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frieze cloth — a pauper’s garment. Marry, how it irritated his skin! Dr. Lopez had not the decency to give him one woven from flax, the miserable wight. Throwing the blanket atop his head, de Andrada bunched himself into a tight knot and began his ritual curses.
    Curse Don Antonio
— his former master. A man he had fought for, spied for, a man whom he had almost given his life for… Almost.
    Curse King Philip
— a weak old wretch whose generosities were as shriveled as his face. De Andrada remembered his last visit with His Majesty, kissing the bony hand, sitting at the side of the black, velvet wheelchair. The royal features had been as hard as stone, the eyes as small as a rat’s. Cold, calculating, and stingy. Did the King not recognize the service that he — Manuel de Andrada — had performed for him?
    He had spied against Don Antonio for Philip, had even bribed a helmsman to deliver the Pretender to the Throne of Portugal into the hands of the Spanish king. But the note had been found. Though written in special ink, it had been deciphered. His treason against Don Antonio — who was now in exile, somewhere in Eton, de Andrada had last heard — had landed him six months in the Tower.
    Had
that
been part of Lopez’s plan to do him in? Had Lopez only rescued him because he had known about the doctor’s mission? Had Lopez been afraid that he — de Andrada — would be of loose lips?
    He thought a moment.
    No, de Andrada thought, decidedly not. Lopez had been a true healer back then — kind and true-hearted. It was Lopez who’d secured his release from prison. The doctor had taken him into his own home, fed him fresh meats, clothed him in vestments that didn’t itch. Had Roderigo not intervened in his behalf, he would have been behalved.
    But curse Lopez now
. He had dealt deceptively with his faithful servant — Manuel de Andrada — just like the rest. Though Lopez professed that he was a guest in his house, without any funds, de Andrada was completely at Lopez’s mercy. Aye, the doctor had turned into a
witch
doctor. Roderigo Lopez had beguiled him, forced him to act as a go-between with the King of Spain, inveigled him into his Jew-saving intrigues. And now, after months of dedicated work, de Andrada was being discarded, tossed out the window like shit in a chamberpot.
    He sighed. In his life he’d been employed by so many, turned traitor to so many. It was hard to keep them all sorted.
    How would the doctor arrange the death —
his
death? An accidental fall from a horse? Did not the groom look at him with naughty eyes? When had that been? A week ago? Two weeks? Aye, when Saturn had been in Pisces, the sun sign of his birth. A bad omen!
    He rolled over onto his back and groaned.
    Poison perhaps? Aye, poison was a favorite pastime of the physician to the Queen. De Andrada remembered too clearly Lopez’s verbal offer to poison Don Antonio. Aye, Lopez denied it to the world, and nothing in writing could prove otherwise, but de Andrada had heard the words uttered from the witch doctor’s lips. Bottles of potions were stored in Lopez’s still room. Jugs of Indian acacia. Barrels of distilled hemlock, ripening, aging like kegs of fine wine!
    De Andrada trembled.
    Suddenly all was clear. Why was he always the first to be served at dinnertime, at suppertime as well? It was not as they claimed — that he was a guest, and as such, honored with the first fruits of the kitchen. Nay, his portion of food had been tainted. Slow and painful poisoning!
    The realization of why he’d been so ill of late.
    Marry, it was so logical now. They hated him. Had he been invited to the house of the doctor’s brother-in-law?
    No.
    The reason for the exclusion?
    It could only be treachery against him. He was wasting away on a stiff straw pallet, racked with fever and pain brought on by poison, while they laughed at his impending death.
    He gasped and coughed, trying to bring up his supper. After a minute of retching, he gave