Maid of Wonder (20 page)

“Not on a night blessed by Your Grace,” James says. “Besides, only the Quadrangle is large enough to allow a platform to be built in its center as a makeshift stage.” James raises a finger. “And such a stage as this will be, you cannot imagine.”

Elizabeth's brows lift. “And what will my courtiers see upon this stage?” she asks.

“A play of great wonderment, I assure you, featuring your very own court! Upon this stage, before their fellows, they will talk of secrets—and of love.”

“Love?” The Queen's laugh is wry, and her chosen attendants laugh along with her, pleased to be hearing such remarkable plans firsthand. “You'll find not many of my courtiers comfortable with talking of secret love.”

“Ah, but on this most special of nights, my goal is for you to see who truly loves you. Whose hearts you fill with happiness and adoration, who will follow you not only as their Queen, but as their joy and solace.”

“And how do you propose doing all of this?” Elizabeth asks.

James spreads his hands. “You have only to watch, my Queen, and be amazed.”

“You promise much, for a court you have rarely seen.”

“I promise nothing more than what you deserve, my Queen, and quite a fair amount less, in fact. Would that I could show your glory to the whole of your kingdom in every city.” He lifts his hand to Elizabeth, as if he is waving to an unseen, adoring crowd.

The Queen nods. “Very well,” she says. “Then not only my court should see it here. We'll allow the villagers to come into the Upper Ward as well, any and all.”

“As you will!” James agrees. If he is dismayed by her pronouncement, he does not show it—yet another shrewd decision on his part.

Not the last by far.

The Queen bids Master James to tarry awhile as the music begins, the second portion of this evening's trials officially underway. Each of the maids has an assigned duty, including myself. We carry trays of fine wine the Queen has sanctioned
for this night, poured into lovely cups of gold. And into each of those grand cups we've also placed a few precious drops of Maude's truth tonic.

Despite my own thwarted poisoning, which of course no one knows about but the Maids of Honor, Marcus, and Rafe, Maude's skill as an herb mistress still needs to be confirmed. Accordingly, in the brief time since we took the vial away from Maude's stall, Anna has tested the tonic on subjects, both with their permission and without it, and is convinced the potion works. The Queen, ever one to kill multiple birds with a single stone, eagerly agreed that this evening is the opportune time to test the brew. Neither Nostradamus nor Dee will be fed the tainted wine, of course. Those two worthies sit by the Queen, still engaged in lively conversation with her.

But any other courtier is fair game.

As is Marcus Quinn, I think, my cheeks stinging anew as I recall the laughter of my fellow spies. Perhaps it is time for him to betray his secrets as well.

Cecil and Walsingham remain in the shadows of the chamber, their expressions unreadable as they watch us perform our roles.

To Beatrice and Meg they have given the most challenging assignments, two of the court's richest lords. To Jane and Anna fall the next tier down, a young marquess for Jane to cow into submission, and a puffed-up patron of science whom Anna is to coddle into revealing the nature of his latest experiments.

And as for me, my task is equally simple, and equally profound—to draw out one Marcus Quinn about what else
John Dee is working on, when he is not bent to the Queen's command.

If I happen to ask
other
questions while I'm at that task, well . . . who could blame me?

We gather at the edge of the makeshift dancing floor, ready to go after our quarry.

“Ah!” A sudden exclamation startles us. “My favorite ladies of the court.”

“Master James!” Meg recovers first and curtsies to her former troupe master. Beside me Jane draws up to her fullest height, one hand twitching upward before she schools it to remain clasped in the other at her waist, as the proper maiden she pretends to be. I do not need the Sight to understand her intention. Some weeks past, Jane received a quite unusual gift—a slender necklace of gold, as fine and lovely as it was unexpected. Her benefactor? None other than James McDonald, the troupe master seeming determined to engage her affections. Jane is wearing the necklace tonight. Had she suspected James would remain in the Privy Chamber, close enough to her to matter, she would have already removed it. As it is, she cannot do so now without him noticing.

“So, you are staying for the music, then?” I ask, drawing his attention to me.

“Your lovely Queen suggested that I meet some of her most favored courtiers, that I might better fashion an entertainment for them. I think she rather likes me.”

“Someone ought,” Meg jibes, and Jane coughs beside me, earning a censorious look from Master James. His gaze drops
to her neckline, spying the strip of gold. His smile is immediate and triumphant, fading not one bit in the face of Jane's scowl.

“Begin!” The Queen's voice rings out over us, and music flows through the chamber. James turns smartly to Jane and steps into the Honor, bowing to her with a flourish. She has no choice but to respond with a curtsy of her own, though there is murder in her eyes. She offers him a cup of wine with a hard smile, but James merely sets it aside.

“The music calls,” he says, holding out his hand.

Jane pulls back. “I do not dance.”

He reaches for her fingers and draws her close. “Then there is no better time to begin.” The two of them step into the line of dancers as the music strikes the first measures of an Almain.

“I could not speak the line better.” I jump and am immediately trapped by Marcus's hand upon mine. I shiver at the touch of his light fingers. “Shall we practice the steps we have learned, Miss Sophia?”

“Of course,” I say. “But first, a toast to you?” I proffer him the cup of wine, and he takes it readily enough, tipping it to his lips under my careful scrutiny. Then he, too, sets the cup aside and draws me onto the floor. The Almain is a simple dance, but there is nothing simple about the way I feel with Marcus so close. He dances with a sense of assurance and grace, as if he were born to the world of noble finery, yet I sense this is not the case. Rather, he is a bit of a chameleon, able to take on the sense of a place, and of its people, in order to fit into his surroundings more easily. In that regard
he is well matched to Master James, the ultimate actor. But whereas James's actions were born in the world of theatre, I cannot guess what drives Marcus.

“You are thinking very hard for a young woman entranced by her first official dance with a handsome young man. Are you quite recovered from your trying day?” Marcus's words are deliberately provocative, and I flush.

“I am,” I say. “And how do you know that I am not thinking about you?”

“My favorite subject, to be sure. So what are your thoughts telling you? That you should be very careful around me? That I am danger itself?”

“Never that.” We are walking in sedate circles, fast enough to give the illusion of movement but slowly enough to grant plenty of time for a meaningful look, a practiced glance. I suddenly understand why Beatrice considers the dancing floor more fraught with danger than the battlefield. Every time I come close to Marcus, I experience a strange tremor along my skin. As if I lost my sense of self and flowed into him, then back. As if we not merely touched . . . but blended. It is a heady experience, and I feel the blood rising in my cheeks, the thudding of my heart.

“I have met many people in my travels, Sophia,” Marcus says. “But you are the first to capture my attention so completely. How do you do it?”

I flash him a look at his bold words. Is this the wine at work?

“Is it with your eyes? They are so blue as to seem violet, the color of spring flowers newly opened. Your soft lips, your fair skin? Is that how you weave your enchantment?”

I shake my head, suddenly unnerved by his candor.

“They feel it too,” he murmurs, and I glance around. No one is paying attention to us, all of the court whirling and twirling, the music drifting around us in a grand clamor of sound.

“Look more deeply, Sophia.” His words slide over me strangely, and he holds my hand aloft in the arching twirl of the dance. Our fingers touch, and the scene before me shifts and slides.

I do see them, then. Like one painting over another, too many people for too small a space. I know those figures, silent and watching, and know their yearning, so intense that it is discernible even across the veil. The angels have gathered to watch the living dance, but they are not focused on the riot of colors and sound; they are focused on Marcus and me. As if they were aware of something profound between us.

What is it that they know?

“So you
can
see them, without Dee's conjuring spells,” I say, and his smile is almost sad, though he says nothing. The movement of the dance takes us away from each other, and brings us back moments later. Then he gives his answer.

“I can see them because I am touching you, Sophia, and only because of that. I do not have the gift of Sight without a seer.” He shrugs. “I cannot remember much of my life before my accident, though, when the conjurer sent me into the angelic realm unprotected.” He regards me with an air of melancholy. “What is it like, Sophia? What is it you see on the other side of the veil?”

I think of the grim specter. “Only the angels,” I say. “Just as you have seen.”

“Well, they shall never have you completely,” he declares. “You belong in the mortal realm.”

His words strike an odd, discordant note with me, as if I were drawn to disagree. I direct our conversation to more important topics—important to the Crown at least. “Your work with Dee, does it stray only to the angelical realm?” I ask, trying to sound guileless. “Or do you help him in all manner of projects?”

“All manner,” Marcus answers.

“Indeed,” I say as he turns me in the dance. “Even his alchemical pursuits? I have heard those can be exhausting.”

“‘Exhausting' is a good word for it!” Marcus says. “Day and night he works to find the correct equation for the transmutation of elements. It is the most frequent question he bids me to seek out in the angelic realm.” He chuckles. “When he is not searching for you, of course.”

“And has he received an answer?” I ask, trying to keep my manner light.

“Not even a murmur.” Marcus's candor surprises me, and I make a note to confirm to Anna that Maude's truth potion does indeed seem to work. I ply him quite unashamedly as much as I dare, and the evening spins on, the familiarity of music drawing us ever closer in its soft embrace.

Eventually, of course, the dancing must end. Marcus bows to me as I sink down into a curtsy. As I rise, however, I feel another familiar presence in the room, dark and fierce. The Queen announces that the evening has drawn to a close, and dismisses the musicians and her courtiers, and Master James as well. Marcus steps off to the side of the room, then
returns to hand Dee a large armful of documents and some device I cannot see. Then Marcus bows to me, quietly bidding me good night, and he is gone.

Finally, it is time. My fellow Maids of Honor withdraw to stand by Cecil and Walsingham, able to watch the convocation of seers but not to intervene. I stand in a row with Dee and Nostradamus, the least of our number in every measure that could possibly matter.

Still, I will not be alone, I realize, as I make my stand before the Queen.

Across the Privy Chamber, my grim specter looms once more. I feel safe, almost secure, and I allow my face to ease into a smile, my heart to swell—

Then he raises his hand.

And darkness swallows me whole.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The black veil rips asunder, but I am no longer in the Queen's Privy Chamber, nor in the company of my peers. Instead, I am in what must be Robert Moreland's sitting room, in his apartment in the Horseshoe Cloister. There are comfortable chairs and tables neatly stacked with books and papers, and the two men occupying the room are smiling at each other, cups of wine in their hands. I watch, and Robert drinks fully and deeply of his cup. I watch, and Sir Francis lifts his own cup to his lips, not taking the slightest sip.

Horror quakes through me. The scene rushes forward then, galloping on the devil's hooves, and I see Sir Francis reach for Robert Moreland as the man falls forward and slumps into Walsingham's grasp. He carries his dazed and failing friend to the bedroom even as Moreland weakly tries to fight him off.

I shake my head, desperately trying to clear it, but the vision will not abate. At last the tableau is struck that I have now seen already too many times: Robert Moreland in his bed, surrounded by the fading symbols of scepter and crown.
Walsingham at his feet, tears coursing down his face, mouth clenched hard in a rictus of agony.

And then I see something more. A grey-haired woman, round and foul, standing at the edge of Moreland's room, watching the scene before her like I am, her laughter harsh and full-throated. And lying at her feet is a young woman in a gorgeous gown, her crown knocked from her head, beautiful red hair streaming over her shoulders.

The Queen, dead by Maude's hands, because no one is watching over her. No one is protecting her.

Suddenly I am awash in the screams of a thousand angels, and my head pounds as I stumble back, drawing startled humphs from Dee and Nostradamus.

My Sight winks out, and I am no longer in Moreland's sickroom, no longer seeing the horrible image of my fallen Queen. Instead, I am back in the Privy Chamber, my hands gripped at my sides, my entire body shaking. No one seems to notice, or if they do, they must surely ascribe my tremors to my fear of presenting before Elizabeth.

Well, I cannot say my reactions have gone entirely unnoticed. Across the rush-strewn floor of the Privy Chamber, Walsingham is staring at me.
What has he done?
His face is gaunt but resolute, exactly as it looked earlier this day in the Upper Ward, when he pulled me aside to speak in confidence.

Had he just come from murdering his friend? All based on my vision?
What have
I
done?

Oblivious to my mounting horror, the Queen retires to her throne, and her gaze sweeps over the room. Then her words root me in place, her voice sounding overloud in the quiet chamber.

“You are well versed in the question,” she says, leaning forward. “The prophecy given me by Mother Shipton, through a villager who traveled to this very castle to tell the tale.

“A royal house defeated,

disaster unforeseen.

Death comes to Windsor

to court the maiden Queen.”

She curls her lip, as if the act of repeating the fell pronouncement offended her anew. “I am confident that you can tell me the truth of this prophecy,” she says. “Who shall suffer this death at Windsor? How it is to strike? And when?”

I cannot bear this charade any longer.

“Your Grace!” I stand forward. It is already done, the death occurred, the riddle tragically solved. “Allow me to—”

“Silence!” The Queen's command brooks no opposition. “You will get your chance, Sophia. I choose John Dee to begin.”

I'm too distraught to argue as Dee steps forward. The astrologer, to his credit, looks every inch the scholar as he strides with arms laden to stand in front of the Queen. At his direction, Cecil and Jane carry a table to him and set it by his side. Upon the table Dee places his sheaf of papers, weighting them down with the device, which I recognize as an astrolabe. Then he bows to the Queen.

“The question you have set before us has many angles to pursue, Your Majesty,” he says, his words ponderous
and forceful, a teacher talking to willful students. “I have addressed each of those angles in succession, by careful study of the stars above us.”

The Queen tilts her head. “The stars can tell us who will die at Windsor?” she asks. “Then surely this information should have been provided to me long before now, should it not?”

Dee doesn't flinch at her rebuke. “In a manner of speaking, yes. If you suspect that death will come to Windsor, say, in the fall of 1559, then you can look to the stars to see if they bear out this prophecy, because we have a specific place in time. And in fact, I can say categorically that Mother Shipton's prophecy is
true
.” Dee's words are simple, but they still have a powerful effect on the room, and my own dull shock is momentarily pierced. Given her soft gasp, the Queen apparently had not been fully convinced of Mother Shipton's prophecy. From the look on Cecil's face, he hadn't been either. The Maids of Honor appear unfazed by Dee's pronouncement, but then, they know the truth, and do not merely have to believe the words of some hump-shouldered witch in the north of England.

Yet even they do not know the fullness of Mother Shipton's horrible prophecy-come-true.

Dee continues, more pompously. “The stars are most inauspicious for this exact moment in time for Windsor Castle. When I presented the grand spectacle for you, Your Grace, be advised, I was looking for
positive
angles and harmonious conjunctions, not the opposite. But looking through a darker filter, I see quite clearly: death shall come to Windsor.”

“When?” The Queen's question is sharp, but Dee raises a hand, as if to hold off her impatience.

“This very week, Your Grace,” he says. “I cannot be more exact, I fear. But as to how,” he rushes on, seeing the Queen stiffen in disapproval. “How, I can tell you with certainty. As the good doctor here can well attest, there are many ways to die in times as difficult as ours. But a death that would come by plague, for example—”

“Plague!” The Queen has taken his bait quite neatly, and she slides to the edge of her seat. “Say that some soul has not visited plague upon this castle!”

“Not at all,” Dee says smoothly. “But you'll agree, it was an important consideration in my calculations, to discern what was likely and what was not. There are also the possibilities of death by strangulation or blade. Death by poison or a physical battle. Death by musketfire or death by natural causes.”

“Or death by boredom, good doctor,” the Queen says, her elbows on her throne's armrests, her fingers gripping the carved gold edges. “What, precisely, did you find?”

“The death to be enacted at Windsor Castle is definitely a murder.”

Once again this is not an unexpected statement, and yet the chill that rolls through me is not about what may be, but what is already done. Across the Privy Chamber, Walsingham's face is a mask of resolve, his eyes never leaving mine. “With the moon in Scorpio, and the bitter sadness of Chiron in opposition to watery Neptune, all signs as to the manner of this death point in only one direction.
That of poison. Death comes to Windsor on the tip of a poisoned tongue.”

I glance at Anna, only to find her staring at me. We are up to our ears in poisons this day.

“And finally, we come to the nature of the doomed soul.” Dee's words drag me back to this Privy Chamber of horrors. “Without a full accounting of every birth date of the castle's current residents, of course, it was impossible to identify him exactly. However—”

“Impossible?” The Queen cuts Dee off, her manner subtly charged. Here, at last, she has an opportunity to put her former tutor in his place. “I set for you a simple task, Dee. To determine
who
would die at Windsor, and
when
, and
how
. You have quite ably completed the last two aspects of this challenge, and yet you would tell me that you fall short on the first and most important? That you cannot name the doomed soul among us? Surely, that is a poor showing indeed.”

“If you do not accept my findings, Your Grace, I can retire without saying anything further. I presume, however, that you would be interested in learning what else I have to share.” Dee's reply is arctic, and I am inclined to agree with him. It is no easy feat, to pluck a single person out with nothing but the stars. Then again, Dee did find
me
all those years ago.

“You presume wrong.” The Queen's voice has taken on an additional edge. I wonder at the balance of power between these two. Dee was one of the Queen's most trusted and beloved instructors throughout her childhood. Yet here she is suddenly treating him as an insolent courtier. Is she pun
ishing him for some perceived slight in his tone tonight? Or does she merely want to assert her authority over her onetime instructor?

It doesn't matter, in any event. Dee turns to his table, and the Queen lashes out once more. “You may remain, John Dee,” she commands. “We are not yet finished with you. But I call to make his pronouncements the good Dr. Michel de Nostredame, that he might succeed where you have failed.”

Dee stiffens, but he remains in his place. I find I cannot speak either. It is as if I were watching the events of this chamber from outside myself, unable to predict their outcome, unable to even predict my own actions. After a moment, the French doctor steps out from beside me and moves to stand before the Queen. He nods to her, and she graciously inclines her head, the soul of civility once more.

“Good doctor, you have kindly taken your time and expended great effort and energy to join us in our hour of need,” the Queen says. “We are most grateful for your visit to Windsor Castle. You grace us with your presence.”

Nostradamus watches the Queen throughout this short speech, merely nodding again to her as she finishes. “I am honored that you choose me to address such a prophecy of great and powerful vision,” he says. His voice is soft but strong, and I find myself wondering how he was greeted throughout France and Italy in the towns where he ministered to his patients, particularly those towns beset with the Black Death. His first fame came as a plague doctor of extraordinary success, and I suspect his healing powers likely extend not only to the cures that he directed the town's apothecaries
to concoct, but to the solemnity of his voice, pitched to calm the most frantic of patients.

He is certainly calming Elizabeth now.

Me, alas, not as much.

“Your court is truly a wonder to behold,” Nostradamus continues, and the Queen accepts his flattery. “Long have I traveled, throughout many countries, and rarely do I find a Queen so beloved. You will be remembered throughout time for your grace and dedication to your country. Your reign shall live in glory long after you.”

These words have the ring of a prophecy in and of themselves, and I am not the only one who thinks so. The Queen has returned to a full and delighted smile, that she tries unsuccessfully to hide with her next grave words. “I thank you for your kind speech, good sir, but our need today is grim indeed. Have you any guidance to give us in the question of the doomed soul of Windsor? Who is next to breathe his last within these walls, and how, and when?”

Nostradamus bows with due humility. “I too have learned, as the great scholar Master Dee has, that the timing and manner of death is as he states. This murder does happen, and it does happen through the use of poison.”

Despite myself I glance to Dee, seeing that he, too, has noticed Nostradamus's neat evasion. How easy it is to simply confirm the two items that another man has already discerned in this challenge! For then you may stride forth with the third element, content that no one may gainsay you. I think back to what I heard in Nostradamus's chamber—the mournful dirge of the water, the hiss of the fire spirit. I recall precisely
what he was told, and the means and timing of Moreland's death were not at all included in that prophecy. But there is no way for me to prove his lie.

Nostradamus continues. “To illuminate the man who shall meet his death here, however, I can go yet further. The information I have been given on this question is thus for the ears of this company alone.”

He draws a deep breath, and everyone in the room strains forward, so as not to miss a word of the great prophet . . . though half of us have already heard this message:

“Where the muddy river runs white

An eagle shall be born of a wren.

Doomed to fly into the jaws of a wolf,

His blood shall turn to gold.”

Silence follows hard upon his pronouncement as we all take it in. Across the chamber, I see my dark specter shift back further into the gloom.

Walsingham straightens, his gaze hard on Nostradamus. I can see in his face what he is thinking. He knows the symbols of royalty as much as any man in this room. Based on my visions of a purple mantle, scepter, and gold crown adorning Robert Moreland, he decided his friend was a threat to the crown, and killed him because of it. And now his actions have been validated. Nostradamus is saying quite clearly that the doomed man is an “eagle,” yet another royal symbol.