Maid of Wonder (11 page)

“Do you know why you are here this evening?”

“I am here because the Queen summoned me, my lord.”

“And do you always do what she demands?”

“I do. To the extent I may serve her and God, I stand at the ready to meet her every request.”

My voice sounds overloud in the wide space, an unusual experience for me. I sense more than hear a shift in the darkness, and force myself not to look.
Who is there?
The Queen, I pray—and yet again, if it is, why has she subjected me to endure this questioning?

“You speak of God!” The voice comes from the left, vicious and sharp. I startle, stepping back. Which is, apparently, the exact wrong thing to do. “Do not move!”

And then a second man, bulkier than the first, pushes out of the line of Questioners. He advances on me aggressively, as if he means to strike me. Instead he thrusts something at me, and I take it without thinking. It is a book, a large Bible, in fact. One of the most lovely bound copies I have ever seen.

Growling, he opens the Bible in my hands, stabbing at a passage while holding a torch high. “Do you recognize this book?” he demands.

“Yes, my lord,” I say, the awe in my voice completely unfeigned. It is the Geneva New Testament! I had heard of this printing, but I have not yet seen—

“Read!” he commands.

I squint at the book. He has opened to a passage of the Acts of the Apostles, written by Luke. My eyes fix on the top of the page.
“There were in the Congregation that was at Antioche, certayne Prophetes, and teachers, as Barnabas, and Simeon called Niger, and Lucius of Cyrene, and Manahen, which had bene broght vp with Herod the kynge, and Saul.”
I continue on, but I have read the Bible before. This is a particularly fine copy of it, and all of it written in English, not Latin.

Finally the thick man seems to tire of my voice. “Look
here!” he shouts, seeming unduly angry with me. I no sooner look up than I feel the cool pressure of a metal cross against my forehead. There is a gasp somewhere, or perhaps I'm the one gasping, but the man just presses more firmly. Almost firmly enough to bruise. He waits, but I do not explode into flames. He seems fairly disappointed about that.

“Take it away,” a new voice commands. Not the slithering whisper of the tall man, but a voice that sounds almost rational. He must be the leader of this group. “Take them both away.”

The man rips the Bible and the cross away from me, the sharp edges of the cross dragging against my forehead in its upward arc. If I do not scar from this, it truly will be a miracle.

The new man steps forward. “Sophia Dee, please tell us of your relationship with your uncle, John Dee.”

I lift my chin, betraying no alarm. “He is a caring protector, my lord. I am grateful for his kindness in raising me.”

“And did you study with your uncle?”

I allow myself a smile. “I saw him very rarely, in truth. When I was young, I played near him while he read his books, in the home of his mother. Does that signify?”

“You did not read those books?”

“No, my lord. By the time I grew old enough to read, my visits to him were more restricted, not less so.” I say this as if I were only now reflecting on the oddness of the statement, though not only is it true, but I sense it is the right answer to give. Dee, for all his many flaws, has survived an Inquisition of his own. He knew well how to protect me. “I read the Bible, as well as discourses on the management of country
homes, but mostly I worked on my needlepoint.”

“You never spoke with your uncle about his studies?”

“No, though I confess that I did want to. What child doesn't want to have conversation with the only parent she has ever known? But my uncle refused to speak on any subjects other than my own studies, or birds, or the weather.” I prattle on, desperate to hit upon the right combination of words to satisfy these men.

“And do you ever find yourself staring into the fire, or a stone, or a pool of water, Miss Dee, seeing visions that are not really there?”

“What?” I force myself to laugh aloud as if in shocked surprise. Then, like a girl caught acting immaturely, I school my face into an expression of worried concern, casting my eyes down. “Forgive me, my lord. I am merely surprised by your question. But, no, I do not have time for daydreams. I serve the Queen, and she is an exacting mistress. When I have idle hands, I put them to my embroidery. There is nothing more soothing to me than sewing, I confess. And when my mind is idle, I think on my studies or I read from
The Book of Common Prayer
.”

The men seem momentarily at a loss. I suspect they rather expected my fingers would go up in smoke at the touch of the Bible, and with that possibility passed, they don't know quite what to do with me. For myself, I allow a moment of smugness. Meg isn't the only Maid of Honor with the gift of acting, it appears! Here are six men of worth and importance, challenging me with questions that they have every right to ask. I do scry with the intent of actively seeking out the spirit
world. I do presume to ask the angels for their assistance in predicting the future. Should I wish, I could enter into the angelic realm at this exact moment and demand to know these men's innermost secrets! I wager the spirits would tell me, too. Even the dark angel cannot seem to resist sharing the mysteries of this world, though it seemed quite upset about doing so when I last saw it. The active pursuit of such knowledge is a heinous crime against the Crown, and I am an unrepentant offender.

But not here, not now, I remind myself. Currently I am naught but an innocent young girl. That is the far wiser course.

I press my palms together demurely, the picture of prim innocence.

And then my heart does begin to pound.

For though I clench my hands together, I can see one long, rust-colored mark between the fingers of my left hand, smeared and drying, but proclaiming to any who would look closely enough, that something very wrong recently happened to Miss Sophia Dee.

My hands are stained with blood.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It is nearly full dark around our little group, but I can still see the cover of the Geneva New Testament illuminated by torchlight as the hooded man holds it against his robe. Are there streaks marring the cover? Did I actually just despoil a book of God?

I die a thousand deaths standing here, willing the precious tome to go up in flames before anyone can discover my blood staining its cover, but the fat man does me one better. Turning abruptly to thrust his holy icons at his neighbor, he stumbles in an ungainly fashion and staggers into the man, the two of them flailing for the bound holy book. They keep hold of it, but the sharp edges of the cross the fat man also holds do him no favors. I hear his yelp as he slices his own palm, and then he
does
drop the Bible. It hits the rushes for a scant second before his fellow Questioner catches it up again and clutches it against his rough woolen cloak. With any luck, that will do the trick of hiding any marks from my errant fingers.

I try to appear as small and harmless as possible. Women
have been blamed for men's foolishness, their stupidity, and their sins throughout time. And I am, by these men's own suspicion, a witch—a servant of Satan, coconspirator with demons. How difficult a leap would it be for them to decide I had somehow reached out and made this man stumble?

At the moment, though, I appear to be spared any further scrutiny, as the others turn on the man like rats in a cage.

“Sirrah!” one of them hisses. “You would do well to mind your step as well as your manner, and don the robe of a child if yours is too long to manage.”

“A simple misstep,” the fat man blusters. “Any of you would have done the same.”

“Yet this is not your only misstep,” another one says dolefully. “Pray it is your last.”

The fat man's tight “As you say” is filled with anger and loathing, and I sense him refocusing on me, eager to lay the blame for his misfortune at my feet. I remain silent, however. For I am still being watched by the leader of this group. And he is by far the greater threat.

“You may go, Miss Dee,” that one says at last. And he lifts his voice, as if speaking to the back of the chapel. “We will inform the Queen that you have conducted yourself well.”

“My lord,” I barely manage. I curtsy deeply, then turn and do my best not to race headlong out of the church. I feel too many eyes upon me as I go, but there is a movement in the shadows keeping pace with me, and that is what I focus on. Someone else, it appears, has borne witness to my questioning. As vast as the chapel is, it would be easy enough for someone to slip inside—but who could it be?

It is not one of my fellow maids, I am certain. The figure is too tall, too masculine. And it is neither Cecil nor Walsingham; his footfalls are too quick. I sense it is a young man. Every nerve in my body prickles with awareness.
Marcus!
It has to be him. I don't know whether to laugh or scowl, to shout with outrage or relief.

And why is he here, specifically? Is he worried for me, or simply doing the bidding of John Dee, keeping tabs on the young woman who is about to defeat him in front of the Queen?

The sudden heaviness of my heart shows me where my true beliefs lie. Is Marcus Quinn about to betray me, once again?

Because I cannot run out of the chapel, though I am sorely tempted, I lose steps as my watcher gains them. By the time I clear the church doors, I have enough time only to see a figure slip around the corner and disappear into the shadows outside. He is heading for the bottom of the Lower Ward.

The Sophia Dee of months' past would have flown back to her fellow spies, her mouth tremulous, her knees shaking, seeking only to hide away, and to attempt not to faint.

But I am no longer that girl.

Marcus is fast, but I have not been training as a Maid of Honor all these long months for no purpose. I gain ground as he moves past the opening of the Horseshoe Cloister and along the wall as if he were making his way to the King's Gate. This ordinarily wouldn't be a poor idea, but there are guards at the gate, and fires burning on both sides of the wall. Surely he will be seen.

As if reading my mind, the man does not hasten toward the bright fires but cleaves to the shadows. I lose him briefly as he blends in with the rocky outcropping of the wall, and then to my shock, I hear a telltale scrape against the stone. I tilt my chin upward and see that he is clambering up the walls, as quick as a pine marten and twice as bold. I curse beneath my breath. Once he is over the top edge of the outer walls of Windsor Castle, I will lose him for sure!

I spend a precious few moments tending to my skirts. I loosen the ties of the Spanish farthingale that serves to stretch my gown out far away from my body, and stuff it behind a stand of shrubs. Then I knot the endless yards of material that make up my skirts and tie them high on my hips, only my shift remaining at its full length for modesty.

And then I'm at the wall.

My fellow maids and I have trained to climb all manner of obstacles, and the walls of Windsor are thankfully far from smooth. Fortunately, most souls are fast abed at this hour or at the very least deep in their cups, and are not out staring at strange shadows scurrying up walls, but I cannot draw attention to myself or I will have far worse trouble than Questioners on my hands.

Quietly, then, I haul myself arm over arm up the vertical surface, grabbing at edges and ledges and pits in the stones. My slippers are no boon to me, and I kick them off after I slide the third time. At least now I can move more nimbly, for all my stubbed toes and torn stockings. I am up and over the lip of the wall in another minute more, but I have taken too long. I can hear the footfalls of a man running far up the
twisting pathway along the top of the castle wall, but I cannot see him at all.

A sudden compulsion possesses me.
I need to see!
I swallow, not permitting myself time for fear, and tilt my head, letting my eyelids droop, my body still.

Immediately the scene before me shifts. The narrow corridor of stone atop the castle wall, bordered on each side with ledges tall enough to protect the guards from archers' arrows, seems significantly wider than it did before. It is also blanketed in a weird, ethereal light, all of its treacherous twists and jags laid bare to my eyes. I can easily see my quarry ahead. He is well on his way to the Upper Ward, aiming for the Visitors Apartments. The Queen's men, meanwhile, are camped on the far side of the castle walls. The first set of guards appears fascinated by what is happening on the Thames, while the second set is still down near Saint George's Chapel. If I am quick, I will not encounter either pair of the Queen's men. Then again, neither will my quarry.

I dash off and notice something else. Each step I take while Sighted seems to take me farther than it should, as if I were leaping and bounding, not merely running, as if I were moving at unusual speed. Where the pathway is blocked, I clamber up and over the obstructions. Where it is little more than a rooftop, my feet are solid and sure. I cannot fall, I cannot slow. I am protected in a way I have never felt before.

I have no time to consider this strange experience, however. As I fly up the narrow passageway, I can see the young man ahead of me as clear as full day.

It
is
Marcus Quinn.

Even as I recognize him, Marcus stops short and whirls. I sink down into a crouch, holding my breath. Darkness once more blankets me, and I can only hope that Marcus cannot see me. He has followed me into the angelic realm, and when I look at him with the Sight, he appears unnaturally bright, almost as bright as Nostradamus. What if I appear that clearly to him? I pray this is not the case. I wait a moment more and peek out again, but he no longer stares toward me. His attention is back on the path in front of him.

I squint into the darkness, getting my bearings for where we stand atop the castle wall. We are over the Visitors Apartments, and Marcus is moving much more slowly, taking a few steps along the passage that is now more rooftop than walkway. He pauses to peer over the side of the wall before setting off again, seemingly looking for a particular window. I have to reach him before he goes over the edge and out of sight. There are too many questions I must ask him, to let him slip through my fingers.

At exactly that moment, Marcus disappears over the side of the roof. I race after him and lean over. He is clambering down the wall now, as easily as he came up, and I squint hard, noting the window into which he slides. The moment he is out of sight, I am over the roof's edge and down the wall as well. My hands have begun to object to their rough treatment, and I grit my teeth as the stone bites into my palms. I slide down the last few feet to draw level with the window.

What I see inside confirms my suspicions. Marcus is not alone in the room. He is with John Dee.

I hang against the wall for a moment, unsure what to do.
I cannot stay here, in the lee of the building. Any idiot with eyes to see will spot me. I gaze sorrowfully downward. The ground is yet another twenty feet below, and I am not in the mood to break a limb.

I hug the wall and ease myself down a few more feet, swinging over to grip the windowsill. I glance back into the room, and go rigid with shock.

Dee and Marcus are sitting opposite each other over a large makeshift table, its surface etched deeply with arcane symbols and a complex maze of geometric shapes. Marcus looks glassy-eyed and pale, his face almost ashen in hue. But his mouth is open, his lips moving, and as he speaks, I can hear the rush of angelic voices, all of them tumbling together, yet discernible to my ears.

“Window,” Marcus is saying in the strange voice of angels, his eyes fixed on the wall beyond Dee. “Window.”

Window!

Dee's face registers his understanding even as I breathe out a curse. Before he can fully turn toward the sill where I am hanging, I push myself out from the wall and allow myself to fall.