Maid of Wonder (21 page)

These are the words that justify murder!

Nostradamus, for his part, stands at his ease in the center of the room, comfortable in his prediction.

As well he should, I think peevishly. For without what I have seen, who could make any sense of what he's saying?

Except Dee now faces Nostradamus, his face transfixed not with outrage, as one would expect, but with excitement. “An eagle, yes!” He cries. “Of course, that is exactly right!”

“What is this?” Elizabeth's question is like a shot across the chamber, stilling both men.

Dee turns to her. “The part of my response that you have not yet heard, Your Grace,” he says. “I could not countenance it, because it was disturbing to me, as you might imagine. But I, too, saw this in the skies as they arch over Windsor Castle in these dark days. The doomed soul is born of royalty. It is an eagle who will die.”

Once again, I am smote with the image of Maude laughing over the body of the Queen. While they are so focused on Walsingham's murder of a potential pretender to the crown, they are failing to see the real threat!

“What are you saying?” Elizabeth's words are cold, her brows raised and her face like marble. “You dare to predict my own death to my face, and with the zeal of excitement lining your words?”

“What? No!” Dee says hastily, and even Nostradamus looks startled. “Your Grace, no,” Dee continues. “That is not at all what we are—”

“And you, Sophia?” Elizabeth turns to me. “What do you have to say to the statements of these men, who so willingly put forth the idea of my own demise as if it were a topic
of scholarly debate? Have you, too, seen my death by poison, here in the halls of Windsor?” Her words are steady, but there is no denying the weight that looms beyond them. I have the feeling that I am standing at the edge of a great precipice, and the faintest breeze will knock me over into the abyss. But I can't fight the rising tide of my own fear any longer. Fury catches me up and hurtles me over the edge as the Queen's tone grows sharper. “Answer me!”

“It is already done!” I retort, my words so loud, they seem to reverberate off the walls. “And all of you have been deceived!”

“Stop, Sophia!” Walsingham's voice strikes out like a gunshot, but I can no longer stop myself. I can no longer stop any of this.

“You have been deceived!” I say again. They must understand the truth: that Mistress Maude's plan all along was to
distract
the Queen with this prophecy—so Maude could execute a far darker plan. A plan that would change the course of history. “Yes, the vision of Nostradamus and the calculations of John Dee are true, but they speak not of you but of a man. This man exists—existed—within the halls of Windsor, but he breathes no more. Still, I beg of you to listen. You have other, more terrible problems to consider, Your Grace. Your own life is in danger!”

“No!” Walsingham bursts forth from where he stands and strides into the center of the room. “You are overwrought, Sophia. I demand you to be silent. I have removed any threat to the Queen. It is done!”

“It is
not
done!” I counter. “And how would you know
if it were? You condemned a man based upon my visions alone. You did not have the extra testimony of Nostradamus to guide your hand. You did not have John Dee's calculations to ensure you were correct.”

“There was no time!” Walsingham roars back. “Moreland said enough to sway me.
You
said enough to sway me.”

“Who is this Moreland?” Elizabeth asks.

“Forget Moreland. He is not the threat that you should truly fear!” I try again. I whirl round to the Queen, who is staring at me with abject horror. I can only imagine what I must look like, my hair wild, my manner crazed. “All of this is only a distraction! You are going to die, Your Majesty!”

“Enough!” Cecil strides forward, and with a jerk of his arm, he summons forward two guards who must have ventured into the Privy Chamber at the commotion. They march forward like sentinels of doom and grab hold of my arms, fairly lifting me off my feet. It's a testament to the Queen's alarm that she makes no protest regarding my rough treatment. In fact, she seems almost relieved. “Walsingham is correct. You are distraught, Miss Dee. You shall not say another word.”

“But—”

“Silence!” Cecil waves to the guards. “Take her to the holding cell. Await my instructions there.” He scowls again at me, his face implacable. “If she continues to speak, gag her.”

But there is no need. I fall mute, suddenly shaking free of the terrible thrall that has held me. I see everything as if in frozen miniature: the dismay of the Maids of Honor, the Queen's patently shocked face, Walsingham's and Cecil's outrage.
What have I done?

Silently the guards half-carry me from the room. When we pass through the doors, however, they pause for a moment. One of them speaks, and the voice is so well known to me, I almost slump in renewed mortification.

“Stand, Miss Sophia,” Will Seton says quietly. “So that all might not suspect what has happened.”

It takes me only a moment to understand. Most of the court is in the Presence Chamber, laughing and talking, and we are but a breath away from that room. If I am seen being hauled off unceremoniously, gossip will fill all of Windsor so quickly that the very ceilings will burst from the strain. I force my feet to move, my back to stay rigid, as the guards and I process through the long corridors, as if I were merely being escorted somewhere with their protection.

We are completely unnoticed.

It is only when we reach the deeper corridors of the castle that I begin to falter. We move away from the softer rooms of Windsor and into the rough-cut hallways, down stairs lit only by the occasional torch. The “holding cell,” as Cecil calls it, is a rude chamber with a bench and table bolted to the floor, a chamber pot that mercifully looks unused, and no light whatsoever. Will Seton pushes me inside, his touch as gentle as possible.

“Wait in here,” he says. “If you need aught, you've but to ask.”

The door shuts behind me, and darkness falls like a stone cloak. After a moment, I hear the scrape of something at the door. Seton has set aside the covering for the grate, which normally would be opened only if a guard needed to check
the status of a prisoner. Instead, he has given me the only gift he can. A precious square of light on the stone floor, shimmering with the torchlight from the corridor beyond. With that tiny grace, I breathe more easily.

But not for long.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The creak of the door wakens me, and I jerk to a sitting position. At some point in the evening, I must have curled myself onto the bench, for I am stiff with pain. I feel strung out, lost, the events of the convocation nothing more than a jumble in my mind. If I dreamed this dark night, I can't recall, which I take as a slight mercy.

A man steps into the room, and despite myself I cringe back. It is Cecil, his face still looking like an executioner's. A guard follows behind, carrying a tray bearing two carafes. Another guard affixes a torch to a sconce by the door. Flickering light floods the room, and I wince away at the sudden brightness.

“I brought you ale and water, some bread,” Cecil says gruffly. The guard sets the tray down on the table and stands away from it, but I make no move toward it, though in truth I am so parched, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. The guard departs, and Cecil stands in silence for another few moments, then pulls the door shut behind him. I notice the panel has been replaced over the grate.

He leans against the wall, studying me. “Walsingham
spoke with the Queen, after your bit of dramatics,” he says. “We ushered out Nostradamus with thanks and gold, and assured Dee of her satisfaction with him. He did not show too much concern for your well-being, and he went peaceably enough. His assistant was a bit more of a problem.”

That last statement makes me smile, a fact that I'm sure Cecil doesn't miss.

“You can return to the maids' quarters, Miss Dee,” he says. “And to the court, to the grace of the Queen. We have but to come to an understanding.”

“Of course, Sir William.” Now I do rise and move over to the tray. I pour the water out onto a cloth and rub it over my face. I feel better, and realize that, too, is part of Cecil's ploy. He wants me to feel safe, not too deep in the mire.

But this is also the same Cecil who half-drowned Meg, over and over again, to get her to betray her secrets. Why is he treating me with such care?

The answer hits me squarely: Walsingham. Sir Francis must have told Cecil about my vision of Moreland, and of the Queen. Perhaps my vision of Walsingham's future as well. My lips tighten in derision, and I'm glad Cecil can't see my face.

When I don't turn toward him, however, he speaks to my back. “The Queen has need of a seer with your skills, Miss Dee. You have proven yourself ably and well.”

I do turn around then, confronting him. “I have caused a man to die, Sir William. My words, and mine alone, drove Sir Francis to kill Robert Moreland.”

“Action that was warranted,” Cecil says severely. He forestalls my outburst with a raised hand. “Despite your accusa
tions, Walsingham
did
speak to Moreland. And to ensure he spoke truthfully, we used Maude's truth tonic as well.” His smile is grim. “Once that took hold, Robert told Walsingham the tale easily enough. His mother's chance meeting with the King during a historically cold winter, his conception and birth. The man who married his mother in spite of her fatherless child, raising Robert as his own. She never spoke to her son of his father until she fell ill with delirium, shortly before she died but a year ago. He hadn't considered the story since, or so he told Walsingham.”

“Then he is a fool,” I say derisively.

“The world is full of them.” Cecil shrugs. “But his mother
did
tell him this tale. Robert Moreland never intended to pursue the matter, thinking the woman quite out of her mind.” He shrugs. “He also said he never told another soul.”

“Not even his wife?” I ask. “Or is she now dead as well?”

“Not even his wife,” Cecil says. “The Queen appears to believe Walsingham that the wife is blameless in all this. Which is in the young woman's favor.”

“Mine as well,” I say. “Then again, what's two more lives upon my head, when I've already the one to carry?”

“You were completing your
assignment
, Miss Dee,” Cecil retorts. “An assignment given to you by the Queen. An assignment that is still yours to have, if you can restrain yourself from such unseemly outbursts as last night.”

“My
outburst
, as you call it, was justified! Walsingham walked into Moreland's chambers already planning to kill him. How else can you explain the poisoned wine? He laid the man down on his own bed and watched him die, Sir
William! His friend! What would he do to you or me, if he'd kill his friend with such coldness?”

But Cecil doesn't seem to be listening to me anymore. Instead, he's gone very still, his eyes huge in his tired face. “How did you know about Walsingham—the manner of his killing blow?”

“What?” I fold my hands over my stomach, but I am already caught out. “It simply came to me,” I said. “A vision I did not seek. At the onset of the convocation.”

“And you
acted
upon what you saw in that vision, no verification of the facts needed.”

“I hardly
acted
, Sir William. It's not as though I lifted a cup of poisoned wine to a man's lips.”

“But you believed what you saw,” he says, unrelenting. “Just as Walsingham believed what you saw about Robert Moreland. How is that any different?'

“Because Walsingham should not believe everything he hears! He questioned Moreland, yes, but his mind was already set. And why? Because of what I said? Do you trust every scrap of intelligence that comes to you from your spies and their encoded letters? Do you trust every prisoner who gives you a confession? No! It is one thing for me to see something in my head and know it to be true. But to stake a man's life on it!”

“We are staking a kingdom on it, Miss Dee,” Cecil replies, his voice razor sharp. “So you'd better get used to the experience. You've demonstrated your skills masterfully. And you shall do so again. And again.”

“Or what?” I fume. “You'll kill me?”

Cecil has the temerity to laugh. “Kill you? I think not, Miss Dee. You're worth far more to us alive than dead, as yesterday's events amply illustrated.”

I stare at him, understanding his meaning, as blood drains from my face. “You cannot make me talk.”

“Oh, but we can,” Cecil says, quite recovered, his words almost cheerful. “The only question is, where will you do the talking? For all I care, you can spend the rest of your life in this room, never to see the stars. If you know nothing else about me, know this: I am a very patient man. Eventually you will tell us what we seek, when you have forgotten what a blue sky looks like, or the feel of the sun on your face. Eventually you will share your visions, when you long to hold flowers in your hands, or to hear a friend's laughter. It may take two days, it may take twenty. It won't take
years
, though, mark my words. For if you wait too long, I fear you will be able to predict the deaths of every friend you ever had, the other maids, even your young Marcus Quinn.” He does smile then, to see the shock upon my face. “The Queen can forge another assassin, Miss Dee,” he says quietly. “Another thief, another scholar. And I assure you, it will give her great good pleasure to have cause to rid herself of Beatrice. Is that what you want to have happen? For your fellow maids to pay for your unwillingness to do your job?”

A long and terrible silence stretches out between us, and in it I see the life I am to live. A prisoner in velvet chains, cozened perhaps, but no less trapped. For Cecil has the right of it, I feel it in my bones. The Queen may tire of Meg's sleight of hand. Jane may lose her touch at death. Beatrice may
run out of secrets and Anna out of solutions. But a woman such as Elizabeth will never tire of learning about the future. Especially her own.

“Yes,” Cecil says, watching me closely. “It does not take the Sight to puzzle out the truth of this. Eventually you will become the sword that Elizabeth wishes to wield. The sooner you come to terms with that, the more comfortable your life will be—and the safer your friends will be.”

He shifts off the wall, dusting his impeccably tailored doublet. “Now. What is it you were trying to tell us in the Queen's Privy Chamber? Walsingham confirmed that you had told him of two deaths, not one. When questioned, your fellow spies confirmed it as well.” Again, he raises a hand at my riffle of outrage. “They would have done anything to prove you were not out of your mind, Miss Dee. Which you will agree was a valid concern, after your demonstration at the convocation.”

I scowl at him mulishly, but he merely smiles. “And so, now you have the floor. What is it you wish to tell me?”

I blow out a long breath, tamping down my irritation. “My vision of the Queen is not as clear as what I saw of Moreland, and far more allegorical, I fear. But it's terrible nonetheless and should not be discounted. It opens with the Queen dressed in a gown of gold and black, laced with pearls.”

He considers that. “I have not seen this gown, but she is ever fond of pearls. Are you certain?”

“I am—and I haven't seen the gown before either. She is on a snow-white field, in the center of a large black cross. I cannot puzzle out if the field is actually covered in snow, or how the
cross is positioned so sharply and crisply upon the ground, but she is at its center. I and the other maids surround her at the field's edge, with swords of fire held aloft.” I grimace, hearing my own words. “I told you, it does not hew closely to reality.”

“It's a vision of the future,” Cecil says, more open-minded than I would expect from such a practical man. “Those do not always come in neatly wrapped packages.”

I continue, eager now for my dark tale to be done. “The Queen is crumpled on the ground, Sir William. Her crown has fallen from her head and she is dead.”

Cecil just nods. “Her injuries?”

“None at all,” I say. “Her mouth is closed, with no mark upon it. Her skin is unblemished. Only, her eyes remain open, staring to the sky. I have seen this vision now three times, enough that it gives me great pause. And this last time was the worst.” I focus on the wall beyond Cecil, reliving the horror of that final image once more. “In the room where I saw Walsingham kill Robert Moreland, there was another watcher there. Mistress Maude from Windsortown. The Queen was at her feet, dressed in the same gown, quite dead.”

“Maude!” Cecil utters the word not with wonder, but almost with validation. “Well, I can offer you some solace there, Miss Dee. Maude's role in this is not so dire as you fear.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Maude's presence in your vision of Walsingham is to be expected.” His voice rolls with satisfaction, as if he can already see the multiple uses for my Sight. “We did not only use her for the truth tonic, after all. Where do you think we got the poison that killed Robert Moreland?”

Exasperation sharpens my words. “Sir William, no. Regardless of your beliefs, Maude is not to be trusted!”

“I believe that's enough for one day,” Cecil says abruptly, his voice calm as he raps on the door of the cell. “I will leave you to consider your future.” The door opens, but he pauses as if a sudden thought strikes him. “One more thing,” he says, holding out a hand. “Your necklace, Miss Dee.”

I stiffen, feeling the weight of the obsidian stone around my neck. “My what?”

Cecil smiles triumphantly. “The bauble you wear around your neck, the black obsidian ball. Give it to me.” I hesitate, and he snaps his fingers. “Give it to me or I will have the guards come in and hold you down, and I will pluck it from your neck myself.”

Silently, as if in a dream, I lift the obsidian stone from my neck. I hand it over to Cecil, and feel as though something has been torn from me, as important as my hands or feet. “I cannot scry without it,” I say, but Cecil merely tucks the stone into the waistband of his doublet. He shakes his head.

“Nonsense, Miss Dee. We cannot have you depending on anything but your own mind, else this stone becomes a liability.” He taps his waistband happily. “Fortunately, you will have plenty of time to practice your craft as you consider what I have told you.”

When he steps out into the corridor, he takes all the light with him. The door slams shut, the cover solidly fixed. Silence presses down on me once more.