CHAPTER
37
THREE DAYS AFTER THEY’D CONFINED me to the Tower, they took me to see Lord Ashcombe. He lay on the bed in a room like mine, the king’s physicians buzzing around him. A thick white bandage was wrapped around his head, covering the left side of his face. A scarlet slash soaked through it at the cheek. Another bandage was wrapped around his right hand, crimson stains crusting where Wat’s ax had removed his fingers.
Lord Ashcombe shooed the doctors away as if they were flies. He beckoned me closer and mumbled into his bandages.
“I . . . I don’t understand,” I said.
Lord Ashcombe looked annoyed, although whether with me or the dressing on his face, I couldn’t tell. He tried again, more slowly, slurring through the cotton. “You set. A trap.”
I bowed my head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I never meant to get you hurt. I wanted Master Colthurst to confess so you’d realize he was the killer. I didn’t know he’d bring so many men.”
He waved my apology away. “No. In the. Underground lab. The Archangel’s Fire.”
“Yes, my lord. I couldn’t take the chance that Oswyn might find it and escape.”
“Your trap. You knew. You could get him. If he. Went down.”
“I hoped so.”
“Yet you. Let him torture you. With that liquid. First.”
My fingers traced over my chest. Before the king’s physicians had dressed my wounds, I’d seen the melted flesh. My own map of hell, forever burned into my skin. “I did.”
“Why?”
Several steps ahead, Oswyn had said. But I’d already been taught that, by a man so much greater than Oswyn could have ever hoped to be. Secrets under secrets. Codes inside codes.
Traps within traps.
“Oswyn knew I loved my master,” I said. “He knew, after Master Benedict had tried so hard to keep the Archangel’s Fire safe, for me to turn it over to him—to anyone—would betray everything my master had given me.
“If I’d just told him about the lab, Oswyn might have suspected another trap. I couldn’t take that chance. He needed to think he’d beaten me. He needed to believe he’d won.”
Lord Ashcombe tilted his head. “You used. His nature. Against him.”
I nodded.
Lord Ashcombe regarded me for a moment. Then he laid his head back and closed his eye.
They took me back to my room.
• • •
They kept me in the Tower for two more weeks, as a slowly healing Lord Ashcombe directed from his recovery bed the hunt for anyone connected with Oswyn’s plot to overthrow the king. He discovered several more men involved with Oswyn’s scheme, including two more apothecaries, a trio of landsmen, and a duke, eleventh in line for the throne. There was also the traitorous King’s Man, whose interrogation had led to the capture of the others. The linen man told me that all of them—except the King’s Man, who had died during questioning—would be receiving justice in the public square north of the Tower. They’d take me to watch if I wanted. I didn’t. That day, I could hear the crowd all the way from the square, howling for blood, and cheering every time they got it. Closing the window didn’t help. I lay on my bed and covered my ears, trying to block out the sound.
Other than that day, I didn’t mind staying at the Tower. It’s not like I had anywhere else to go. The linen man told me the crier had announced my innocence to the city, but I doubted that had changed Tom’s father’s mind about me. I did wish Tom were there. I asked if I could see him, but the guard just grunted, “No visitors.” I kept my window open, in the hope that Bridget might find me, but I never saw her, either.
In the meantime, they kept me fed, and told me news of outside. Some was good—after a recent declaration of war on the Dutch, the English fleet had fought more than a hundred enemy ships near Lowestoft, and defeated them soundly—but I was worried to hear of the growing reports of plague in London’s western parishes. So far, no one inside the city walls had the disease, but the casualties in the outskirts now totaled forty dead and were rising every week. I feared, with the growing heat of June, things might get a lot worse.
Still, there wasn’t anything to do but wait. When they finally did release me, the King’s Men marched me to a carriage outside the portcullis. The driver said he had orders to take me straight to Apothecaries’ Hall, where the Guild Council had arranged a hearing to decide what they were going to do with me.
“But it’s Sunday,” I said.
The driver shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”
Impatiently, he motioned me into the back. I braced myself for a bumpy ride.
• • •
The hearing was in the Great Hall. The last time I’d been here, Oswyn had sat at the grand table, piercing me with questions as other apothecaries, seated in rows to the side, looked on. This time, Grand Master Sir Edward Thorpe sat at the center, worn and weary. Guild Secretary Valentine Grey sat at his right, looking even more fussed than the last time I’d seen him. The seat to their left remained empty.
Sir Edward didn’t waste any time. “We’ve discussed your case,” he said. “The membership agrees that you have been ill treated. As compensation, we are awarding you ten pounds. Additionally, we shall cover, up to another ten pounds, the fee to be paid to a different guild for a new apprenticeship.”
But . . . “What happened to my old apprenticeship?”
Sir Edward cleared his throat. “The members felt, given the circumstances, it would be best if you were no longer to train to be an apothecary.”
My stomach churned. I’d feared the worst. It appeared that I was getting it. “Please . . . Grand Master . . . being an apothecary is all I want. Please let me stay.”
“Your commitment reflects well upon you,” he said, “but we cannot have the recent . . . incidents . . . attached any further to our Guild.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I said. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Nonetheless, we believe this action is best for everyone. And, frankly, Mr. Rowe, we have nowhere to place you. No master is currently in need of a new apprentice. You understand.”
I looked around the room. A few of the apothecaries at the sides were watching me curiously. Most avoided my eyes.
The churning in my guts sank like a pit. I did understand. They were afraid. Anyone who took me in would look like they wanted whatever I knew about the Archangel’s Fire. Oswyn’s plot—and Lord Ashcombe’s purge—had made me untouchable.
“Then . . . what’s going to happen to Blackthorn?” I said.
“The shop will revert to Guild ownership,” Sir Edward said.
“What about Master Benedict’s will?”
“We can’t find his will.”
“That’s because Oswyn stole it,” I said, my voice rising.
“We have no evidence of that,” Valentine said. “The compensation we’re giving you is more than enough to—”
“I don’t want your money!” I shouted. “I want my life back!”
Valentine turned red. He was about to say something more when the heavy door behind me creaked open. He looked past me in annoyance. “What?”
“Forgive me, Masters,” the clerk at the door said, wiping his brow. “There are two petitioners who wish to address the Council.” He glanced behind him anxiously. “One of them is Lord Ashcombe.”
Sir Edward glanced over at Valentine, who sat up in his chair, still bright red. “Very well.”
In strode the King’s Warden. His bandages were gone. Over his missing eye, he wore a plain black patch. His cheek was still stitched together, loops of thread tracking an angry red line from underneath the patch to the corner of his mouth, twisting it sideways. His ruined hand was covered by a glove.
Behind him came an even bigger surprise. Isaac the bookseller walked carefully to stand before the Council, his wispy white hair waving as he moved. In his hand he carried a scroll of parchment. His cloudy eyes barely glanced at me as he took his place beside the King’s Warden.
Sir Edward nodded. “Richard. And . . . Isaac, isn’t it? Welcome. What can we do for you?”
“For me?” Lord Ashcombe said. “Nothing.” The slash on his cheek seemed to make his voice grate even more roughly than before. “I’m here on behalf of His Majesty, Charles the Second, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.”
The room had been quiet before. Now I couldn’t hear even a whisper of breath.
“I see,” Sir Edward said. “How may we be of service to His Majesty?”
“The king wants it known that Christopher Rowe, apprentice to the Apothecaries’ Guild, is a true friend to the Crown. Further, His Majesty understands that Oswyn Colthurst’s actions were not sanctioned by the Guild, and he reaffirms his close bond with you, who loyally supported him against Puritan traitors when he returned from France.”
Sir Edward nodded slowly. “We’re grateful for His Majesty’s trust.”
“The king also hopes that Christopher’s new master will be as kind and as skilled in managing Christopher’s property as the honorable Benedict Blackthorn.”
Valentine blinked. “Property?”
Isaac raised the scroll he carried. “If I may, Sir Edward?” He hobbled forward and handed the parchment to the Grand Master. “Over the past few months, Benedict became concerned for his safety. I know he registered a new will with the Apothecaries’ Guild. He also left a copy with me.” Isaac smiled. “Just in case.”
Sir Edward read it aloud. “I do hereby leave all worldly possessions to my apprentice, Christopher Rowe of Blackthorn, to be administered by Hugh Coggshall until the day Christopher becomes a freeman of the city.”
My jaw dropped.
Valentine couldn’t believe it either. “Let me see that.” He snatched the scroll from Sir Edward’s hands and scanned it. “How do we know this is legitimate?”
“It’s properly witnessed.” Isaac pointed to the signatures at the bottom of the page.
“By Hugh Coggshall and Lord Henry Mortimer. Both of whom are dead.”
“His Majesty will affirm the will,” Lord Ashcombe said. “If that’s necessary.”
Sir Edward shifted in his chair. “I’m certain we may accept this document as valid. Nevertheless, a problem remains. As Valentine has pointed out, Hugh is dead. His widow, who would legally become the new guardian, is not a Guild member and may not run an apothecary. And Christopher”—here he paused—“is still an apprentice.”
My heart leaped.
“His Majesty has considered that,” Lord Ashcombe said. “He offers to act as ward of the shop, holding the profits secure, until Christopher is of age. In the meantime, he agrees to pay a generous stipend to cover the wages of Christopher’s new master.”
“And who will that be?” Sir Edward said.
Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “That’s up to you. His Majesty would never interfere in Guild affairs.”
I didn’t think Valentine could turn any redder. Sir Edward gave a wry smile.
“No,” he said. “Of course he wouldn’t.”
• • •
I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and let the sunshine warm my face.
“Christopher!”
Tom, beaming, ran through the traffic outside Apothecaries’ Hall. He weaved around the mob of pigs that clogged the street and wrapped me in a bear hug.
“Ooof,” I said. He put me down. “How did you know I was here?”
“Isaac sent word to come,” he said. “What happened?”
I told him. He couldn’t believe it either. “Your own shop?”
“Well, it’s not mine yet, exactly. I’m still just an apprentice. I won’t really get to own it for years.”
“You’re getting a new master, then? Who is it?”
“I don’t know.” Thinking about it made me nervous. I wondered if someone like Valentine—or worse, someone like Nathaniel Stubb—might take the position out of spite.
“Well, well.” Isaac stepped from the Hall’s great doors, his hand supported by Lord Ashcombe’s arm. “The twin pillars of trouble.”
The King’s Warden reached into his belt and pulled out something silver. “I believe this is yours,” he said to me. “Officially, now.”
He handed me my puzzle cube. I held it to my chest. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both.” I looked up at Lord Ashcombe. “I’m so grateful for what you did.”
He grunted. “You shouldn’t be. I didn’t win you any friends in there.”
“But . . . His Majesty said—”
“Oh, no one will act against you, not openly. Some will cozy up to you, try to win His Majesty’s favor. Others will resent you and work to bring you down. It’s also possible there are still some remaining in the Guild who sided with Oswyn. You’ll have to be very careful about who you call a friend.”
I looked at Tom, who was trying to avoid the drove of squealing pigs, then at Isaac, who nodded. “Always sound advice, sadly,” Isaac said. He turned to Lord Ashcombe. “Do you mind if I speak to Christopher a moment, my lord?”
When Lord Ashcombe shook his head, Isaac put his hand on my shoulder and led me a few paces away. “We had to bury Benedict while you were in the Tower,” he said quietly. “But I think it would be nice to have a private memorial. Just for those of us who loved him.”
I nodded, grateful. “I’d really like that.”
“Come see me tomorrow, then, and we’ll arrange it.” Isaac smiled. “I have some stories I think you’ll want to hear.”
He said farewell to all three of us, and began walking home. Thinking about my master’s memorial made me wonder again about who my new master was going to be. After what the King’s Warden had just told me, I had even more reason to be worried.
“Do you really think any of Oswyn’s men are still out there, my lord?” I said.
“Men like that are always out there,” Lord Ashcombe said. “No matter who they follow. And you know Wat’s still at large.”
I didn’t know that. The news sent a chill down my spine. “But . . . your men went to get him while he was unconscious in the lab.”
“They did. But when they returned, Wat wasn’t there.”
My eyes darted down the street. “Do you think he’ll come back?” For revenge, I didn’t say.
Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “More likely he’s fled the city. It’s not easy to stay hidden, missing half a face.” The King’s Warden traced his fingers along his own brutal scar. “Which reminds me. Wat wasn’t the only thing we returned to the lab for. Some of the papers survived the blast. His Majesty’s apothecaries are going through them now.”
I swallowed. “Yes, my lord?”
“They can’t seem to find the recipe for the Archangel’s Fire.”
My face grew hot. “It was on the workbench,” I said. “Right by where Oswyn was standing. It . . . it might have been destroyed in the explosion.”
Lord Ashcombe studied me. “I seem to recall Wat saying it wasn’t there.”
“Wat wasn’t very smart.”
“No,” Lord Ashcombe said, his one eye narrowed. “I suppose he wasn’t.”
Beside me, Tom shuffled from foot to foot.
“I’m sure you’ll let me know if anything comes up,” Lord Ashcombe said.
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“As for you, boy,” the King’s Warden said to Tom, “you swing a mighty rolling pin.”
Now Tom turned red. “Th-thank you, my lord,” he stammered, not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed.
“Stop by the Tower if you’d like to learn a real weapon.”
Tom’s eyes bulged. “Are you—you mean—a soldier? Me?”
“If you can pass the training.”
Tom stared at the pair of King’s Men waiting for Lord Ashcombe. They looked back at him bemusedly. “Me?” Tom said again, flushed with pleasure.
“You’d be great at it,” I said. I turned to Lord Ashcombe. “You should see him fight a shop bear.”
Lord Ashcombe shook his head as he walked away. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
• • •
The sign still hung over the front door. BLACKTHORN, it said: RELIEFS FOR ALL MANNER OF MALIGNANT HUMORS. The wood needed a new coat of paint. I’d have to redo the unicorn horn, too, faded from years of London weather. Other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d never change a thing.
The shop did need a good cleaning, though, and I didn’t need to wait for my new master to know whose job that was. Tom helped get me started as soon as we got inside, sweeping straw that had spilled from the shredded stuffed animals. “Christopher?” he said.
“Yes?”
“That wasn’t true, was it? What you said before. To Lord Ashcombe.” He stopped sweeping and leaned on the end of the broom. “The recipe for the Archangel’s Fire wasn’t really on the workbench.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to leave it out for Oswyn to see.”
“What did you do with it, then?”
“I put it behind the ice vault. Before I went up to the garden, I greased it in a leather sheath and hid it in the back, under the bricks.”
His eyes widened. “So it’s still there?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The ice will have melted by now. If water got through the grease, the ink will have run.” I looked out the window. “I honestly don’t know.”
The Archangel’s Fire. I’d been trying not to think about it. I’d been trying not to think about anything that happened that day. All I really wanted was my old life back. Days working next to Master Benedict, hearing the sound of his voice. Nights reading by the fire. This shop. Our home.
I looked around me. The shop was almost the same as when we’d fled from Stubb and Wat that terrible night. There was a patch of black where I’d started the fire, and a few more footsteps through the scattered ingredients. I didn’t even want to see the mess in the workshop. But the place was still standing. Maybe some of the ingredients, the equipment, could be salvaged. I could buy more goods to replace what was wrecked, too. Then everything could be back the way it was.
No, I thought. Not everything.
I looked behind the empty counter, where I’d hung my master’s sash. My eyes stung.
I still miss you, I said in my heart. But I kept your secret. And I stopped your killers. Did I do all right? Are you proud of me?
Something tapped on the window.
I turned. Outside, on the sill, a plump salt-and-pepper-speckled pigeon paced back and forth. She bobbed her head, pecking her beak against the glass.
I ran to the front door and opened it. Bridget hopped down from the windowsill with a grand flapping of wings and marched inside.
She cooed at me. I scooped her up and held her against my cheek. I felt the softness of her feathers, the beating of her tiny heart. I turned so we could see our home, and called to him one last time.
Thank you, Master.