Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(85)

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course we have cakes. They are in the new food cupboard on the landing, where the smell will not disturb anyone,” Fran?oise said, pointing in the direction of the stairs. “Last year you gave them wine, but I do not believe they require it tonight.”

“I’ll go with you, Matt,” Henry volunteered. “I like a good song on Christmas Eve.”

The appearance of Matthew and Henry downstairs was marked by a definite uptick in the choir’s volume. When the carolers came to a rather uneven finish, Matthew thanked them and passed out coins. Henry distributed the cakes, which led to many bows and a hushed “Thank you, my lord” as the news passed that this was the Earl of Northumberland. The carolers moved off to another house, following some mysterious order of precedence that they hoped would ensure them the best refreshments and payments.

Soon I could no longer smother my yawns, and Henry and Gallowglass began to gather up their gloves and cloaks. Both were smiling like satisfied matchmakers when they headed for the door. Matthew joined me in bed, holding me until I fell asleep, humming carols and naming the city’s many bells as they sounded the hour.

“There is St. Mary-le-Bow,” he said, listening to the sounds of the city. “And St. Katherine Cree.”

“Is that St. Paul’s?” I asked as a prolonged clarion sounded.

“No. The lightning that took off the steeple destroyed the bells, too,” he said. “That’s St. Saviour’s. We passed it on our way into town.” The rest of London’s churches caught up with Southwark’s cathedral. Finally a straggler finished with a discordant clang, the last sound I heard before sleep overtook me.

In the middle of the night, I was awakened by conversation coming from Matthew’s study. I felt the bed, but he was no longer with me. The leather straps that held up the mattress squeaked and stretched as I jumped to the cold floor. I shivered and threw on a shawl before leaving the room.

Judging by the pools of wax in the shallow candlestands, Matthew had been working for hours. Pierre was with him, standing next to the shelves built into a recess by the fireplace. He looked as though he’d been dragged backward through the Thames mud at low tide.

“I’ve been all over the city with Gallowglass and his Irish friends,” Pierre murmured. “If the Scots know anything more about the schoolmaster, they will not divulge it, milord.”

“What schoolmaster?” I stepped into the room. It was then I spotted the narrow door hidden in the wooden paneling.

“I am sorry, madame. I did not mean to wake you.” Pierre’s dismay showed through the filth, and the stench that accompanied him made my eyes water.

“It’s all right, Pierre. Go. I’ll find you later.” Matthew waited while his servant fled, shoes squelching. Matthew’s eyes drifted to the shadows by the fireplace.

“The room that lies beyond that door wasn’t on your welcome tour,” I pointed out, going to his side. “What’s happened now?”

“More news from Scotland. A jury sentenced a wizard named John Fian—a schoolmaster from Prestonpans—to death. While I was away, Gallowglass tried to find out what truth, if any, lies behind the wild accusations: worshipping Satan, dismembering dead bodies in a graveyard, transforming moles’ feet into pieces of silver so he was never without money, going to sea in a ship with the devil and Agnes Sampson to thwart the king’s policies.” Matthew tossed a paper onto the table in front of him. “So far as I can tell, Fian is one of what we used to call the tempestarii, and nothing more.”

“A windwitch, or possibly a waterwitch,” I said, translating the unfamiliar term.

“Yes,” Matthew agreed with a nod. “Fian augmented his teacher’s salary by causing thunderstorms during dry spells and early thaws when it looked as if the Scottish winter would never end. His fellow villagers adored him, by all accounts. Even Fian’s pupils had nothing but praise. Fian might have been a bit of a seer—he’s credited with foretelling people’s deaths, but that could have been something Kit cooked up to embellish the story for an English audience. He’s obsessed with a witch’s second sight, as you’ll remember.”

“Witches are vulnerable to the shifting moods of our neighbors, Matthew. One minute we’re friends, the next we’re run out of town—or worse.”

“What happened to Fian was definitely worse,” Matthew said grimly.

“I can imagine,” I said with a shudder. If Fian had been tortured as Agnes Sampson had, he must have welcomed death. “What’s in that room?”

Matthew considered telling me that it was a secret but wisely refrained. He stood. “It would be better if I showed you. Stay by me. It’s not yet dawn, and we can’t take a candle into the room for fear that someone will see it from outside. I don’t want you to trip.” I nodded mutely and took his hand.

We stepped across the threshold into a long room with a row of windows barely larger than arrow slits tucked under the eaves. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted and gray shapes began to emerge from the gloom. A pair of old garden chairs woven from willow twigs stood across from each other, their backs curved forward. Low, battered benches were set out in two rows down the center of the room. Each bore a strange assortment of objects: books, papers, letters, hats, and clothes. From the right came a gleam of metal: swords, hilts up and points down. A pile of daggers rested on the floor nearby. There was a scratching sound, too, and a scurry of feet.