The Lady of Secrets (46 page)

“You find it easier to believe that Sir Patrick Graham, the scion of an old English family, could be Brody rather than a miscreant like me? I suppose there’s some logic in that. He seems a far more likely candidate for the soul-wounded heroic avenger than I.”

“I believed what you led me to believe, Armagil.”

“Nae, I’m fair sure I told ye more than once, lass, that Sir Patrick Graham was nae Robert Brody, but ye refused to ken a word.”

Armagil’s lapse into a Scottish brogue as thick as King James’s was so startling as to be cruel. When Meg stared at him reproachfully, he looked a trifle ashamed. Refilling his wine cup, he sank down in the seat opposite her.

“I should have told you the truth,” he said.

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “Because to me Robert Brody is dead and gone a long time ago. I buried the poor lad alongside what
remained of his sister on the shores of Edinburgh. Haven’t you realized by now that it is easier to forget the past if you never speak of it?”

“Silence does not make it all go away, Armagil.”

“No, nor does burying it in the bottom of a wine cup, although I have certainly given it a good effort for many years.” He started to take another swallow, then sighed and pushed the cup away from him. “So I suppose you are wondering how a callow boy from Scotland ended up as Armagil Blackwood, a far from respectable English doctor.”

“You appear to have convinced all of London that is who you are. Everyone thinks you are the son of Gilly Black.”

Armagil grimaced. “I know. No matter how many times I have said that man is not my father. I guess that is what happens when you are a habitual liar. When you do tell the truth, no one believes you. But Armagil Black did sire me in so far that I borrowed his name when I required a new one.

“At least I took part of his name. I altered it to Blackwood because—well—that is how wood looks when it has been charred just before everything is consumed to ash. Do you know that unlike most men I take no pleasure from a fire blazing on the hearth? I’d almost rather freeze to death.” His gaze turned inward and for the first time Meg saw it in his eyes, all the despair and torment of the boy who had been Robert Brody.

She reached across the table and laid her hand upon his. He didn’t appear to notice she had done so as he stared back across the years at the darkest day of his life.

Then he gave himself a shake. Curling his fingers around hers, he offered her a sad smile. “I will share my history with you, Margaret, but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to speak
of the day my sister died. If your dreams are to be believed, you have seen the horror of it for yourself.”

“I did,” she acknowledged quietly. “More than Maidred’s pain, I saw and felt her brother’s grief. How Robert Brody—I mean you—vowed to avenge her death.”

“Aye, a very romantic tale that, don’t you think? The distraught and noble brother plotting and scheming for years to take his vengeance upon the king. A story worthy of the London stage.” Armagil’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Unfortunately, that is not my story. Graham is the sort of a man who possesses that kind of calculation and patience.

“I was far too hot-blooded for that, especially in those first raw days after my sister died. I had two other sisters, you know, Brenna and Annie, who were dependent upon me. But I was too lost in grief and rage to have any care of them. I started spending too much time in the tavern, drinking and foolishly venting my spleen against the king. How one day that witch’s curse was going to come true. I would make it so.

“I would have said anything in the first savage thrust of my grief.” He regarded Meg earnestly. “But I was never so far gone in my bitterness that I would have raised my hand against the king’s innocent bride or his babes. You must believe that, Margaret.”

“I do. You are not like Sir Patrick.”

“Don’t judge Graham too harshly. He has demons of his own, but I will get to that part of my tale anon. But back to that autumn that Maidred died, I vowed the king would not live to celebrate another Christmastide and so I watched for my first opportunity.

“Even then James was an avid hunter. It was far too easy to lie in wait for him in the rugged hills around Edinburgh. I
had some skill with a longbow and I practiced and practiced until I felt ready. I crouched behind some trees until James came into view. I actually had him in my sights. It would have been such an easy shot.”

“What happened?” Meg prompted when he fell silent.

“What happened? I was too weak to follow through. I tried to think of May, the horrible way she had died, how James could have spared her. He loomed like a devil in my mind. Perhaps I could have done it, if he had not dismounted. Off of his horse, he looked somehow more vulnerable.

“He dismounted because he was concerned one of his hounds had been injured. There he was kneeling in the meadow, not a monster, not even a tyrant king, just an ordinary man, fretting over his dog. I nocked the arrow and pulled back the bowstring, but suddenly my vision blurred and my hand shook. I loosed the shot, but it went far wide of the mark and I had to flee before I was caught.

“I managed to escape the field, but I was seen running away. I dared not go home to my sisters. I feared it would only be a matter of time before I was caught. Part of me didn’t really care. I had failed to protect Maidred, failed to avenge her. I deserved to die.”

“Oh, Armagil.” Meg longed to comfort him, but he abruptly released her and reached for his wine cup. He took a deep swallow. Peering into his mug, he continued his story.

“Sometimes when you are at the lowest ebb of your life, help can come from the most unexpected places, whether you deserve it or not. My good angel was the turnkey, Master Galbraith, who had been in charge of the gaol where my sister was imprisoned.

“He was a most compassionate man and he had been deeply moved by what had happened to my sister. He and his
wife took charge of my younger sisters and he helped me to escape from Edinburgh, gave me enough coin to make my way to London. His wife was English and she had a brother who worked in a similar trade to her husband.”

“Gilly Black.”

Armagil nodded. “I have spoken harshly of Gilly, but indeed I have no right. He was very generous to take me in, and as much as I deplore it, Gilly is very skilled at his trade. I imagine there were people condemned to die who were grateful for his abilities to provide them with a swift end.

“Gilly had no son and he took a great liking to me. He offered to adopt me so I changed my name to his, worked to bleed Scotland out of my voice and my memory and become what he wished me to be. The executioner’s boy, his apprentice. But try as I might, his work repulsed me.

“I was unable to execute the one man I thought deserving of death, so how was I ever going to slaughter complete strangers? Gilly was furious with my weakness. He had taken me in and he found my unwillingness to embrace his trade ungrateful. Perhaps I was, for I could not remain silent beneath his abuse. I made my disgust with his profession all too plain.

“I would have been put out on the streets and left to fend for myself. But by then I had already met Patrick Graham.

“His mother was imprisoned in Newgate, where my father frequently worked. She was an ardent Catholic. You may not realize it, but it is the great ladies who do much to keep the faith alive, hiding priests in their homes, arranging for secret masses. Miranda Graham was one of those women, but she was caught doing so and a warrant for her arrest was issued. She fled to Scotland and took her young son with her, seeking the protection of the king. Her late husband was reputed
to be some distant relation of James, and Lady Graham depended upon that connection to carry weight with His Majesty. But James was far more concerned with currying favor with Elizabeth, who was still on the throne of England. He hoped to be named as her heir, so he denied the Grahams asylum and turned them over to the English.

“Because of his youth, Patrick was pardoned and made a ward of the court. But his mother was locked away in Newgate for two years, until she died of gaol fever.”

“Then that lock of hair he carries—”

“Belongs to his mother. She was a very forceful woman, and imbued him with a passion for their religion. He regards his mother as a martyr and a saint. His part in the gunpowder plot was partly inspired by his zeal for his faith, but the rest was all his desire to avenge what he regards as James’s betrayal of his mother.”

“So you and Sir Patrick became friends when he visited his mother at the prison. Not at Oxford?”

“Oxford came later. Graham did not have much by way of fortune, but he helped me to gain an education there. I had failed to care for my sisters, not just Maidred, but Brenna and Annie as well. I thought perhaps I might find atonement by becoming a doctor. I could at least learn to be of use to someone. But you have seen how well that has turned out. Graham is right about me. I am a complete wastrel, loyal to no one.”

“That is not true, Armagil.” Meg smiled ruefully. “I might be a little taken aback by some of your methods, but I know you have helped a good many people. Even when it is hopeless, you always try.”

“Just like I tried to protect Maidred. I failed in that, failed to save her. I couldn’t even keep my promise to destroy the
man I hold responsible for her death.” Armagil shook his head bleakly and returned to his wine cup, but Meg placed her hand over the brim to stop him.

“Don’t you see, Armagil, that is exactly what you have been doing all these years? Punishing the one you hold most responsible,
yourself.
I did not fully understand my dreams about Maidred until this moment, when she kept pleading with me to save her brother. I thought she was talking about Sir Patrick, but she meant you.”

“And so now what, because you made a promise in a dream, you are going to commence some sort of campaign to be my salvation?”

Meg leaned across the table and lightly touched his cheek. “I wish I could, but I fear only you can do that. For fourteen years you have been tormented because you could not prevent Maidred’s death. It is time for you to forgive yourself.”

TIME PASSED IN A SUCCESSION OF ENDLESS GRAY DAYS AND
anxious waiting. Celebrations had been held and thanksgivings offered for the preservation of the king and parliament. In the midst of all the ringing of bells, the bursting of fireworks, no one heard the screams of the man being tortured in the Tower.

As Armagil had feared, even a hardened soldier like Guido Fawkes broke under the pain of being racked and offered up the names of his confederates. Arrest warrants were issued, including one in the name of Sir Patrick Graham.

Every time Armagil slipped away from the tavern to gather more information, Meg awaited his return in an agony
of suspense. She feared that Armagil, known as a close friend of Sir Patrick’s, might be seized and hauled off to the Tower for questioning himself.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he returned unharmed, although the tidings he brought were generally grim. Fear and suspicion ran rampant through the city, hatred of Catholics stirred up to a fever pitch. Homes of known recusants were broken into and looted, and anyone suspected of Catholic leanings was subject to arrest. Even the Spanish Embassy was assaulted by an angry mob. Disaster was only averted by the wily ambassador tossing handfuls of coins into the crowd and crying out, “God save and preserve King James.”

In the middle of all of this unrest, the trial of one Beatrice Rivers for the crime of witchcraft merited little notice, except by Meg. When Armagil brought word to her that Bea had been condemned and summarily hanged, Meg could not help feeling a stab of pity, despite everything the woman had done.

Amy and Beatrice Rivers had been tainted by the legend of the Silver Rose from the hour of their birth just as Meg had been. But Meg had been fortunate to have her father and Ariane Deauville to rescue her from the coven’s madness. Amy and Beatrice had had no one but their grandmother. Armagil was not the only one whose life had been altered irrevocably by the witch burnings in Scotland.

Meg thought it a testament to Armagil’s true character that he had not set out on a course of destruction and vengeance like the Rivers sisters or Sir Patrick Graham. The only one Armagil had been set on punishing was Armagil. Meg wondered if he had paid any heed to her when she had urged him to forgive himself. Ever since that afternoon he had confessed to being Robert Brody, Armagil had made it plain he had no wish to discuss the matter any further.

His withdrawal left Meg in a lonely place, for she did not have Seraphine to converse with either. The redoubtable countess had not been herself ever since that night in the church.

Seraphine kept mostly to her room, making no effort to join in any discussions of plans for their escape from London. At first, Meg attributed her friend’s lethargy to Seraphine recovering from the assault, but her wounds had healed, even the stitches on her face had been removed.

Although she tried to pretend it was nothing, Meg frequently caught Seraphine peering into the mirror, examining the scar, a bleak look in her eyes. For all of her intelligence, courage, and charm, the countess had always set too much store by her appearance. Seraphine had often jested that the only value she held for any man was her beauty. The sad thing was that Seraphine truly believed it.