Book Title: The Conjuror’s Apprentice
Series: The Tudor Rose (Book 1)
Author: G.J. Williams
Publication Date: October 6th 2022
Publisher: RedDoor Press
Page Length: 320 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
The Conjuror’s Apprentice
(The Tudor Rose, Book 1
G.J. Williams
Born with the ability to hear thoughts and feelings when there is no sound, Margaretta Morgan’s strange gift sees her apprenticed to Doctor John Dee, mathematician, astronomer, and alchemist. Using her secret link with the hidden side and her master’s brilliance, Margaretta faces her first murder mystery. Margaretta and Dee must uncover the evil bound to unravel the court of Bloody Mary.
The year is 1555. This is a time ruled by fear. What secrets await to be pulled from the water?
The Conjuror’s Apprentice takes real people and true events in 1555, into which G J Williams weaves a tale of murder and intrigue. Appealing to readers of crime and well researched historical fiction alike, this is the first in a series which will follow the life, times, plots and murders of the Tudor Court.
Trigger Warnings:
Descriptions of bodies and the injuries that brought about their death.
Threat of torture; description of man who has been tortured.
Read an excerpt
Dawn
broke on a new June day. Margaretta must have looked terrible. Even Mam offered
to stir a pot and Huw kept stepping from foot to foot and looking at her face
with concern. Katherine Constable was in her sitting room, picking at an embroidery,
tutting at her mistakes. Her face fell when she saw Margaretta’s expression.
‘What has happened? You look so tired.’
‘They have given orders to torture Doctor Dee.’
Katherine gave a sharp cry and dropped her linen, the needle making a tiny rattle on the wooden floor. ‘For why?’
‘Because torture makes men speak of what they have not done and don’t know, mistress. They are trying to make him confess to a falsity.’
Katherine’s hand went to her ample bosom. ‘What can we do?’ Then she looked alarmed. ‘Without my husband knowing.’
‘I’ll go to the Tower.’
Katherine gasped and clasped her hands to her throat. ‘But it is a terrible place. They say you never come out alive.’
‘That’s not true. Merchants come and go every day. So do men of court. Anyway, I have to help the doctor.’
Katherine gulped. ‘Do you need more money?’
‘Yes…and a petticoat onto which I can sew a secret pocket to put under my sister’s dress.’
At the Tower, the guard stared at his ledger. ‘I have no note that visitors are to be admitted.’
‘But Lord Englefield told me to attend to cousin John and bring him to his senses.’ She copied the voice of Lady Cecil – piety mixed with unquestioned confidence. ‘Are you suggesting I am to be turned away?’
My, what a difference a dress makes. If I were here in my kitchen brown, you would be kicking my backside out of your door with a stream of abuse to carry me further. But a bit of blue silk, a Spanish hood and a purse of coin, helped by a confident tongue and you are flustering like a chicken facing a fox.
‘Er, no. Your name please, my lady?’ The guard scratched at his chin, still staring at his ledger.
‘As I said. Cousin to Doctor John Dee.’ She tapped her toe to show impatience. ‘How many times do we need to go around this circus ring?’
It worked. The gates were opened with a terrible clang of bars being raised. A man was called. ‘Take the lady to prisoner nought nought seven. He’s in the Salt Tower.’ They walked along the cobble path towards the tower, rising grey and terrifying into the blue sky. Above them, soldiers walked the battlements, pikes ready to pierce any escapee. She was walked through a dark door and into a small round room with arched slit windows. The man muttered his apologies for the rank smell. ‘It’s always bad in summer, lady. I think the heat does make the stench of fear grow.’
She was led up spiral stairs of granite and waited, trembling as the man sorted through a ring of keys. The door was opened and the cell guard gestured her in. ‘We allow only half of an hour a visit, lady.’
Margaretta turned her eye on the man who was evidently an old soldier from the broken nose and scars across his face. He stank of wine and chicken fat. ‘I will require an hour. See Lord Englefield if you need confirmation.’ She almost laughed at the voice she used.
But amusement lasted only a second as he snarled back: ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse if Jesus Christ sent you, lady. You have only half of an hour.’
The cell was dark and dank. One candle burned on a small table in the middle of the cell, casting a low light. Canvas was hanging over the slit windows, blotting out the light of day. An acrid, musty smell rose from the floor. Rats. John Dee was at the far side of the room, on a low cot bed. As she approached, Margaretta could smell mould from the paltry hay mattress. A cough from behind made her spin round. There was a crouched figure on the floor, face in the shadows. ‘I apologise if I frightened you,’ came a croaked voice.
She looked back to John Dee, who pointed at the man across the cell. ‘This is Barthelet Green. Detained for heresy. It appears they group prisoners by accusation.’ He shook his head. ‘Cannot stand because of what they have done to him.’
Margaretta walked towards the man in the corner, picking up the candle. As she approached her stomach lurched. He was broken. Arms hung loose and the legs protruded out at a strange angle. He just about managed to raise his head from a body slumped against the damp wall. He gave a wan smile.
‘What did they do to you, sir?’
‘The rack, child.’
As he tried to raise his hand, the door crashed open and the guard shouted, ‘Calling Barthelet Green for interrogation.’ Then a sneering laugh. ‘It’s the scavenger’s daughter today, heretic. Your eyes and ears will be bleeding in an hour.’
The man moaned. More the moan of a tortured animal than a man, followed by the sound and smell of his bladder giving way in panic. Margaretta turned away to hide her horror. Two men hauled him upright, ignoring the scream. One complained that he would be soaked and then they started to drag their prey towards the door. Another scream and the door slammed shut.
In the other corner, John Dee began to cry. ‘What if they do the same to me?’
‘Come now, doctor, there is no time for weeping.’ Margaretta pulled his shoulders up and looked straight into his eyes. ‘We have to work quickly. Only half an hour.’
She turned away and pulled up her skirts. From Katherine’s pocketed petticoat she pulled the crystals and the cards. ‘Here. Now let us seek answers.’
With trembling hands, Dee pointed to the candle. ‘We will need that.’ Then he placed the crystals on the floor, putting the candle between them. Slowly, he opened the box of cards and muttered a prayer in the old language, their language, and raised his eyes to the ceiling as if imploring God, or maybe the gods, to come and give answers. With a deep breath he spread the cards in a wide arc, the picture sides down. ‘Tell me of my enemies,’ he rasped, and started to select the cards.
One by one he pulled them from the arc, picture side up, until he had created a cross. When five were chosen, he groaned. ‘God help us.’
‘What do they tell you, doctor?’
He pointed to the central card. It depicted a young man, a magician, conjuring with arms open, a double halo above his head, vines growing at his feet, and a wary smile on his face. ‘This is me. It is the card of looking forward, new beginnings, and most of all, hoping for a miracle.’
He moved to the card to the left. The high priestess. ‘She has the scythe at her feet, pomegranates at her head, the cross of faith at her heart, the tora in her hands. She understands everything and nothing. Intuition and always seeing.’ He looked up at Margaretta. ‘This is you.’
‘But that card on the other side of you? The devil?’
John Dee made a little whimper, then controlled himself and straightened his back. ‘This means entrapment, others having the upper hand, bad faith and bad speaking against truth. Intended evil.’ Dee sighed. ‘This is the current condition.’
‘So, look to the card below. What is that?’
John Dee traced down. ‘The emperor again. A man bent on power. Whoever this depicts is the centre of this.’ He tapped the sheep heads on the throne. ‘Yellow wool.’
‘And the lowest card.’
‘The hermit. It supports the other cards. This is the keystone in the cross. He is the hidden man, only half seen. He shines a light and yet you cannot see his face. This card often means the final stage of an endeavour.’ John Dee swayed back and looked to Margaretta. ‘The other name for this card is the shepherd and he is the root and foundation of this mess.’
Margaretta started to pace. ‘The turn-face shepherd again.’ She stopped. ‘I need to go back to Southwark and find that face.’
John Dee was about to answer when footsteps came from the stairs. Margaretta grabbed the cards and crystal and secreted them in her petticoat just as the door crashed open and the guard yelled, ‘Time up!’
She nodded and turned to leave, hearing Dee’s whisper of, ‘Help me.’
Amazon UK: Waterstones: RedDoor:
She lives between Somerset and London in the UK and is regularly found writing on a train next to a grumpy cat and a bucket of tea.
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