He who slays

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘Who will be there?’ Kit asks as he pulls one of Lazarus’ embroidered shirts over his head in his bed on the morning of their demonstration at Richmond Palace. October is waning, the cold snap is over and the river flowing with an icy breeze, and today, Kit will go to court.

‘Privy Councillors, all manner of illustrious men.’ Lazarus bends and presses a kiss to Kit’s pale inner thigh. ‘All that matters is that Cecil is there.’

Lazarus has explained that the Lord High Treasurer and Secretary of State, Lord Burghley, is old and ailing, so his ambitious son, the acting Secretary and leader of the Privy council, will be the one they must impress. Kit feels no trepidation at the prospect. For the first time since their return, he no longer glances out of the windows of Hart House, fearfully watching for an Isherwood coat of arms. Trusting Lazarus is the sturdiest armour, turning all blades of worry. Occasionally, deep in the slumber of the night, he awakes and hears Mariner’s cruel words again – He will fuck you and use you, he will chew you up and spit you out – but Lazarus is there, a heavy arm in the dark, wrapped around him, drawing him back into the safety of his orbit.

‘But still, we will be cautious. You are the apprentice, you need speak to no one,’ Lazarus says, leaning naked against the pillows, watching Kit dress with lazy appreciation. ‘We will show only what has been asked for.’

Kit understands. For the last week, he and Lazarus have been testing the limits of his transformative abilities of the four base elements. So far, he can only accelerate the melting of ice. He cannot seem to evaporate anything into gas and transmutation of earth seems unfeasible. No matter how much Lazarus tells him that all materials are much like one another on the basest levels, he cannot force himself to believe it is therefore possible for him to squeeze a lump of coal into a diamond. Fire, too, is elusive and troublesome. Whilst formulas made for flames of different colours always flourish under his touch, to keep flame burning in his hand with nothing but will and a belief it should be possible is a task too high.

‘The fastest Arbor Diana,’ he says. The formula they have developed allows it to bud and bloom in as little as thirty minutes. It involves a surreptitious touch from Kit, but it will do it. ‘The flame that doesn’t burn the wood. Though what military applications that has are beyond me, it will burn no ships.’

‘It is not about equipping an army, just saying we could—’ Lazarus’ hand grabs his, kisses Kit’s fingertips with that same soft veneration that shoots desire into Kit’s belly ‘—for then the crown will give Lady Blackwater what she needs to fund her work.’

‘To fund our fun,’ says Kit.

‘To fund your vigorous education,’ Lazarus responds, pulling him down onto the sheets with that rare, golden laugh.

*

‘So this is Richmond Palace.’ Kit looks up at the white brick, the twisting towers and pointed cupolas with their gilded crosses and flying flags as they walk inside. ‘Could be bigger.’

Lazarus throws him an annoyed look, but his eyes are humorous. Lady Blackwater is wrapped up in sables, close to the skin, to protect her from the stiff breeze off the river. Mariner is draped in them too, looking very lordly, and made more so by the potently sombre expression on her face. The news of Daisy’s death is only a few days old but Mariner has settled into grief as well as a husband of a fifty-year marriage and he does not quite understand the nature of her melancholy. After all, Daisy Gale of the Silver Moon only ever knocked her back. Mariner has a lover living, a woman so compelling that she would eagerly bury her friendship with Kit. Yet as they walk inside, Kit senses Mariner’s stiffness, her darting eyes. He had expected to see joviality at the heart of court; laughter, lavish men in buckled shoes prancing and showing their calves to twirling ladies with ropes of diamond in their cleavages. As they walk through vast wood-panelled rooms that smell of sweat and rosewater, the faces are fidgety and anxious. He sees how glances follow Mariner, how brows furrow, how lips turn to sneer and voices to gossip. He looks at Lazarus, questioning.

‘Spain,’ Lazarus speaks under their footsteps. ‘The ships of the Spanish Armada have been spotted off Scilly. Lord Burghley commands all gentlemen back to their houses to rouse their tenants. Particularly those with coastal seats.’

‘Truly? A land defence?’

No wonder they’re all looking at Mariner like she’s about to take a pike to them. He feels a swell of offence on Mariner’s behalf before he remembers it is no longer his business to come to Mariner’s defence. That is Lady Blackwater’s job now.

They are taken up to the quarters away from the royal household where the Privy Councillors can have a quiet, discreet meeting. Kit is left alone to unpack the crate on the long table and light the brazier with small faggots from the fire, the perfect servant and apprentice, whilst Lady Blackwater, Lazarus and Mariner perform the part of courtiers in the room beyond. Kit hears the door open and expects it to be Lazarus, coming to check on him.

‘Nearly done,’ Kit says.

‘Blessed of Hermes. Here you are.’

It is strange to see Lord Isherwood in the true light of day, no longer lit by candles. He is shorter than he seemed, hung from the ceiling, Kit can see how his pillowy eyes sag, that his hairline seems more receded. Yet the voice, it takes him quickly back to that dank, dark place. Every hair on his body rises. He knows his instinct should be to run, but with all the gold around him, the beautiful jewels of stained glass, politeness is being imposed from the brocade and carved wood.

‘We were not expecting you, my Lord.’ He tries to concentrate on watching the brazier burn but there is a faint ringing in his ears.

‘I think you will find we were.’ Lord Isherwood closes the door behind him. Kit hears the horrifying creak of the cellar’s metal lock. ‘I am told you are well.’

Kit knows the implications of those words, that Lord Isherwood wants him to believe Lazarus is speaking about him, betraying him, but Kit pushes that feeling away. He watches closely as the man steps forward, curiously perusing the items at the other end of the workbench, his hands clasped behind his back in the same way he would intone the gospels. Kit gently moves his fingers from the brazier to rest lightly against the bottle of aqua vitae. They use it for their blue fire, but Lazarus tells him it stings when thrown in the face. Isherwood gives him an interested look, eyes flickering to the bottle. Let him think it is acid and will slide his brows off.

‘I am not hanging from the ceiling now,’ Kit says.

‘No, you are flourishing, by all accounts.’ Kit imagines the report from Doctor Dee, the furious testament of Will Twentyman. Seemingly neither have deterred Lord Ishwerwood, who tilts his head slightly to one side, examining Kit from all angles, with the look of a man buying a diamond, or a horse. ‘I am not surprised. You are both precious and holy. Your blood has proven to be a powerful, an astonishing ingredient.’

‘If left corked it will be better in a year,’ Kit says but his words, his jokes, they have never meant anything to this man. Kit glances urgently at the door. It cannot be locked. Did no one see him come in, did not Lazarus?

‘Now you know more of our art, would you not consider how you could serve greatness?’ He is still sliding slowly towards Kit along the length of the table. ‘If you came back to Isherwood House. With me.’

Kit wishes it was acid in the bottle. He imagines the egoistic, expectant face bubbling and curdling like Twentyman’s did; eyes popping, mouth drooling.

‘I have all I need at Hart House.’

‘Lazarus cannot teach you, cannot serve you as I can.’

Kit smiles. Some things are better than a splash of acid to the face.

‘Oh Lazarus serves me very well,’ he says. ‘On his knees, mainly.’

The fury boils in Isherwood’s eyes; the sorrow and resentment of a father scorned.

‘You have the mind of a whore. My son serves only his country, he serves only me!’ Isherwood seizes Kit’s collar, shaking him, his other fist smashing Kit’s hand with the vial into the bench. It cracks, it leaks against Kit’s hand and though he knows his nostrils should be full of the vigorous scent of alcohol, all Kit can smell is damp straw. The wooden carvings of pomegranates above him are turning into a cellar ceiling. He wants to pull back, but how can he, feet manacled as they are? He struggles, his elbow catches the twisted metal stem of the brazier, spilling the burning coals inside it over the table with a crash.

‘Kit!’

He’s aware of Lazarus’ voice but the crumbled, smouldering faggots meet the spilled aqua vitae and it alights, blue and roaring, just as they planned to demonstrate. It forces Isherwood back from the table with a curse, but the flame is fast, and Kit’s hands are drenched. Blue fire chases his fingertips, meets his flesh, and there it is, running up and down his thumb, his first finger, his second, third and fourth and he knows it will continue to climb if he does not stop it, so Kit begins to think, panicking, of all he has learned about himself – I am flame, I am flesh, this fire is mine and in my blood, cease, come back to me, dammit – but it does nothing, only that the tips of the flames seem to be evaporating upwards into a spiralling wind. He had thought he could not do it, but here he is, turning flame to air somehow, and Isherwood looks as shocked as he feels. There is a roaring inside of him, that same gruelling pressing clamouring through his bones and the glowing faggots are whipped up in sparks; fluttering in small twisting hurricanes and if he cannot stop it soon, he might not stand. Then Lazarus is in front of him, throwing the edge of his cloak over Kit’s flaming hand, the air full of the stink of burnt flesh, crisp and meaty. Kit can breathe again, staggering against Lazarus with relief. The expression on Lord Isherwood’s face is turning from hateful to awed.

‘Look at you.’ His eyes move from Kit to his son, deep venom settling in the bow of his lips. ‘You knew.’

‘Cecil is on his way.’ Lazarus pats damask against Kit’s hands with a pinched expression, checking as the smoke disseminates.

‘Yes, we might all do well to remember it.’ Lady Blackwater is standing in the doorway with Mariner, Pyncher behind them, with glasses of wine on a platter. Mariner’s face is a picture of astonishment, Lady Blackwater’s is unreadable as she stares at the secrets they have kept from her. Kit can’t stop his burnt fingers curling tightly around Lazarus’ fingers through the cloak. Do we need to run? He wonders and surprises himself with how quickly he will go anywhere Lazarus tells him to if necessary. Her eyes are moving to the door. ‘Please tidy up, Master Skevy. Matthew, get Lord Isherwood a glass of wine. He has clear need of it.’

It is her quick assertion of normality onto the situation, a lute player striking up a tune for a dance, that forces Kit into control of his heavy feet. Mariner is picking up a glass of wine to offer to Lord Isherwood, Kit is setting the brazier back, thoughtlessly scooping still smouldering charcoal off the table and into his hands until Lazarus knocks it away, stamping it into smoke under his shoes.

‘Do not.’ Lazarus jerks the burnt hand towards him, voice low, using his body to block the gesture from the Privy Councillors behind him, filling the room with their bored expressions and the rosy scent of their perfumed hair. Lord Isherwood is sipping a glass of wine but has not moved away, his finger thoughtfully tracing through the ashy remains on the tabletop. ‘You will not feel it, Kit, I have to check it—’

‘We are about to begin.’ Kit closes his eyes sharply and forces them open again. He will not collapse or give in to the exhaustion seeping out of his bones. ‘She will hate us more if we—’

‘It feels no pain?’ Lord Isherwood is close again, lips stained bloody. Lazarus twitches but does not look at his father. ‘Lazarus, does it speak true? Does it sweat? Does it freeze?’

‘Now, gentlemen, we must let Master Skevy finish his preparations, he has much to do.’ Lady Blackwater steps elegantly forward, sliding her hand into Lord Isherwood’s sleeve and smiling, all sweetness and ease.

‘You speak false, Lazarus, it screamed! Over and over, it cannot be… I have never seen another, not one other, in all this time.’ Isherwood’s voice is becoming odd, his face is flushing deeply as he stares at Kit’s hand. Remarkably, he grips Lady Blackwater tightly. ‘Ella, did you know?’

The name is so paternal, so delicate, that Kit expects Lady Blackwater to change under it, to suddenly look more girlish, but her expression is a placid mask. Kit looks at Lazarus, searching for knowledge, but there’s nothing. Just Lazarus’ hand on Kit’s burnt wrist and his eyes upon his father.

‘You seem passionate, Lord Isherwood,’ Lady Blackwater says. ‘Come and stand with me, Lazarus will present our findings. I am sure you will be most intrigued.’

The door opens and a man walks in, the waters parting for him. It must be Sir Robert Cecil. He is dressed as a clerk, all black, but the finest lace and silk. He does not speak, but stands, arms folded, and nods at Lady Blackwater, who speaks.

‘My Lord Privy Councillors, I hope you will appreciate what the alchemists of London bring you today: a demonstration of the true development of our art, worthy of the input of Her Majesty’s treasury, for the betterment of England.’

She nods at Lazarus as the audience clap politely and Kit lurches familiarly at the sound. Here is the stage, he is simply in the wings, making the magic happen. He can do that, he can ignore the way Lord Isherwood’s eyes fix upon him, mouthing something unintelligible. This is just a show.