“Why, thank you. It must be a miserable task in all that chill and wet. Would a draught of mulled ale make it more pleasant?”
The fellow grinned, revealing his crooked and broken teeth. He looked as if he’d been in many fights, the brunt of which had been borne by his face.
“’Twould be welcome, Mistress.”
With a flickering smile, Alys sped into the kitchen, her mind awhirl. She could think of nothing that would make the man leave his post, at least, nothing that would not instantly cast suspicion upon herself. Then it came to her. She must knock him out or put him to sleep.
What would induce sleep? She could mull his ale with soporific herbs and spices—and was there not some aqua vitae in the buttery to give the potion extra bite?
While the poker heated in the embers, she hunted for what she needed. Mercifully, the servants had all departed for the attics, including those who normally slept in the service rooms, so none would witness the preparation of the drugging concoction.
She sniffed at the liquid as she heated it, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the acrid scent of the poppy juice she’d added, and poured it into a costrel. She decided to give him a tansy cake as well, bitter enough to disguise the ale’s peculiar taste. As she worked, she brightened, certain that everything she did brought her one step closer to rescuing Kit.
Her eyes wandered around the pantry and alighted on a salver full of Bess’ mushroom patties. The woman invariably put too much salt in these, with the result that a great deal of liquid was required when eating one. Alys smiled to herself as she added several to the platter.
What a revelation it was to discover how cunning she could be when she tried. Despite the danger of her situation, she’d never felt more alive than she did now. Kit would be proud of her.
When she carried the steaming brew down the cellar steps, the man thudded up to meet her, as if to prevent her coming down any further.
“The ale is not of the best—it’s some of that which had to be moved up from the cellar last night. It has not quite settled again. So, I have mulled it with spices to make it more pleasing.”
“You are very good.” He took the platter and costrel before disappearing back into the murky depths.
Now followed a period of agony. She had no idea how long the potion she’d made up would take to work. She could not linger around in the kitchen without exciting suspicion, and it was far too late at night to pretend to be doing any domestic tasks.
From the sounds coming from above, the household was preparing itself for bed.
Eventually, she decided to do the same. She could come back later to see if her drugs had been successful—if anyone crossed her path, she’d make some excuse.
She was taking an incredible risk. But a world without Kit Ludlow in it would be like a lifetime without seeing the sun.
Chapter Thirty-One
It seemed like hours later before the sound of footfalls in the passageway ceased. Finally, Alys deemed it safe to throw a wrap about her shoulders, don her belt with the knife attached to it, and tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. Her single candle did little to dispel her fears—traitors lurked in every corner; each moving shadow was Kirlham waiting to jump out on her. Nonetheless, she told herself, she had come this far. It was too late to turn back now, and the darkness of the night might yet prove to be as much a friend as an enemy.
As she passed by the pantry, she picked up a manchet roll and took a bite of it to support her story that she’d come down in search of food. Then she crept down the cellar steps.
“Are you there, fellow?”
No response. She tried again, a little louder. “I hope the ale was not bad. It had been somewhat shaken, as I did say. Is there aught else you would have?”
Still not a sound met her ears. Gingerly, prepared for flight at any moment, she continued down the steps, knife at the ready, though she prayed she’d not have to use it. When she reached the main room of the undercroft, her light revealed the massive guard, slumped awkwardly on a stool.
Her plan had worked! Proud of her quick thinking, she made a quick circuit of the wine cellars, but there was no sign of Kit. She stood in the middle of the room, her light reflecting dully off the slimy brick floor. Her heart, just now so full of excitement and bravado, felt heavy in her breast. Surely, she could not be wrong? The wall-eyed man must be down here for a reason.
Then she noticed something. One of the racks of shelving had been moved aside from the wall, revealing an unfamiliar dark shape beyond. She seized up the guard’s lantern and held it aloft, revealing a stout wooden door she had never seen before. Could this be the entrance to the tunnel Kit had spoken of? She battled with the latch but, to her despair, the door failed to open.
If there was a key, and surely there must be, who had it? If it was with Kirlham, or Avery, or even Kate, there was naught she could do. Not even her newfound bravery would take her into the chambers of Kit’s enemies while they lay at their rest. But she might just find the courage to search the sleeping guard.
Steeling her nerves, she set the lantern down where it wouldn’t shine into his eyes, and knelt by the man’s slumbering form. This close, she could see the rise and fall of his breathing, and smell the acrid scent of her potion on his
