The Lady of Secrets (45 page)

“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 averted 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.”

“A fascinating conjecture,” Graham sneered. “Even if this far-fetched tale were true, it does not excuse you.”

“I am not looking for excuses. I would have gone to Cecil and betrayed the plot myself if it had been necessary.”

“And that is what I don’t understand,” Graham cried. “My God, Armagil, I trusted you. I told you everything because you convinced me you had finally recovered some sense of honor, but I should have known better. Year after year, I have watched the disintegration of your character. Even as you became more and more dissolute, more indifferent to all moral obligations, I persisted in believing you still retained a spark of nobility. Instead you proved yourself a very Judas, the most despicable wretch to crawl upon the face of the earth. What kind of villain have you become?”

“I could well ask you the same thing,” Armagil retorted. “How could you embrace something as cowardly and reprehensible as this gunpowder plot? Your urge to kill James, that I could understand. But to destroy his wife and his son, and countless other innocent men, many of them Catholics such as yourself … it’s madness.”

“Such sacrifice was necessary for—for the one true faith. This is a holy war.”

“Oh, don’t spout that cant to me,” Armagil snapped. “For you, this was about revenge on the king and you didn’t care who else was destroyed in the process.”

“A vengeance you should have wanted as well!” Graham shouted back. “But there is no loyalty, no truth in you, nothing
that you hold sacred, not friendship, nor your promises, not even what you owe to your own blood.”

Armagil said nothing, but he flinched, each of Sir Patrick’s harsh words seeming to strike at him with the force of a blow. Meg could not bear to listen in silence any longer.

She rushed the rest of the way down the stairs, crying out to Sir Patrick, “Stop this at once. Can you not tell how this is tearing Armagil apart? Do you not know why he has done this?”

Sir Patrick shot her a venomous look. “Now I see all too clearly. He is still in thrall to his witch. I might have guessed.”

“Meg, go back upstairs,” Armagil said tersely.

“No, I will not allow him to abuse you any further. You must let me speak to him.”

“I refuse to listen to anything from your vile lips, strumpet.”

“You will heed me whether you wish to or not,” Meg said. “It is nigh killing Armagil to act against you. He has only done so out of the greatest love one friend can bear another. Even if this mad plan of yours had succeeded, it would have destroyed you. Can you not comprehend that, you stupid man? Armagil only wanted to preserve your life and your soul. He did what he did for you and the memory of your sister as well. Maidred would not have wished for you to have such blood on your hands. I know she would not.”

“You
know.
” Sir Patrick mocked her with a harsh laugh. “You know nothing. I never had any sister.” He twisted his head to glare at Armagil.

“Because I am not Robert Brody. He is!”

T
HE TAPROOM WAS SILENT AND EMPTY, THE SHUTTERS DRAWN
closed. Armbruster had put it about that his wife was ill of highly contagious fever, possibly the pox. The tavern would be closed until further notice. A clever ruse that would keep even the most curious away.

Meg rubbed her arm, bruised from how hard Armagil had gripped when he had hauled her up from the cellar and away from Patrick Graham’s acid mockery.

His angry taunts had followed them up the stairs.

“So the great sorceress never guessed the truth and Armagil never told you, even when he took you to his bed. But why would you? He’s forgotten himself who he is. Just like he forgot the sister he watched burn to death, all his promises to avenge her—”

Armagil had slammed the cellar door closed, mercifully
shutting out the sound of Graham’s bitter voice. He stalked behind the counter and helped himself to a large cup of sack. Meg noted the way his hand trembled as he poured. He curtly offered her one as well, but she shook her head, sinking into the nearest chair she could find.

Still stunned by Sir Patrick’s accusations, Meg studied Armagil’s countenance for any sign that it could really be true. How could she have been that blind, never suspecting that he was Robert Brody?

Armagil tossed down the cup of wine and regarded her, almost belligerently. “Well, have you nothing to say?”

“I am still trying to make sense of this.” She pressed her hand to one temple. “What Sir Patrick said about you being Robert Brody—it does not seem possible.”