Maid of Wonder (10 page)

“There is a hall within the castle, quite abandoned,” I say, and I almost do not recognize the breathy voice that escapes
me, as soft and beguiling as anything I have heard from the most alluring ladies of the court. “Saint George's Hall. Can you meet me there?”

“I will find it and meet you there at midnight,” Marcus says, his hand curving over mine. His smile stretches a little wider, the glint in his eye betraying unmistakable interest.
But interest in what?
Am I merely the enemy of his employer, or is there something else in Marcus's gaze to justify my fractured breathing and my hammering pulse at the prospect of our secret meeting?

I nod quickly, but I cannot look away from his bright eyes. The moment stretches between us, soft with promise, and I feel myself shifting again. Not with the sickening spill of a trance, but something richer, fuller, that fills me up with such a heady brightness that it almost hurts to think.

A servant bumps between us, a platter descends and lands on the table with a clatter, and the rush and roar of the feast once again assaults my ears. With an embarrassed flush I draw my hand away, returning my attention to the meal in front of me. In truth, I am grateful for the distraction, to rally my wits and reset my purpose.

I will meet Marcus at midnight in Saint George's Hall, to learn all that he might share—about my uncle, about himself, and about his strange knowledge of me.

But I will meet with the angels first.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The dinner ends with Elizabeth's demand for music. Making use of my slight stature and quick feet, I disappear into the throng of courtiers and slip out of the Presence Chamber before I can be seen. I can only hope that Marcus does not follow me. When I am with him, I can't seem to focus on anything but not looking foolish, and clearly I am failing miserably at that, with my racing heart and ragged breath. This is ridiculous.
I am a Maid of Honor! And a seer, for the love of heaven.
Surely I can manage one young man.

Surely.

Squaring my shoulders with renewed confidence, I step into the darkness of the Upper Ward.

Leaving the castle is an impossibility, but there are still places in the darkness that I might hide, and one of my favorites is only a short distance away, through the Norman Gate and into the Middle Ward, where a parklike stand of trees huddles close along the base of the Round Tower. This earthen mound lifts the tower up high, providing a superior view to anyone so lucky as to be barricaded within the for
tified castle walls. I, however, have no need of the security of the tower itself . . . merely the trees that surround it so prettily.

I slip into this small woodland with the comfort of long familiarity. In broad daylight it is not so grand a hiding place, though I have used it in times of need. But most nights it is abandoned, and I move deep into its hushed quiet until I am nigh up against the Round Tower.

Blessedly, I am alone, and I pull out my obsidian scrying stone. I can barely see it in the shadows of this wood, yet dark fire seems to glint from its surface as I roll the stone in my fingers, and I feel the pull of the angelic realm upon me. Not for the first time, I wish I could slip into that place and remain there, searching its endless hills and vales for all the knowledge hidden from the mortal plane. But not tonight, unfortunately.

Tonight I need the truth.

I wrap my fingers around the stone and close my eyes, sinking within myself and drawing deep breaths, and give myself over to the dreaming. I feel the wood around me shift, the whisper of a breeze indicating that I'm in a larger space. I am chilled, and I open my eyes to see that I am back in the misty glade of the angelic realm. A host of spirits awaits, eagerly surrounding me. They speak at once, their voices high and fast, melding together in a hurried song. I wonder at their urgency, and then I understand. My grim specter is not here. In his absence the angels are a clamoring rabble, and I am reminded of those first few times when I crossed over into their realm, and I was overwhelmed with
all that they would tell me, all that I could see. Only in time did they grow quieter . . . and that was when I first noticed the dark angel among them.

Was my specter the reason for their restraint? Does it hold them in some sort of check? My heart quickens with excitement, for the dark angel clearly is absent now. I can ask anything—everything!

“Can you tell me what I seek?” I ask, and then I form the question in my mind, for I am loath to say the word “death” aloud. I cannot risk frightening the angels away, and worse—I sense that speaking such a dark word will draw the specter back into our midst.

Ask . . . ask,
they respond, and their excitement is palpable. I see their faces more clearly than ever before. The blue-white gilding of their raiment streams around them, reflecting their porcelain skin, their vacant eyes, and their slender, graceful features. They look like Greek statues clothed in ghostlike fire, and I should be put off by their eerie, eyeless faces. And yet I am not. Instead, I spread my hands in supplication.

“Who is the soul doomed by Mother Shipton's prophecy? Is it the Queen?”

Just like that, half the angels wink out like guttering candles, and I swirl around, reaching out wildly. “Please, don't leave!” I beg, and I sense danger approaching. The dark specter is even now bearing down on our small group, I know it in my bones.

But why? Why would he keep this information from me?

The angels that remain seem harsher, their faces no longer serene, their fiery wings spreading wide, as if to encage me. I
reach out, and to my shock I see them reaching back. I step forward, sensing that our time is perilously short.
Hurry, hurry!
And as I am trapped within the circle of their wings, something sharp explodes against my skull, like a child's toy shattering against a rock. An impossible pressure rakes through my mind, and I feel moisture welling up in my eyes as an image appears in front of me, as plain as day.

I see the same doomed man as before. But instead of lying dead in his bed, he is robustly alive. Grinning and laughing, he walks through the Middle Ward amidst a group of courtiers. I must have seen him before, and yet I still cannot recall him. But unlike the other nobles, this man is once more draped in a purple sash, and he's carrying a scepter of royalty. Who is this man who walks as a king? I strain to see, my eyes blurring with tears. I hear his name called—I think it's his name—Richard? Robert? Some name as this, but I cannot discern it. He turns and laughs with recognition at the man approaching him.

And this man I do know. I have seen him nearly every day since I arrived at Windsor Castle—Sir Francis Walsingham, his too-serious face now alight with good humor, his manner easy, his laughter unforced.

My heart quails within me, and I stand a moment, bereft, as the scene shifts and tumbles, my vision no longer clear. I see Walsingham once more, at the foot of the dead man's bed. The advisor's face is racked with pain as he stares down at the man's still form. Tears stream down Walsingham's hollow cheeks, though his jaw is resolute, his fists clenched. The doomed man is a friend of Walsingham's? Can this be true? I
will have to tell the Queen's spymaster this vision, and yet . . . how does one find the words?

I sigh, blinking away my own tears, lifting my hands to clear my eyes—and then stop short. For the sight I see next freezes my blood.

The Queen lies before me, in a grand gown of gold and black, pearls glistening from the rich fabric, her gold-and-pearl-encrusted tiara knocked askew in her red hair. The field around her is snowy white, but she has fallen at the very center of a large black cross painted on the ground. Her eyes are wide, blank . . . and are staring at a night's sky whose dawn will never come.

She is dead.

At that moment, something dark and furious rushes toward me through the sighing angels, their wings of light scattering the image before me into fragments as I feel a staff pushed broadside against my chest. I trip backward over my obsidian bench, shoved out of the angelic realm as quickly as I slipped into it.

I blink awake, scrambling up, shocked to see I have collapsed upon the ground. Turning around once, twice, I assure myself that no one has followed me, no one has seen me fall. Nevertheless, though it is yet full dark outside, I cannot say how long I have tarried in the angelic realm. My eyes still blurry with unshed tears, I stumble quickly out of the wood. I pause at the Norman Gate to catch my breath, and reach up to brush the tears from my eyes.

I frown. Too much moisture pools against my fingers. I pull my hands down, angling them to reflect the light from the sconces . . . and gasp.

It was not tears that I wiped away from my eyes . . . It was blood. Rivulets of blood, I realize, too much for me to ignore. Scrying has done this to me, I am certain. But how? And why?

I scurry back into the shadows, casting about for something to wipe my face clean. In my haste to enter the angelic realm, I fled the castle without a cloak, and I dare not defile my gown with such a foul stain. I retrace my steps toward the wooded section of the Middle Ward, snatching at leaves to clear the worst of the blood away. But I need water, towels. I need—

“Miss Sophia Dee! I have been looking everywhere for you!”

The words are high-pitched and breathless, one of the court pages. I turn quickly in the semidarkness, praying that my face gives nothing away.

“Yes?” I ask, as calmly as possibly. “Does the Queen have—”

The boy cuts me off. “You are to come with me, Miss Dee! On order of the Queen!” He hands out a small strip of parchment, and for a certainty it's affixed with the Queen's seal.

Before I can speak, the page continues. “I was told to bring you at once, and I have taken too long in finding you.” Without waiting for my reply, he darts off, leaving me with no choice but to follow him. Instead of heading back toward the Upper Ward, however, he turns smartly toward the Lower, angling straight for the western walls of the castle.

“What is this?” I ask, hastening after him. “Where are we going?”

His words send an unwarranted bolt of fear through me. “The chapel!” he calls over his shoulder, and then he is off into the darkness, knifing his way through the Lower Ward.

The chapel?
What on earth could Elizabeth want of me in Saint George's Chapel, and at this hour?

In a few short minutes we arrive, and the page waves me through. Despite my extreme misgivings, I step inside the chapel's doors, the boy right on my heels.

“Chapel” is perhaps not quite a fair assessment of the place. The main church of Windsor Castle is huge and soaring, built to hold all of the castle's residents. At this hour it appears deserted, and yet it cannot be. I have been brought here for some purpose, after all. The page whispers to me to move ahead, clearly awed by the great space, but I pause a precious minute more, dipping my hands into the font at the front doors of the church as if to sanctify myself. I swipe my face with my hands to clear any remaining blood from my cheeks. Then, at the page's urging, I finally step forward into the church's long, central corridor.

I move down the aisle, remembering Beatrice's thwarted wedding, which was held in this grand space less than two short months ago. How much has changed for us all since then! Beatrice is now in love with another man entirely, I have learned to scry, and—

A sound catches my attention, and I jerk to a stop, peering into the gloom.
What's this?

Six men stand in a long row just inside the right nave of the chapel, their hands clasped, their entire bodies covered in cloaks and hoods. I recognize them instantly. They
are Questioners, devout men dedicated to a higher calling: to root out heretics, Satan-worshipers, or those who defy the Church.

We are no Catholic stronghold, mark me plain. These Questioners are not priests, nor do they have the blessing of the pope—far from it! Elizabeth has no patience for the religious order that branded her as illegitimate. Instead, these Questioners serve God with more of a personal passion. Hidden behind their heavy hoods, they hold forth with pious zeal to rid the kingdom of all that is unclean. I do not know if Elizabeth wonders if their motives are entirely pure—or if she cares. But she certainly understands that under those hoods may lurk the richest and most powerful men in her realm. She needs the support of these men, and their money. And so, for now at least, she gives them leave to wield their holy Bibles like weapons, that all might see that she and her kingdom walk firmly in the light of God.

Beatrice has warned me of these men as well. In recent weeks she has been suffered to answer their questions in the Queen's presence, though she was not the subject of their interest.

I was.

I strain to see into the darkness beyond the men. We are not alone, I am sure of it. Others watch from the shadows. Is the Queen among them? She must be. Her ring shines from my right hand, a symbol of the Queen's grace. By Elizabeth's own decree, no one may hold me for questioning—be they priest, magistrate, noble, or guard—without her presence. And she
is
here. I can feel it.

Which means, what, exactly? She has sanctioned this questioning? But why?

My mind rushes to fill in all the empty spaces. The Queen has demanded that Dee, Nostradamus, and I each provide her with an answer to Mother Shipton's prophecy. We are to give her those answers tomorrow evening. Why would she risk me being labeled a heretic, when she actually has true need of me?

Unless, of course, she has no choice. It was not so long ago that Elizabeth's mother was beheaded amidst swirling rumors of witchcraft, after all. With the Queen's fledgling reign only now taking wing, any accusation of heresy would be devastating. At best, such an accusation would delay her policies and incite her foes. At worst . . .

It seems that even Gloriana's power has its limits, after all.

“Miss Sophia Dee?” The tallest man's voice slides out over the space, and I find myself rooted to the spot for a moment. Beatrice mentioned this man specifically. His voice is eerily smooth, like that of a snake's. Perspiration gathers at my brow and the nape of my neck, and I weigh my response carefully.

“My lord,” I say, dropping into a curtsy. I'm not sure in truth whether he is a lord, a priest, or a common rogue, but his voice sounds cultured and learned. And when I rise, it is to hear that same man's words wash over me with mocking censure.