The Beauty of the Wolf. Wray Delaney

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      Good, kind Bess, by then at her mind’s end, screamed, ‘If she be dead. So be me.’

      Master Finglas gathered mother and child into his laboratory and closed and bolted the door against the fury of his wife. Mistress Finglas, knees bent, praying that wood might become parchment, stayed there cursing less the child should think to cry its way back to life.

      ‘I hear a crow croak from the next roof, and you know what that means, Husband,’ she shouted. ‘A coffin in the ground, a coffin in the ground. Serves you both right.’

      No answer came and on the second day, the door still barred to her, she took to boxing the ears of her husband’s apprentice, demanding he open it.

      ‘I . . . I . . . I cannot,’ stammered the terrified boy.

      Having beaten John Butter until the worst of her rage had subsided, Mistress Finglas left him curled in upon himself outside his master’s door, lifted her skirts high and crossed the stinking alleyway to the house of her neighbour. She huffed up the narrow stairs and there she stayed by the window and talked away the hours in unwise words. She knew, she said, what they be doing, her husband and the whore, they be eating the flesh of the unbaptised babe. Her jealous imaginings gave birth to rumour, its midwife being gossip that to this night still haunted the alchemist’s good reputation.

      On the third day, in desperation, Mistress Finglas cut up her husband’s fur-lined cloak. The wanton waste of such a necessity gave her untold pleasure. She wondered what her scissors, razorsharp, would feel like plunged into the heart of her cheating husband. On the fourth day she went to church, fired by the idea of Hell’s vengeance and all the demonic winged beasts to be found there.

      On the fifth day, the door to her husband’s laboratory opened. Bess returned to the kitchen, her husband to his business, and neither had a word to say about the baby.

      ‘Where is it?’ demanded Mistress Finglas.

      ‘Where is what?’ asked her husband.

      ‘The babe.’

      ‘There is no babe.’

      ‘You jest, Husband. I saw it with my own eyes.’

XIX

      A key turns in the door, candlelight falls on the tormented face of the alchemist. A servant, carrying a gown, enters to find Master Finglas arguing with his dead wife, on the brink of losing his mind. The gown, which is far grander than any the alchemist has ever owned, pulls him back to the present. The sudden warmth that envelops him feels like the arms of his Bess, tears sting his eyes at the memory of her loving. He stands straight, rubs his hand over his bare head. He is escorted through the long gallery with its rows of paintings of the Rodermere family from the first to the present. He notices that one is missing, a shiny patch of wall marks out the square space where it used to hang. It was not a large portrait, yet he had considered it the finest there. It was of Francis Thursby, Earl of Rodermere, his hawk at his wrist.

      The sorceress slips her hand into his. He stiffens, stops breathing for a moment, then squeezes her fingers gently. He is mystified by the softness of her skin. What did he expect? Scales? As much as she hates to admit it, by the hem of her petticoat their fates are tied to one another.

      ‘Do not leave me,’ he whispers as a door is opened.

      The chamber they entered was hung with tapestries all depicting a hunting party. The riders looked out at Thomas; the hounds were running for the fox who, like the hunters, stared out at the viewer unconcerned, or so it appeared, by the nearness of danger. And in front of a roaring fire stood Sir Percival Hayes, Thomas’s old master and benefactor. Whippet lean, his clothes extravagant; a ruff of Dutch lace that could be valued in acres of land was gathered round his neck. The effect of the ruff was to disjoint his head from his body as if the two were different domains serving different masters. His face was by far the more sinister. He had hooded eyes, a long nose, lips too full. He could be taken for a younger man yet look closer and the fine lines that wrinkled his skin gave away his age. He was known at court as the Badger for his dark hair had a white stripe through it. Once head and body were joined as one his whole appearance spoke of menace.

      Fifteen years, thought Thomas, can so change a man. When he had been in Sir Percival’s favour his master’s face had been open to the world. Now it is closed, iron conclusions have crushed the dreams of the younger man, made him an unmovable force of convention.

      In those distant days, Sir Percival wanted to know the mysteries of alchemy and more. He had sought out Thomas Finglas. Having sieved through all the cunning men and quacks in London who pretended knowledge of the chemical theatre, Thomas stood apart. He was learned, spoke Greek, Latin, French and German as well as he spoke English. His interest was not in what he considered the cheap trick of turning lead into gold, but in the faerie realm for he believed if its power could be harnessed then all the secrets of nature would be at man’s command. Thomas had been with his master two years – in which he married, realised his mistake, and was able to do nothing but be bound to it for better or worse – when he had been sent here to return Lord Rodermere to the House of the Three Turrets.

XX

      Sir Percival Hayes poured a goblet of wine, took a sip and helped himself to sweetmeats from a dish before him. He ate with a ladylike delicacy then slowly took out a fine linen handkerchief and wiped his fingers. At last he turned to Thomas.

      ‘Do you remember, Master Finglas, when you came back to London from a summer of bedding a nursemaid and had the audacity to tell me that your work had been successful? And you produced this?’ Sir Percival waved a scroll at Thomas. ‘I dismissed you as a fraud, did I not? Threw you out of my house, along with that shrew you married. These days, I believe, your practice deals mainly with pimps and whores and cures for the pox.’

      ‘Not entirely, Sir Percival,’ Thomas muttered.

      ‘Did I ask you to speak? No, I did not. I am talking, you are listening. After your departure I washed my mind clean of your nonsense, determined to meddle no more in the Devil’s Cauldron. From that day forth, my role at the court of Her Majesty would be to root out superstition, hunt witches and those who profess to deal with the Devil’s magic. In that, I have served Her Majesty faithfully. I cite you as an example of a cunning man, a mountebank, and from the reports my spies have gathered on you, I was right in my assertions.’

      Thomas was trembling. The question he wanted to ask came out in a low whisper.

      ‘Sir, why have you brought me here?’

      Sir Percival poured his third glass of wine.

      ‘Yesterday,’ he said, ‘my cousin Eleanor, Lady Rodermere, was wed to Master Gilbert Goodwin. The service took place in the chapel and afterwards there was to be a feast for the guests in the banqueting hall. I was there as a representative of Her Majesty. I had argued on Lady Rodermere’s behalf that as Lord Rodermere had been missing for near eighteen years he should be considered dead and she free to marry again. So, tell me’, Sir Percival drained the third glass of wine, ‘did you pick a date at hazard? Or was it something you calculated on an astrological chart? Or was it decided on the throw of a dice?’

      Thomas feels the pit of his stomach to be lead.

       I watch you, Thomas. Beads of sweat pepper your СКАЧАТЬ