Taste of Treason (13 page)

“What ails them?” Henry asked in an undertone.

“They have a case to plead before Your Majesty.”

“Very well. I shall see them and then eat. Send a message to the council. I will meet with them tomorrow. For the rest of this day, I have plans, and my councilors are not in them.”

Henry caught Byram’s suppressed grin and echoed it. Both knew the King found the petty squabbles amongst his advisors tiresome. However, his face wore a stern, forbidding expression when a group of five men entered.

They dropped to their knees several times on their progress towards his seat under the cloth of estate. Dressed in scarlet and black under the golden canopy, Henry knew exactly how intimidating he appeared.

“Choose one of your number and speak.”

An elderly, stooped man with a beard stepped forward and dropped to his knees. Henry bade him rise, but the man insisted on remaining kneeling.

“Your most gracious majesty, we are come from the Guild of Apothecaries to ask for the light of your wisdom and justice to aid our principal.”

“Speak then.”

“Sire, Master Corbin Quayne and his daughter have been accused of witchcraft and taken to the Tower. Master Quayne has spent his entire life helping to heal the sick. He would no more indulge in the black arts that I would leap into the air and fly like a bird. Please, Sire, of your great mercy and bounty, we beg you to release him.”

Witchcraft. An emotive subject and one that, in truth, had worried Henry only since the news of his impending fatherhood. He sat deep in thought, his expression harsh enough to ensure that the silence was unbroken.

“Quayne,” he said eventually. “Have we not heard that name?” He twisted his head and looked at one of his gentlemen ushers. “Richard?”

“The palace has had reason to use his services on occasion, Sire, when we have had many people in residence,” Richard answered.

Henry nodded and turned back to the kneeling apothecary. “Arise. You have made your plea. We shall make our enquiries, but, if the charges are proved, we can do nothing to stop the course of the law.”

They bowed as a group and backed out of the chamber. Frowning slightly, Henry decided to visit the one person who would know exactly how matters stood.

Chapter Fifteen

The Queen Mother greeted her son and King with a deep curtsey, one that had him smiling as he reached down to help her up. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Mother, I need your advice and aid.”

She gestured for her attendants to withdraw. Henry watched her face as she listened to his account of the apothecaries’ plea.

“I can see from your expression that you already know something of this, Madam.”

“Indeed. I believe it to be more complicated than it first appears. You know that Corbin Quayne is Luke Ballard’s former master?”

“I did not. You think this relationship is moot?” Henry frowned. “How so?”

“My son, may I speak plainly?”

His frown deepened. “The very same question my Inquirer put to me. If there is something I should know and do not...” his voice trailed into silence.

She paced up and down.

“Henry, you are my son, but you are my King first. If I have been in error, I will pay the price you deem fit. Since your marriage, my only concern has been your happiness and the safe arrival of your son and heir. You know, none better, that there are always conspiracies surrounding your royal person. That is one of the reasons I decided to withdraw into the background, so that I could watch and not be seen.”

“I noted it and approved. It gave Madeleine the chance to shine without being compared to you.”

Anne smiled. “I knew that this man and his daughter had been taken. I believe it to be connected to your Privy Inquirer, a clumsy attempt to distract him, or worse. Mayhap someone thought that they could torture Quayne and force him to falsely accuse Master Ballard, putting a stop to his investigation. I have taken steps, deniable steps, to ensure the prisoners’ liberty. I thought it better you should not be...involved.”

Henry smiled broadly. “And if I am not told, I do not know of it. Mother, you are as clever as you are beautiful. I will leave all to you.”

He bent down to kiss her cheek once more and decided he was ready for breakfast and, moreover, breakfast with his Queen.

* * *

Boterel, accompanied by Frayner, opened Bertila’s cell door. The interrogator had allowed her a light shift to cover her nakedness, but even if he had not, Bertila had determined that she would show them nothing but contempt. She waited, head high, for their accusations to begin again.

“Mistress Quayne, your father has told us how your scar came to be removed. We need to know about the procedure used with the herbal poultice, how it was applied and how quickly your skin was repaired. We would like to join you in thanking God for the delivery from your deformity.”

The idea of a poultice was ludicrous. Even Bertila’s scant knowledge of medicinal remedies told her that. Her mind sped like a sparrow escaping the hawk. Corbin had told them something, that was certain, but what on earth was it? She would try and bluster her way through. It seemed obvious to her that Boterel had less stomach for this interrogation than she had first thought. Could she use that? Divide him and the priest?

Frayner spoke with practiced oiliness. “Silence is of no use to you. Mayhap you could clarify your father’s story. After all, if your accounts tally, you must be telling the truth.”

“I am not answerable to you. What have you told this man? That you are my parish priest? Fie upon you for a black liar as well as a bully and tyrant. I live in Hampton Wick, Master Boterel, not in Hampton.”

“We are permitted access to question witches wherever they are found. Do not play that game.”

Bertila’s lip curled as she summoned all the contempt she could muster. His reaction to her disdain might give her the time she needed to formulate an answer for, at this moment, she had no idea what to say. Frayner returned her gaze but said nothing. She schooled her features to remain calm whilst her mind raced. What was the most likely thing her father would have said?
Think
,
Bertila
,
think.
A cream. Yes, she felt sure that would have been his instinctive reply. She would mix what she knew to be the truth with a deceit and hope to God it tallied with what he had said.

“Father told me a physician came to the house. I do not remember him—I was too ill. He left cream. I used it on the scar.”

The light in Boterel’s face told her that his relief was profound.

“Mistress, you could have saved yourself and your father much pain and misery had you told us this three days ago.”

“Master Boterel, you could have saved us much pain and misery had you believed us.”

Her legs almost buckled and she had to tense her muscles to remain upright. Frayner looked like a hawk denied its prey.

“How do we know they speak the truth?”

Boterel turned. His voice sounded patient, but tinged with anger.

“Master Priest, they have had no opportunity to match their stories, but both tell the same. Did you not just say that if their testimony matched, then they must be telling the truth? I think you have mistaken medicine for sorcery.”

“That is no proof—” Frayner began, but Boterel cut him off.

“It is proof enough for me, and if I am wrong then I will pay the price. I can do nought but free them, believing them to be innocent of the crime of witchcraft. Furthermore, sir, I do not care to be used in this way so that you may gain access to another person. I have never met this Luke Ballard you speak of, but if you have cause to think he is using sorcery, then find your evidence and bring it to me. I will do the rest.” He turned to Bertila. “Mistress, I will have someone bring your clothes and then we will go to your father.”

Boterel strode out of the cell. Frayner cast one look of malice at Bertila before following him. The serving woman who brought her clothes had obviously been told to say nothing, refusing to utter one word, despite Bertila’s pleading questions. As soon as Bertila was dressed, the servant led her from the cell.

Frayner had not cared to stay at the scene of his rout, so it was Boterel, Bertila and the woman who entered Corbin’s cell. He had managed to half dress himself, but his hands shook and his face was gray. Bertila ran to him.

“Dearest father, what have they done to you?”

She could see that he tried to smile and speak to her, but could not. She grasped his left hand, but it lay limply in her own. She read confusion and distress in his face, but he was unable to speak, and the left side of his mouth dragged downwards. He sat looking at her, his eyes pleading a message she could not interpret.

Boterel came to his side to help him up. Bertila took his other arm. They finally managed to get him on his feet.

“Father, you frightened me,” Bertila said, walking towards the cell door. “We are free. We can go. They know we are innocent.”

She found herself whirling round and falling on top of her father as he collapsed onto the flagstones.

* * *

A sleepless night, a fight with evil and Byram’s news that Corbin and Bertila were in the Tower had rendered Luke’s brain as stodgy as raw dough. Try as he might, he seemed unable to make his mind focus on one thing long enough to put a logical string of thoughts together. This would never do. He realized that he had unthinkingly added betony to the potion he was making instead of feverfew, swore and threw the bowl the width of the shop. Rob came in at a run, the frightened, ashen-faced Alys close behind.

“Master?”

“All goes ill, Rob. I can make sense of nothing.”

Alys slipped past the boy and put her hand tentatively on Luke’s arm.

“Sir, I hope you do not think my presence has brought evil on your house. You have shown me nothing but kindness and I owe you much. Tell me if you think I should leave.”

Luke, glancing at Rob’s set face, changed his mind about suggesting that Alys walk through the door and not return. He did not know the extent or source of the arrow that had smitten these two, but he knew for a certainty that if Alys left, Rob would follow. He forced a smile.

“I am tired. Do not look so affrighted.”

“Mayhap you should take a potion, Luke.”

This was the third time he had needed a reminder. Twice from Rob and once from Byram. His brain must indeed be pulp. He nodded but stood motionless. Rob grasped his arm and pulled him onto the settle.

“I will make it. Sit there and rest. Alys will attend to that,” he added, pointing to the shattered bowl and its contents on the floor.

Joss stood on her hind legs and with her front paws resting on Luke’s thighs, put her cheek to his. Automatically his arm went around her and they stayed unmoving for a few moments until the tumult in Luke’s mind eased. Within minutes, Rob handed him a jack and he drained it.

Slowly but surely he felt strength returning. Rob’s only problem, Luke decided, feeling a punch of flavor fill his mouth, was that he thought putting more of one ingredient in would make the potion more potent, when all it did in reality was make the patient dizzy. However, now was not the time to point that out. He was fortunate in his servant, and if having Alys in the house was the price he had to pay to keep Rob happy, then he would do it.

A timid knock at the shop door had Luke jumping as much as if it had been smashed clean from its hinges. Rob cast one uncertain glance at him and went to open it. On the other side a serving girl stood with a sheet of paper in her hand. Rob blocked her entrance.

“Mistress, the shop is not open yet.”

“If you please, sir, I have a message for Master Ballard.”

Luke walked forward. “Who are you, mistress?”

“My name is Katelyn, sir. I was asked to give you this.”

She handed Luke the sealed note, curtsied, then turned and scurried away before he could ask any questions. Luke looked from the letter to Rob and then from Rob to Alys.

“Alys, why do we not go and see what we can forage for dinner?” the boy said, leading her back to the kitchen.

Luke waited until the door had closed, then sank back onto the settle and broke the wax seal. The message was short.

‘Father is ill. Come at once. Will.’

Luke dropped the letter, grabbed his scrip and left the house at a run.

* * *

King Henry decided to join Madeleine for breakfast in her Presence Chamber, since she refused to enter her Privy Chamber. He sat opposite her, eating crisp manchets spread with golden honey. Usually, he preferred meat for his first meal of the day and, like his father, every other meal, too. But Madeleine said the smell of it made her feel ill. Feeling happy with his lot, Henry had agreed to forgo his usual fare and found himself relishing the change.

“You look very content this morning, my lord.”

“How should I be otherwise, when I sit here enjoying your company, not to mention your beauty.” He reached across the table and took hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “Could ever a husband be as fortunate as I?”

She colored, just as he hoped she would. Little did she know that part of his suppressed glee was because he had interrupted Reynard, about to sit and eat with the Queen. Henry could tell from her clouded expression that she had not been at ease at the prospect of sharing a meal with her priest. What he could not fathom was why she had not told the man to quit her presence.

“As for fortune, my lord, it smiles on me.”

Henry waved away the attendants so that he could speak with his wife in private. She tensed.

“Tell me, Madeleine. Does Father Reynard make a habit of eating with you?”

“He has lately taken to doing so, my lord.” Her voice held no color and she did not meet his eyes.

“And is it your wish that he should?” Henry’s voice was almost a purr, and when she looked up from her platter and gazed at him, they both knew she did not have to answer.

“He is favored by my uncle, but it is not just him. Ambassador Fuentes also fabricates reasons to come and offer his good wishes, usually at the most inconvenient times. It is bad enough that Father Reynard drops in, but I begin to think the Spaniard’s cook starves him. He has arrived three times this week just as I sat down to table.”

Henry frowned.

“Sweetheart, you are the Queen of England. My Queen. It matters not who is favored by whom. The King of France holds no sway in my court and the Spanish even less. I will not have them pestering you.”

It was her turn to catch at his hand.

“Tread carefully, my love. Father Reynard has an air about him that brooks no argument and as for the Spanish, well...” She left the sentence unfinished.

“Fie. You are the Queen. You command them, not the other way round.”

Her face fell and he saw worry sweep into her eyes.

“Sweetheart, I will not have this fear on you. I will have words with both gentlemen.”

Her hand squeezed his.

“No, I beg of you. It is not long until my confinement. We will make a decision after I have given you your son. For my sake, make no noise about this. It would only cause discord with France and drive them into the arms of Spain. Uncle Louis tells me that the Guise faction gains power daily at the French court. Any disruption would give them the opportunity they crave to rise against him.”

He inclined his head, accepting the wisdom of her words, before raising his voice.

“Summon Father Reynard.”

Winking at his wife, the King waited for the cleric, who bowed with practiced ease. Almost, Henry thought, as if he made a jest at their expense. Well, he would soon learn the extent of his error. Meanwhile, again recalling Cranmer’s suggestion of honeyed words, he smiled.

“Father Reynard, we wish to commend you for the care of our Queen.” Henry saw some of the tension ease from the priest’s face. “There is a chance that we may need to send you on a delicate mission to France.”

Reynard bowed again. “Sire, my only pleasure is to serve you, but I would be loath to leave the Queen before her confinement.”

“Quite so. However, that is a decision for us. And Her Grace’s doctors, of course. You need have no cause for concern regarding Her Grace’s health. We are keeping the closest possible watch on her, and anything that affects her equilibrium.”

“Then, Sire, I am at your disposal.”