Was she? Meg did not know how to answer that. She gazed wildly about her for the coven, but in the meager light left by the remaining candles, she saw no one. She would have thought herself alone with Armagil, but for the keening.
The sound was nigh inhuman in the wildness of its terrible grief and Meg longed to bury her face against Armagil’s shoulder to blot it out. But she forced herself to search for the source of it.
Her gaze alighted upon Beatrice Rivers. Hunkered down upon the floor, Bea sobbed, clutching her sister’s inert body in her arms. Amy’s head lolled back, her neck as limp as a cloth doll, her eyes glassy and unseeing, her mouth frozen in an expression of horror.
“What—what happened?” Meg faltered.
“Damned if I know. We’ll sort it out later. We’ve got to get out of here before the king’s soldiers arrive. Can you stand?” Without giving her a chance to reply, Armagil hauled her to her feet.
She was a little shaky at first, until she gained her balance. “But—but—” Meg dragged her eyes from the awful specter that was Amy Rivers to search for Seraphine. The altar was empty.
“ ’Phine?”
“I’m here, Meggie,” she replied. Seraphine had been leaning against a pillar, pressing a handkerchief to her bloodied cheek. She approached Meg on unsteady legs.
“But what … how?” Meg faltered.
“No time for questions. There is a side door behind the altar. We’ll have to go out that way.” Seizing Seraphine by the arm with one hand and Meg with the other, Armagil propelled them ruthlessly forward.
Meg hung back, her gaze drawn back to the pitiful spectacle of Beatrice wailing over her sister. “But we can’t just leave—”
“Yes, we can!” Armagil and Seraphine said in the same breath.
Armagil added, “There’s nothing you can do, Margaret. That wretched woman is dead and we may well be too if we are caught in here. Now move!”
He hauled her into the darkness of the side transept, where a plain door was located. The next thing Meg knew, she found herself thrust out into the night. The chill blast of wind caused her to shiver, but revived her like a bath of cold water.
She caught the distant sound of shouts, as though a large force of men were descending upon the church. Taking a step forward, she stumbled over something hard and realized that it was a gravestone. The side door had led them out into the churchyard. Seraphine was still far too unsteady on her feet. Armagil swooped her up to carry her, urging Meg to follow him.
She did so in a daze, trailing after him through the cemetery, plunging into a maze of streets and alleys. She followed Armagil blindly, with no idea of where they were going. Her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened back at the church. What had she done? Had she really summoned up the spirit of her mother? What had struck down Amy Rivers in such a deadly fit? And how had Armagil come upon them so suddenly? None of it seemed real. It was like being caught up in one of her nightmares.
The only thing that reassured her she was awake was the solid presence of the man guiding her to safety. That and the sound of Seraphine hissing curses at him.
“Damn you! Put me down, you great oaf. I can walk.”
Armagil must have judged that they had put enough distance between themselves and the church. Winded from carrying Seraphine, he plunked her on her feet none too gracefully. They crouched in the shadows of a shop, pausing to catch their breath.
Meg was startled to realize that it was one of the buildings adjoining the vast rambling palace of Westminster. The night that had seemed so quiet when Amy Rivers had led her to the church was now astir with the ringing of horses’ hooves, the tramp of booted feet.
“Have all these men been called out to hunt witches?” Meg asked Armagil in a fearful whisper.
“Not just witches,” Armagil replied tersely. “I must get you and the countess to safety and then there is something I have to do. I have to warn—” He broke off, tensing. “Damnation, I am too late.”
When Meg started to ask what he meant, he clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. Torches flared at the end of the street. She, Armagil, and Seraphine flattened themselves against the side of the building as a group of soldiers marched past, dragging someone to where another troop awaited with horses.
For a moment Meg feared their prisoner might be one of those poor deluded women who had been at the church, perhaps even the foolish little Dorcas. But then she saw that it was a tall man. Despite the fact that his hands were bound, he struggled against his captors. The torchlight briefly illuminated a face that stirred Meg’s memory.
But it was Seraphine who whispered, “It’s that Mr. Johnston who crossed with us from France.”
“No,” Armagil corrected grimly. “That’s Guido Fawkes. And if they force him to talk, there’s going to be the devil to pay.”
DAWN SPILLED ITS SOFT WHITE LIGHT OVER THE BEDCHAMBER as Meg drew the coverlet over Seraphine. The swelling from the blow had gone down and Meg had brewed a posset to ease her headache.
She had finally adjudged it safe to allow her friend to sleep, which was just as well. Meg doubted she could have kept Seraphine awake much longer. She was exhausted, as was Meg. But with the events of last night tumbling through her mind, Meg’s nerves were far too jangled for repose.
She tucked the coverlet snugly about Seraphine’s shoulders. Her golden hair spilled across the pillow as she hugged it to her as though seeking comfort in the arms of a lover. The pose made the formidable countess appear unusually vulnerable, the sight bringing an odd lump to Meg’s throat.
Meg tenderly stroked back a tendril of Seraphine’s hair, being careful to avoid the neat line of stitching that closed the gash on her cheek. Seraphine had endured the pain stoically as Meg had sewn her up. But Meg had seen the fear in her eyes even though Seraphine had tried to jest.
“I suppose I shall have a frightful scar, which will be good. No miserable witch will ever dare trifle with me again.”
“I am so sorry, ’Phine,” Meg had replied.
“Why? It was my own stupid fault. Letting myself be tricked so easily.”
“No, it is mine for ever allowing you to come with me to England upon this mad venture in the first place.”
“And how exactly would you have prevented me? What black magic do you possess that would—” Seraphine had checked herself, looking uncomfortable. Last night Meg had displayed a dark power neither of them had ever suspected she had and Meg sensed they were both unnerved by it. Meg did not even feel up to discussing it, so she had been relieved when Seraphine had drifted off to sleep.
Meg would have to keep careful watch over her. There was always the danger of infection and fever setting in from any wound, but for now she felt it safe to leave Seraphine to sleep.
Meg tiptoed out of the room and into the hall beyond. She still had little idea of the place that Armagil had brought them to in the dark hours of the morning. She had been too exhausted, too concerned about Seraphine to do other than note that it was some manner of alehouse.
She expected to hear sounds from belowstairs, the bustle of a business opening for the day’s custom. But all was quiet except for Armagil’s footfall as he approached from the opposite end of the hall. She rather expected that he had been waiting for her to emerge from the room.
As he drew apace with her, he looked as haggard as she felt, shadows pooling beneath his eyes.
“How fares the countess?” he asked quietly.
“Well enough, all things considered. She’s asleep.”
“And you?”
“I—I am fine.”
Armagil tipped up her face and traced the bruises that lack of sleep had formed beneath her eyes. He offered her a tired smile. “Little liar. You look as though you just clambered back from the brink of hell. Why didn’t you heed me, Margaret? I told you to remain close within doors last night.”
“You did, but you offered me no explanation.”
“And you could not simply trust me?
Whatever possessed you to go to that church last night?”
Meg leaned wearily against the wall as she explained how Amy Rivers had managed to invade her lodging, the treachery of the maid, Eliza, how the coven had captured Seraphine and used her to compel Meg to enact the ritual of the dead. She trembled as she described what had happened, how her mother’s image had appeared, how Cassandra’s voice had thundered with all the rage of an avenging spirit, how the black mist had risen to envelop Amy in a dark embrace.
“That must have been quite a performance,” Armagil said. “How did you ever produce such a terrifying effect? No wonder Rivers collapsed in a fit.”
Was that what Armagil believed had happened? Meg was loath to disillusion him, but she could not be otherwise than truthful.
“It was no trick, Armagil. I—I really did raise my mother’s spirit from the dead.”
“Margaret—” He shook his head in denial, but Meg reached out to clutch his arm.
“It is true, Armagil. It was my mother, although she was somehow gentler to me than she had ever been when she was alive. She called me Meg and—and she truly looked at me, as though she was really seeing me in a way she never had before.”
Armagil placed his hand gently over hers. “You whipped yourself into some kind of trance. You only saw what you longed to see.”
“Then how do you explain what happened to Amelia Rivers?”
Armagil shrugged. “You gave her a good fright as you did all those foolish women. Only Amelia’s wits were more disordered. She obviously suffered from some sort of apoplexy.”
Armagil’s explanation sounded so rational, so sane, but Meg could not accept it. She knew what she’d seen, what she’d felt. Cassandra Lascelles had lashed out from beyond the grave to protect Meg, striking Amy Rivers dead. Her mother had loved Meg, after her own intense and ferocious fashion.
Armagil drew her into his arms. Straining her close, he stroked her hair. “Whatever happened last night, it doesn’t matter now. The coven is at an end and you know your mother was not behind any of this. She is dead, Meg. You can let her go. You are safe now.”
“Yes,” Meg murmured. She desired nothing more than to lean against him, sink deep into his strength and warmth, but there were still too many troubling questions left unanswered.
She drew away from him and demanded, “Am I safe, Armagil? Are any of us? I don’t even know where we are.”
“The White Bull tavern. The proprietor is a friend of mine. I did him a service once, cured his son of a bout of the brain fever. The lad’s recovery owed more to his own stamina than my skill, but Mr. Armbruster feels himself in my debt. And he is also like Graham, a secret Catholic. So to answer your question, my dear, yes, we are safe. Armbruster would never betray us.”
“Betray us to whom?”
“To whomever might come looking.”
“Armagil!” Meg cast him a look of frustration with his continued evasions. “What were you doing abroad so late last night? How did you know where to find me and Seraphine?”
“Graham told me. He has long known about Amy Rivers’s plans to hold some sort of witches’ Sabbath in the church upon the night of November fourth. I gather that woman was rather besotted with Graham at one time and confided much in him. Of course when I went there, I never expected to find you and Seraphine amongst them.”
“Then why did you go?”
“I wanted to see the Rivers sisters arrested, but I also wanted to make sure that there was no one present who was innocent, no foolish child who had just come looking for excitement, no young girl like—like—”
“Maidred Brody?” Meg filled in softly.
“Yes, precisely. If there was, I hoped to warn her to escape in time.”
“That was not the only person you intended to warn, was it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You also meant to alert that Fawkes person that he was about to be arrested, did you not? I know all about the powder plot, Armagil. The terrible thing that Sir Patrick and his friends were planning. Amy Rivers told me.”
“Then you must realize it would have been better if Fawkes had been able to escape. They’ll take him to the Tower and put him on the rack.” Unable to contain his agitation at the thought, Armagil took to pacing the hall. “Fawkes is a tough, stubborn man, a martyr when it comes to his faith, but no one can withstand that kind of torture. He’ll give them the names of his fellow conspirators.”
“And—and will yours be among them?”
Startled, Armagil halted in midstep “Mine? No, of course not. Why would you think that? What are you accusing me of?”
“I am not sure. It is just that you disappeared for a fortnight with barely a word and you have been so secretive since your return.” She regarded him steadily as she admitted, “I had begun to fear that Sir Patrick had persuaded you to join him.”
A stain of red spread across Armagil’s cheeks. “No,” he said bitterly. “I was far too busy betraying Graham. If you could have but seen the look in his eyes when he realized I was working against him—” Armagil checked himself, unable to continue.
“Where is Sir Patrick now?”
“He is here. I have him trussed up below in the cellars.”
“You are holding him prisoner?”
“It was the only way I could stop the bloody idiot. Even knowing the cause is lost, he is burning to go after the king himself even if it means throwing his own life away.” Armagil’s voice was rife with anger and reproach, but Meg sensed it was mostly directed at himself.
“You did the right thing, Armagil. You have saved your friend.” She attempted to take his hand, but he pulled away from her.
“By saving him, I have also lost him. Graham will curse me for this betrayal until the day he dies.” Armagil ground his fingertips wearily against his eyes. “I should go to him now, give him the satisfaction of damning me.”
“I will go with you, help you to explain why you acted as you did.”
“That would be most unwise, my dear. There are no words adequate to excuse my actions.”
Turning away from her, he descended the stairs, his broad shoulders bowed as though laden with all the guilt of the world. Meg experienced a stab of guilt herself. She had been so consumed by her dreams of Maidred Brody, of heeding the girl’s plea that her brother be saved, Meg had not thought twice about enlisting Armagil’s aid. She had not considered what it would cost him to betray Graham’s trust.
She had been the one to convince Armagil to interfere with Robert Brody’s vengeance. No matter what Armagil said, she could not allow him to face Sir Patrick’s wrath alone.
Creeping quietly after him, she watched from a discreet distance as Armagil vanished through a door that led to the cellars. After a moment, she followed. Pausing halfway down the stairs, she hesitated, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness of the room.
A lantern had been left burning to chase away the darkness. The small chamber was a storehouse of stacked crates, bottles of wine, and hogsheads of ale. Sir Patrick sat on the floor, his legs bound, his hands tied behind him. He looked nothing like the quiet and tidy gentleman Meg had first met. His hair was disheveled, his clothing torn, a bruise darkening one cheek.
Armagil must have had to fight to subdue Sir Patrick, even been obliged to hit him. Meg’s heart quailed at the thought of the pain that blow must have cost Armagil as well as Sir Patrick.
Sir Patrick leaned back against one of the barrels, his entire posture that of defeat and despair. But as Armagil approached him, Sir Patrick stiffened. His eyes blazed with hatred and contempt.
“What the devil do you want?”
“I would like to be able to free you,” Armagil replied. “If you would but give me your word of honor that you will not—”
“Who are you to talk to me of honor, you treacherous bastard? Go to hell.”
Armagil sighed. He poured out a cup of wine and, hunkering down beside Sir Patrick, offered him a drink. Sir Patrick av
erted his face.
“Graham, please. You have taken nothing since yesterday. It will avail no one if you starve yourself or die of thirst.”
Sir Patrick compressed his lips stubbornly for a moment. He finally consented to take a swallow from the cup Armagil pressed to his lips, but he looked like he wanted to spit the wine back in Armagil’s face.
“So tell me what is happening out there in the city,” Sir Patrick said. “You owe me at least that much.”
“As I already told you, Fawkes is lodged in the Tower. There is a great deal of unease in London. The streets this morning are rife with rumors, but from what I have heard, most of your friends have managed to flee.”
“Catesby means to rouse the Catholics in the Midlands to rise up and join us. There is still hope that something of our plan may be salvaged. For the love of God, release me and let me join them.”
“You’d never make it out of the city. The gates are all closed, as are the ports on the river. It’s over, Graham,” Armagil said gently. “This rebellion of yours was finished before it ever began. I heard that someone sent an anonymous letter to one of the peers, Lord Monteagle, days ago, warning him to stay away from the opening of parliament, that something dire was going to happen. His lordship was asked to tell no one, but he took the letter straight to Robert Cecil.”
Graham refused to drink any more of the wine, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Ah, if there is one thing you are good at, it is composing anonymous letters.”
“I never sent that note.”
“Do you expect that I will ever believe that?”
“No, I don’t think you ever will.” Armagil set down the wine cup and straightened to his feet with a tired sigh. “You will not wish to hear it, but here is what I believe. Robert Cecil has always had his network of spies at work. I think he has known about this gunpowder plot for a long time and allowed you, Fawkes, Catesby, and the rest to proceed, giving you just enough rope to hang yourselves. He may even have written that letter to Monteagle himself, so that he could feign that he’d learned of the plot and dramatically swoop in to stop Fawkes at the eleventh hour, Cecil thereby earning the eternal gratitude of the king.”