THE SARACEN’S HEAD HAD BEEN A REFUGE FOR ARMAGIL Blackwood ever since he had come to London, as good a place as any for a man to lose himself amidst savory meat pies, tankards of ale, boisterous masculine camaraderie, and willing doxies.
The doctor was known to be congenial company and generous with his purse unless he was too deep in his cups. Then, wary of his temper and his large fists, most men had the wit to keep their distance.
The dark expression on Blackwood’s face this evening warned the denizens of the Saracen’s Head that the doctor was already far gone in drink. Most of them had the good sense to leave him alone on his bench where he sat slumped back against the wall, his fingers crooked around the stem of his tankard.
A buxom wench who had been eyeing him ever since he had entered the tavern was the only one who made bold to approach. But a glare from Blackwood and a growl to get away sent her scurrying in the opposite direction.
He had no appetite for the sort of distraction the doxy offered, a few moments of grunting and groping in a chamber upstairs. He wondered if he would be able to find that kind of release for his pent-up tension ever again.
He feared not and all because of her. Images kept flashing through his mind of Meg so warm in his arms, her lips so soft as she whispered kisses against his skin, the kind of caresses that could make a man forget himself for more than a few fleeting moments, perhaps for a lifetime.
Blackwood ground his fingertips against his eyes. Christ’s blood. He still could not believe it. He had slept with Megaera, the infamous witch who inspired other women to run mad, abandoning their babes, their families, to take part in unholy rituals, poisonings, and curses that led to their own destruction.
The Silver Rose, by her own admission, had possessed unnatural power even as a child. As unthinkable as it was, maybe Graham was right. Perhaps Meg did have him bewitched. Blackwood had never credited such nonsense before, but if she truly was this evil sorceress—
No. No matter what Graham said, Armagil could not reconcile the notion of evil with Margaret. Not with her healing hands, quiet wisdom, gentle compassion, and understanding that seemed to have its roots in some great pain of her own.
Now he knew what that pain was, the full depth of her mother’s insanity, the nightmare that had been Meg’s childhood. Even telling him about it, she had looked so young and lost, every bit as much of a victim as all those other desperate young women who had been lured by Cassandra Lascelles’s madness. He ought to have gathered up Meg into his arms and reassured her instead of rejecting her.
But he was honest enough to admit he had not thrust her away merely because of the shock of learning she was Megaera. Meg might not have cast any spell, but she had certainly done something to him, making him feel too much, remember too much. When she looked up at him, the soft light in her eyes alarmed him. She was falling in love with him and that could only lead to disastrous hopes and expectations. He was not the sort of man any woman could ever rely upon. He had hurt Meg, but truly he had done her a great favor by driving her away.
“How insufferably noble of me,” he muttered, lifting his tankard in a silent toast to himself.
Here’s to you, Armagil Blackwood, the only man in London who can make a virtue out of being a coldhearted bastard.
He drained his tankard and called for another, seeking to numb himself, to drown out the voices in his head. It even seemed preferable to listen to chatter around him, until he started to catch snatches of the conversation and realized most of it revolved around the execution of the priest.
“Never saw so much blood, not even at a bearbaiting.”
“So the traitor was still alive when they cut him down?”
“Oh, aye, although the priest was so purple in the face, I thought he was gone. But old Gilly Black revived him. You should have heard the traitor scream when Black gutted him and shook his entrails in his face.”
Armagil’s fingers tightened around his mug as he sought to block out the voices and the unwelcome memories that came with them.
Of shivering in the early dawn near Tyburn, the morning air as raw as Armagil had been in his youth before he had perfected the art of going numb. Of watching Gilly Black check the noose one last time.
“Pay careful heed to how I have reinforced the knot, lad. It is important, although many hangmen make the mistake of thinking the secret to a proper hanging is all in the rope. But it is a much more precise art than that. You have to calculate with care the weight of the prisoner along with the length of the drop. It makes all the difference between a slow death and a quick one, which is all right for your ordinary thief or murderer. But when the charge is treason, the villain must survive the noose so the rest of his just sentence can be carried out.”
The old man had actually grinned as he had displayed to Armagil his sharpened boning knife. As soon as he had heard the creak of the cart wheels conveying the condemned traitor to his grim fate, Armagil had ducked behind the tree, retching up his breakfast, much to the old man’s disgust.
But then he had been only a boy, he reminded himself as he swallowed his ale. Still too fierce in his emotions the way Patrick Graham was now.
Blackwood flinched when he thought of Graham attending the priest’s execution that morning, Graham, whose heart was already overburdened with anger and grief. If Armagil had been any kind of friend, he would have made more of an effort to prevent Graham from witnessing the gruesome spectacle.
Just as he should never have let Meg slip away from him with that hurt expression on her face. If he had just cared enough—
Damn it! He didn’t want to care.
“Evening, Doctor,” a cheerful voice piped up.
Armagil looked up from his tankard to glare at the cursed fool who dared to approach him. Albert Dunwiddy beamed down at him, appearing quite oblivious to Blackwood’s foul humor.
Dunwiddy was a tinker who made his living selling odd bits, many of which Armagil suspected were stolen. He was notorious for cadging drinks in exchange for a bit of gossip or some fantastic tale.
The last thing Armagil needed was any of Dunwiddy’s prattle about how some fisherman had found gold in the stomach of a sturgeon or the two-headed goose that was being displayed in the poulterer’s shop in Cheapside.
Armagil fished some coin out of his purse and slapped it on the table. “Take it and go.”
Dunwiddy’s lower lip jutted out in a wounded expression. “Here, now. I should hope I might greet a friend without being suspected of coming to beg.”
Armagil lifted his brows. When he shrugged and reached to reclaim the money, Dunwiddy was swifter. He scooped up the coin with an ingratiating smile.
“ ’Course, never let it be said that Albert Dunwiddy would insult any man by refusing his generosity. I thank you—”
“Spare me your thanks.” Armagil waved him off. But Dunwiddy was far too dense to take the hint. When he purchased his drink, he pulled up a seat to join Blackwood.
“I am fair parched,” he declared.
“Then it would be prudent to give your tongue a rest.”
“But I am bursting with news—”
“Which you should keep to yourself.”
“I attended the hanging of that priest this morning.”
As Dunwiddy proceeded to regale him with all the details, Blackwood gritted his teeth.
“Exactly what will it take to shut you up? Breaking my tankard over your head? If that will work, I can reconcile myself to the loss of a mug full of good ale.”
Dunwiddy regarded Armagil with injured surprise. “But I thought you would like to know how well your father did. He has lost none of his skills despite his advancing years.”
“Gilly Black is not my father!” Armagil roared, causing more than one head to turn in his direction. The tavern keeper paused in wiping down the bar, ever on the alert for trouble. Armagil strove to rein in his temper while Dunwiddy raised his hand in a placating gesture.
“Of course, of course. Sorry, I forgot that you and he are a bit—estranged. You’ll not hear another word from me on the subject.”
Dunwiddy took a swallow of ale. “Although if I had a father who had risen to the height of his trade, I’d be that proud to call him—”
“Enough!” Armagil slammed both fists on the table, causing the tankards to rattle.
Dunwiddy grabbed for his, spluttering, “Have a care. You nearly toppled my drink.”
“Three seconds,” Blackwood growled.
“Three seconds?”
“That is how long you have to remove your carcass from that bench and take yourself elsewhere. Or there will be more than your ale in danger.”
Dunwiddy sniffed. “Very well. If you were in no humor for company this evening, you should have just said so. But it is too bad, because I had an even better story to tell you. Even though there’s plenty of thieving and killing here in the city, it has been a while since we’ve had anyone tried as a witch.”
Armagil felt his heart stop. “What!”
“Ah, so now you are interested.” Dunwiddy gave him a smug grin and reached for his drink. He cried out when Armagil dashed the tankard from his hand.
“What witch? What is her name? Damn you!”
“I don’t rightly know. Look what you’ve done, spilled ale all over my best breeches.”
Armagil leaped up. Dunwiddy gasped out a protest when Armagil seized him by his jerkin and hauled the man from his bench.
“You had better know and right quick. Who are you talking about? Someone has been arrested?”
“N-no, not yet. But I am sure it will only be a matter of time before those evil women are hunted down.”
“There was more than one of these witches?”
“Aye, a whole pack of them or so I have heard.”
“And what have they done? What are they accused of?”
“Murder.” Despite his fear of Blackwood’s temper, Dunwiddy licked his lips, clearly relishing the information he had to impart. “They killed some woman, used her blood to paint devil symbols on the walls. The poor wench must have been a mite of a thing because they were able to stuff her body inside a trunk.”
A mite of a thing? Blackwood’s mind leapt to Meg, who barely came up to his shoulder, whose frame seemed so slight and delicate, he’d half feared he would crush her himself when they’d made love so fiercely.
“Her name?” He could barely rasp out the words. “What was the name of the woman killed?”
“I can’t rightly remember.”
“Curse you! You had better.” He gave Dunwiddy such a savage shake, the man’s head snapped back.
“Easy now, Dr. Blackwood.” Armagil felt a heavy restraining hand descend upon his shoulder. He tried to shrug it off, but the owner of the Saracen’s Head only tightened his grip.
“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.