“No blade was found in the body.” Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “Could have washed out in the Thames.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to bring up here, but I did anyway. “There was a letter waiting for me at Blackthorn,” I began, and the king nodded.

  “Richard already told me,” he said. “That fits in well with my plans.”

  “Sire?”

  “I want you to meet someone today.”

  “Of course, sire.” I looked from him to Lord Ashcombe. “May I ask whom?”

  The king smiled. “Your new master.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I DREW A BREATH. “MY… new master?”

  “It’s clear the Apothecaries’ Guild was never going to arrange it,” Charles said. “So I decided to take care of it myself.”

  I didn’t know what to say. In a way, this was an even bigger shock than the pension.

  My stomach churned. Part of me had wished for this to happen. To have a new master. To be back in the workshop as an apprentice. To return to the life I’d once known. The life I’d never imagined at Cripplegate, the life I’d discovered I never wanted to leave.

  And yet… it wasn’t just being an apothecary’s apprentice I wanted. It was being Master Benedict’s.

  And I could never return to that.

  I’d known this day was coming, of course—with no master, the guild would never let me take the test to become an apothecary—but now that it was here, I couldn’t control my nerves. Who was this new man? What was he like? How could he—how could anyone—ever replace my true master?

  The king had one answer for me, at least. “Woodrow Kirby is his name. Do you know him?”

  I shook my head.

  “One of my private apothecaries.” A pair of spaniels vied for the king’s attention; he settled the squabble by putting them both on his lap. “He’s served me since my return.”

  Lord Ashcombe opened the door and spoke to the servants outside. A moment later, Woodrow Kirby, apothecary, entered the room.

  He looked to be in his late fifties. He was an average-size man, with a bit of a belly, heavy-lidded eyes, and sagging jowls. He wore a long, black wig, and his clothes hung loose on his frame.

  I’d already placed Barbara on the floor and stood, heart hammering in my chest. Tom stood automatically beside me, still holding one of the dogs.

  The apothecary bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”

  “Master Kirby. This is the boy I was telling you about.”

  Kirby looked me up and down. What he was hoping to see, I didn’t know. His face didn’t betray any feeling. “Rowe, is it?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. My voice cracked, which left me mortified. “Christopher.”

  The apothecary glanced over at the king. “With His Majesty’s permission…?”

  The king nodded.

  “List the four humors,” Kirby said.

  So. It was to be a test. “Blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile,” I answered.

  “Odd’s fish, even I know that,” the king said. “Ask him something hard.”

  Kirby thought for a moment. “Describe briefly anything you know about how to produce spirits of salt.”

  “Um… by Valentinus’s process? Or Glauber’s, Master?”

  He blinked at me. Charles covered a smile. The king is showing me off, I realized. I felt rather like one of his spaniels.

  “Glauber’s,” the apothecary said.

  “Heat salt in the presence of oil of vitriol,” I answered. “Distill and condense the vapor.”

  “Harder, Kirby, harder,” the king urged. I wished he’d stop.

  The apothecary thought a little longer this time. Then he said, “List as many ingredients as you can that are used in the production of the Venice treacle.”

  This was a difficult question—namely because Venice treacle had sixty-four ingredients. Except not only had Venice treacle been a specialty of Master Benedict’s, but, after the trouble during the plague, Magistrate Aldebourne had contracted me to produce as much of it as I could. I knew this answer cold.

  I began with the most famous ingredient: snake venom. “Viperinorum,” I said. “Trochiscorum scilliticorum, hedichroi radicum gentianae, acori veri, valerianae…”

  I continued, the king grinning openly as Kirby stared in amazement. I think I missed a few—I lost count somewhere around ingredient thirty—but I’m not sure the apothecary noticed.

  “What did I tell you?” Charles said proudly.

  Kirby looked me up and down again, this time with a new scrutiny. “You were Blackthorn’s apprentice.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “That explains a lot,” he muttered.

  “Well, Master Kirby?” the king said.

  “You do understand, sire, he may need to make appearances at my laboratory?”

  “He’ll be at your disposal as necessary.”

  “And he’ll still have to pass a final exam to become a journeyman.”

  Charles smiled. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “No,” Kirby said. “I don’t suppose it will. Very well, sire. I accept.”

  Charles nodded his thanks. With a bow to the king, and a final glance in my direction, Kirby left the room.

  I was thoroughly confused. I had no idea what that last exchange was about, and the apothecary’s abrupt departure left me wondering what I was supposed to do. I’d assumed I would follow him, but the king hadn’t given me permission to leave.

  “Should I go with Master Kirby, sire?” I said.

  The king shook his head. “Richard will look after you. Always a delight, boys.”

  And so we were dismissed. I was still reeling; it took a jerk of the head from Lord Ashcombe—and an elbow in my side from Tom—to get me moving. The spaniels stayed behind.

  “My lord…?” I began as soon as we were in the hall.

  Lord Ashcombe raised a hand to silence me. There was a pair of guards by the door, and servants standing farther down the passageway. He wanted to wait until we were alone.

  Once the three of us had found an empty corridor, Lord Ashcombe stopped. He spoke in a low voice. “Tomorrow, Kirby will notify the Apothecaries’ Guild that he has taken you as an apprentice. If anyone asks, you will identify him as your master.”

  “I thought he was my master,” I said, more confused than ever.

  “No. That’s just for show.”

  “Then… who is?”

  “You are being apprenticed to Alexander Walsingham, 1st Earl Walsingham.”

  I didn’t recognize the name. “Is he another of His Majesty’s private apothecaries?”

  “No,” Lord Ashcombe said. “He’s the king’s personal spymaster.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I STARED AT LORD ASHCOMBE, stunned. “You want me to become a spy?”

  “Haven’t we had this discussion before? You already are a spy, Christopher. This just makes it official.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My whole world was turning upside down. I felt like I’d lost all control of my life.

  Then again, maybe control was just an illusion. In Cripplegate, I’d done whatever I was told. With Master Benedict, I’d done that, too. Following orders was, after all, the role of an apprentice. Learn, practice, cook, clean. Run errands. Whatever the master says.

  Yet it never felt like that with Master Benedict. I’d loved being an apprentice—his apprentice. He’d taught me and cared for me, and I’d adored the work, even when the days were long. I’d wanted to become an apothecary.

  When he was murdered, and I was left on my own, I’d been heartbroken—and I’d also been free. No one around to tell me what to do. I’d have given every ounce of freedom to have him back. But he wasn’t coming back. He lived only in my heart.

  And being free didn’t bring any opportunities. I’d still learned, practiced, cooked, cleaned, ran errands. Without a master, none of that would have got me any closer to my dreams.

  Now I was supposed to become a spy? Again, someone else was making my decisions for me. It wasn’t the apprentice’s place to question. But I found myself questioning anyway.

  What if I didn’t want this?

  I said none of it aloud. Nonetheless, Lord Ashcombe seemed to understand the struggle going on inside.

  “You have the right to refuse,” he said. “I told you before you went to Paris, you are not a slave. But His Majesty needs you. And, whatever you say, this sort of thing is what you’re best at.

  “You will still be an apothecary. As Kirby said, you’ll need to make appearances in his laboratory, take examinations. And Blackthorn will remain your shop. You’ll just be, in secret, this other thing as well.”

  I wasn’t sure about any of it, not at all. But if I could still be an apothecary… it made me feel a little better. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Now, about Walsingham. He’s strange. Dealing with him requires patience. But he’s loyal, and brilliant, and an exceptional spy.”

  Nerves fluttered in my gut. “Yes, my lord.”

  I looked over at Tom. He seemed just as stunned as I was, by everything. But he wasn’t about to meet the king’s chief spymaster. He gave me a look of sympathy, which was pretty much all he could do.

  And then we were there. Somewhere inside the maze that was Whitehall, Lord Ashcombe stopped at a door and motioned to it.

  I knocked. A quiet, baritone voice said, “Enter.”

  I took a deep breath and went inside.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE SPYMASTER’S OFFICE WAS NARROW and cramped, with no windows. A desk near the far wall had been placed to face the door, so anyone sitting behind it could see who came in.

  Alexander Walsingham, 1st Earl Walsingham, was not at his desk. He sat, instead, on one of two plain wooden chairs in front of it, angled slightly toward each other. The spymaster was younger than I’d expected, maybe in his late thirties, and possibly not even that. His wig lay on the desk, revealing a head of close-cropped blond hair. He was lean, not particularly tall, and somewhat plain looking. Not the sort of man one might remember in a crowd—which I supposed was good for a spy.

  If I hadn’t heard him say “enter,” I’d have thought he was having a nap. He was just sitting there, eyes closed. Without opening them, he motioned to the chair beside him.

  “Sit,” he said in that same quiet baritone.

  I did. And I waited.

  Walsingham made no more gestures, said no more words. He simply sat there in silence, again looking to all the world as if he were fast asleep.

  Was I supposed to acknowledge him? Introduce myself? Start the conversation?

  I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. Lord Ashcombe had said the man was odd—but he’d also said dealing with the spymaster required patience.

  Was that a hint?

  I didn’t know. But if Walsingham was to be my master, it was up to him to decide what I should do. So I just sat there and waited.

  Minutes passed. At first, my mind raced. There’s a strange sort of pressure, sitting with a stranger, no one saying anything. Should I disturb him? Keep silent? Sing a song? Sally could sing wonderfully; where was she when I needed her? Safe in Berkshire House, I thought, away from all the murders. But as more time passed—I swear, it had to be approaching an hour—I grew bored. Trying not to fidget, I studied the room.

  There was a bookshelf by the door; oddly, none of the books’ spines were labeled. A few paintings hung on the walls. There was an Oriental rug under our feet, too large for the floor; one edge curled a few inches where it ran out of room to stretch. The desk was free of all papers; nothing on top but a ticking clock and the spymaster’s discarded wig. A faint scent of mint filled the room. I couldn’t tell from where it was coming.

  Eventually, I ran out of things to study. So I turned my mind to the cipher in yesterday’s message. And the key I still hadn’t discovered.

  Remember Paris, the letter had said. I’d already tried the obvious words, and none of them had worked. So what was I forgetting?

  I’d just begun to run over the whole trip in my mind. Then I noticed: Walsingham’s eyes were open.

  And he was staring at me.

  His gaze was penetrating, unsettling. It was like he was looking right through me. I almost said “Master?” just to still my nerves, but I managed to clamp my mouth shut.

  “Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he said, quiet as ever.

  I’m not sure I could have pulled away, even if I’d wanted to.

  “The door you entered,” he said. “On one side is a bookshelf. What is on the other?”

  Another test, I realized.

  And this one even more important.

  I searched my memory. “A painting.”

  “Of?”

  “A… naval battle. Naval siege, I mean. Ships, attacking a city.”

  “How many ships?”

  How many ships? “Uh…” I closed my eyes, tried to remember.

  There were three in the foreground, tilting against the waves. Three more behind them. Then one closer to the city… no, wait. Two. That made…

  “Eight,” I said.

  “And what city are they attacking?”

  How on earth was I supposed to know that? “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “If you had to guess?”

  “Um… Bilbao?”

  The spymaster tilted his head, curious. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well… the city looks Dutch, but the ships are English, and the painting was clearly done years ago, probably during the war with Spain. Since the painting is in the Dutch style, I figured the artist used his own memory to create a city he’d never been to. Like how painters put the faces of people they know as saints, or whatever. I know we’ve attacked Spanish cities, so I chose the closest port, which is Bilbao. I think.”

  “Interesting. You may look.”

  The first thing I did was count the ships. Yes, there were eight… Oh no. “There are nine,” I said, disappointed. “There’s another mast sticking up behind the ship on the left.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask what city it is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I blinked. “So there’s no right answer?”

  “There often isn’t.” Walsingham shifted in his chair. “The purpose of my question, then: Can you understand it?”

  If there was no right answer… then the answer wasn’t what mattered. Instead… “It was about me,” I said. “What—or rather how—I think.”

  He nodded. “You are acceptable. You may inform Ashcombe of this.”

  Was I being dismissed? I began to rise. “Yes, Master.”

  “Never call me that.”

  I flushed. “Sorry, Ma—uh… my lord. I thought—”

  “I am your master,” Walsingham said, “and the title brings no shame. Nonetheless, you must avoid calling me so, even in private.

  “Keep this in your mind always: Our association is to be secret. So, from this day forward, your only master is Woodrow Kirby, apothecary. If you must refer to me publicly—and you should avoid this wherever possible—refer to me only by my title. I am Lord Walsingham, or His Lordship, the Earl.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “Of course,” he said, “your role will not remain a secret. Nothing ever does. But, at the very least, we can avoid hastening the discovery. Tell me about your mission in Paris.”

  His abrupt change of topic threw me. “I wrote some letters to Lord Ashcombe—”

  “I read them. I wish to hear the story directly from you.”

  I’d already begun to recall my trip, while I’d been waiting for Walsingham to speak. Now I told the tale out loud, beginning with the attempt on Minette’s life in Oxford, up to the execution of the traitors outside the Bastille, and the discovery that Rémi—the head servant at Maison Chastellain, and who called himself the Raven—was behind it all. When I finished, the spymaster studied me.

  “You are an excellent storyteller,” he said.

  “Um… thank you, my lord.”

  “And you are an equally excellent liar.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE SPYMASTER’S EYES BURNED INTO me.

  “My lord?” I said, flustered. “I swear, everything I told you really happened—”

  “I believe that,” he said, still quiet. “And yet, your story does not add up. There is something you are not telling me. Your lie is a lie of omission.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Because he was right.

  The one thing I’d left out of my letters, the one thing only Tom and Sally knew, was that the Templars weren’t dead. Their ancient order still existed, after all these centuries, operating behind the scenes, in secret, to protect the world from descending into chaos. After we’d discovered this, I’d promised a Templar priest, Father Bernard, that I wouldn’t spread the word. And I hadn’t.

  “My lord…” I had no idea what I was going to say. So I was relieved when Walsingham raised his hand to silence me.

  “It is a spy’s job—your job—to keep secrets,” he said. “I will not begrudge you that. But you must understand: You work now for His Majesty. Whatever personal secrets you hold, you may not keep, if they threaten the king. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then I will ask you: Do you know of anything that is a danger to His Majesty?”

  The Templars were no threat to Charles, I was certain. In fact, they’d told me the opposite: They’d often worked to thwart plots against the French king, Louis XIV, even if they hadn’t always succeeded. So my answer could be true.

  “No, my lord.”

  “You received a message. May I see it?”

  Again, that abrupt change of topic threw me. I reached into my doublet to hand him the letter I’d found in my shop.

  He studied it carefully, silent.

  An oath was made, a promise sworn

  To those who wished to bind him.

  But he returned, and offered scorn

  And so they come to find him.

  You will know the key when you see

  the truth. Remember Paris.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21