Nightshade Read online

  He guides me and comforts me. He tells me what special herbs to add to the laudanum, to keep me indifferent and as pleasure-seeking as a cat. He whispers words of adoration to me all night long, until I can scarcely sleep from longing.

  I wish I could touch you, I tell him.

  Would that I could possess you as the fat king does. But soon, lovely. Soon.

  My every waking moment, he praises my beauty, even as I lift my gown and offer myself to my sovereign, His Majesty King George III, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. Whose life and reign it is my destiny to end.

  The slap of wetness against a thin hull. The steady splash of a gondolier’s oar moving through the water. These are the sounds I wake to.

  Signora – I try to speak, but no words come. With difficulty I open my eyes.

  Someone has dressed me in a gentleman’s Sunday clothes – a crisp linen shirt, a matching frock coat and breeches. The clothes are not my own and are over-large for my frame. My feet are bare.

  I am propped up against the side of a gondola, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat against the sun. My right hand trails over the side. The still water of the canal is cold, slimy, unpleasant. I wish to lift my hand from the water but cannot.

  I cannot seem to move at all.

  Around me, the students are laughing, joking. Full of high spirits, bragging about their pranks. Somehow I know their names. Moonseed. Larkspur. Dumbcane. Snakeweed.

  “You are not medical students,” I say, or try to. “Look. There is dirt still clinging to your roots.”

  They laugh. “You are covered in earth too, Master Weed. But perhaps that is because we have just dug you up from your grave.”

  “My grave?”

  “Of course! Where else do you think the bodies come from?”

  The gondola passes beneath a footbridge and moves into shadow. All is darkness.

  It will be darkness without end, this time, I think with relief. Finally I have reached the end of this terrible agony I am already too near death to feel… darkness is nearly here, and with it, peace…

  And then there is light. And pain.

  Like the world itself, I spin. Night turns into day, day into night, again and again.

  When the spinning stops, I am flat on my back, spread-eagled. My clothes are gone.

  A click, as the dissection table is locked into place.

  I dare to open my eyes. Faces, hundreds of them, near and impossibly high, all staring at me. Hungry with anticipation.

  I struggle to rise but am held down with straps.

  Oleander appears before me, silver-haired, his dark wings folded against his back. One arm is raised, and something sharp gleams in his hand. He gazes down with mocking emerald eyes, the same vivid green as my own.

  “Weed! What a surprise. We were all quite sure you were dead.”

  “Not – not yet –” I gasp. The pain is returning, spreading quickly, too quickly –

  “So I see. But it won’t be long now. And the crowds have already gathered. The preparations have been made. It is much too late to change our plans. What is it your mountebank used to say? The show must go on? Music, please,” he commands some unseen players.

  But I hear no music – just the hoarse cry of the raven –

  KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

  as the blade of ice comes plunging down…

  Oleander?

  Yes, lovely?

  I have been wondering: Is there a worse crime than to kill God’s anointed King?

  It is dreadfully wicked, to be sure. But there are so many different sorts of crimes, and each one is worse than the last. One can scarcely keep track of them all.

  Do you think it is worse than killing one’s own father?

  Not many people get to experience both, lovely. Count yourself fortunate in that respect. But why ask such pointless questions? I hope you are not having second thoughts. For I would be so very disappointed if you were to break your word.

  No. I know it does not matter. I am going to hell, no matter what. I was just curious. May I ask you something else?

  Curiosity killed the cat, my dear.

  Still, I wish to know. Is Weed alive?

  Weed! Why do you ask?

  I – I am not sure. I would like to say goodbye to him, I suppose.

  Too late, lovely. I had been meaning to tell you. Weed has taken poison.

  No! I don’t believe you.

  I assure you, he has taken enough poison to kill ten men. Rather excessive, in my opinion. I am sorry if the news upsets you. But you know I would not lie to you about a subject so near to my heart.

  I weep.

  Quiet, lovely. Dry your tears. You will wake His Majesty.

  I cannot stop.

  Have another dose of laudanum. It will calm you.

  More? But I am already so dizzy – my mind is in a fog –

  The more you take, the closer I can come. If you took just a little more, I am quite sure we would be able to feel each other’s touch. Wouldn’t that be a comfort to you, in this time of grief? Good girl – there, my wings enfold you even now. Can you feel me?

  I think I can. Oleander – I will be dead when all this is over, won’t I?

  Such questions. You must trust me, lovely. When your work is done, you will be with me. I am your eternal reward.

  Promise me.

  You will find your refuge at last. I promise.

  “Fool, fool fool! Staking your life on the word of a two-hundred-year-old palm tree. Weed? Can you hear me?”

  I grunt. Two agile fingers pry my right eye open. Through the slit I see the face of Signora Baglioni. Worried, angry. More angry, I think. She lets go, and darkness falls again. I try to move but can only manage a groan.

  “Still alive. Bene! For I would hate to lose the chance to scold you for what you have done. The moment you can stand up, I intend to give you a tongue-lashing that will be far worse than any poison.”

  Now I open my eyes myself, just a little. The light is blinding. Another groan escapes my lips.

  “How do you feel?”

  “You seem convinced I am alive. I am not so sure.” I turn my head from side to side. My brain rolls like a cannonball in my skull. “Was it the third formula?”

  “It was. Lucky you. You almost died. I gave you the third mixture as soon as I could get it down your throat, but even then I thought it was too late.”

  “How long have I been ill?”

  “Three days. The King and his party arrived in Padua yesterday. You have come back from the dead just in time.”

  I struggle to sit up and manage to get my feet on the floor. The room whirls once, but settles. The signora hands me a glass of lemon water. “Drink,” she orders. “Tomorrow evening you will attend a royal masquerade ball, here in Padua. King George III and his followers will revel until the small hours of the morning. You will make sure that nothing sinister ends up in the King’s wine. If he falls suddenly ill for any reason, you will administer the mithridatum – whose effectiveness you can now vouch for personally.”

  I hand the empty glass back to the signora and stretch my limbs. I am hungry, of all things. A good sign. “How did you manage to obtain an invitation to such an exclusive event?”

  She laughs. “I have many friends in Padua, you know! And who said you would be going as a guest? You are the entertainment, Weed. You will make roses bloom for the King.”

  16

  11th November. The Feast of St Martin.

  My costume for the masquerade ball can only be called miraculous. Signora Baglioni has obtained a black silk suit with an emerald-green waistcoat and a black velvet mask to cover my face. The plants of the Orto botanico have contributed their most delicate tendrils and most fragrant blooms. From these the signora has fashioned a living cape of greenery and flowers.

  With the help of these brave plants, tonight I will give my greatest performance. If only Jessamine could be there to see it.

  “BELL
ISSIMO,” SIGNORA BAGLIONI MURMURS, making the final adjustments to my cape. “I wish I could see the faces of those traitorous English aristocrats when you walk in the door.”

  “You are not coming?”

  She puts down her shears. “I must stay and watch over the Orto botanico. Evil will be afoot in Padua tonight. We must both be careful.”

  “Do not be afraid, signora. I will make sure no harm comes to the king.”

  “I hope so.” She frowns. “I confess, Weed. I am troubled. I fear it is no accident that the Prince of Poisons has come here to demonstrate his power. Here, to Padua. Why?”

  “I thought the English court planned to see Dr. Carburi, for his profitable treatments?” I say it to make her smile, but she will not.

  “That is the reason they gave.” She sounds unconvinced. “You once told me of your first meeting with Oleander. You were a child, a stowaway on board a ship. Remember?”

  “All too well. We were attacked by pirates. Some of the crew were slain. The rest, captured and bound.” If I close my eyes, I can smell the salt spray and hear the cries of the dying men, so I make sure to keep my gaze fixed on the signora. “I killed the pirates myself, with poison that Oleander instructed me to put in their food.”

  “Did you ever wonder why he saved your life?”

  Her question makes me uneasy. “If Oleander had his way, we would all be murderers. It must have amused him to turn a frightened child into a killer of men.”

  “True. But you were no ordinary child. Perhaps he had a reason for saving you. Perhaps he imagines some dark purpose for your talents.” She hands me my mask. “Perhaps he brought his wicked scheme to Padua because he knew you were here, Weed.”

  “His purposes and mine are opposed.” Anger seizes me. “My dearest wish is to destroy him.”

  “Yet if not for Oleander, you would not have lived to make that wish.” She holds out a vial, filled with thick dark liquid, stoppered with a cork. It is the mithridatum. I stow it carefully in the pocket of my waistcoat, as the signora watches with a worried look.

  “Buona fortuna, Weed.” She stops me at the door. “Remember, the English King is not the only one in danger tonight. Oleander will bait his trap for you. You will have to be strong. You will have to be ready to choose – perhaps, to sacrifice –”

  She does not need to say more.

  I remember the terrible lessons taught by the poison garden at Hulne Abbey, when my beloved lay dying. The way I was forced to do that which repulsed me. How I was made to learn that my ideas of right and wrong would crumple like dead leaves under the weight of my love for Jessamine.

  If I were given a choice between saving Jessamine and saving the King – which would I choose?

  There is no time to wonder. I must go. Yet the signora still clings to my arm.

  “I was thinking, too, of that soldier who slew King Mithridates,” she says in a low voice. “It is no small crime to murder a king, even if done out of loyalty. No doubt the man paid for his service with his life.”

  “He did what was asked of him.” I say it to comfort her, but she shakes her head.

  “As do we all. Still, it was very brave. I would have liked to have known that man.” She kisses me goodbye, once on each cheek, and quickly turns away, but not before I see the tears in her eyes.

  I understand: She does not expect to see me alive again.

  The King’s party travels to the Palazzo della Ragione in a slow procession through the streets of Padua. We are a spectacle, to be sure, a parade of English aristocrats and their whores, all in masks and costumes. The children point and stare, and dash into shadows when we get close.

  No one knows who we are, or that the King of England travels with us. If asked, we have been told to say we are wealthy English citizens on the Grand Tour, but I doubt there are many tourists who have travelled in such remarkable style.

  “Belladonna,” they call when they see me. Beautiful lady, indeed. I wear a Grecian sheath of black tulle, a mask adorned with purple orchids, and a spray of white oleander blossoms in my raven-black hair. The flowers are poisonous in themselves, but there is one special bloom that has been steeped in the killing dose I prepared myself, this very day.

  My arms and neck are bare, and the sheer gown scarcely conceals my body, but I am past all modesty by now. As Oleander instructed, I have anointed my skin with the aphrodisiac mixture that helps keep the King in thrall to me. It will guarantee that no man stands in my way today, for my lightest touch will command any who comes near. Nor do I mind the November chill, for my blood runs quick and hot in my veins.

  Prepare your morning tea as I bid you, Oleander urged when I awoke. The nectar of the Hashshashin will give you all the courage you need. I obeyed, and now there is not a drop of fear in me. My reactions seem unnaturally quickened, or else the rest of the world slowed. I feel as if I could pluck a raindrop out of the air as it fell.

  I do not know who suggested a botanical theme for the masquerade – I heard it said it was because the palazzo sits above the fruit and vegetable markets of Padua – but the fancy suits my purposes well. The King himself is dressed as a sunflower, with a ruffled collar of bright orange framing his face. All the other masked revellers are bedecked with woven leaves and lavish arrangements of flowers.

  “There,” someone says as we turn. “The Palace of Reason.” From the outside, the roof looks like the overturned hull of an enormous ship. In my mind I see people drowning, adrift in a storm-tossed sea. I hear their screams, the pleas for help, the choking cries –

  Forgive me for not saving you, I think, but I too am drowning, and will soon be dead.

  Then I blink, and the image disappears.

  I climb the stairs with the other ladies of the court. Together we enter the Salone, the vast upstairs hall where the ball will take place.

  I have never been in a room so large; its sheer size makes me dizzy. In keeping with our theme, the room has been filled with potted trees and garlands of blooming flowers. It is an unmoored Eden, an island of paradise floating in the heavens. All who enter gape at the stars painted on the vaulted ceiling and the frescoes along the walls that depict the twelve signs of the zodiac.

  I, too, pause at each to admire them, until I get to the sign of the scorpion.

  “Couragio, lovely. I will not let you fail.”

  I gasp. Oleander’s voice is as familiar to me as my own thoughts, yet these words are not spoken within my mind, but from behind me. I turn. Standing before me is the Prince himself. His silver hair gleams in the torchlight, but the emerald shade of his eyes tugs at my heart – no, do not think of Weed, I tell myself, it is much too late for that –

  “My powers increase by the day. I have you to thank for that, lovely. You have performed beyond my wildest expectations.” His wings of leathery leaves make him seem just another extravagantly costumed guest – yet I cannot tell if he is real or an apparition. “I cannot stay long, but I would not have missed this night for the world. You look stricken, my dear – are you that surprised to see me?”

  I can scarcely breathe. “Yes.”

  Good, he whispers, shimmering into thin air. For I do so love surprises. As you will soon see.

  Signora Baglioni was wise to arrange things this way. The room is filled with plants, my allies. The platform stage lets me see all who are here.

  I can spot the traitors easily. They are dressed as poisonous plants – foxglove, rhododendron, narcissus, monkshood – and when they pass near the potted trees that line the entrance to the Salone, the leaves tremble in alarm.

  There has been much drink and dancing. Now chairs have been arranged to face the stage. The sunflower king takes a seat near the back. Already he staggers from too much champagne. A ripe beauty hangs on each arm.

  “Begin your amazing feats, Signor Erbaccia,” he calls loudly. “For my dinner awaits, and my drink as well. And then – my bed!”

  “As Your Majesty wishes,” I say with a bow. Swirling my magnificent c
ape, I perform one miracle after another. I make tendrils of vine lengthen and curl into shapes in the air. Bundles of baby’s breath and lavender bloom on my command.

  The crowd shouts and claps for each feat in turn. They believe it to be some kind of trick, but a good one. Little do they know the true marvels that happen in front of their eyes.

  As I used to do with the mountebank, I end with a rose. I produce a dozen unopened buds on fresh-cut stems. First I show them to an audience member near the front of my platform stage, a bald-pated man wreathed in boughs of pine.

  Through his monocle, he examines each bud. “They are real, quite real,” he announces to the crowd.

  I place the roses in a vase. I bow low before them and make my request. Slowly, one by one, the roses bloom.

  The applause is long and loud. I lift the full-blown roses and cradle them in my arms. Out of habit – or is it hope? – I scan the crowd, searching for the girl who most looks like Jessamine.

  As has happened countless times before, my eyes light upon one pretty golden-haired face after another, and then move on in disappointment.

  Until I see –

  Jessamine. Ice-blue eyes staring from within a bruise-coloured mask.

  Her hair is as dark as an undertaker’s coat. Her soft, blushing cheeks are chiselled and pale as marble.

  Her blood-red lips outline a mouth slack with shock.

  I would not have recognised her without the mask. But it frames her eyes so I can see them apart from the rest of her. Jessamine’s eyes. I would know them anywhere.

  Those eyes are fixed on mine now. A stare of terror.

  The King’s fingers play idly on the bare skin of her neck. I have kissed the spot myself, right at the tender hollow of her throat.

  Her crimson mouth forms the word – Weed –

  Weed – dear God – it is Weed.

  He nods and bows, and lets his gaze wander the room. For a moment his eyes seem to linger on mine. Yet he gives no sign; his expression does not change. Gallantly he hands a single rose to a squealing young woman near the stage and makes his exit.