Chapter 7

Drummond frowned at the neatly-kept little cottage which sat in the shade of the castle walls. Smoke spiraled lazily from the perfect chimney and flowers bloomed in the front garden.

It didn't look like a sorcerer's cottage.

The King of Scotland had wise men, advisors, and religious counsolers. But the Old Ways were still popular in some places and His Majesty wasn't one to throw away things that still worked, hence the court sorcerer.

Charles the Thirty-Seventh, court sorcerer, to be precise.

Well, if there was any man who could tell Drum about the poison used in the latest assassination attempt, ‘twould be Charles.

He rapped smartly on the door, which gave way under his touch, swinging slowly open with an atmospheric squeeeeeek .

Ah . Now this is what Drum imagined a sorcerer's hut would look like.

Dribbly candles lined every surface, some even stuck to the wall with their wax, causing the whole place to flicker with reflected light and also be hot as hell. There was something bubbling and smoking in a pot over the fire, filling the air with white fog and a scent not unlike a diseased goat.

And from somewhere in the mist came the sound of off-key humming.

Drum's fingers wrapped around his sword hilt as he peered about .

Only years of battle-honed instincts warned him of the presence at his back. He whirled, just as an eddy in the smoke blew aside to reveal—

"Christ on the cross!" Drum bellowed, backpedaling.

The creature which emerged from the smoke was hunch-backed, dressed in rags, its face a horrible agglomeration of warts and spikes and two eyes which were just black holes of nothingness. It lifted its arms, fingers curled into claws, reaching for Drum like a demon from hell.

"Whooooo distuuuurrrrrbbbs my wooooooorrrrrkkkk?" it groaned.

Drum slowly straightened, heart thundering against his ribcage. "Pardon?"

"I said—" The creature bent to one side, hacked loudly, then straightened. "Who disturbs my work? Sorry, this smoke is thick, aye?"

With that, the figure moved to the door through which Drum had entered, and—while Drum watched, not removing his hand from his sword—propped it open.

"There." The creature flapped its arms, apparently to move the smoke out the door. "Could ye open that window over there?"

Frowning, Drum edged toward the window. "Are ye…are ye the sorcerer?"

The man—for now ‘twas obvious this was a man—was untying something from around his waist. "I prefer the term alchemist , but tradition is a bitch sometimes."

So saying, he pulled off what looked to be an apron—covered in holes and slashes, the "rags" Drum had seen earlier—and tossed it over one of the chairs. "Did ye forget how shutters work?" he asked, his tone only mildly curious.

Shaking his head, Drum leaned sideways to open the shutters and allow a cross-breeze in.

"Ah, that's better," the man said, reaching for his face. To Drum's surprise, he pulled the horrific thing off.

Or rather, he took off what turned out to be a mask, covered in splotches and burns, to reveal a surprisingly young man.

Drum squinted. "Ye're Charles the Thirty-Seventh, the King's royal sorcerer?"

"Aye." The man paused halfway through a bow. "Well, actually, as I said, I dinnae do any magic per se, but people expect a bit of a show." He waved his hands about, encompassing the dribbly candles and eldritch atmosphere. "And of course, my name's no' Charles."

All Drum could think of to say was, "It isnae?"

"Nay, dinnae be daft. ‘Tis Stephanie. But as I said, tradition holds quite a bit of power around here, so the name Charles sort of comes with the job." He grinned eagerly. "Ye can call me Chuck. Do ye want something to drink?"

Drum glanced around again, fingers slowly loosening from his sword's hilt. "Absolutely, unequivocally, nay ."

The other man shrugged. "Fair enough, fair enough. Ye ken what they say: Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat. "

"Uh…" Drum forced his hand to relax as he glanced at the various alchemical accoutrements be coming visible. "I'll take yer word for that. So…Chuck."

"Are ye here to see me turn gold into an apple?"

Drum paused. "I thought ye alchemists were trying to turn things into gold?"

" Di! Ecce hora! Uxor mea me necabit! ‘Tis much easier to take some gold down into the marketplace and exchange it for some apples. I can turn the tiniest piece of gold into an entire bushel of barrels, which is a useful skill, I'd warrant. Ha! And my father said I'd amount to naught! Well, In culina, nemo audit te clamare!"

It took a moment of expectant waiting for Drum to realize the sorcerer was done speaking and wasn't going to make any more sense. He blew out a breath. "Look, I'm here because I want to ask ye about a poison."

"Oooh, poisons. Aye, I can do poisons, but only on Tuesdays. That's the day I get my cauldron going and I can make up any brew ye want."

"Is yer cauldron no' going now?" Drum asked curiously.

"Och, aye, but that is just my lunch." Charles the Thirty-Seventh rubbed his hands together, an excited look on his face. "So, what kind of poison do ye want? Nightshade? Hemlock?"

"Nay, I'm seeking information about a poison." Drum wished he had a bottle or some kind of evidence, but all he had was the story of what had happened last week when the Queen's lady—Brigit's partner—had saved the King yet again. " ‘Twas a sickly-sweet smelling poison, dissolved into wine. And when the wine was poured atop an apple, the apple smoked."

"Hmmmmm…." The court sorcerer stroked his beardless chin. "Ye're certain ‘twas an apple? Was it red or yellow?"

Shite, what color had it been? "Red, I think."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, and was it bigger than yer fist? Was it shiny?"

Drum couldn't recall. "What difference does it make?"

"Och, none at all, I'm just hungry. So…" The man began to pace. "Sickly-sweet-smelling, wine as the delivery method, and made an apple smoke. I'm assuming ye're speaking of the recent assassination attempt on the King?"

Drum startled. "Ye've heard of it?"

"Of course! Everyone in court has! The King was most appreciative to Lady Avaline for saving his life once more. Now there's a lovely lass—or used to be, at least, afore the burning. That's why I always wear a mask when I'm working with fire. Calcei maioris aliorum sunt semper in medio , and all that."

"Uh…aye. Aye, that makes sense," Drum lied. "Has anyone asked ye about it? What kind of poison it might be? Something ye recognize?"

"Something I recognize ? Of course ‘tis! ‘Tis my favorite! Nae one's come to ask me about it, though, which is a shame." The other man bustled about, collecting scraps from tables and throwing them in a bowl. "I am the expert after all."

Drum stepped closer, excitement spiking in his chest. "Ye're saying ye do ken it? "

"Ken it? I made it!" Charles thrust the bowl toward Drum. "Snack?"

There was something alive in there. "Um…I'm no' hungry." Drum shook his head. "Ye made the poison which was used to kill—to try to kill the King?"

"Oh, it wouldnae have killed him." The sorcerer was smiling as he popped something from the bowl into his mouth, crunching it. "Just made him smoke a bit."

Smoke a bit .

Like the apple, when the poisoned wine had been poured atop it?

"So ‘tis…no' a poison. Just a show?"

Charles waved at the dissipating smoke, grinning proudly. "A simple chemical reaction. Och, it'll curse yer stomach—and yer arse—if ye accidentally eat it. Ask me how I ken," he prompted helpfully.

Drum pressed his lips together. No' for all the golden apples in this place .

The other man shrugged and poked through the things in the bowl. "So ‘tis no' a poison per se , but no' pleasant. ‘Twould have made his trips to the garderobe unpleasant, but mainly ‘tis for show."

So Avaline didnae save the King's life after all, because the assassin hadnae actually been trying to kill him?

Drum's thoughts were whirling, trying to piece everything together. The crossbow had been stolen from the guard on the parapets. The corridor where the ambush was made wasn't heavily frequented. And now the poison wasn't actually poison ?

Very carefully, he ventured, "Ye said ye made the no'-a-poison? Did ye sell it to someone?"

"Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?"

‘Twas clearly a question, but Drum didn't understand it, so he shook his head then reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Eyes closed, he asked again, "Charles? I have a verra large sword and a verra short temper. Who did ye sell it to?"

"I didnae," the other man hurried to assure him. "But I keep close eye on my stock, and a fortnight ago some was missing."

Drum dropped his hand to glare. "What do ye mean?"

"When I woke up, someone had been in my cottage." The sorcerer gestured around him. "Nae idea how he got in so quietly, mayhap he'd been here before. But one of my wee bottles was missing."

He groped sideways, reaching for a shelf, his hand closing around a small vial. Then he held it up in illustration.

Drum took it, turning it over in his hands as he examined the thing, mind skipping ahead. Such a small bottle could be easily hidden on a person, then slipped into the wine at any point during the process. Hell, it could have even been on the goblet itself!

He'd have to interrogate Lawrence again.

"I'm keeping this," he growled, curling his fingers around the bottle. "I'll return it when my investigation's done."

Charles the Thirty-Seventh shrugged. "Please do. I'm just happy to have visitors. Quidquid Latine dictum sit, altum videtur. "

What an incredibly strange person.

Still clutching the bottle, and keeping both eyes on the happily humming sorcerer, Drum slowly backed out of the open door.

And right into a wall. A wall he knew well.

"Drum! How in the hell are ye?"

There was only one man in Scotland who had shoulders like that, was strong enough to wrap his arms around Drum and lift him from behind… and who knew him well enough to call him Drum .

"Craig," wheezed Drum. "What are ye doing here?"

"Looking for ye, of course. Just got lucky to run into ye here. Ha ! I guess ye ran into me ."

Awkwardly, Drum patted the other man's forearm. "Ha-ha. Now put me down, ye great ox."

Craig Oliphant had been one of his Hunters before the man had retired to marry a Sinclair lady, the widowed mother of a young earl. Craig's assignment had been to protect them, but apparently the King had passed on his blessings for the marriage, which meant the huge blacksmith-turned-Hunter-turned-stepfather was settling into his role.

As Drum straightened, he knocked his friend's shoulder. "Now, what are ye doing in Scone ? Is the family well?"

"Och, aye, but Robbie was invited to a meeting with some other earls, and I'm along as his guard. He's verra important, ye ken."

Smiling, Drum patted his friend again. "Aye, and ye're a good da, I can tell. I hope ye'll make some time for me? To catch up? "

They fell into step, long used to working together. "Why do ye think I was looking for ye? I ken ye have nae good advice for women, but I wanted to tell ye all about Dungotit and the lassies and—Why are ye looking at me like that?"

Drum wasn't the sort of man who couldn't admit he'd made a mistake.

After a decade of warning his men to take care in their dealings with and missions involving women, he'd gone and made the same stupid mistake. He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry I ever pretended to be knowledgeable in that area, Craig. Ye shouldnae have taken my advice."

"I didnae," the large man said cheerfully as they entered the courtyard. "I married Elspeth, did I no'? She's far above me, but I love her and the bairns more than life itself, and for some reason they love me."

"Because ye're a good man," Drum said. Dumb as an ox, but good . "And I'm glad ye've all found happiness." He paused, considering his men. "Ye, and Barclay, and Payton. Ye've all found love."

"And ye?"

At Craig's question, Drum stopped and twisted. "What?" he barked. "What do ye mean?"

Craig shrugged, looking like an affable idiot. "Have ye found love? Ye said ye were wrong about working with women. So…?"

Damnation .

"I…wasnae wrong. Women are for falling in love with, making a life together. No' working with. No' partnering with. Ye cannae trust them. "

Except…he'd had plenty of time to think about Brigit's actions in the last week, and he wasn't so certain he had a right to be indignant about her actions.

Just as the King had his Hunters, the Queen's Angels were a shadowy group of women masquerading as her ladies-in-waiting, whom she sent the length and breadth of Scotland on missions rather more discreet than that of the Hunters.

They were unknown, and Drum had only learned what he knew of them because the King was willing to speak to him once more.

Brigit is an agent of the Crown, same as ye. She was only doing what she was ordered…and ye can understand that.

She'd used her relationship with him to learn if he was guilty.

She manipulated ye into revealing yer truth instead of just asking ye !

Would he have done differently? Criminals would claim innocence the same as an innocent man.

She'd used what she could to learn the truth about him.

Just because ‘tis logical doesnae make it hurt less .

"Ye're scowling," Craig announced unhelpfully. "Want to talk about it?"

Nay .

Aye.

With a sigh, Drum scrubbed his free hand over his face and admitted that his friend might just have a good idea. "'Tis…complicated. "

Snorting, Craig turned for the steps. "When are women no' complicated? Give me the general outline of the story."

With a deep breath, Drum did. He started with the attempted assassination, the ambush with the crossbow, and was pleased when his friend was suitably irate at the threat to the King's life and Drum being blamed. He described his investigation and Brigit's help, and what they'd learned together…only to find out he'd been her mission all along.

"All along?" Craig asked with a frown as they turned down one of the corridors. "I ken the two of ye have been…"

God's Blood, even Craig had noticed his obsession with the buxom little redheaded maid?

Drum growled, "Nay, just…" Damnation , how to continue that sentence? He took a deep breath. "When I started fooking her, she kenned I was a Hunter, but I didnae ken she was an Angel. And I wasnae a mission to her until I came under suspicion."

That much he knew was truth, at least.

But Craig hummed thoughtfully. "Did anyone ken she was an Angel?"

"Nay," Drum snapped. "I told ye! They're like this super-secret group. The Hunters have helms to announce who we are. No' them. Ye cannae trust women."

"But if she couldnae tell anyone who she was, she couldnae tell ye. Unless ye gave her a reason to think ye were worth betraying the Queen's trust." Craig looked far too cheerful to be dropping such knowledge. "And ye cannae fault her reasoning. ‘Twas good secret-agenting, ye have to admit. The Queen told her to use what she could to determine yer guilt, and she did. ‘Tisnae to say she liked it, just that she did as commanded."

Drum's steps slowed, his attention on the stone floor as they neared his little office.

Brigit… hadn't looked as if she'd enjoyed betraying his trust, had she? She'd looked tortured and miserable, but Drum had been too angry to notice anything beyond her guilt.

Unless ye gave her a reason to think ye were worth betraying the Queen's trust.

Drum squeezed his eyes closed. Fook . It wasn't as if he was her husband. He had no right to be so angry over this…did he?

"Besides." Craig's huge hand slammed into his shoulder. "She proved ye innocent, aye? Stood up for ye to Their Majesties?"

"Aye," Drum croaked.

"So ‘twas for the best?"

Was it?

Drum didn't know. He still had so much anger sitting in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn't certain if ‘twas directed at Brigit or the Queen or himself or the goddamned universe for keeping such a secret from him.

Craig turned and began to walk backward down the corridor, that stupid grin on his stupid face. "I have to go check on Robbie. Meet me for an ale tonight? After I tuck him in?"

Tucking in an earl. Drum's lips tugged into a reluctant grin. "Aye," he rasped, "I'd like that."

"And ye can tell me more about Brigit," Craig called as he disappeared around the corner .

Could he? Would he? Sighing, Drum reached for the latch of his door.

He'd thought himself falling in love with Brigit…but he couldn't trust. Not anymore.

Three steps into the room he rocked to a halt. There, on the desk, was a scroll he didn't recognize. One he hadn't left there.

Picking it up, he studied it. The seal was simple, no design. Just a dab of yellow wax. He broke it and unrolled the thing.

And couldn't help the way his heart leapt at the words printed there in a simple, unfamiliar hand:

I know who is trying to hurt the King. Meet me in the chapel at midnight.