Maid of Wonder (17 page)

I feel a hard kernel of dismay form in my stomach, like a knot of twine. Part of me wants to share with the Queen the vision I had of her, and yet I sense this is not the right time. Not now, when she is speaking to me so earnestly, and with such clear hope about the future. And I cannot deny my relief and gratitude that she is treating me with favor. The servants all notice it, and the ladies who pass by us—curtsying to the Queen and then taking in our positions, as if we were bosom friends. The Queen's support opens all positive doors and closes all negative ones, and I would do well to remember that.

For despite the wonder and beauty of the angelic realm, I do not live there. I live here.

And in the mortal world, there is no power so great as the Queen's.

“Your Grace, Miss Dee.” Before we have barely breached the Privy Chamber's doors, Walsingham is before us. He looks haggard to my eyes, but then, he is Walsingham. He always looks haggard. And with his arrival, my mind crashes back to all that I must tell him. “We must begin our preparations for tonight's convocation,” he says. “Please, allow me a moment with Miss Dee.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Queen grants Walsingham permission to draw me away easily enough. But Walsingham does not stop at the doorway to the Presence Chamber. “Walk with me, Sophia,” he says, and strides toward the corridor, forcing me to nearly run to keep up with him. The cool hallways of the castle seem too dark and oppressive, and when we step out into the still-warm afternoon, I lift my face to the sky, wishing we were still in midsummer and not on the doorstep of winter. I shall miss the sun once the darkness of the frigid season is upon us.

Walsingham's brisk pace takes us into the Upper Ward, and we set out across the Quadrangle. “Your vision, Miss Dee, about Moreland. It was most unfortunate, but I thank you for it nevertheless. I discussed the matter with him at some length. In the end, I think he understood.”

Relief rushes through me. Walsingham has sent Robert and his young wife away, ensuring that the prophecy shall not be fulfilled! “I'm glad, Sir Francis,” I say quietly. “It pained me to share what I saw with you.”

“No,” he says. “You did right by telling me. You should
always tell me such things. For the good of England, and for the Queen.” His voice nearly breaks on the last words, but he rallies, stiffening his back. How difficult it must have been for him to chase away his friend! No doubt Moreland felt deeply betrayed to be dismissed, but what else was Walsingham to do?

Still, at least with the resolution of this terrible prophecy, we can leave off tonight's folly of a convocation. “So what will happen now?” I ask. “Have you told the Queen that we need no longer go forward with the convocation tonight?”

“What do you mean?” Walsingham asks sharply, and I blink at his sudden anger.

“But . . . my vision,” I say, stumbling over my words. “The prophecy is resolved. You've spoken to Moreland already.”

A tremor ripples across Walsingham's face, making him seem centuries old. “Mother Shipton's prophecy may be read in many ways, as all prophecies might,” Walsingham says, shaking his head. “We have addressed your interpretation of it, but that does not put an end to matters, I'm afraid. No. The convocation of seers shall proceed, and the Queen alone will decide who provides the answer she most prefers.”

I prepared myself to assure him that I already knew Nostradamus's interpretation, but his final words stop me in my tracks. “The answer she most prefers? What does that mean?”

“It means the answer she most prefers, Miss Dee. If the Queen agrees with our assertions, then all well and good. If she doesn't, then we must simply remain content that we knew what was right and true. That we performed our work for her as quickly and completely as we knew how. That is our role, as her servants and protectors. That is our charge.”

I nod, taking in his words. It is overwhelming, and it should be gratifying, to have Walsingham's confidence in me. But still, he looks so shaken that I cannot feel smug. And my own fears still twist and roil within me, refusing to be silenced.

“And what of my prediction about the Queen, Sir Francis?” I ask. “I saw a white field, marked with a black cross, and the Queen fallen upon it without a mark on her. Surely we should explore that vision further as well?”

“Surely we should
not
,” he says severely. “We will defend the Queen in the time and manner that is best for her, and for England, as we ever do. Accordingly, we will shore up our protection for the Queen the moment the first snow falls, and not before. There is no need to frighten her. No monarch can rule ably when gripped with fear.”

In the face of my budding protest, he speaks first. “Say not another word about this, Sophia. Not to me, not to anyone. Your work is done on this score.”

I purse my lips, but in truth what can I say? Other than, “Of course, Sir Francis.”

We arrive at a set of stone benches, the afternoon suddenly seeming far too cool to me. Walsingham bids me to take my rest, then stands there, looming over me. “I confess, there is another question that weighs heavily upon me, in light of all that has passed today. Something I would ask of you, if you are able to grant it.” He doesn't wait for me to respond. “The vision you shared with me this past night led me down paths I did not willingly tread, to realizations I had not fully considered until I found myself in the small hours
of the morning, thinking . . . unthinkable thoughts,” he says. His voice is almost despondent, for all that it is strong. “Such thoughts as I had never wished to be mine own.”

“Forgive me, Sir Francis, for causing you this pain,” I reply, for I feel I must say something. “At least you were able to do what you could.”

He continues as if he didn't hear my words. “My service to the Queen is paramount. It goes far deeper than my work in Parliament, or my role as her counselor. I have tied my fortune and the fortunes of my family to Elizabeth. I do it willingly, and with the knowledge that she is the best hope for our country to achieve its goals and reach a level of greatness unmatched across the Continent. I am willing to sacrifice much for that—more than I ever would have imagined.”

“She is blessed to have you,” I say, and he grimaces.

“‘Blessed,'” he says. “It is one way of looking at it, I suppose.” He turns to me more fully then and plunges on, his question at once concise and wide-ranging: “Can you tell me what
my
future holds, Sophia?”

I draw back, startled. “Your future?” I should be offended, as if this were some sort of test, some trick for the court fool to entertain the gathered throng.

“Yes,” he says. “I wish to understand what lies ahead of me, given what my service has wrought thus far.”

Something in his voice gives me pause, and I resolve to assist him. I slip the obsidian scrying stone off my neck, grasping it in my fingers. I have never sought to ask a question that was more than a clarification of a vision already received in some part from the angels. But today, on this cool bench in the shadowed
protection of Windsor Castle, it seems the right time to begin. And this is for Walsingham, I remind myself. Walsingham, who is the Queen's trusted advisor, yes, but also the man to whom I gave an incomprehensible vision of his friend's death, and who didn't laugh in my face. He took my information for what it was—a guide, a warning. An important thread to consider in the whole embroidered cloth. And he acted upon it.

I can do this for Walsingham.

I gaze down at the obsidian stone, and slip into the angelic realm just that quickly. I do not wait for the angels to form before me this time. Instead, I ask my question into the mists, to any angel who might be listening, my words no more than a sigh.
“What lies ahead for Sir Francis?”

Something shifts in the darkness before me, and I feel the eyes of a spirit seek me out through the gloom. Quite without my intention, my sigh lengthens, the exhalation becoming at first a gasp and then a sort of strangled moan. Then, suddenly, the outdoor space I am occupying with Walsingham becomes an enormous chamber. It is filled with light and music and—people. So many people! Everyone is dressed in the silks and velvets of a formal dance. It is a masked revel, the women's hairstyles, plunging necklines, and easy manner bespeaking a world far less circumspect than Elizabeth's court. I hear chatter and am drawn forward. It is lyrical and bold—
French!
They are speaking French.

The dancers move and create an opening, and I see Walsingham, only not the Walsingham I have come to know. He is haggard and worn, and there is something not quite right about his skin. It looks stretched too thinly over his bones, a
trick of the light that seems to vary as I watch him. First he is healthy, then he is sick. First he is robust, then he is wan. I track him through several steps of the dance, and always he is different. Time seems to pass with the rush of music, building to a crescendo, then crashing to the earth. Over and around again, over and around. At length the Walsingham in my vision seems to feel me watching him. He looks at me across the space, and I shrink back, the full weight of his desolation catching me up, tears filling my eyes.
No!

“Sophia!”

I feel arms around my shoulders and a cloth at my face. My vision clears, and I realize that, back on the mortal plane, Walsingham is holding me, as a man might hold his dying grandfather or wounded son. I have toppled off the stone bench, my skirts are tangled on the grass, and Walsingham crouches over me. There is no intimacy in the embrace, for all that he holds my body close as he half-kneels upon the lawn, propping me up.

“Did I fall?” I ask.

“You damn well didn't stay sitting. Here.” He dabs my face a final time, then helps me back up to the bench and offers me his handkerchief. I take it, not missing the bloodstains that darken the rich fabric. I do not need to ask Sir Francis whose blood it is.

Instead, staring at the marred white cloth, I begin talking. And I do not stint in my account.

“The vision I saw would place you years from now, Sir Francis,” I say, still not looking at him. “Perhaps another two or three decades. I cannot be certain. You are penniless, though you have the air of a nobleman. You are in France.”

He flinches back, astounded. “I am no longer serving Elizabeth?”

“Yes, you are,” I say, and now I do look up. “You are under the Queen's protection. But, Sir Francis, I believe she has bankrupted you. You are forced to be in this place, a diplomatic envoy to convey her every whim, and she has not settled enough coin on you. You are angry and dismayed, for all that you are the perfect courtier. You remain her spymaster, but you—you—”

“After all of this, I am still undone,” Walsingham whispers. “My wife, my family . . .”

I feel my own heart wither at his bleak tone. “They are the reason for your weariness, Sir Francis. They remain in good health, but you had not expected it would come to this.” I clutch his handkerchief in my grasp. I know without asking that he believes me, which perhaps says something more about the Queen than the clarity of my vision. The idea of her bankrupting him is not a surprise. Diplomats sent off to foreign lands do so on their own coin, monarch's blessing or direction aside. If Walsingham is required to remain in France for any length of time, he will find his coffers drained.

“Twenty years hence?”

I favor him with a small smile. “You're older, Sir Francis, by a fair margin.”

“Not so fair as that, from what you say.” His answering grimace is pained. Then he straightens on the bench beside me, staring at the flurry of activity as market day continues in the Lower Ward.

At length he speaks. “We are the two of us caught in a
world that would break us, Miss Dee, if we give it the chance.”

I nod, straightening the handkerchief on my skirts, folding it over to hide the telltale blood.

“And yet,” he continues, “we also find ourselves in the unique position of possessing some control over our lives. Perhaps not our futures—only God can truly alter any man's course—but our present, to be sure. That, we can affect with shrewd and careful work.”

I hesitate. “I do not understand your meaning, sir.”

“I mean we must look to ourselves and those we love,” Walsingham says quietly. “And prepare for futures we cannot imagine.” He stands, and it is like he is a different man. A man with a new course set in his mind. With every court grace, he holds out his hand to me. “Just as we never imagined the events of this day, I warrant.”

“Assuredly not.” My dry laugh feels as worn as he looks, and I allow Walsingham to pull me to my feet. We move toward the Lower Ward and the market day festivities, and I think of all that this long day has already held:

The quicksilver Marcus Quinn in Saint George's Hall—and my very first kiss.

Nostradamus in his darkened chambers, conjuring spirits.

Two different dancing floors, in two different realms, with me swirling in the embraces of two very different partners.

And finally, this—a vision, a conversation . . . and an unexpected connection with the Queen's grim spymaster.

None of these things I could have predicted, and the day is not yet done.

The convocation of seers still awaits.