Charlton kept spouting filth as they grabbed him. “But they’re growing wise to you, aren’t they? You’re a witch, they say. You’re a freak. No man will touch you. Even Nat Walbrook’s abandoned you—”
“And shut him up,” I ordered, more harshly this time.
Words, I told myself. Just words. They can’t hurt me. But even after Charlton had been hauled off, I found myself shaking with anger. How dare he speak that way to me? How dare he mention Nat?
I looked up at my men. Not all of them met my eyes. Although I thought of us as a unit, the truth was that they always kept a certain distance from me. I was a woman and a Chantress; like it or not, that set me apart. When all was said and done, what did they think of me? Had Charlton’s words struck some kind of chord in them?
You’re a freak. No man will touch you. Even Nat Walbrook’s abandoned you—
What could I say in my own defense? I couldn’t tell anyone the truth about Nat. Indeed, after all this time, I was no longer sure what the truth really was. And to address any of the rest of Charlton’s accusations was to give them more credence than they deserved.
Never mind, I told myself. You are strong enough to handle this. And I was. But as I stood looking at my men in the shadow of our victory, my loneliness went bone deep.
CHAPTER TWO
THE ROYAL BARGE
Six weeks later, cushioned on the red velvet seats of the royal barge, I watched London slip by in the late October twilight. Keeping the peace in the far reaches of the kingdom meant I rarely saw the city, and I was grateful for this chance to savor its sounds. Some were audible only to a Chantress—the gossamer-fine melody of the gathering haze, the rollicking music of the river itself. Yet as the sunset faded and the glowing sky turned a melancholy hue, it was the ordinary sounds I appreciated the most—the pipes and drums of street musicians, the last cries of the seagulls, the roar of a raucous theater crowd, the bass chime of the great bell at St. Paul’s.
Across from me, King Henry watched the city, his blue eyes bright as ever under his copper hair.
Nodding at him, I pointed to a wall where people stood waving in the last of the light. “Listen! They’re cheering for you.”
His sober, freckled face broke into a smile. “They could equally well be cheering for you, you know.”
“No.” I could just hear the words drifting across the river. “They’re cheering for you and the Queen.”
It was almost six months since the King had married my friend Sybil Dashwood. I counted myself lucky that I’d been able to come to London—however briefly—for the ceremony. Their wedding had been an occasion to remember, the first time in centuries that a monarch had married a commoner. Although some at Court had objected to the marriage, many ordinary Londoners had been only too happy to celebrate the union.
The city’s buoyant mood still had not dissipated. After many dark years, we’d finally reached a season of peace and plenty. The tyrannies of Scargrave were ended, and so was the year of famine and unrest that had followed his rule. We’d had a good harvest last summer, and a record one this year, thanks to Nat’s brilliant work—
No, stop. I mustn’t think about Nat.
Pushing back a wave of sadness, I said quickly, “Your Majesty, has Dr. Penebrygg told you about the fireworks he’s designed for the opening of Parliament?”
“Not yet, but that reminds me . . .” The King reached for a box at his side. “I believe there are a few more items on today’s docket. Shall we go over them now?”
I stifled a sigh. When the King had called me back to London to help with the opening, I’d been delighted. I couldn’t wait to spend time with Sybil and Norrie, my childhood guardian. Both women were very dear to me. But ever since my arrival, the King had kept me so busy that I might as well have been in farthest Cornwall.
Of course the opening was important. I couldn’t deny that. This would be the first Parliament in a generation, and one elected on more democratic lines than ever before. It was critical that it be a success.