Taste of Treason by April Taylor

with one hand.
    High-pitched sniggering came from one corner, followed by a cry of pain. It was the cry of a child, frightened, lost and in terror. The giggling began again, once more preceding the child’s piteous scream. Was this Nimrod and was the shrieking the sound of Edith Brook’s tortured soul? Whoever was tormenting the child appeared oblivious to Luke’s presence.
    Helpless rage swept through him. What could he do to help this poor innocent? He relaxed his shoulders and concentrated. He could not hope to stop Nimrod, but he might be able to spoil his fun with the velamin incantation. It would interrupt the flow of the enemy’s magic. Luke gathered his energy into a silver ball that spun in his open hand. Just as Nimrod became aware of his presence, Luke threw the ball in the direction of the crying child. The sound stopped to be followed by a scream of rage from his adversary. The shaft of malice directed at him was enough to throw him out of the chamber and into a struggle with Rob. The boy had grasped him by the upper arms.
    “Luke. It is me. It is me. You must sit down. You are grey and shivering.”
    Joss, on her hind legs, put her front paws onto his chest, and it was this that finally brought him out of the murky darkness of the trance. He waited, gasping for air, until Rob handed him a beaker of the ruby restorative. Luke downed it in one gulp.
    “What did you see?”
    “I saw nothing, lad. I smelled decomposing bodies. There was a child being tortured.”
    “Who by?”
    “I assume Nimrod.” He saw Rob’s confusion and hastily explained the Queen Mother’s theory that giving their enemy a name made focusing upon him easier.
    “A fitting name. And you think this Nimrod holds Edith’s soul in thrall?”
    “Possibly. I’ve managed to stop his little game for a while. He is not happy with me, for I mirrored his own spell back on to him.”
    “Can you not use your talent to discover the child’s name? Surely if it is a soul in torment, you are permitted?”
    “Would that it were so easy, lad. I must sit and think on this.”
    A thunderous knocking interrupted them. They exchanged glances.
    “But not now,” Rob said, striding to the door.
    * * *
    King Henry had taken charge of the chaos in his Great Hall, bellowing commands that none dared disobey. One sideways glance from him had his mother demonstrating her usual courage. With Gwenette’s help, she calmly shepherded the women, most of who were in various stages of hysteria, through to the Watching Chamber.
    Order was restored within a short time, the King himself striding around the Great Hall, seizing frogs and casting them into barrels half-filled with ale to drown them. He then ordered the barrels to be sealed and emptied into the river the next morning.
    That he endeavored to hide his rage was testament to his determination that nothing must be permitted to shock his wife into losing his son. He had no doubt that those with swift feet and even swifter tongues would soon be carrying the news to her. Worse, the tale would lose nothing in the telling. To all he must appear calm and unconcerned.
    Once the frogs had been captured, the King summoned all to regain their seats and ordered the feast to continue. Notable amongst the women who walked past curtseying to their monarch was Lady Ysabel Broome. She swept him a deep obeisance, ensuring that he viewed her ample charms.
    In his peripheral vision, Henry noted his mother’s return. He saw Ysabel’s insolent gaze shift direction for an instant before she rose and moved towards her seat. Annoyed that he had allowed himself to be used by her to discomfit his mother, he clapped his hands and called for quiet.
    “There is nothing to fear,” he said. “We surmise some jest has miscarried, that is all.” He gestured to the pages. “We would like our roast swan. Now.”
    Only that last word, spat like an arrow leaving the bow, gave any indication that the King was in the least perturbed. He