Chapter 3: Greyfriars

"I've been expecting you," Hubbard said without turning his head when Philippe entered the nave of Christ Church Greyfriars.

The priest was kneeling in front of the altar in prayer with no other manjasangs present. Philippe interpreted that as a promising signal he was ready for a substantive discussion with no witnesses. Philippe gestured for Pierre to take a seat in the pews.

"Then you know the reason I'm here," Philippe said. "Why did you break our agreement?"

Hubbard stood up and took a seat in one of the clergy chairs in the chancel. "The boy's blood surely provided you with the answer," he said bitterly. "Our understanding was that you wouldn't interfere in London if I didn't sire any children. I have no desire to propagate by ungodly methods. Jack has been the lone exception. You broke the agreement by your vicious attack on a boy who had done no harm to you."

Philippe sat in a chair beside him. "It was the only reliable means of discovering the truth. I will stop at nothing to protect my family."

Hubbard jutted out his chin. "As will I. In that we're alike."

Was that a tiny recognition that he was a de Clermont? At the very least, it was an acknowledgment that he understood Philippe's motivation. "I repeat, why did you break our agreement?" He thought he knew the answer but he wanted to hear it from Hubbard's lips. Bloodlore wasn't infallible. Philippe was confident of where Jack's heart lay, but the priest was another matter.

"I was faced with two contradictory promises," Hubbard said. "It was impossible to adhere to both of them so I chose the one which I believed took precedence. Diana requested I protect Jack, and I gave her my word. Under the same circumstances, would you have left him to die from the plague?"

"The boy has bloodsickness," Philippe, not answering him directly. "If the Breton witch's prophecy is correct, it could easily turn into blood rage."

"And from what he told me about yesterday's events, you did your best to provoke it," Hubbard snapped. "Did Jack become violent?"

"No, that's why he's still alive."

"Matthew has full-blown blood rage. He's killed untold hundreds of people yet you let him live." Hubbard's lips tightened as he added, "Benjamin is a plague upon the world. Have you attempted to free the world of him?" When Philippe didn't immediately respond, he hammered home what he perceived to be his advantage. "Jack has a good heart. He's an artist, a musician. His only crimes have been minor scrapes."

Philippe cocked a brow. "Like sneaking into the Tower?"

Hubbard groaned. "Don't remind me. But even then, his motive was selfless."

Philippe wouldn't argue the point. Walter was a Knight of Lazarus. In assisting the man, Jack had also done the Knights' work. "For once, we find ourselves on the same side," he conceded. "We both want to protect Diana."

"And Jack's father," Hubbard added. "I swore to protect Matthew as I do Jack. You should be grateful."

Was Hubbard trying to place the blame for Jack's sickness on Matthew? "He didn't make Jack a manjasang. You did."

"And Jack respects me as his sire. But you read his heart. He considers Matthew to be his father even if he won't admit it to himself, let alone anyone else."

And it's not just Jack who feels that way. Philippe saw the expression on Matthew's face through Jack's remembrances of the two of them together. Philippe hadn't seen him with that expression since the years when Matthew's son Lukas was alive.

"The bloodsickness makes Jack weaker than he should be," Philippe warned. "Any wounds will take longer to heal. He'll need extra protection if he hopes to have a chance of reconnecting with the Roydons."

"I know that. Leonard and Bryn do as well."

Philippe snorted. "I had a taste of that yesterday."

Hubbard's face relaxed into a wry smile. "They've acted as big brothers to Jack ever since he was eight, even Bryn. She was masquerading as a boy back then. Their relationship's not likely to change."

Philippe felt Diana's presence in that humble church. What had she done to secure Hubbard's agreement to protect both Jack and Matthew? Philippe hadn't found anything in Jack's memory, and the priest would never reveal what had taken place. Was this Diana's influence that he and Hubbard appeared to be on the verge of negotiating a truce over the pup? All right, daughter. I'll go along with your wishes for now.

Hubbard stood up. "I'd like to show you something before you leave. It may serve to make you more at peace with your decision. Pierre can come along if he wishes." Hubbard was no fool. He knew Philippe had decided to not exact punishment for Jack's birth.

Hubbard led them to the bell tower. Philippe had not entered the structure before. The masonry appeared solid despite its age. Rather than going upstairs, Hubbard opened a small door leading to the crypt below.

Candles were lit in the vaulted undercroft. Jack's scents of rosemary and fig were blended with those of paint pigments, beeswax, and dog fur.

#

When Jack smelled Philippe and Pierre on the stairs, he was thankful that Father H was with them. A small positive sign. The previous night, he'd told Father H about the encounter with Philippe. He'd never seen the priest so furious. What the count had done not only exposed Jack's secrets but those of his sire as well. Jack had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but it must have been long enough for Philippe to glean every possible shred of information.

Retreating from Father H's anger, Jack had sought refuge in the crypt and buried himself in painting. When he returned to London from Norfolk in late January, he'd started the project. The witches of St. James Garlickhythe were using the space for their meetings. Under the new king, they faced increasing persecution, and the crypt was a much more secure gathering place than their homes.

When Jack broached the idea of a mural with Mistress Norman, she'd been enthusiastic. He was painting scenes from Mistress Roydon's time in London. Goody Alsop and all the other witches of the gathering were depicted on the walls, and no one complained that the images of Mistress Roydon were the most numerous.

Jack lay down his brush when they entered the vaulted chamber and tried to keep his nervousness from showing. Father H had his stone face firmly in place. Jack couldn't smell any blood of any of them, and Pierre gave him an encouraging smile. An indication he wasn't in trouble?

Mop gave a tentative wag of his tail to the strangers. He'd accepted Father H readily into his pack, but the newcomers would need to be carefully evaluated.

"I'm here at Andrew's invitation," Philippe said. Had he chosen to use Father H's given name as a confirmation they'd reached an understanding? "Lord Northumberland referred to your artistic skill." His eyes sweeping over the murals, he drew close to them.

"There's still much to be done," Jack said apologetically. "Eventually I'll fill in all the scenes with paint." His words trailed off as Philippe continued to stare at the drawings. The only finished depiction of Mistress Roydon was in one of his favorite scenes. She was gazing up at Corra with delight as the firedrake swooped over the Thames.

Philippe didn't say a word, and his expression was impossible to read. He must think Jack's ability vastly inferior to the masterpieces he'd seen. The count had no doubt traveled frequently to Italy and acquired works from artists in Florence and Venice such as Jack had admired at Hampton Court.

"You painted the firedrake!" Pierre exclaimed. "I miss that petite vouivre."

Jack grinned, his tension easing. "As do I! Corra's one of my favorite subjects. I even snuck her into a mural at Syon. Only Lord Northumberland knows who she is. He was delighted. He said the scene brought back memories of when Corra flew through Russell House."

Pierre held out his hand for Mop to sniff. "That was a picnic not to be forgotten. When did you acquire this galant?"

"His name is Lobero." Jack shrugged awkwardly. "Lobero the Second, actually. The Lobero you knew died a year ago. Bryn gave me the puppy last November."

Pierre picked up a well-chewed tennis ball and tossed it for Mop. "Lobero is about the same age as his namesake was when the Roydons left. Will you add Lobero to these paintings?"

"If only I could persuade them Mop's a familiar, I would," Jack said with a laugh.

Father H rolled his eyes. "Don't give that puppy ideas. He's already too spirited. We don't need him breathing fire or casting spells."

Jack snickered at the thought. Father H was as fond of Mop as he was.

"It's been over thirteen years since I've seen Diana," Philippe murmured.

Jack spun around. For a few moments his anxiety had lessened, but it returned in full force at the sound of Philippe's voice. "I hope my portrait is pleasing, my lord." Addressing him to his face as Philippe suddenly seemed to be an inexcusable affront.

"There's no need for formality in this group," Philippe chided mildly. "In answer to your question, you've rendered her beautifully. Seeing your paintings of her is a gift I will treasure." Before Jack could stammer his appreciation, he added, "These are all your personal memories?"

"Aye, with some added scenes which the witches described. I hadn't witnessed Mistress Roydon creating the rowan tree but Mistress Norman told me about it."

"And the dragon you drew?"

"She's really a firedrake," Jack said. "She only has two legs. She's Mistress Roydon's familiar."

"You were able to see her?"

"Aye, unless she was wrapped inside the Mistress."

"Is that so?" Philippe arched an eyebrow at Pierre. "I can see I should have asked you more questions."

Mop, ever the opportunist, dropped his ball on Philippe's foot, provoking a chuckle. "I take this as a sign that you've accepted me." Philippe crouched down to look Mop in the eyes. "I'll make a deal with you. If you coax your master to tell me more stories about his time with the Roydons, I'll play ball with you."

It was a command Jack was happy to comply with. There was no need to hold anything back. Philippe had already acquired much of the knowledge through Jack's blood. For the first time since the Roydons left, Jack had someone who wanted to hear the stories and he could relate them without fear of repercussions.

Jack had drawn scenes of the Hart and Crown and Christ Church Greyfriars. He'd depicted Mistress Roydon at Russell House with Corra. Mistress Norman's home was also shown with Goody Alsop sitting on the settle by the hearth. No detail was too small or insignificant for Philippe.

Father H brought down a bottle of wine for them to share. When Philippe asked for details about his life at the Hart and Crown, Pierre joined in with anecdotes.

"Who was the man Matthew rescued you from?" Philippe asked.

"My former master, Stidolph," Jack said. "He discovered where I was living and tried to blackmail me." He explained the trap Master Roydon had designed.

"It was your first hunt with Matthew," Philippe commented. "God willing, there will be others." He turned to the mural. "I look forward to coming back and seeing the paintings when they're complete. Do you have any scenes in mind that you haven't started?"

"Tom—that's Thomas Harriot—suggested I fill in the vault with the night sky."

Father H snorted. "He would. Tom sees stars everywhere."

"Aye, and there's a connection to Mistress Roydon. We saw a shooting star on the way to Prague." He turned to Pierre. "Do you remember?"

"That was the one you stayed up half the night to draw."

"And it was worth it. Tom was delighted. He called it a comet. Goody Alsop said it was a signal of what Mistress Roydon would mean to our world."

"I wish I could have met Goody Alsop," Philippe said.

"She was a weaver like Diana," Father H said quietly.

"And the young witch in Norwich, Annick?" Philippe asked. At Father H's nod, he turned to Jack. "The future she foretold for you won't be easy. Will you be able to refrain from human blood?"

"I have no desire for it," Jack said. Surely he didn't need to provide any details. Philippe must have learned how sick he'd been. The count already knew he was a misfit. Master Roydon would probably consider him inferior, someone who had no right to be a wearh.

"Every manjasang must choose the route they are to follow," Philippe said unexpectedly. "For some, it is war or conquest. For others"—he nodded at Father H—"it's service. You will find your path in time." He scanned the walls. "You've made a promising start. Our family has never had an artist of your caliber. The king's business will require me to make return visits. I look forward to seeing you again, Jack Blackfriars—both you and your paintings."

He used the term "our family." Was Jack reading too much into it? Perhaps it was merely a signal that Philippe expected to be obeyed as head of the family? Father H didn't recognize Philippe's authority but Jack longed to.

When Philippe left, they clasped elbows. The ancient gesture brought back memories of Master Roydon doing the same with Gallowglass. When he was a child, Jack had assumed that was a family custom. Now he knew it was one shared by all wearhs. Leonard and Bryn didn't use it with him. Did they have difficulty accepting his new status too? Jack sensed the count wouldn't be as tolerant about lapses in protocol.

Sept-Tours. Three weeks later.

Philippe stopped off in Paris on the way back to Auvergne to report to the king. Matthew and Françoise had already arrived at Sept-Tours by the time he returned home. Thoughts of what he'd learned from Jack's bloodlore continued to simmer in the back of his mind but it was several days before he could act on them.

One morning when Matthew and Ysabeau were out hunting, Philippe took advantage of their absence to speak with Françoise. He found her hanging laundry in the courtyard outside the kitchen.

"I have news from England which may be of interest to you," he said, approaching the clothesline. "While I was at Hampton Court, I chanced upon a promising young musician named Jack Blackfriars."

Her eyes flashed recognition as she set the basket of linens on the ground.

"There's been a change in his status," Philippe added, keeping his voice a low murmur. "He's a manjasang now. The secrets he knows required a loyalty test."

Françoise nodded. Anyone who knew him would accept without question his insistence on a test.

"I learned through his bloodlore that a few years ago you and Gallowglass cared for him at the Old Lodge."

"That is correct, sieur. He was brought to us after having been severely injured."

"Is it also true that you and Gallowglass healed him with your blood?" Philippe pressed. The information he'd acquired from Jack was vague enough to require clarification.

"I used a technique Marthe had taught me." Her rawboned face expressed no hint of apology, nor did he expect any. Normally he wouldn't have asked her to share her secrets. It hadn't been necessary to reveal how she'd acquired the knowledge, and he wouldn't hold her forthrightness against either her or Marthe.

"Frankly, I didn't believe it would work," she admitted.

"The pup suffers from a strange form of bloodsickness. It may be related to what happened at the Old Lodge. He's been warned by a weaver that if he feeds off warmbloods, he'll develop blood rage. He is a member of Hubbard's family but I've decided to also keep an eye on him." Philippe didn't explain the blood relationship. It wasn't necessary for Françoise to know, but she might believe there was one. Manjasangs knew how to stifle curiosity. "I may require you to travel to London to check on him."

Philippe questioned her about the procedure she'd used, but Françoise was unable to provide any information about why Jack had managed to tolerate wearh blood so well.

"I believe you kept several drawings Jack made during his stay at the Old Lodge," he prompted.

She nodded. "I still have them. Would you like to see them?"

Philippe agreed readily. They were one of the primary reasons he'd wanted to speak with her. Jack was several years younger when he drew them. The quality would likely not be as high as the murals in the crypt, but even so, the opportunity to glimpse Diana and Matthew through Jack's eyes was irresistible.

Françoise fetched the drawings from her room in the servants' wing of the chateau. When she returned with the thin folio-sized parcel, they sat on a stone bench in the courtyard to review them. He was pleasantly surprised by the artistry. Jack was unusually skilled in conveying facial expressions. Along with drawings of the household and friends were scenes of Matthew and Diana both at the Old Lodge and in London.

The one Philippe lingered over the longest was a portrait of Matthew. The expression he wore was the same one Philippe had seen in Jack's blood—the look of a father gazing with affection upon his son. In some of the drawings of Diana, she had a mischievous smile as if she and Jack were planning some prank. And perhaps they were. The images revealed their shared love.

"I hope you will permit me to view these again," Philippe asked.

"Of course, sieur. Would you like to keep them?"

"No, there's too great a chance Ysabeau would find them and she must remain unaware of the events with Diana and Matthew." By the time she'd meet Diana, Philippe would be dead. That much he knew, although he didn't know the circumstances. Someday, Matthew and Diana would want to see the drawings. And now, thanks to Jack, he also had a way to keep Diana's image fresh in his mind. Was that the reason for the connection he felt to the pup? Their mutual love for a woman who had disappeared from both of their lives? Perhaps Jack's fate would be kinder.

#

That afternoon, Philippe found Matthew and Ysabeau in the solar. Ysabeau was reading while Matthew played the lute. Philippe had brought back with him a new collection of songs by Ysabeau's favorite composer, John Dowland. He sat down to listen.

The angular lines of Matthew's face softened as he sang "Flow My Tears." It reminded Philippe of the way Jack looked when Philippe chanced upon him playing the viol. He was immersed in the music, conveying the emotions in his facial expression as well as through the instrument.

Had Philippe made a mistake to push Matthew to be a warrior? He'd been so certain he was right to take advantage of Matthew's blood rage. Ysabeau's son had a fierceness which was the stuff of legends, and now that talent was being mined once more. Matthew made a masterful assassin for the family. If he met Jack, would he despise the pup's weakness? Consider him inferior? That had been Philippe's initial inclination.

He wished he knew if the Norwich witch had been correct in her prediction. For now, he wouldn't encourage Jack to fight. It would be an experiment. Philippe had always preferred his children to be warriors, but with Hubbard as a sire, Jack hadn't learned any of the necessary skills and likely never would. Philippe chuckled to himself. Hubbard was as obstinate as he was. This would be an interesting duel. The pup was a de Clermont, even if Hubbard refused to acknowledge it and Philippe was unable to. Jack wouldn't be abandoned.

Matthew set aside his lute. "Thank you, Philippe, for bringing me Dowland's latest songs. They likely won't be available in France for many months."

Ysabeau smiled. "I'm the one who is the real beneficiary. Dowland lives in Denmark where the king rewards him lavishly. Why doesn't he publish his works in Denmark?"

Matthew shrugged. "Nostalgia perhaps. Dowland's from England and may wish to return. When he didn't receive an appointment to Elizabeth's court, some speculated it was because he'd converted to Catholicism. He could be waiting to see how tolerant the new king will be before making a move." He turned to Philippe. "What's your assessment of James?"

"The king allows himself to be guided by Howard, and that man's a menace. I've had more luck with Cecil. Our own king's tolerance makes a worthy model and if I can convince Cecil greater religious freedom will make England more secure he may be amenable to making an effort."

"I used to enjoy debating with Cecil's father," Matthew said, a wistful tone to his voice.

"I've developed a good working relationship with his son. He's a welcome voice for moderation even if he does work by whispers and innuendos. The man has a keen grasp of finance. Cecil recognizes the wasteful costliness of war and has provided valuable support for the treaty with Spain." Philippe turned to Ysabeau. "You would like him. His family supports numerous artists and musicians."

"It seems odd that you're the one providing news from England," Matthew remarked. "Now I'm the one out of the loop."

Philippe could sympathize with his feelings. Under Elizabeth, Philippe had only made a few clandestine trips. The English queen feared he would incite Catholics. Matthew had been Philippe's agent, assuming the Roydon identity, working his way into Walsingham's good graces till he'd become a spy for the queen and indirectly for Philippe.

"You can achieve much more in the Netherlands and France than you would in England," Philippe noted. "Matthew Roydon is on Howard's list. Your ties to Raleigh and Northumberland are well known to him."

Matthew's jaw tightened, the angular lines in his face reappearing. "Walter and Hal are Knights of Lazarus and yet I am unable to come to their aid. It's an intolerable situation."

"You're not the only one who would like to help them," Ysabeau commented in the calm, reassuring voice she used when her son showed the slightest hint of losing control. "Plus, both men are highly regarded, no matter what calumnies that obnoxious bully Howard may utter against them. Freyja told me he had the gall of accusing the playwright Ben Jonson of popery and treason, all because he wrote a play about Tiberius. And the man calls himself a patron of the arts!"

"Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed and Jonson was released," Philippe said. "As for Walter and Hal, their situations continue to improve. With a little judicious nudging on my part, Cecil secured an agreement whereby Walter's wife has visitation privileges. Now that Hal's on the Privy Council, it won't be easy for Howard to spread slander about him."

Philippe took a seat next to Matthew. "When I was in Paris, Sully and I discussed a new opportunity for you. The king aspires to set up an East India Company based on the models of England and the Netherlands. Your experience with Raleigh will be invaluable in the effort." As Philippe supplied details of the king's hope to expand trade in Asia, Matthew became more engaged. Henri was ushering in a new era for France. The future for their homeland looked much more promising than for England, which was smoldering with conspiracies and rumor-mongering.

"Freyja will enjoy having you in Paris," Ysabeau said. "She's encouraging me to visit as well. The commedia dell'arte is as popular there as in Venice."

"It's too scandalous for England," Philippe said, "although James's queen would no doubt love the plays. She's wildly enthusiastic about masques . . . and the viola da gamba." He turned to Matthew. "Have you ever considered taking it up?"

Ysabeau cast a sharp look at Philippe, but she knew better than to question him.

Matthew shrugged. "I see no reason to learn another instrument. The viol may be popular at court, but the lute is still king. "

"The throne is a fickle mistress, casting off her occupant on a whim," Philippe commented mildly. "We all must adapt."

Notes: Walter Raleigh remains imprisoned in the Tower until 1616, but his wife is granted visitation privileges. At some point in 1604, Lady Bess becomes pregnant with Walter's son Carew who is born on February 25, 1605. Philippe's hopes for the king in France come to an abrupt end when Henry IV is assassinated in 1610. In England, his attempts to achieve greater tolerance also meet with an unexpected obstacle when the Gunpowder Plot explodes on the scene. That will be the subject of my next story, Powder Keg.

Happy Litha to all those who celebrate! I posted this chapter on the summer solstice. I'll be back with Powder Keg in September, just in time for Mabon, the fall equinox.

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