The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (13 page)

s the king dozed dreamlessly from the effects of his tonic, the queen was busying herself with her tour of the grounds.

Queen Artilla was on her way to the Gray Gardens—no small feat in the Templar castle, with its winding corridors and twisting halls. It was almost as if the castle’s architect had confusion in mind when he drew up the design. Each year she arrived and attempted this very same excursion, and each year she found herself hopelessly lost—as if the castle had sprouted new halls and vast wings in their absence.

The Gray Gardens were spectacularly disobedient. Queen Artilla could get nothing of color to bloom there. Even the enormous roses, hanging heavy from their thorny canes, were a neutral shade of gray. Gray ivy and thick ground cover were overrunning the place. Spongy gray moss grew over the stone benches and statuary. It was as if the color had
drained from all life—leaving only the magnified scent to enjoy.

The olive grove produced gray olives from its silvery leaves and dull leathery trunks. Clear water collected in a hollow beside a series of stepping-stones, reflecting only storm clouds. Anything the queen planted here grew intently, but devoid of all color, leaving Her Majesty a vision of vividness against the drab backdrop.

It was, above all, pleasing to her.

The queen stood now in the corner tower, confusion rising with an equal jolt of annoyance. She looked out at the view from a thin barred window. A flanking tower rose up along the fortified curtain wall, and there she found an entrance into a postern, a long footbridge leading over the swampy sod beside the moat. The moat was her husband’s inspiration and the only improvement that the Nightshades had bothered with. She had no idea how the previous monarch kept the commoners at bay without one.

Before the arched doorway stood a royal guard, and it was from him that the queen demanded directions.

“The gardens?”

He nodded and, moving aside, let her through and onto the outdoor passage that linked one colossal side of the castle to another. In the moat below a sort of oily film glistened on the surface of the water, which bubbled wickedly, releasing its
poisonous gases. From up here the queen had a view of the majority of the city, its twisting streets and hidden storefronts.

She quickly reached the end of the walkway and called for entry through the thick timber door.

“The gardens?” she asked this sentry stationed at the entrance.

After thinking a moment with a furrowed brow, the guard directed her to a staircase directly across from them, and the queen slipped down it, resuming her impressive pace. Soon she had arrived through a low door in a part of the castle she had never before been. Before her sat a large squat table upon the earthen floor. A small fire was burning against the far wall, a steaming kettle over it, and she realized with great annoyance she’d stumbled into the servants’ kitchen.

Taking a moment to make the best out of a bad situation, the queen looked around for Lowly Boskoop, or any of his minions, with the idea of a surprise inspection, yet there was no one to intimidate. (They were all receiving another shipment of royal baggage somewhere far above her.) Lifting the lid on the large cauldron over the crackling fire, she took a half-interested peek.

Setting out again through a set of double doors, the queen emerged into a wide hallway that seemed to double as a depository for old junk. It was filled with forgotten odds and ends—filthy old armor and rusty weapons, stacks of mildewed
paintings, a shield bearing the old Verdigris coat of arms, everything with that sickly inferior flower upon it.

Antiques!

With a start, Queen Nightshade realized the insolence to which she was witness. Her husband had outlawed it all, yet there it sat—apparently for some time—defying the king’s orders of destruction. She quickly cataloged several of the more recent and offending pieces: a throne, a set of footstools whose only offense was to remind her husband of his loathsome defect.

She would take care of this impertinence. Smiling wickedly, she knew of just the thing.

Picking up her extensive skirts, Queen Nightshade made a beeline back to the bubbling cauldron and, with a quick flick of her hand, opened her fine emerald ring—revealing a hidden chamber within. A misty white vapor poured out and into the servants’ stew. Queen Artilla stirred it with a weathered-looking wooden spoon hanging from a hook on the mantel and finished with an approving nod. Turning, she resumed her pace with a renewed sense of enthusiasm for her tour.

The confusing hall finally leveled out for a jaunt and let out, to her great relief, into one of her favorite places. The castle’s dungeon. She was directly under the garden, she knew, since the cryptlike cells were built—by Vidal Verjouce—beneath it. It was the last stop for infidels, enemies of the monarchy, and
anyone that might simply displease Their Highnesses. And it was empty, uncharacteristically, since the royal family had just arrived.

Empty, except for the very last cell.

The queen could hear heavy snoring at the end of the vaulted corridor, and approaching the iron grating, clearing a layer of cobwebs as she did, she demanded to know who was the trespasser.

“You. Wake up. What are you doing in my dungeon?”

With a large snort, the man, dressed only in rags and wrapped in a threadbare blanket, jumped awake.

“Um—Your Highness put me here,” the man said.

“Nonsense. We’ve only just arrived.”

“I beg your pardon, but you did, Your Majesty.”

“Are you disagreeing with your queen?”

“If I may—I was put down here last year.”

“Last year?” the queen asked incredulously.

“Yes. Your Highness.”

“Under what charge?”

“Let’s see. Quacksalvery, I believe.”

“Quacksalvery? You are an apotheopath?!” She eyed him with a mixture of repugnance and disdain and, although she hid it well, a touch of intrigue—a look she normally reserved for her novice tasters.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“I answered the general call to cure the king’s foot.”

“I see.”

“I was arrested before I was given the chance.”

“Of course you were. Apotheopaths are outlaws.”

“So it seems.”

“Punishable by death.”

“So I hear.”

The queen looked around his neat cell.

“How have you survived?”

“I manage.”

“Hmm. So you do.”

She regarded the prisoner thoughtfully. There was a part of her evilness that would have enjoyed discussing in grand fashion all the wonders of his craft with this apotheopath. A meeting of the minds. The dungeon did always bring out the best in her.

“What’s that there behind you, prisoner?”

The queen had spotted something in the cell’s dank corner, growing in defiance of the lack of sun.

“Yes, isn’t that something?” he replied.

“What is it?”

“It appeared this very morning. A cinquefoil!”

Queen Artilla reacted very much as if she’d seen a rat.

“But how is that possible?”

The dirt floor was packed and unnourishing with the years of prisoners sleeping on it. Nothing could grow there.

Her voice turned icy.

“Destroy it at once.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

“You must, and you will.”

The prisoner shrugged, leaned down, and plucked the tiny yellow flower from its stem. As soon as he did, the petals dropped to the floor, where they instantly sprouted each another cinquefoil. The queen gasped.

“Very well, apotheopath.”

She paused, evilly.

“I do so apologize for making you wait like this; it’s quite irregular. Quacksalvery is, of course, a serious crime indeed. And I’ll see to it that your sentence is carried out swiftly. I shall take great pleasure in addressing the issue personally. And sorry for any inconvenience this might have caused.”

“Don’t mind at all.”

The queen looked back down the way she came.

“This the way out?”

“I believe so.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Your Highness.”

Queen Artilla walked toward the guard’s booth.

“That prisoner there, he overwintered here?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Do you have a name for him?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“He calls himself Manx. Cecil Manx.”

rrRRrrggggg!” King Nightshade screamed.

He sat upon a small, bleak stool, but the source of his discomfort lay at his feet. He was receiving a visit from the Royal Prosthetic Cobbler, a shoemaker of great talent who outfitted both the king’s good foot and bad foot in a remarkable variety of clever footwear.

Gudgeon, for that was his name, made the king one fine right shoe, but the true artistry was on the left foot. Gudgeon transformed King Nightshade’s enormous clawlike appendage—warty and clenched in a permanent contortion—into something of a matching set. True, there were several inches of elevation to the sole, and no one could hide the disparity of size, but really, the job for all intents and purposes was expert.

The only problem for both the king and his staff was each
new pair required a fitting, a painful fitting, which the king was enduring at present.

“Gudgeon—please, if you value your life, make this fitting end. This is worse than the mustard plaster and leeches!” The king was referring to a notorious experiment he underwent at the hands of one of the early contestants.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, I’m nearly finished.”

Gudgeon was the pinnacle of professionalism as he measured the king’s bulbous big toe with a calibrated set of pincers.

A slight snoring came from the corner where someone had wheeled Prince Francis. But Lowly Boskoop was awake, very awake, and trying hard to find any place to rest his eyes besides his king’s monstrous foot. A film of sweat beaded his forehead—he was feeling awful, truly awful, but not from the fitting unfolding before him. Although the king’s bare foot was enough to give anyone pause, he had stopped into the staff’s dining area and had a quick lunch and ever since then his gut rumbled in a furious way.

“Might I recommend the green leather this time, Your Highness?”

“Is it soft?”

“The most supple.”

“Yes, then.”

Gudgeon was strapping and unstrapping what appeared to be a very uncomfortable set of belts on the king’s foot, making minor adjustments as he went. The king groaned and
distracted himself from the tortures with thoughts of bettles. He would just have time to take his tonic before the queen was due for lunch.

Almost as if she knew of his thoughts, Queen Artilla sailed into the room.

“Darling—I can’t seem to find anyone in this wretched castle to help me.” She stopped and looked at her husband’s choice of seating.

“Nice throne.”

The king sighed, visions of his tonic evaporating. He decided to ignore her—anything was better than an antique.

“Help you with what, my dear?” he asked.

“Ah—I want to draft a royal invitation to the reclusive author of my favorite book.”

“What book?”

“My
favorite
book.” She eyed her husband dangerously.
“The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux.”

“Hmm.” King Nightshade was uninterested. Whatever Gudgeon was doing was slightly tickly now, and that made concentration somewhat difficult.

“I’ll need some help finding out just where he lives, though.” The queen was picturing many of her evil ways of interrogation. “He is, after all, reclusive.”

“A most excellent project, Artilla,” King Nightshade agreed, thinking any project that would distract her from disrupting his own plans was a good one.

“But I can’t find any of the help.”

“Have you rung for them?”

“Of course.”

“Have you shouted, then?”

“I thought I’d pop in here before I started screaming. Lowly”—she turned to the footman—“where is everyone? What is this insolence?”

Lowly Boskoop was caught in the midst of a violent wave of nausea and was speechless before the queen.

The king, finally noticing his servant’s pallor, turned to his wife.

“Artilla. Lowly isn’t looking so well. Lowly, have you
eaten
anything recently?” This he asked casually, never leaving his wife’s eyes.

The question had an immediate effect on the queen, as the king intended.

“Just a spot of soup, Your Highness, nothing that might take me away from your side for too long.”

“Oh. Then.” The queen’s tone was suddenly clipped, and she looked about the room, purposefully avoiding her husband’s eyes. In her excitement, she’d forgotten the little incident with her ring in the servants’ kitchen. “Perhaps, Lowly, since you are right here, you can take down this note for me—I’ll dictate—and see that it gets into the right hands.”

“But first, Lowly,” said the king, “why not tell the rest of the staff to avoid the soup. Seems like a good idea, no?”

The king softened his tone, leaning toward his wife. “I know it’s just your nature, darling. But I’m sure you’d agree we really need everybody to help with the preparations for the Feast.”

“Oh—that reminds me! I was in the dungeon, darling, and you’ll never guess what I found!”

“Do tell.”

Gudgeon, for his part, was carefully replacing his strange tools into a leather bag and rolling up his leather samples. It was his aim to leave as soon as reasonably possible, both to get started on the king’s Feast shoes and to depart the queen’s company hastily. He turned now to redress the king’s clubfoot in its enormous stocking and large velvet slipper.

“A prisoner!”

“A prisoner? How is that possible? We’ve only just arrived.”

“Yes—I said the same thing. Apparently, he’s been there all winter!”

“Oh. That’s exciting!”

“Yes, I thought you’d find that amusing. And, Arsenious—he’s an
apotheopath!
He came to try his hand at your foot.”

The mention of the outlawed and disgraced profession caused Gudgeon to scatter his armful of rolled skins.

“An apotheopath! I don’t remember seeing an apotheopath last year. I would most certainly remember that.”

“I think he was immediately arrested. It is, after all, one of
your outlawed professions…. Should we summon Verjouce?” she asked casually.

It was at Vidal Verjouce’s insistence that the king outlawed this onetime very popular branch of medicine, and it was known that should any of these outlaws be captured, the Director was to be summoned at once.

“Noooo,” said the king thoughtfully. “Have this … this apotheopath—”

“Cecil something, I think.”

“Have him brought here before me, and let’s give him his chance. He did come all this way….” Here the king was thinking not only of his own well-being, but of just how much this would infuriate the Guild’s Director.

“And if he can’t cure your foot?”

“Then, Artilla, I leave him in your capable hands, as always.”

This was just what the queen had hoped.