The Blackthorn Key

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?”