Kingslayer's Daughter Page 6

  Judging by the lack of ostentatious ornamentation, he’d say the church was Low Anglican. He walked slowly to the chancel and let his gaze wander over the faded medieval murals depicting scenes from the life of St. Martin of Tours. An impressive effigy of Sir John de Bermingham kept his attention for only a few moments. That was worrisome. History had fascinated him since his days in Edinburgh. Normally, he’d have rushed off to ask one of the priests for more information about the fourteenth century knight who’d evidently lent his name to the city. But nothing would dislodge the image of Sarah’s face and the regret of his failure to knock on the door of the shop as he went by.

  Gripping his hat, he bowed his head and tried to calm his thoughts. He should have tried. If she preferred not to see him…well.

  However, the memory of what had passed between them in the coach contradicted the notion she felt nothing for him. Either that, or she was a consummate flirt. He dismissed the possibility immediately. The riddle of Sarah was complicated, but it didn’t involve flirtation.

  His parents and siblings would question him endlessly about his journey when he got home. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain the woman he couldn’t forget.

  He startled when the clock in the church tower chimed the half-hour, jolting him out of his preoccupation and clarifying exactly what his mother’s reaction would be.

  Ye’re obviously smitten with the lass. Why in heaven’s name did ye nay pursue her, laddie?

  He hurried out of the church just as Matins began, smiling weakly at curious faces as he donned his tricorn hat and retraced his way back to the shop, surprised to see the shade covering the small window had been pulled aside. The sign indicated the shop was still closed. He pressed his face to the glass and shaded his eyes.

  He made out a counter, behind which was a wall of shelves, drawers and little arched cupboards, all fashioned from a dark wood. There were dozens of apothecary jars with labels, boxes large and small, and various pieces of equipment he didn’t recognize. Filled with pride in Sarah’s well-ordered little domain, he tapped on the glass.

  He waited five minutes, peering inside now and again, then rapped harder.

  Nothing.

  Aware of the suspicious stares of passers-by, he paced back and forth in the street, fruitlessly scanning the upper floor for windows. He raised his hand to knock a third time, taken aback by the appearance of Mary Ward’s wizened face peering at him through the glass pane. He wondered how long she’d watched him.

  “She’s gone to meet the headmaster. He sent his carriage. I don’t have a key.”

  At least Sarah wasn’t hiding from him. “When will she be back?”

  He received a shrug as his reply, but the old woman smiled for the first time since they’d met. “Be sure to call again.”

  Then she was gone.

  * * *

  Sarah was served black Assam tea in Battersby’s study by a tall, cassocked schoolboy garbed like a Presbyterian pastor—except for his bright yellow knee-socks. She might have known the headmaster would be among the few in Birmingham who could afford such an expensive beverage. She sipped the bitter brew politely. Another boy, older perhaps, offered sweetmeats on a silver platter, which she declined. It reminded her of Blue Coat, but surely boys who attended King Edward’s School weren’t in training for service.

  Giles Raincourt was escorted in by two boys like a prisoner going to the gallows, his feet barely touching the floor. They kept their hands planted firmly on his shoulders until Battersby gave the nod. Standing to attention behind him, they remained ready to pounce should he attempt to flee.

  The urchin with the unkempt black curls was younger than she’d expected—twelve perhaps—and he kept his eyes downcast. He was the only boy in the room not wearing the navy blue cassock and yellow socks. She got the distinct impression he was afraid of Battersby, but then she wasn’t very comfortable with the intimidating man either.

  “Eyes front, Raincourt,” the headmaster said curtly.

  Giles dragged his gaze from the carpet, his eyes widening when he saw Sarah. Evidently, the boy was unaware of the reason he’d been summoned.

  “You’re to become apprenticed to Mistress North,” Battersby announced.

  Sarah squirmed in her upholstered chair. Mistress made her sound like the keeper of a bordello, and this wasn’t how she’d foreseen the interview. “If you prove suitable,” she tried. “And it’s Mrs. North.”

  “He’s suitable. Be grateful, boy. You’re to become an apothecary.”

  It was clear from Giles’ frown he had little idea what an apothecary was, but he murmured, “Yes, sir, Mr. Battersby.”

  “That’s settled, then. I see you’ve already relinquished your uniform, so no reason you shouldn’t leave with Mistress North today.”

  Flabbergasted, Sarah withdrew the indenture from her pocket, intending to discuss the conditions of the long apprenticeship.

  Battersby grabbed it before she had a chance to speak. “I’ll make sure this gets to the guild.”

  “His guardian will have to sign it,” she protested.

  “My dear lady,” he replied, raising her hackles, “the boy’s parents are dead. He has no living relatives. Who more suited than I to guide his future?”

  She looked at the child who was being discussed as if he wasn’t there. It was too reminiscent of her own experience. “Giles,” she said with as much authority as she could muster.

  Clearly surprised to hear her voice, the lad looked up.

  “Are you willing to work hard as my apprentice?” she asked.

  His eyes darted from her to Battersby and back. “Yes, Missus.”

  It wasn’t much on which to base her decision, but anything was preferable to leaving him in Battersby’s clutches. The man made her skin crawl. She got to her feet, holding out her hand to the lad. “Very well. Come along. Let’s get started.”

  The headmaster crossed one long leg over the other, eased back into his upholstered chair and sipped his tea. As she expected, there was no offer of a carriage ride back to Edgbaston Street.

  * * *

  Munro decided the church was the best place to wait for Sarah’s return. There were a number of people loitering around the front of the edifice—probably a normal Sunday occurrence. No one would think his presence among them suspicious and he’d have a clear view of the shop.

  Wandering back and forth, exchanging greetings with others and ostensibly admiring the architecture, he kept an eye out for Battersby’s carriage, becoming anxious when the clock chimed the hour for the second time.

  Convinced his attention was elsewhere when she’d been brought back, he gave in to his impatience and set off to the shop. He was about to knock again when he espied Sarah walking towards him, a young lad in her wake. Apparently, the search for an apprentice was over. However, neither Sarah nor the boy looked comfortable. She walked stiffly, seemingly trying to engage the lad in conversation, but he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched.

  She faltered for a moment when she saw Munro, but then placed a hand on the boy’s back and ushered him to the door. “Good morning, Mr. Pendray,” she said without smiling as she produced a key from her pocket.

  Encouraged by her blush, Munro chose to be optimistic. Seeing her again, being near her, confirmed his belief she was the woman he wanted. “Good morn, Sarah,” he replied.

  She clenched her jaw and glanced at the lad who’d managed to drag his eyes away from the street. Once again he’d said the wrong thing. She wouldn’t necessarily want the apprentice to know her Christian name. “And who is this young man?” he asked, blundering on, hoping desperately as she turned the key in the lock that he’d be invited into her realm. He took a step over the threshold and held the door open in an effort to obtain entry. A faint trace of lavender stole up his nostrils as she took hold of the boy’s hand and moved passed him.

  “This is Giles Raincourt, my new apprentice,” she declared with a smile that seemed forced. “He’s an orph
an.”

  Munro took the opportunity to step inside and let the door close behind him. For some reason, Sarah wasn’t entirely comfortable with Giles, though surely she couldn’t fear being abused by a lad who looked about ten years old. Perhaps she was grateful for a man’s presence on this occasion. “Munro Pendray,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sure ye’ll make a fine apprentice.”

  Giles shrugged, but didn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Anything’s better than King Edward’s. You’re Scottish.”

  A glance at Sarah’s worried face showed there was more to the story than she wanted to tell him at that moment. “Aye,” he replied, suspecting her qualms had more to do with the school than with his being a Scot. “My first time in Birmingham.” He gestured to the shelving behind him. “And Mrs. North’s apothecary shop is the finest I’ve seen anywhere.”

  A brief smile flickered across Sarah’s lips before the frown returned. She likely suspected apothecary shops weren’t places he frequented. “Yes, well, Giles, let’s get you settled in the workroom. Perhaps you’d like to peruse my wares while we’re gone, Mr. Pendray.”

  She bustled the apprentice to another room behind the shelving. Munro wandered about, hands behind his back, trying to summon interest in the various labels on jars and drawers. He could still hear their voices, but not what was being said. He was amused by the suggestive tone of her offer—quite unintentional he was sure. The prospect of perusing Sarah’s enticing wares…

  But she still insisted on using his surname, which was irritating. The boy was young—perhaps that’s what was worrying her. He’d need constant supervision in the preparation of remedies. As well, he had no baggage. Was Sarah expected to clothe as well as feed and train him? With the added expense of her mother, that was a lot for a recently widowed young woman to cope with. It was unlikely she’d anticipated arranging for an apprentice so quickly. Battersby must have pulled some strings in order to facilitate obtaining the guild’s blessing.

  Munro had the financial wherewithal to assist her, but he’d have to tread carefully. Sarah was proud. Looking around, he acknowledged she had a right to be, though he was still convinced there was something she didn’t want him to know.

  “Thou came back.”

  He turned quickly at the sound of Mary Ward’s voice, surprised she’d appeared without a sound. The old woman was like a wraith. “Aye. Sarah’s taken her new apprentice into the back room.”

  If Mary was surprised by the startling advent of an apprentice, she gave no sign of it. “Come up, then,” she said, leading the way to a narrow staircase.

  He put one foot on the bottom step and hesitated. Sarah might not be happy if he intruded into her private living quarters, though her mother had issued the invitation. “Are ye sure?” he asked.

  She continued the climb without turning to look at him. “It isn’t fancy, but it’s warmer than Chepstow.”

  He followed, hoping he’d made the right decision.

  Meat Pies

  The barren Sarah was suddenly a mother—to a twelve-year-old. She was at once thrilled and terrified by the prospect of providing shelter and sustenance for a child. Her instinct was to smother the orphan with love, but she would have to walk a fine line. Apothecary required discipline and study. Giles would have to accept a woman he didn’t know as his mentor and supervisor. Most grown men would balk at the notion.

  It was difficult to assess the boy’s emotions as he took in his cramped new surroundings, his young face devoid of expression. She remembered how lost she felt on her first day at Blue Coat. “It’s small, I know,” she began, but you’ll always be warm, if you keep the fire in the wood-stove tended.” She bit her lip, recalling belatedly how his parents had died. “And you don’t have to share a bed.”

  He nodded and perched on the edge of the pallet. “Where do you sleep?”

  She pointed to the ceiling. “My late husband and I shared an apartment upstairs.” Admittedly, the upstairs room could hardly be called an apartment, but…

  “He’s dead?” Giles asked.

  The sudden interest in his gaze unsettled her. He was just a boy, but still… “Yes. Now my mother and I are the only occupants. Her name is Mrs. Ward.”

  He stood, wrinkling his nose. “My mam’s dead, and my dad. Funny smells here.”

  She drew encouragement from his willingness to at least mention his parents. “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. My father passed away recently too, and my mother is old. You’ll get used to the aromas.”

  Now she was talking like a twelve-year-old girl.

  “Who’s the Scot?”

  She weighed her answer carefully. It was important not to give any hint she had feelings for Munro. She didn’t yet know if Giles could be trusted with personal information, and reestablishing the business would be hard enough without neighborhood gossips spreading false rumor.

  “He’s an acquaintance. From the Apothecary Guild.” She clenched her fists, wishing she could take back the lie.

  Giles picked up a mortar and pestle. “What’s this pothecary all about?”

  His interest was a good omen and she was relieved he seemed disinclined to pursue the matter of Munro. “It’s all about helping people who are sick, Giles. There’s a lot to learn, and I’ll expect you to work hard, but never forget our true purpose.”

  “Will you beat me if I don’t learn quick enough?”

  Her throat tightened. “Did your parents beat you?”

  “No.”

  He averted his gaze and she knew immediately who had inflicted corporal punishment. “Were you beaten at school?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. Is there anything to eat?”

  It was a sharp reminder she was dealing with a child—and that the larder was empty save for a sack of oatmeal. “Yes, I’ll call you to come up when luncheon is ready. And we’ll discuss the terms of your apprenticeship. In the meantime you can look around the shop, but don’t open anything yet.”

  Giles nodded, pressing the mortar into the empty pestle. “My dad was a mercer. He used to say every kind of cloth smells different.”

  Optimism blossomed in her heart as she quit the workroom, but her spirits fell when she realized Munro had left. “Couldn’t wait five minutes,” she mumbled as she mounted the stairs, irritated that she craved his presence, despite her resolve. She gripped the banister when she got to the top and found Munro Pendray seated at the kitchen table across from her mother.

  * * *

  Munro got to his feet as soon as Sarah appeared, though there was scant room to push the chair back and stand up straight. Still grappling with the unsettling realization that Sarah had endured years living with an unpleasant man in such cramped conditions, he leaned his fists on the table for balance, feeling very ungainly. “I hope ye dinna mind,” he said with a smile, “Mrs. Ward invited me to come up.”

  “Sit down, young man,” the old lady commanded. “Thou’s welcome.”

  He obeyed, but worried Sarah’s frown indicated her displeasure. Was she annoyed with him, or her mother?

  Her blush deepened, which came as a strange consolation, and she apparently had other things on her mind. “I have to go to the Bull Ring to buy food,” she declared. Apparently, his frown prompted her to explain. “The market’s been called that since ancient times when it was a cattle market.”

  He seized the opportunity. “I’ll accompany ye.”

  Her eyes brightened briefly, but she glanced nervously at her mother, then back at the stairs. He realized she was concerned about leaving Mary and the boy. “Or, I can stay here and keep an eye on Giles.”

  Her smile made his sacrifice worthwhile. “If you don’t mind? Mama can come with me.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “’Twill be a chance for her to get acquainted with the neighborhood.”

  She nodded, but fidgeted nervously with the laces of her jacket. He suspected she didn’t want to reveal the hide-y-hole where she kept her funds. He fished coins out of his pocket and
offered them to Mary. “I canna expect ye to buy food for me, and I admit I’m partial to a meat pie now and again. If such can be found.”

  As he expected, the old woman quickly shoved the money in her pocket, despite Sarah’s glower. “I could eat a meat pie too,” Mary said to her daughter, pulling on her thin shawl. “Thy father loved the Cornish pasties we were fed in Chepstow, but I doubt we’ll find them here.”

  It was an odd choice of words, but Munro thought no more of it when Sarah swayed alarmingly and the color drained from her face. He knocked over the flimsy chair in his haste to reach her before she tumbled backwards down the stairs. “Are ye unwell, again?” he asked, taking her hand.

  Her skin was cold, but a spark tingled his fingers. Her eyes widened. She’d felt it too.

  “I’m quite well,” she insisted, staring at their joined hands. “Just hungry, as we all are. Meat pies sound like a good idea.”

  Reluctant to let go, Munro was pleased when she accepted his offer to escort her down the stairs. Mary followed in their wake.

  * * *

  Sarah might have expected that Giles would immediately notice she and Munro were holding hands when they arrived back in the shop. She reluctantly abandoned the warmth of his strong grip. “This is Mrs. Ward,” she told the lad. “We’re off to the market. Mr. Pendray will stay with you.”

  Then she remembered the lie she’d told. Munro would have no notion he supposedly belonged to the Guild. The perceptive Giles would quickly discover the deception.

  Her mother came to the rescue. “Or, we could all go.”

  “Good idea,” Munro enthused, smiling broadly. “Get yer cloak, laddie.”

  Giles shrugged. “Got no cloak.”