Kingslayer's Daughter Page 8

  Guilt crept up Sarah’s spine. “I failed to offer even one word of condolence,” she whispered, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  Mary sobbed quietly, unassumingly. Sarah suspected it was the first time in many a year her mother had allowed emotion to get the better of her.

  When she finally quieted and fell back to sleep, Sarah undressed and climbed into bed, adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. She’d long ago hardened her heart against her parents. Resentment had been the one constant underpinning her life. It had given her the strength to survive Blue Coat and Reginald’s brutality. Letting go was a terrifying prospect.

  Influence

  Munro dragged his feet all the way back to The Swan. After the most enjoyable afternoon he’d experienced in many a day, Sarah’s rejection had drained his energy. He didn’t know what to make of her behavior. Illegitimacy evidently wasn’t the whole story.

  When Richards greeted him, he asked for an ale, well aware sleep would be elusive. In Scotland, the local innkeeper was often a source of information, but he offered some news of his own first so as not to appear overly inquisitive. “I’ve helped Mrs. North’s new apprentice get settled,” he said, nodding his thanks for the tankard.

  As he’d hoped, the publican’s eyes lit up with interest. “In the apothecary shop on Edgbaston?”

  “Aye. A lad from King Edward’s School.”

  A frown greeted this news. “Thou must be mistaken. Them boys don’t become apprentices.”

  “This one’s parents died in a recent fire.”

  “Ah. Giles Raincourt.”

  “Aye. That’s the name.”

  “Sad case, but I’ll wager the headmaster was anxious to be rid of him.”

  Munro took another leisurely sip. “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. No fees…”

  The innkeeper leaned closer. “I wouldn’t trust yon Battersby as far as I could throw him; he’s too powerful in this town. They tried to oust him during the Republic. Accused him of not taking the oath of allegiance. Said he’d voiced criticism of the king’s execution. He somehow managed to weasel his way out of that quagmire. Claimed he’d sworn, but…”

  Munro wondered if therein lay the reason for the gaudy waistcoat, but decided to repeat something Sarah had said. “I heard he beats the boys.”

  His host snorted. “Common knowledge. ’Course, there’s many claim a regular caning forms character.”

  A flush of anger stole across Munro’s nape. On the rare occasions his father had physically punished him, it was always for good reason. “The Republic ended more than twenty years ago. He’s been headmaster that long?”

  “Aye. Entrenched. Mind you, the school’s a Presbyterian bastion, and we’re all mostly of the same Puritan bent in Birmingham.”

  A thought suddenly occurred. “Was Reginald North a Puritan?”

  Richards scoffed. “That drunken bugger?”

  “What about his widow?”

  The innkeeper scratched his shiny, bald head. “Don’t rightly know. Thou must ask the minister at St. Martin’s, Reverend Grove. I think he knows her.”

  Munro drained his tankard. “I intend to go there on the morrow anyway.” It wasn’t an outright lie. He had, after all, paid scant attention to the medieval tombs on his last visit.

  * * *

  Early the next day, Sarah dressed quickly and stole down to the workroom, leaving her mother asleep. She’d been in the habit of going there in her night attire, but now that Giles occupied the room…

  Her normal routine consisted of filling a large basin with water from the pump and seeing to her ablutions downstairs, away from Reginald’s eye. That wouldn’t be possible now. She intended to demonstrate the workings of the sometimes temperamental pump to her apprentice, get him to bear water upstairs for her and Mary, then send him back down to wash.

  She faltered when she discovered the pallet empty. Surely the lad hadn’t run off already. Then she heard a lilting voice coming from the yard—someone was singing.

  Tiptoeing to the door, which stood slightly ajar, she saw Giles splashing cold water over his naked body, all the while crooning a ballad she didn’t recognise.

  His singing was a good omen, she thought, and thank goodness his back was to her, but a knot of anger tightened in her belly at the evidence of repeated canings across his buttocks. Whoever had administered the punishment had spared no effort in inflicting pain. It was a wonder the boy could sit at all.

  There would have to be a discussion with Giles about the reasons for such beatings, but she didn’t want him to know she’d seen him naked.

  Thankfully, an insistent rapping at the front door drew her away. She hurried to tell whoever it was that the shop couldn’t reopen until the Guild gave its blessing.

  Her breath hitched in her throat when she pulled aside the blind and saw an unsmiling Nathaniel Battersby on her doorstep. Beside him stood the Beadle who’d paid her the Guild’s two pounds death benefit.

  More than glad she wasn’t still in her nightgown, she fished the key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She’d expected an inspection, but not so soon, and not with her new apprentice naked as a hatchling in the yard. “Come in, gentlemen,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. Hopefully, she’d spoken loudly enough for Giles to hear.

  The two men strode into the shop without a word of greeting.

  “I’ll fetch my apprentice,” she offered, anxious to keep them out of the workroom until she was sure Giles was dressed.

  “No need,” the Beadle replied. “Just came to deliver this so you can open the shop.”

  He casually dropped a rolled document on the counter that she recognized as the indenture. “But don’t you want…”

  Battersby cleared his throat and directed a slight shake of the head at her.

  “The headmaster has assured me all is in order,” the Beadle declared.

  While Battersby’s interference made things easier, she nevertheless resented men like him wielded such influence. She opened her mouth to protest. The Beadle should at least speak to Giles, to ascertain his level of agreement with the indenture, but her apprentice chose that moment to appear.

  His hair was still wet, but she swayed with relief that he was fully clothed. However, there could be no mistaking the malice in his gaze as he stared at his former headmaster.

  “Ah, Raincourt,” Battersby hissed.

  “Sir,” Giles snarled in reply.

  The Beadle broke the tension. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Sarah hoped Battersby would depart with him, but he lingered. “Leave us, boy,” he commanded with a flick of the wrist.

  Her heart raced as he leaned towards her after the glowering Giles slunk away. Now would come a demand for some service in exchange for his securing an apprentice. The notion of bedding Nathaniel Battersby made her nauseous.

  “I need your help,” he whispered, eyeing the door through which Giles had left. “A concoction to rid me of the constant problem of breaking wind.”

  Munro’s naughty smile in the coach flashed before her eyes. It was all she could do not to laugh out loud at the memory of his assertion during the afternoon’s conversation that the headmaster was timing the farts with his timepiece. “Certainly,” she replied with great relief, “I’ll prepare the ingredients for a special infusion and send it to the school.”

  “My thanks, dear lady,” he oozed as he left.

  * * *

  After another restless night, Munro made his way along Edgbaston Street, determined not to cast even a glance at Sarah’s shop. He clenched his jaw when Nathaniel Battersby emerged from the doorway as he drew level. Indeed, they almost bumped into each other. He’d have recognized the carriage waiting outside if he hadn’t had his full attention on the church he intended to visit.

  “Mr. Battersby,” he said curtly.

  The headmaster eyed him, clearly uncertain who had addressed him by name. “Oh, the Scot,” he replied wit
hout breaking his stride on the way to the carriage.

  Wondering what the pompous man was doing there so early in the morning, he glanced at the shop.

  Sarah and Giles stood in the open doorway. Sarah blushed and averted her gaze, fidgeting to tuck errant wisps under her muslin cap. The boy called to him with a wave. “Mr. Pendray.”

  Ignoring the lad wasn’t an option, and, truth be told, he wanted to speak to Sarah. Just the sight of her blush had aroused him. He nodded and walked quickly to get a foot in the door before she shut it in his face. “Good morning,” he said, tousling Giles’ curls. “Yer hair’s wet, laddie. Best get inside before ye catch yer death.”

  He reached for Sarah’s hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Good morning, Mrs. North. I’m just off to St. Martin’s.”

  He made a quick decision to leave it at that. The stern set of her jaw indicated annoyance at his persistence. When he looked up from kissing her trembling hand, the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

  He continued his walk, more resolved than ever to unravel the riddle of Sarah and make her his.

  Remedy

  “I hoped Mr. Pendray might come in,” Giles said, his voice laden with disappointment.

  So did I, Sarah admitted inwardly.

  She picked up the indenture and brandished it under his nose. “Soon the work begins, young man, but now you’ve figured out how to work the pump, fill a bucket and bring it upstairs.”

  “Yes, Mrs. North. Shall I warm it on the wood-stove? That water’s cold enough to freeze a man’s…”

  His face reddened. “Sorry. I was remembering what my daddy used to say.”

  She had to keep in mind the boy had only recently lost both parents. “That’s all right. I understand. Your daddy was probably right. I can warm it on the hob upstairs.”

  “I hope Mr. Battersby doesn’t come here often,” he said. “I don’t like him.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to agree. She didn’t like him either. “No, but we mustn’t speak ill of a customer. His remedy will be your first and I’ll show you how to make it as soon as I’ve seen to Mrs. Ward’s breakfast.”

  “A remedy for what?”

  Some wickedness conjured an image of the welts on his bottom. Why not give the boy a bit of revenge? “Flatulence,” she said.

  Giles frowned. “You mean farting?”

  She struggled to keep the smile off her face. “Yes.”

  Her apprentice fell to his knees, his small body racked by gales of howling laughter.

  * * *

  Munro entered St. Martin’s and wandered to the medieval tomb of Sir John de Bermingham. Unlike on the first occasion he’d visited the church, he took time to study the magnificently carved effigy and the intricate stonework of the tomb.

  “You’re admiring our finest monument,” someone remarked.

  When Munro turned, he was pleased to see his companion was dressed in clerical robes. “Reverend Grove?” he asked.

  The minister arched his brows. “I am he, sir,” he replied, extending a hand. “I take it you’re a visitor to our town? I haven’t seen you before. Do I detect a Scottish brogue?”

  Munro accepted the handshake. “Aye, Munro Pendray, son of the…” He hesitated, but where lay the harm in revealing his identity? He was proud of his father’s elevation. Why not use it to his possible advantage? “…the Earl of Glenheath.”

  “Such an illustrious visitor is welcome indeed. What brings you to Birmingham?”

  Munro began with the true purpose of his journey to Wales, deviating only lightly from the truth when he explained the spur-of-the moment decision to divert to Birmingham. “I had heard of these wonderful tombs,” he finally lied. “And I suspect it’s my good fortune that I’ve met the man who knows all about their history. I’ve been fascinated by all things historical since my days at Edinburgh University.”

  He worried he was coming across as a pompous scholar, but Grove beamed and launched into a biography of the medieval nobleman for whom the town had been named.

  Having exhausted that topic, they moved on to the slightly less elaborate tomb of a fourteenth century priest. “We have no idea who he was,” Grove explained, “but obviously he had great wealth to afford such a tomb.”

  Next came a tomb with what appeared to be two effigies. “Not as well preserved,” Munro remarked.

  “No. Sir William and Fulk de Bermingham. Also fourteenth century, but I’m afraid they won’t weather the ravages of time as well as Sir John. Different stone.”

  Munro tried to remain interested as Grove rambled on about the ancestors of the Bermingham family coming to England with the Conqueror, and then later building the church in the twelfth century. However, the cleric was walking away as the history lesson came to an end and Munro was afraid he’d squandered the chance to ask the questions that plagued him. “I met some interesting people from the town on the stagecoach,” he began.

  Grove came to a halt. “Perhaps I know them.”

  “Mr. Nathaniel Battersby.”

  Grove frowned. “Our illustrious headmaster. No doubt he spent the entire journey with his nose in a gazette.”

  Munro smiled. “Aye.”

  “It isn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Battersby. He has influence.”

  Munro shrugged. “Point taken, but I’m only here for a few days. I met two fine ladies as well. Mrs. North and her mother, Mrs. Ward.”

  The garrulous minister gaped, seemingly at a loss for words, confirming the landlord’s suggestion Grove knew a lot about Sarah. “And did Mrs. Ward look well?”

  Munro hesitated. “She slept most of the way. I thought she looked pale, but what can one expect when a woman has just buried her husband?”

  Grove squirreled both hands into the copious sleeves of his cassock. “Yes, poor soul. I hope she and Sarah can get to know each other after so many years apart.”

  Munro clenched his jaw. So far, he hadn’t learned anything new. “Mr. Battersby was kind enough to procure an apprentice for the apothecary shop. Giles Raincourt.”

  The priest’s eyes widened. “You’ve evidently kept in touch with Mrs. North.”

  “Aye,” he replied, hoping his feelings weren’t overly obvious. “She seems a very nice person.”

  “Yes. She is,” Grove said, narrowing his eyes at Munro. “I worried what would become of the orphan. He’ll be in good hands with Mrs. North. She’s a kind-hearted soul, which is a miracle considering…”

  Munro wasn’t surprised the cleric bit his lip, obviously hesitant to criticize the dead husband, but he wasn’t prepared for what came next.

  “It’s been difficult for Sarah. What with her father being who he was. Reginald always held it over her head.”

  Munro cursed that his astonishment must be written on his face. Grove furrowed his brow. “I’ve said enough. I wish you a good journey and hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  He strode away but then seemed to think better of it and turned back. “You should speak to Mrs. Ward,” he said before leaving Munro to ponder his intent.

  * * *

  Sarah spent more than two hours opening herb drawers and having Giles inhale the different aromas. Things would have gone more quickly had her mother not decided to join in the experience. Still, Mary was obviously deriving pleasure from filling her lungs with the scents of dried herbs rubbed between her fingers.

  She was pleased that Giles was attentive and repeated the names of the herbs correctly when she tested him. He seemed genuinely interested in finding them in the Pharmacopoeia.

  “Now,” she said finally, “let’s set about making the remedy for our customer.”

  Giles grinned at her wink, apparently understanding the need not to share their amusement with her mother.

  “I believe there are leftovers from yesterday, Mama.”

  Mary nodded. “Thanks to Mr. Pendray’s generosity.”

  It was true, but she decided to ignore the comment. Perplexed her m
other suddenly seemed intent on encouraging a relationship with Munro, she asked, “Can I ask you prepare a small luncheon? After we eat, Giles and I will deliver the remedy.”

  He wrinkled his nose as Mary left. “Do I have to go to King Edward’s?”

  She held firm. “You must learn how to instruct patients in the use of their remedies.”

  She put a small bowl on the counter and set up the scales. “Have you used scales before?”

  He nodded. “At school.”

  “We are preparing an infusion for Mr. Battersby to make with hot water. Firstly, weigh out 20 drachms of chamomile and add it to the bowl.”

  Giles wedged his tongue between his lips, slowly scooped the herb out of the right drawer then weighed it correctly.

  “Good. Now the same amount of caraway seeds, but we must crush them with the mortar and pestle.”

  Satisfied with the careful way he carried out the task, she instructed him to weigh and crush peppermint leaves and fennel seeds.

  “Next, we mix it all up gently with a spoon, like this, then pour it into the wrapping paper.”

  She showed him how to fold the thick paper into a cone shape that would keep the contents secure, then melted red sealing wax on the flap and firmly pressed her seal into it. “This is my official seal from the guild. It shows where the remedy came from and is a guarantee that a true apothecary compounded it. A broken seal is an indication someone has tampered with the contents.”

  His eyes lit up. “Can I use it?”

  “Not yet. I have to arrange to get you an apprentice’s seal.”

  It was promising that he tidied up the scales, wiped out the bowl and closed all the drawers without being asked, and she complimented him on it.

  “Same as in daddy’s shop,” he explained softly. Then his face brightened. “How do you know this will help the headmaster with his…problem?”