The Lady of Secrets (35 page)

“I realize our good neighbor Dunwiddy here can be a bit aggravating.” Minton’s smile was both placating and carried a hint of warning. “But I allow no brawling in my establishment. You know that, sir.”

“I was aggravating no one,” Dunwiddy squeaked. “I was just telling him about the terrible murder those witches has done.”

“A dreadful affair,” Minton agreed. “Poor old woman.”

“Old?” Blackwood echoed.

“Aye, an elderly woman who kept an alehouse and lodgings.”

“She was the victim?” Blackwood felt able to breathe again. He released Dunwiddy, but Minton still kept a firm grip on Armagil’s shoulder.

Dunwiddy smoothed his hands over his jerkin. “Aye, that’s what I was telling you before you pounced on me like some mad jack let loose from Bedlam, demanding names, which I tell you I don’t know.”

“Nor do I know anything more.” Minton peered at Armagil curiously. “Why is it of such import?”

“No reason. I—I just—”

“Have had a drop too much?” Minton eased his hold on Armagil and patted his shoulder. “You know I value your custom,
Doctor, but I think it is time you headed home to your bed.”

“Yes, I—I am sorry.” Armagil realized that every eye in the place was trained upon him. He also realized he was trembling. Muttering his apologies, he staggered out of the alehouse and into the street.

Doubling over, he dragged great gulps of air into his lungs. Minton and everyone else in that tavern had supposed Armagil had had too much to drink. But the real problem was that he had not had enough.

He had been far too sober to weather a shock like that. Those few moments when he had feared that Meg might be the murdered woman they were talking about had been among the blackest moments of Armagil’s life and that was truly saying something.

Damnation! What had Margaret done to him? He did not know what he had come to feel for her, or if he did, he was unwilling to admit it. He only knew that if anything happened to her, he truly would run mad.

She was so stubbornly determined to track down those witches, and if they were the same ones who had brutally murdered that tavern keeper and reveled in painting with her blood, they had escalated in their insanity. Strewing poisoned roses about and nailing dead cats to the wall seemed tame by comparison.

If Meg did corner those witches and attempt to put a stop to their evil, what might they do to her, even if she was the object of their mad adoration, the Silver Rose? And if she tried to turn them in to the authorities, she risked exposing the secret of her own past. She might well end up in the dock alongside those demented creatures.

So how in the world could he keep her safe? There was
only one way: He had to find the witches first and deal with them himself. But where should he even begin?

He dragged his hands down his face, wishing that his head was clearer. He thought of returning to the Saracen’s Head and seeing if he could wring any more information out of Dunwiddy. But he doubted that the tinker knew anything more, and such an action would likely result in Armagil finding himself tossed back into the street and none too gently. Minton truly had no appreciation for a good brawl.

So who else would know more of this murder? Well, the Earl of Salisbury had his army of spies who kept him well apprised of what went on in the city. Armagil actually grinned at the idea of himself trying to force his way in to see the little beagle. He’d have better fortune gaining an audience with James himself, as if that would avail him anything.

Armagil’s amusement faded at the thought of the king, the only man in England he considered more useless than himself. There was someone else he might approach, though, another man who had an uncanny knack for keeping his ear to the ground and acquiring information about the darker side of London. The mere notion of seeking him out affected Armagil like an ice bath, rendering him far too sober.

ARMAGIL COULD HEAR THE LAP OF THE WHERRYMAN’S OARS AS
he guided his boat away from the shore. Armagil wished he could have persuaded the man to wait for him, but he didn’t have enough coin to offer by way of compensation, not when there were still so many other lucrative fares to be had.

The sun was slowly setting, turning the waters of the Thames into a rippling flow of ink. Littledean was a small village
set just outside the gates of London. Across the river, Armagil could see the forbidding stone walls of the Great Tower.

The final blaze of the sun glinting off the stonework had the curious effect of making a portion of the battlements appear washed in blood, a reminder of the many prisoners who had come to a grisly end upon the Tower Green.

It was not a prospect that many men would relish, living in the shadow of that ominous tower. But Gilly Black had always boasted of his view.

Armagil trudged along a worn path that led up to a dwelling set back from the river. His breath coming out in clouds of steam, he felt chilled by the sight of the place he had once called home.

Little had changed about the modest house, but even in the fading light, Armagil noted the signs of neglect, bare places in the roof where the thatching had rotted away, the thickness of the weeds that had overrun the garden.

The weeding had once been his task.

“About the only thing you’ll ever be good for,” the old man had been wont to sneer.

The bitter memory caused Armagil to hesitate. Then he strode up to the door and hammered his fist against it before he changed his mind.

He could see the flicker of candlelight behind the thick diamond grid of the windowpanes. Armagil stamped his feet in an effort to keep warm. He was on the verge of knocking again when the door swung open. Armagil stiffened. He had not been quite prepared to have the old man answer the door himself.

He had clearly interrupted Black at his supper. The old man was still holding a half-eaten chicken leg, a hint of grease
smeared on his chin. His jaw fell open at the sight of Armagil and for a long moment they stared at each other.

He and Gilly Black were much of a height, with the same breadth of shoulder and rawboned appearance. Armagil noted that he had finally gained an inch or two over the old man. Or perhaps it was just that Black was starting to stoop with age.

His hair had turned a snowy white, matching his thick brows and giving him an oddly benign appearance. Few would have guessed the hand clutching the chicken leg was the same one that had gutted a priest only that morning.

The old man was the first to speak. Clamping his mouth closed, his lips twisted into the familiar bitter sneer.

“Well, this is quite the surprise. The prodigal son returns.”

“Don’t ever call me that. I am not your son—” Armagil snarled and then stopped, realizing this was not an auspicious beginning.

“Oh, you made that more than clear when you stormed out of here years ago. So what could possibly cause the high-and-mighty doctor to honor me with his presence now?”

Armagil bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to keep his temper in check. “I need your help with something. I only came here seeking information.”

The old man snorted a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich, that is. You must be either drunk or mad.”

“Actually I am a little of both. So you’d be wise to step aside and let me in.”

Gilly’s face flushed a mottled red. “I thought I made it real clear the night you left you’d never be welcome beneath my roof again. You never were anything but an arrogant, ungrateful
wretch and now you have the sauce to come here a-begging for my help. Pah!”

The old man started to slam the door in his face, but Armagil’s hand shot out to prevent him.

“You misunderstand me,” he said, keeping his voice cool and level. “I am not begging. I am not even asking.”

Ignoring the old man’s spluttered protest, Armagil forced him back and muscled his way inside.

I
T WAS DIFFICULT FOR MEG TO BELIEVE THAT THE CITY OF LONDON
was not much more than a mile wide. She had walked far greater distances than that on Faire Isle. But her island was a place of wide-open spaces where a woman could breathe—windswept cliffs, cool, shaded forests, and uninhabited stretches of shore.

By contrast, the city overwhelmed her with its maze of narrow streets slippery with refuse. Too many people, too many carts, too much noise with the clatter of hooves, the shouts of traders, the curses of brawling apprentices. The jutting upper stories of houses and shops cast a shadow over the streets, black-and-white timber frames that had been erected too quickly and appeared likely to tumble down just as fast. There was little aura of permanence here in the heart of the city, just a rush of humanity scurrying to survive.

She felt chilled to the bone and footsore as she trailed
Seraphine along the congested thoroughfare. She had still not recovered from all of the emotional upheaval of yesterday and she never had possessed Seraphine’s stamina.

But Seraphine had begun to lag as well, her graceful shoulders bowed down beneath the hopelessness of their mission. They had set out at first light, making cautious inquiries of anyone who might have knowledge of women still practicing the old ways.

Meg could not help reflecting how much easier this investigation would have been back on her island. If any wise woman had strayed into the realm of the dark arts, word of it would surely be carried to the Lady of Faire Isle, just as Meg had been alerted to the supposed bewitchment of Bridget Tillet.

But here in London, all Meg had to rely on was her memories of daughters of the earth who had once attended the councils among the monoliths on Faire Isle. Finding any trace of those women was nigh impossible in this teeming city.

Any questions Meg asked were met with blank looks, wary eyes, and doors slammed in her face. Londoners were noted for being suspicious of foreigners and downright hostile to the French. Seraphine with her beauty and regal presence could exert an influence at least on men. She could be charming if she wished, but her charm was wearing thin after receiving yet another dismissal from a surly midwife.

Nay, she had never heard of any woman calling herself a daughter of the earth, the wood, the sky, or any such nonsense. She was a respectable Christian midwife, thank you very much, who had naught to do with anything hinting of paganism.

Meg had barely time to spring back before the door closed on her foot.

“Stupid cow!” Seraphine flung up her hands in frustration. “This is ridiculous, Meg. We are getting nowhere. Maybe the problem is that we are being too subtle. We should just come right out and ask, ‘Have you noticed any demented witches running amok with dead cats and peculiar silver flowers?’ ”

“Oh hush!” Meg said.

“Why? There is not much likelihood of being overheard amidst all this clatter. I can barely hear myself speak, which is a source of great vexation. I am rather fond of the sound of my own voice.”

Seraphine grinned, clearly expecting to provoke some retort from Meg. But Meg gripped Seraphine’s wrist and cast an anxious look over her shoulder.

Seraphine’s smile faded. “What is it, Meggie?”

“Nothing. Just that for some time now, I have felt as though we are being followed.”

Seraphine halted and risked a quick look back. But there was nothing to be seen beyond some porters toting bolts of cloth from a mercer’s shop to a waiting cart and a woman haggling with a merchant over the cost of thread.

“I haven’t noticed anyone,” Seraphine said.

Meg shrugged, trying to dismiss the eerie feeling of eyes boring into her back. Seraphine took another quick look before they set out again.

“If we are being followed, who do you suspect it might be?” she asked.

“It could be one of Lord Cecil’s spies or one of the women we are seeking or even …” Meg felt the color rise in her cheeks and she ducked her head. “Or—or no one. I daresay I am just being foolish.”

But as ever, Seraphine divined her thoughts all too well.
“If you were hoping it might be Blackwood coming in search of you, your giant of a doctor does not exactly blend into a crowd.”

“No, he doesn’t and I doubt he’d try. I do not expect he will ever seek me out again.”

“The more fool him. Seducing you and then casting you off just because you had a bit of—of an unusual childhood. The man is an idiot if he cannot see what an amazing woman you have become. A pox on him, I say.”

“Armagil is very wise to be daunted by my past, the strange gifts I possess. I cannot blame him for that.”

“Maybe you cannot, but
I
can, so it is just as well he keeps his distance. I hear tell that when a man is turned into a eunuch, he becomes larger and Blackwood is already enough of an oaf.”

Meg tried to smile at Seraphine’s growled threat, but she could not. What had happened with Blackwood was still too raw a wound for her to treat it lightly. Perhaps she never would be able to. Strange that she could feel such a deep connection to a man she had known so briefly, with whom she had shared only one night. She would always vividly recall those fleeting moments she had spent in his arms, her body one with his. Despite the pain, perhaps such a memory was worth the price, far more than many other women experienced.