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a witch or an herbalist himself, but because of where he’d been over the last two days—on a trip of solitude. Well hidden from Magnus, and known only to him, was a small cache of a collection of books that had been his legacy, books of priceless knowledge.
    He’d used a portion of his time with the books to study the sections that dealt with medicinal plants and roots and herbs, confirming his suspicions about the night of his visitation by Isabelle.
    Because the guards had rushed in to find him alone, he’d dismissed them, telling them he must have cried out in his sleep. Then in his books he had discovered the reason for the sensation of a giant hand gripping his body. With only one explanation for how someone had done this without wakening him, he’d tested it by setting aside the remains of his evening meal, half finished on a plate in his bedchamber, and feeding a small portion of it to a mouse the next morning.
    When the mouse had fallen asleep on the plate, and didn’t even stir when prodded with the point of a knife, the conclusion was beyond doubt; he’d been drugged. He suspected henbane because of the dreams and his slowed reactions during his conversation with Isabelle.
    Her presence, however, could not have been all hallucination.
    Which had led Thomas to other questions that had no answers. Who had drugged him? How had Isabelle entered the room? How had she then disappeared so quickly while the explosion blinded him?
    “My lord,” the old man answered as he swept his arms to indicate the herbs and roots hanging behind him, “of henbane, we have none.”
    “I am willing to pay a month’s wages for a mere handful,” Thomas said. “How long will it take for you to acquire it?”
    Thomas watched closely, hoping for a greedy reply. He was disappointed when the old man shrugged and shook his head against it.
    “For even a year’s wages, I cannot find you henbane.”
    “Poppy and mandrake?” Thomas asked.
    “I could enquire at the monastery, but I’m sure there will be none.”
    If the old herbalist was lying, Thomas could gain nothing by asking more questions. If he truly had no knowledge, then this old man would not be able to lead Thomas to anyone who might have drugged him.
    “Ah yes,” Thomas said. His time had not been entirely wasted, for he had another purpose for stopping at this stall in the market. “I understand you are sent here weekly from the monastery.”
    “As you well know, Magnus is not open to allowing a monastery,” the old man answered. “Yet there is need among your people for what the gardens provide.”
    By tradition, monks were the ones with the knowledge of how to grow the medicinal plants and herbs.
    “You are a monk?” Thomas asked.
    “No. But the monastery provides for us.”
    Thomas glanced at the old woman. “Does she speak?”
    “Yes, my lord,” the old woman croaked.
    “Good,” Thomas said. “As you may have heard, allegiance to the Earl of York requires that I raise an army to join him in battle against the Scots. Magnus does not have its own herbalist, and I will require one to accompany my army on the march. Since I expect the monkswill not be willing to let both of you depart for an uncertain amount of time, I only ask that one of you gives service.”
    “But, my lord—”
    Thomas did not give the old man a chance to finish. “This is not a request, but a demand. Your monks are shrewd enough to realize that they do not want to make an enemy of me. I need barbers to tend to my men, but just as importantly, an herbalist. Willingly, or as prisoner, one of you will remain here to become part of the march. Decide who stays and who returns to the monks.”
    The old man and the old woman exchanged glances. The old man, as Thomas expected, was the one to make the decision.
    “You will take her,” he said.
    The old woman seemed to shake slightly as she leaned on her cane and bowed her head.
    “Fear not,” Thomas told her. “You will be far behind