He is sick, taken real bad. You have to come afore it is too late.” The boy tugged on her arm, but Meg resisted, eyeing the boy warily.
“Your master seemed quite hale when I parted from him this morning.” After a moment’s thought, Meg asked gently, “Has Dr. Blackwood been drinking?”
“No!” The boy’s face worked and then he burst into tears.
“Master has been poisoned.”
Chapter Twelve
MEG FOLLOWED TOM DOWN THE NARROW THOROUGHFARE, feeling as though the breath was being squeezed from her lungs. Panting from her efforts to keep pace with the boy, Meg felt suffocated by the buildings that towered over her. Crossing London Bridge was like making one’s way through a tight dark tunnel.
During her childhood days in the city, Meg had never liked the bridge with its close-packed houses and shops, the roar of the waterwheels below the arches, the clatter of carts and horses, the constant shouts of wherrymen, dockworkers, and hawkers. How like Armagil Blackwood to choose to dwell in the middle of such noise and chaos. It was no place Meg would have ever wanted to live … or die.
A drover urging a small herd of cows to market added to the crush of traffic. Meg managed to snag hold of the sleeve of Tom’s jerkin to keep them from being separated in the crowd. To keep from being trampled, they flattened themselves back against the stone wall of one of the bridge supports.
“How—how much farther?” Meg panted.
“Not much. Just the last house but one on the Southwark side of the bridge. But we must hurry.”
Tom clutched his side, the boy appearing on the verge of collapse, looking as frantic as when he had first come to fetch Meg.
Although her heart raced, Meg struggled to subdue her own panic enough to ask the questions she should have before blindly following this boy across half of London.
“Why are you so sure Dr. Blackwood was poisoned?”
“Because master said so.”
“And how did he appear?”
“Horribly pale, groaning like he was in mortal agony.”
“Was it something he ate? Something he drank?”
“I don’t know, mistress.”
“But why did he send for me? Why not another doctor?”
“I don’t know. Master just insisted you were the only one who could help him.”
“Why would he do that? He has little respect for my healing abilities.”
“I don’t know,” Tom wailed. “Please, mistress, we must make haste.”
As the last of the cattle surged past, an opening appeared in the crowd and Tom shot through it, leaving Meg to follow as best she could, clutching the handle of the bag that contained her herbal remedies and surgical implements.
She had long thought of herself as a cautious, reasonable woman. She had every reason to be wary of Armagil Blackwood. Yet all she had needed to hear was that he was ill, perhaps even dying, and she was ready to rush to his side without a second’s thought. Yet now was hardly the time to question her own sanity or wonder that a man she barely knew could have such an effect on her.
She was relieved when they arrived at their destination, a cookshop wedged between a warehouse and an alehouse. Above the shop, four stories of lodgings jutted out at irregular angles and Blackwood needs must live at the very top.
By the time she had climbed flight after flight of stairs, Meg had a stitch in her side and was gasping for breath. Without pausing to knock, Tom flung open Blackwood’s door and rushed inside. Meg hobbled after him.
It was like entering a tomb, cold and dark. No fire crackled on the hearth despite the chill of late October and the shutters on the narrow windows were fastened closed. As Meg’s vision adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the lodging consisted of one large room, sparsely furnished. The most prominent object in the room was the tester bed. Meg could make out the figure of a man huddled beneath the bedclothes.
Tom rushed to the bedside. “Oh, master, how fare you? I have brought the lady, just as you bade me.”
“Where is she?” Blackwood rasped.
“Here.” Meg hastened forward, dropping her medical bag. She wrestled open one of the shutters, allowing the late afternoon sun to fall across the bed. She flinched when she saw Blackwood’s face, ghost-white beneath the fringe of his beard.
His hair was matted with sweat, his eyes hollowed with pain. “Margaret, you came apace.” Despite his obvious suffering, he crooked one corner of his mouth. “That eager to arrive at my bed?”
“This is no time for any of your foolish jests.” Snatching up his hand, she felt for his pulse. It was alarmingly fast. “Tom said you think you have been poisoned. What happened? What did this to you?”
“You did.” Blackwood shifted his head on the pillow and grimaced, even that slight movement seeming to cause him pain. “Damn it, why couldn’t you cultivate marigolds and daisies like a normal woman?”
Meg frowned at him, wondering if he was waxing delirious. “What are you talking about?”
Blackwood pulled free of her grasp, gesturing toward a small table near the bedside. “That little memento of your gardening.”
Meg inspected the objects on the table, a half-melted candle and something that glinted silver, wrapped in the folds of a handkerchief. Meg’s breath caught in her throat. She knew what it was even before she drew back the linen cloth to reveal the rose in all its lethal beauty.
“Cor!” Tom exclaimed, drawing closer. “What’s that?”
“Don’t touch it,” Meg and Blackwood both cried.
Tom shrank back, alarmed.
“Where did you get that?” Meg demanded of Blackwood.
“Found it … in the garden where you dropped it.”
“I didn’t. That flower is none of my fashioning. So you pricked yourself on its thorn? Where?”
Blackwood held up his right hand. It was swollen, the tiny wound on his thumb starting to fester.
“Oh, why did you have to touch it? Why couldn’t you have left the rose alone?”
Blackwood gave a weak laugh. “You know me. Never can keep my hands off pretty things.” He regarded her intently. “You didn’t fashion the rose, but you obviously know what it i
s.”
“Yes.”
“So … am I dying?”
Meg looked away, but he must have seen the fear in her eyes. She knew the deadly power of the poison that coated the rose’s thorn all too well. She had been forced by her mother to translate the recipe for it from the Book of Shadows. Never mind that she had been but a child, bullied and terrorized by Cassandra Lascelles. Meg still felt guilty for all the lives Cassandra had claimed with the poisonous roses. And now she would be responsible for one more. Tears brimmed in Meg’s eyes.
Blackwood pressed her hand. “It is of no consequence if I am dying, my dear. I was just curious, that is all.”
“It is of consequence to me,” she said. Stripping off her cloak, she went to open her bag, making a rapid assessment of what vials of dried herbs she had and what she would need.
Tom trailed after her, asking in a low voice, “What can I do, mistress? How can I help?”
“It’s far too cold in here. You can start by building a fire on the hearth, a good roaring one.”
“Master wouldn’t like that. He never has a fire lit unless he has to, deep in the winter when the water in the washbasin is apt to freeze.”
Glancing around at the paucity of Blackwood’s surroundings, Meg could guess the reason for that. Blackwood lived in straitened circumstances, likely one step away from being sent back to debtor’s prison.
“Your master is not in charge today. I am.” Meg fished some coin out of her purse and pressed it into the boy’s hand. “Go buy some firewood, as much as you can carry, and get back here as fast as you can.”
Tom stole one more anxious look at Blackwood, then nodded and darted out of the room. Meg unpacked her herbs and found a cauldron, but until she had a fire there was little more she could do.
She paced back to the bed. Blackwood had closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. That was the cruelty of this particular poison. It did not act swiftly. A strong man like Blackwood might last for several days, suffering agonies more painful than being stretched and broken on a rack.