Chantress Alchemy (17 page)

It was hard not to be moved by her kindness. “You’re very generous—”

She cut me off with a smile. “Nonsense. I was only too happy to help. Especially after having made such a misstep this afternoon.”

“A misstep?” I wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Asking you to do magic for us like that.” Again she had the expression I’d seen in the laboratory: eyes abashed, a faint blush. “Chantress magic isn’t a plaything—that’s what Grandmama always used to say. I shouldn’t have asked you to use it for such a silly reason. It wasn’t right.”

So I’d read the signs right: Sybil
had
felt guilty. But not for the reasons I’d feared. And if she wasn’t going to demand I do magic anymore, then my life would be easier. I relaxed a little despite the benighted pins at my shoulder. “No need to say another word about it. I’m glad you understand.”

“Oh, I do, believe me.” Lowering her voice, she said, “I hope I didn’t offend you with the other things I said either.”

“What other things?”

“About trying other kinds of magic. I truly meant only to help.”

“It was good of you to offer—”

“You mean you would like to try them?” Sybil bounced on her toes in anticipation. “Oh, I do hope so. It would be such a thrill to assist you.”

Much as I liked Sybil, I wasn’t prepared to dabble in strange magic with her. “It’s very kind of you, but—”

“Oh no,” Sybil interrupted. “Steel yourself. Gabriel’s making a beeline for you.”

“For us, you mean.”

“No,
you
,” Sybil said. “He’s fond of me, in his own way. But there’s something different about the way he looks at you. I think he’s smitten.” Seeing my expression, she laughed. “Oh, don’t look so horrified, Lucy. I know how you feel about Nat, but Gabriel’s a fine man in his own right. Most girls would congratulate themselves if they attracted his interest.”

Maybe. But I wasn’t most girls.

Yet the moment of meeting was not as awkward as I’d feared. Gabriel was merely the vanguard of what turned out to be an army of courtiers. With cheers and huzzahs, they surrounded Sybil and me like a phalanx and carried us off to the banquet.

†    †    †

Such a wonder that banquet was! The Great Hall, blanketed in hothouse flowers, was a vast room, and yet the crush of people was so great that it almost seemed too small to hold them. Every corner was packed with courtiers and councillors—though Nat was not among them, at least not that I could see.

Eventually I found myself seated at the far end of the King’s table, pinned in between Lord Gabriel and Lord Ffoulkes, Wrexham’s florid ally, who had been one of my more surprising bouquet-bringers. Not my ideal choice of dining companions—Gabriel had steered me toward the chair before I’d quite realized what was happening—but it hardly mattered. The din of the crowd was so loud that it was difficult to make conversation.

The table itself, however, could not be faulted. China and
silver gleamed against spotless linen, and candlelight danced in a thousand pieces of crystal, from the pendants on the vases to the glass in my hand. But what stunned me most of all was the food. Platter after platter appeared, each with a different offering.

Two seats down from me, on the far side of Lord Ffoulkes, Sybil ladled oysters from a golden bowl. The gooseberry-eyed Aunt Goring, to whom I had been briefly introduced, sat across from her, filling a plate with roast swan and asparagus. On my right, Lord Ffoulkes partook of ham and roast beef. On my left, Gabriel passed me an enormous tureen of strawberries. And those were only a few of the sixty dishes being served tonight, or so Lord Ffoulkes told me.

My mouth watered on seeing the strawberries—an extraordinary sight in the middle of February. I piled them onto my plate, along with a dollop of cream and several oysters, and picked up my spoon. I couldn’t wait to dig in. I’d eaten very little that day, and I was famished.

Famished . . .

I thought of the children I’d seen on the road from Norfolk. That was what
famished
meant. I put my spoon down.

“Eat up, my lady, eat up!” Lord Ffoulkes was right beside me, but he almost had to shout to be heard. “No need to be dainty. There are victuals enough to feed a crowd twice this size.”

I raised my voice in turn. “Lord Ffoulkes, where does all this food come from?”

“Come from? No need to bother your pretty head about that,
Chantress. Just eat and enjoy.” He tried to load more strawberries onto my plate.

I held up my hand. “No, thank you.”
Your pretty head?
Did he think such words would please me?

Apparently so. Looking hurt, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Perhaps the spirit of the occasion has escaped you, my lady. A banquet is meant to be a celebration.”

“I’m not sure there’s much to celebrate,” I said, but Lord Ffoulkes had already turned to Sybil.

On my other side, Gabriel leaned over and said, “You wish to know where the food comes from?”

“Yes.” I bent toward him, hoping he would have an answer for me. “There’s so much of it, and so many kinds. Is it English? Did they import it?”

“I couldn’t tell you myself. But ask Wrexham. He’ll know. He sees to everything around here.” He drained his glass. “A finger in every pie, that’s Wrexham for you.” Glancing up the table, he gave a sour laugh.

I followed his gaze and saw Wrexham at the King’s right hand, looking like a demigod in the splendor of candles. His plate was loaded high with every kind of delicacy, and he was spearing a slice of venison with his knife. Evidently he was not troubled by the specter of hunger beyond these palace walls.

Knife in midair, Wrexham looked down the table, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of me. The animosity in his face made me lose what little appetite I had left.

I pushed my plate away.

“He’s a beast,” Gabriel said in my ear.

I was astonished by his venom—and by how closely his feelings mirrored mine.

“They say his father was even worse,” Gabriel went on. “But I find that hard to believe. Though they say he broke any man who crossed him, even his own son. He almost beat the life out of Wrexham once.” He added vehemently, “Wish I’d been there to see it.”

Not sure how to respond, I said, “You know the family well?”

“Know them? I should think so,” Gabriel said. “I’m Wrexham’s ward.”

His easygoing confidence had deserted him; he looked touchy and tense. I put my next question to him with care. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means that when my father died last year, the courts named Wrexham guardian of my person and of all the property I am to inherit. For a fee.”

I had been at Court long enough to have heard about fees. “You mean he bribed them?”

“Of course.” Gabriel scraped his plate with his knife. “It’s how it’s done, by everyone. Wardships are a good way for men to make money; they can manage the lands for their own profit until their wards come of age. It was just my bad luck to end up with Wrexham. I doubt there will be anything left of the estate by the time I’m twenty-one.”

No wonder the Philosopher’s Stone appealed to him. And then, with some dismay, I wondered: Did he think marriage to me would solve his money problems as well?

As if he’d sensed my thoughts, Gabriel’s lazy grin reappeared. “But how did we get onto this gloomy subject anyway?” He leaned slightly closer. “Let’s talk about you instead.”

“I’d rather hear more about Wrexham,” I said. “What has he done with your money? Do you know?”

“Used it to make himself richer.” Gabriel downed a new glass of wine and poured himself yet another. Brown eyes a little unsteady, he murmured to me, “He rules the borderlands like a king. Only he’s not, you know. Not king. Not yet.”

I murmured back in surprise. “Not
yet
?”

“His ambition has no end,” Gabriel said softly, gazing at Wrexham with a mix of malice and fear. “But he’s merely third in line to the throne now—there are two cousins of Henry’s before him—and his position will worsen once Henry has sons. His only hope is to take the crown by force.”

However much I hated Wrexham, I found this hard to swallow. “He saved the King’s life in battle,” I protested.

“And made himself into a hero—the King’s most trusted man, the power behind the throne,” Gabriel said in my ear. “Putting himself in a perfect position to knife him in the back. He wants the King dead, I tell you. He’s plotting it right now.”

I shook my head, still skeptical. “You have proof of this?”

Gabriel thumbed his wineglass and looked warily up and down the table. “Nothing I can talk about. Nothing I can take to the King.” He took another sip of wine and whispered, “But it’s true.”

Before I could question him further, the King surged up from his chair. “Help! In Heaven’s name, help!”

As we all rose in alarm, the King turned to the man on his left, who had collapsed over his plate. I could just make out who it was: Sir Isaac, in a dreadful state.

“What’s wrong?” Gabriel exclaimed.

“Some sort of fit,” Lord Ffoulkes guessed.

But it was Wrexham who riveted us all.

“Poison!” He roared out the word, and the room went still.

“Someone has poisoned the Chief Alchemist,” Wrexham bellowed over our heads. “Fetch the Head Cook at once.”

“Send first for the Royal Physician.” Unlike Wrexham, the King did not bellow, but nonetheless his voice carried. “Sir Isaac still breathes. Perhaps he can be saved.”

Gabriel leaped unsteadily from his chair. “Your Majesty, I have some knowledge of medical matters—”

“And I!”

“And I!”

As half a dozen men converged on Sir Isaac and argued noisily about what was to be done, Wrexham stalked off, still shouting for the cook. Over the bedlam, the King called out, “Perhaps the Lady Chantress will come to our aid.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” I gathered my errant silk skirts and went forward anxiously. What did the King expect from me? Did he believe I could cure Sir Isaac with song?

“Whatever you can do, Chantress,” the King said to me.

I went up to Sir Isaac, still collapsed over his plate. His face was flushed; his thin-lipped mouth gaped open; his hands trembled like November leaves. Whatever had done this—illness, fit, or poison—he was in a very bad way.

Even at the best of times, I would have found it a challenge to help him, since I had no specific magic for healing. And this was far from the best of times. But Sir Isaac might be dying: I couldn’t bear to stand here and do nothing.

Of course I couldn’t even think of singing, not given what had happened this morning. But there was less danger in listening. I knew that all things—even poisons—had a characteristic music, a Wild Magic all their own. Perhaps desperate need would sharpen my hearing, and I would be able to tell if poison were present—or even which kind.

This was Sir Isaac, my old ally and colleague; I had to try.

I knelt by his slack mouth and listened. Yes, there was something there . . . but there was too much noise from the crowd to hear what it was.

“Please,” I said to the King, “can you quiet them?”

“Silence,” the King commanded. “Silence, all of you, for the Chantress.”

The moment they went still, I realized I’d made a mistake. All eyes were on me now. People were expecting miracles. Yet strain as I might, I heard only the faintest slivers of sound, sharp and meaningless as a packet of pins.

I rose and faced the King. “I’m afraid magic cannot cure this, Your Majesty. We must trust to medicine instead.”

Was that anger I saw in his face, or merely agitation? The crowd began to buzz behind me.

“You did send for the Royal Physician, didn’t you, Your Majesty?” I said.

“Yes. Yes, I did—”

“Tut, tut.” The Royal Physician himself, bewhiskered and bustling, pushed forward, eyeing me with a superior air. “Your incantations not up to the job, eh? Well, never bring a woman in to do a man’s job, they say.”

My cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment, but what could I say? It was true that I had failed.

Elbowing me out of the way, the Royal Physician checked the patient’s pulse, lifted his eyelids, and smelled his breath. “Poison, most definitely. Perhaps in the wine?”

“No. He hasn’t drunk any,” the King said. “Or eaten anything either. He came in late, and he wanted to tell me something about Flamel’s cipher first. I couldn’t quite follow it, I’m afraid. There were too many people speaking at once.”

The Royal Physician frowned. “So neither the wine nor the food poisoned him. . . .”

Sir Isaac gagged. As I reached to steady him, a small packet fell from his coat, scattering little white balls everywhere.

“What are these?” I picked up the half-empty packet.

“Mint comfits,” Gabriel said. “He keeps a great supply in his room.”

“Here, give that to me.” The Royal Physician snatched the packet from my hand. After crushing a single comfit between his
teeth, he smelled it and tested it on his tongue. “A nasty dose of belladonna,” he pronounced. “And perhaps something else, too. I wonder Sir Isaac didn’t detect it.”

“He hasn’t much sense of taste,” I said, remembering our conversation in the Treasury.

“No, he hasn’t,” Penebrygg agreed. “More’s the pity.”

Very quietly the King asked the Royal Physician, “Will he die?”

“At this point, I cannot tell.” The Royal Physician pressed his thumb to Sir Isaac’s wrist again. “I will do my best to revive him. There are antidotes I can try, and purgatives. Their effect is not pretty to see, but they may do the trick. First, however, he should be moved to another room—one with a fire and a bed.”

“Of course,” the King said. Again, Gabriel and the others were quick to offer their services. With the King and the Royal Physician leading the way, they carried Sir Isaac out of the room.

Once they left, the banquet disintegrated into hubbub. Even though the poison had been in the mints, the incident had put most people off their food. They would not eat; they wanted to leave. But as they made their way out, they could and would talk about the poisoning, and what it might portend. I heard the gossip rising up around me.