Spirited (7 page)

Henry’s valet entered with three servants. “We will care for him, Your Majesty. Please go back to your meal.”

I did as he suggested, but Henry’s fit had cast a somber mood over us all. We ate silently and watched the valet and servants move Henry to a litter.

“I’m fine,” Henry yelled suddenly, with surprising clarity. “Don’t touch me, you fool. It wasn’t a bad one. Help me into my chair. I want to finish my dinner.”

I shot Amunet a wide-eyed smile, as if there were nothing odd about any of this, and took a long gulp of wine to calm my nerves. Seeing one of Henry’s fits always rattled me. The wine helped immensely, and I took a deep breath and finished off my cup. A paste thickened the last few sips of wine. As I peered into the goblet, my throat began to close.

My gaze flew to Henry, who sat staring at me, a crooked half-smile on his face. Aimery and Guy also looked my way.

Traitors. Henry had faked his fit, and when I’d gone to help him, one of my brothers must have slipped poison into my cup. I grasped for Amunet’s hand and told her as much. The poison had stolen my voice, however, and I could barely whisper. Dizziness fell hard over me, and I swayed in my chair. Amunet jumped up and called Henry’s valet to bring the servants and the litter.

The next thing I knew I was being carried through the castle at a run. My body bounced on the litter. Amunet clasped my hand and ran alongside. The poison did not appear to be fast acting. My throat burned as if on fire. My stomach writhed as if someone had gripped it with a pair of blacksmith’s tongs. A chill seized me, leaving my skin cold and clammy. I was dying. I wanted to rage, to demand my brothers be arrested for the traitors they were, but while my mind was strong, my body was powerless.

The servants carried me into my chambers and laid the litter atop my bed. Amunet ran into her room and returned holding the senet box. I had not seen it since that day in my throne room when she had taken it from me.

She stood at my bedside, clutching it in her hands, tears wending their way down her bronze cheeks. Behind her, Henry, Aimery, and Guy watched from the doorway.

Murderers.

“I will not let you perish,” Amunet said. “You shall live longer than any of your brothers.”

I wanted to answer her, to tell her not to worry, to ask what she meant, but I could still not summon my voice.

Amunet set the box on my chest, then removed the necklace she wore. She clasped the amulet around my neck, picked up the senet box, and stroked the sides, moving the panels.

I shook my head. I did not want her to go. Not now, when I might be dying. Why couldn’t she stay until I was gone?

The drawer popped open as my physician entered the room. Amunet backed away to give him time to examine me. But I could see the truth in his eyes.

Henry had won.

The physician ushered my brothers out of the room, leaving me alone with Amunet.

She sat on the side of my bed and held up the senet box. “In here you will live, perhaps to return to a time where this poison has a cure. Do not fear for me, for I will make sure that Henry is rewarded for his crimes.”

Before I could protest, she kissed me deeply and pushed the drawer in.

Darkness came over me, instant night.

“Amunet,” I yelled. My voice had returned.

There was no answer.

The smell of cedar overwhelmed me. The hint of Amunet’s myrrh and balsam brought clarity.

I was inside the senet box.

How could such a thing be? Had some black magic shrunk me to the size of a mouse? Or had the box somehow grown?

My throat no longer burned, nor did my stomach pain me. I reached out and slid my hands over smooth cedar on all four sides.

Trapped.

I cannot say how much time has passed since Amunet pushed in the drawer. I do not grow hungry, thirsty, or weary. My beard does not grow. It is as if time has paused whilst I am in this prison, though my mind knows that time has not.

Amunet had claimed to have come from Rhakotis, a city that existed more than 1600 years ago. If she had lived in the senet box that long, so might I.

I wonder, endlessly, whether Henry has taken my place as king, what he claimed became of my body, who he accused of poisoning me, whether Amunet stands beside him as queen, or if she brought some hideous revenge upon him. These thoughts torment me, a constant reminder of my brother’s betrayal. And possibly, of Amunet’s.

Because the longer I am trapped in this prison, the more theories my mind constructs. Perhaps Amunet was a demon who trapped my soul forever, part of Satan’s plunder. Or maybe she was a witch who used black magic to trap me in this cedar casket. Or was the box itself a prison that once held Amunet, and she tricked me into taking her place?

Or did she give up her place in this prison to save my life because she loved me?

I do not know.

I cry out to the cedar walls, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

But He does not answer. No one does.

Although this story is fictional, I used real people to create it. Hugh de Lusignan III, King of Cyprus and Jerusalem—also called
the Great
—was king from 1267–1284. When he died, his eldest son, John, replaced him, only to die a year later, assumed to have been poisoned by one of his brothers. His brother Henry succeeded him and was known as a very ambitious king. Henry had epilepsy, though in those days no one knew what it was, and common superstition held that demons inflicted people with the “falling sickness.”

Scrofula (also called scrofularia) is suspected to be a form of tuberculosis. It was known as “the king’s evil” and was said to be cured by a king’s touch, especially that of a French king.

Stained

The young woman was all alone, well outside any village, out by an old mill alongside Devout Creek. She held one package-laden mule by the bridle as a second mule bolted across a drought-withered cornfield.

Isaiah Wildes had seen few animals alive in the past two days; the only creatures prospering of late were ravens and flies, both growing fat on rancid corpses of sheep, cows, and chickens. A lone woman was cause enough for suspicion. Add to that the mules.

Isaiah heeled Nan’s flanks, and the horse lurched off after the runaway mule, her hooves crunching across the sere field as if it were planted to her fetlocks in quail bones. Where chest-high stalks of corn should be, only quavering ribbons of heat sprouted under the cruel August sun.

When Isaiah returned with the mule, the woman had a terrified look in her eyes. Isaiah wiped sweat from his brow, slowed Nan to a walk, and approached cautiously.

He had heard there was trouble over in New Coventry, so that’s where he was headed. He wanted to get there before any innocents got hurt. Or, at least, before too many got hurt.

Isaiah Wildes took no pleasure in his job, not like some did, but he was very good at it. Some said he was the best. His father said he was born to the task. At any rate, Isaiah did have an undeniable gift, though he often wished he’d been blessed with a more mundane talent. But if he didn’t do it, someone else would. Better it be done by him. Better it be done right.

Isaiah Wildes could not fly. He could not shape-shift into a raven. He could not make demons do his bidding. What he could do was identify those who were able to do such things. That was Isaiah Wildes’ gift.

In many ways, that was also his curse. People were beginning to regard his profession as an archaic relic from an embarrassing past. Rumor had it that Governor Danvers had even convened a counsel to investigate abuses. Isaiah could not blame him. The charlatans, fear-mongers, and revenge-seekers threatened to outnumber honest practitioners like himself. As a result, more people were turning to science for answers. Only when a situation like the one in New Coventry arose did the citizens rediscover their need for people like Isaiah.

Isaiah cocked his head to one side as he fingered the knife at his belt. Yes, there was definitely
something
about this young woman, he sensed that clearly. But it wasn’t the stain. So she needn’t fear him, though she still faced danger from those who would point the finger for land or to save their own hides, or for plain spite. These were dangerous times for everyone, especially a lone woman.

Isaiah handed over the mule and nodded. “Here you are, Miss… ?”

She looked toward the ground. “Jacobs. Faith Jacobs.”

Their hands touched as Faith took the mule’s reins. Again, Isaiah sensed something, but it was nothing he’d experienced in his previous eighteen years. He couldn’t explain it any more than he could explain the sound of a waterfall to a man born with no ears, or the refreshment of a spring shower to one who has known only drought.

Isaiah laughed aloud and shook his head. His adoptive father, the Reverend Wildes, had often spoken in general, poetic terms about love, but Isaiah suspected the good reverend had never really experienced it outside of poetry. Isaiah certainly hadn’t. He was almost convinced it didn’t exist. In his line of work, it might as well not.

Faith Jacobs smiled at Isaiah’s laughter and reached out to pat Nan’s nose before Isaiah could stop her. Isaiah’s heart lurched. Nan was a temperamental old girl around strangers, snorting, baring her teeth, stomping the ground. But she stretched out her head to meet Faith’s hand.

Faith rubbed Nan’s graying nose. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

“Nanna,” Isaiah said. He wiped his brow with a dusty handkerchief to hide the heat rising from his heart and into his cheeks. “I found her as a boy.” Isaiah bowed in his saddle. “And I am Isaiah Wildes. At your service.”

Faith’s smile faded at mention of his name, and her blue eyes grew as harsh as the cloudless sky overhead. Isaiah had grown accustomed to this reaction, but to see Faith’s face grow cold at the mere sound of his name pained him. He hadn’t seen an honest smile since the Reverend Wildes died six years back. And even his father’s smile had seemed tentative at times.

Isaiah ignored Faith’s frown as best he could, but it was like trying to ignore the scorching sun beating down on them. “Might I escort you home?”

Faith shook her head. “No. Thank you. You’ve done enough.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“My father and I live at the mill right over there,” Faith said. “I’ll be fine.”

Isaiah watched Faith lead her mules toward the old mill. These were unfortunate times; Isaiah hoped nothing unfortunate happened to Faith Jacobs.

~*~*~

Isaiah reached New Coventry before he realized he was still thinking about Faith. He had grave business to attend to, and daydreaming like a smitten fool could get him and others killed.

With Faith’s image no longer clouding his senses, he perceived the stench of burning flesh and fear, a smell that had been the faintest of bad tastes outside of town, but was pervasive and overpowering inside New Coventry. Smoke covered the town in a filthy haze, and the townsfolk gazed studiously at the ground as if it were more than mere dust.

“Isaiah, thank goodness you’ve arrived.”

Isaiah nodded at his departed father’s dearest friend, Thomas Alder, magistrate of New Coventry. Alder reached for Nan’s bridle, but the horse snorted and bared her teeth, and he snatched his hand back.

Isaiah dismounted and led Nan after Alder, who walked through town apparently inured to the smell of death around him.

“I have a stew on the hearth,” Alder said over his shoulder. “It’s on the thin side, and there’s no meat in it—hasn’t been any good meat in months, nor any animals live-born. But you’d know that, eh? That’s why you’re here.” Alder turned back with a nervous smile. “But dinner will have to wait. Chief Magistrate Ezekiel Cotton is here. And he wants to meet you immediately.”

Isaiah stopped. Chief Magistrate Cotton. No wonder Alder was nervous. Isaiah’s stomach roiled, and it wasn’t from the stink.

“Come, boy.” Alder waved Isaiah on. “We don’t want to be caught late. We’re enforcing sentence on one of the convicted right now.”

~*~*~