Taste of Treason by April Taylor

thought. The events were clear enough. Two lots of writing on walls, complete with the spider symbol, which had also been carved into the back of the maidservant after her wrists had been slit. Someone with a maladjusted sense of humor letting loose hundreds of frogs at the royal banquet.
    The girl’s death apart, the events could be seen as innocuous. Were they separate from the murder or did the whole thing combine to make a logical explanation, albeit one he could not yet fathom?
    Luke sipped his ale and thought through possible rationalizations. He must observe, assess, analyze and only then, form a plan of action. Something itched at the back of his mind, but concentrate as he may, he could not bring it forward. Everything that had happened had to be connected. The writing. Two messages referring to false gods and a tyrant. Or was it simply that some young blood could have painted the words to set the maids screaming, possibly so that he could comfort one in particular? The first attempts failed, so he did it again when the court moved to Hampton. A fine notion but one that did not account for the spider.
    Who but Nimrod could have killed the maid, and who but a woman could gain access to the Queen’s apartments unnoticed? That did not mean that Nimrod was in truth a woman, just disguised as one.
    Leaving the murder aside, what about the frogs? Who in their right mind would collect together hundreds of the wretched creatures, a feat that must have taken a long, long time, and then release them in the middle of a royal feast? It was a reckless act. Henry was certain to be so enraged that he would take all necessary steps to discover the perpetrator.
    The murder of little Edith Brook was in a different league, and quite what part she played in this tangle was anybody’s conjecture. The device carved into her back implied that the writing and her death were linked in some way. There was an easy way to prove this. If the same hand had performed both deeds, then the pieces of linen in his scrip, the one from the wounds on the dead girl and the other from the writing on the wall, must be related.
    Walking into his shop, he went over the ingredients for the bonding spell. The spell needed all his focus even though in essence it was one of the simplest to perform. Any lapse in his concentration and the elements would split asunder, like curdled eggs. He blended the potion, dividing it between two bowls. He then dipped the cloth with which he had wiped Edith’s arm into the left-hand bowl and the cloth with red ink from the wall into the right-hand one, ordering them to reveal their secrets.
    At first he thought he had made a mistake in the spell because nothing happened. If the events were related, they should leap into the air and try to bond. He reviewed his actions. No, the spell was correct. That must mean his theory had been wrong. Luke’s shoulders sagged.
    Just as he was about to tip the contents of each bowl away, a faint stream of vapor rose from the bowl on the right and transferred itself to the one on the left. He released the breath he had not known he was holding and nodded in satisfaction.
    “So, you are each part of the whole. I knew it,” he said, lifting out the cloth from the left—hand bowl into which the vapor had descended. The red ink had also transferred to the one from the right-hand bowl, thus proving that they were linked to the same person, but was it the killer or the girl? He picked the bowl up but stood transfixed with shock when a red mist swirled above the inky cloth. The sudden rush of heat made him drop the dish, and when he looked down, the cloth had been consumed, leaving behind a pool of red viscous liquid. Luke swallowed and muttered up a prayer. He knew that coppery, salty smell. The writing had not been done with ink, but with blood. Was it that fact that had slowed the action of the spell? Joss growled, making him jump. Looking round, he could see no cause for her unease, but she