Maid of Wonder (14 page)

“Very well.” He gestures for me to precede him out of Saint George's Hall. “Since it is not currently snowing at Windsor, then it appears we have the luxury of focusing only on your first prediction this night, distasteful as it may be. Go, then, to your post at Nostradamus's chamber.”

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it at Walsingham's black look. Together we move down the wide corridor that will lead to the main doors of this side of the castle, such that I will have only a short walk across the Quadrangle to reach the Visitors Apartments. At the next intersection of rooms he halts, waving me ahead.

“You have given me much to consider, Sophia, and much work to do this night,” he says. “But now you must take your focus away from what you have seen and fix it upon whatever Nostradamus is searching out.”

Walsingham's expression is both grim and strangely wry. “If indeed the prophet-seer is conjuring spirits in his chambers, let's make sure he gives them a good Windsor welcome.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I find the guard awaiting me exactly where Walsingham indicated, and only then do I realize that I have no idea how the Queen's spymaster found me, there in the gloom of Saint George's Hall. It's not as though I told the other maids where I was off to. What other spies lurk in the halls of Windsor Castle?

Either way, I do not envy Walsingham the task before him: explaining to his friend that he must leave Windsor at once. My vision showed quite clearly that Robert Moreland will die at Windsor Castle if he remains. This of course makes no sense, since Mother Shipton's prediction talks only of royalty. I recall the chilling words of the prophecy in the old crone's croaking whisper:

A royal house defeated,

disaster unforeseen.

Death comes to Windsor

to court the maiden Queen.

How could Robert Moreland have anything to do with a royal house? Still, it doesn't matter if I do not understand the
vision I've received from the angels . . . only that I act upon it. Or, rather, that Walsingham does.

When the guard sees me, he turns without comment, leading me down the long hallway at the base of the Visitors Apartments. When we reach the alcove, he departs just as silently. I hasten to the door that Walsingham mentioned. When I give the panel a gentle push, it swings open without a sound.

I step inside and reseat the door, checking twice that it will open again for me when my work here is through. Satisfied I will not be locked in this secret stair for eternity, I turn round, willing my eyes to get used to the darkness. No sconces here, for certain. If there are holes riddled into the walls, any light would give me away.

As silently as I can, I creep up the circling stair, my hands sliding ahead of me along the wall. At length, there are no more stairs and the space opens wide enough that I can stand on a small landing. Once again I reach out with questing fingers to trace over the walls, touching lightly to mark several grooves in the stone. Each appears to be stoppered with soft, fresh clay packed into a small fabric bag, and I wonder if Walsingham inspected this closet himself before allowing Nostradamus to be housed next to it. I choose a groove at random that is at a comfortable height and, holding my breath, remove its covering from the wall. When the small plug comes easily away, I lean forward, pressing my face to the wall that I might observe what the great Nostradamus is doing in his lair.

The great Nostradamus appears to be . . . sleeping.

Squinting to see more clearly, I note what I can of the
room, given my limited view. The French doctor is slumped forward in his chair, his body slack and loose, his back to me, his head bobbing in uneven rhythm as he snores with a rough wheeze. The chair itself, what I can see of it beneath his coarse-spun grey robes, seems to be more of a stand than a proper chair, a brass tripod that is perched next to a large, shallow bowl on the floor.

Beyond the doctor I can see a broad table where a cluster of golden candles sits, their light sending flickering shadows all through the room. I see books gathered there as well, and a silver globe, along with the dull blade of a ceremonial knife . . . but, intriguingly, no skulls or other instruments of the arcane arts. I wonder at the books Nostradamus has brought with him on his rushed trip to Windsor Castle. Does he have
De Mysteriis Aegyptiorum
—a copy of which Anna has now stolen twice from Dee's library—a tome of ancient magic from Egyptian, Chaldean, Greek, and Assyrian practices? Or perhaps the
Clavicula Salomonis
—the Key of Solomon—which would give him the names of all the demons known to mortal man? Are these the books that provide his pathway to the angelic realm?

An odd scent filters to me through the spy hole, and I pause. It's sharp but not unpleasant. Nutmeg? That is a costly spice, but Nostradamus has been well compensated by both the French court and the countless souls who have bought his almanac for the past several years. I have no doubt he can afford all the spices he might wish to sweeten his nightly meditation.

Something moves deep in the room, and I press my face to the stone, refocusing my attention on Nostradamus.
I stretch up onto the tips of my toes and peer at the floor beneath the good doctor. All of the rushes have been swept away, and there is a thick line drawn around him in heavy chalk, surrounding Nostradamus in a perfect circle. Small, stubby, unlit candles rest around the edge of the circle, and beyond those another shape has been drawn on the floor. That one is a triangle. No candles line its edges, but I can tell that Nostradamus has chalked words and symbols I cannot decipher along each of its three sides.

Instantly I understand what is happening here, and my hands tighten into fearful fists against the wall.

Nostradamus is not stepping into the spirit world, like I do. He is bringing the spirit world to him.

At that moment, the doctor rouses himself abruptly. He stands up from his small chair. His grey robes float around him as he stoops to light the candles around the edge of his chalk circle, and I can barely hear his muttered words, though I discern that he is reciting in Latin.

As he speaks, however, I notice something else. The basin of water at his feet begins to bubble and roil, its water sloshing against the brim, lapping over the sides. I watch in wonder as a sound floats up from the water's surface, a thin, creaking moan. Nostradamus does not appear to be alarmed at this strange noise. Instead, he sets down another candle beside the basin and pauses a moment over the water, peering into its murky depths.

He murmurs more Latin, once again too soft for me to understand all of the words, but I do hear him speak the name of God. His face is beatific in the steam now rising
from the basin, though how steam can be produced, I do not understand. There is no flame beneath the shallow bowl.

Still, Nostradamus's grey eyes are alight with wonder and even a simple joy. He is connecting with the spirit realm, whether solely in his own mind or perhaps through some image appearing to him in the water. The visions he sees transport him into a kind of mild trance, his hands moving over the water as if to caress the steam that is now billowing more heavily. It spills over the edge of the basin as he recites lilting invocations to whatever lies within that watery tomb.

Then the smoke dissipates, and the thin moans are back. Only, now it is many voices threaded into one, a building and ebbing wail. The angels have never spoken with such anguish to me, thank heavens. It is as if Nostradamus were tapping into a deep well of pain with whatever question he has put to them. The doctor leans forward, and in his eyes I see something new. A holy fire has been lit within him, his face now almost level with the basin of water, his lips moving quickly but silently, as if these final incantations are meant only for spectral ears.

A sharp, discordant clatter sounds behind Nostradamus, and I jump almost as high as he does. The doctor turns just as the candles spurt around his circle, their flames leaping into the shadows. Then the triangle drawn on his chamber floor begins to shift and shimmer.

Something is scratching at the edges of the chalk, desperate to escape.

I barely forestall a squeak as an image seems to burst up from the floor, the wraith of fire and shadow filling the space constrained by the chalk triangle. I immediately think it is
my grim spirit, but this creature is far older and seems far more dangerous. Its back is hunched, its long robes are in tatters, and its arms are buried under thick sleeves of charred wool. It spins around, clearly enraged, and seems to fix its attention on Nostradamus, though in truth, I cannot see its features in the black hole beneath its hood. Like my dark angel, this one's cowl is ringed with fire, but it is a wilder flame, deep red in color, that seems to blaze in fury when the dark spirit spots the man standing in the chalk circle a few feet away from him.

“Venia, venia,”
Nostradamus says, holding out his hands. The creature hisses in rage and pain, and the doctor titters nervously, the sound of his laughter almost as frightening as the keening wail that soars up from the basin. “I would not ask, but to confirm,” he implores.

The dark spirit pauses, seeming momentarily confused. Then it leans its head back, its hood falling slightly away but not enough to bare the face hidden beneath. It speaks, and I hear the roar of a thousand voices, each more pained and wounded than the last. Is this what Marcus heard when he first stepped into the spectral realm? As strident as angelic voices have seemed to me, they have never been so loud as this. At length, I am able to piece out four distinct phrases, all of them combining into an anguished scream.

“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.”

Nostradamus staggers, overwhelmed by the sound that seems to shake the room, but by the time he has recovered, the creature in the triangle has slipped back into the floor, with only a wisp of black smoke remaining to mark its passage.

The doctor moves quickly to the basin, but it too has gone quiet. Frantically, he pats his heavy robe until he finds a pouch and stylus hidden in its drape. He pulls out a small, bound book, leans over, and begins writing fiercely.

I reel away from the tiny spy hole, blinking in the darkness, the demon's words ringing in my ears. No wonder Nostradamus's prophecies are so confusing! He cannot do what I do. He cannot truly cross over. Instead he must pull his spectral messages out of the very firmament of Heaven—or Hell.

The words of the demon echo around my skull, battering my mind. Verily, if I had to rely solely on such garbled howls as these for my sole source of information from the angels, I
would
surely go mad.

I hear the doctor's strange, high-pitched laughter and immediately press forward, resetting my eye to the spy hole. Nostradamus has broken his circle. He is now pacing the length of his large chamber, the little notebook to his chest, his eyes fever bright. And all the while he laughs. Laughs until he cries, laughs . . . like a man whose mind is broken.

Unbidden, Marcus's words return to me.
That way lies only madness.

After watching Nostradamus for several minutes, I reach out to make my way back down the turning stair. What Nostradamus has done is heresy. He did not passively receive
that vision, as if in a dream. He sought it out, drawing it from a demon he conjured into this world. If he is ever discovered, his life will be forfeit.

But he won't be discovered, I know. His prophecies have grown too powerful, and with power comes safety. And clearly, Nostradamus believes he has completed his task. Tomorrow night at moonrise, he will have his answer for the Queen.

I have my answer too, but unlike the good doctor, I am not wandering about in tight circles, giddy with what I've learned. Has he been shown a different person than I have?

Is my fell prediction the correct one?

Or, yet stranger still, are both of our conclusions the same?

No matter the answer, I know that in barely eighteen hours, my future will be made.

Or lost.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“This is foolishness.” The disgust in Jane's voice is palpable, and I am in full accord.

We are gathered in a corner of the mercifully abandoned Presence Chamber, the long tables pushed up against the wall. It is the last place in the world I wish to be. Walsingham has rejected every attempt I've made to speak to him, though he must know I have information about Nostradamus. Is this some sort of test of my patience? Of my will?

If so, I am failing it miserably. I have nearly gone mad, trying to stay quiet. If I cannot seek out Walsingham soon, I fear I will burst.

Still, for the moment at least, I am beset with an entirely different type of misery. A clutch of musicians has assembled near us, tuning and plucking their instruments, graciously providing accompaniment as we practice dancing. All five spies are present this morning, plus Rafe de Martine, who has just arrived from London, to Meg's great joy.

Meg and Beatrice are competent dancers, skilled enough to make the rounds while drawing their partners into conver
sation. The rest of us, however—Anna, myself, and Jane—lack even a modicum of comfort with the art.

But tonight, perhaps to balance the more dire nature of the Queen's convocation of seers, there will be music. There will be dancing. And, by the Queen's own decree, there will be
men
, without the usual round of women to escort them. The most select group of nobles in Elizabeth's court, in fact, handpicked because they have all earned her favor.

And all uniquely positioned . . . to serve as a test for Maude's truth tonic.

It was Anna who first suggested this plan, but the rest of us agreed quite readily. Put a little of the tincture in their wine, and courtiers one and all should be spilling secrets faster than they can spin us round in a country reel. Even the Queen has approved Anna's suggestion, though with unanticipated results. Elizabeth is now apparently considering whether she should make Maude some sort of official court herb mistress, the better for us to study her craft.

Now, that really is foolishness.

However, our plans are set. Tonight, we shall dance. Which means today, we must practice.

I smooth my skirts down, using the movement to wipe dry my sweating palms. I have barely slept an hour since leaving Nostradamus's chambers, eager to meet again with Walsingham and tell him what I have learned about the French doctor and his conjuring . . . and about the Queen. But Walsingham has been locked in his chambers all morning, and at last I had no recourse but to join the others here for this required lesson.

Rafe is currently paired off with Anna, whose blushes cannot seem to be stemmed. Her ginger coloring does her no service in this regard; her emotions show clearly on her fair skin. Currently her emotion appears to be “mortification.”

“I
am
sorry,” she blurts, having trod once again on Rafe's toe. “I'm just so nervous.”

“Preserve me from this,” Jane mutters. She fishes a small bottle out of one of the pouches at her side, and tosses it to Anna, then pushes her aside. Rafe, startled, flourishes the traditional stance of any modern dance, the Honor. Jane executes hers with the precision of a knife thrust.

“What is this?” Anna asks, wrinkling her nose as she uncaps the flask. She gasps. “Jane, this is aqua vitae! Where did you get spirits this strong?”

“Drink a full measure of it,” Jane says. “You'll never get through this otherwise, and neither will I.”

The musicians strike up a soft flow of music, and Jane and Rafe go through the sedate paces of the Pavane, stepping up and down the room as Beatrice surveys them critically. “I will not perform the Volta,” Jane says, her voice clipped, though no one has asked it of her. “I will consent to the Trenchmore, and the Galliard and Almain. I'll kill someone before I get drawn into a Gavotte, however, I'll tell you plain.”

“How do you know any of these?” Beatrice demands. “I have never seen you once upon the dance floor. Ever.”

Jane shrugs as she shifts toward Rafe. “Your Scotsman convinced me to learn.”

“Alasdair?” Beatrice fairly squeaks the word. “When did you have a conversation with him about dancing
,
of all things?”

“Here at Windsor, when you were sparring with the Queen and he was being driven to distraction by your absence.” Beatrice's brows go up, but Jane turns in a tight arc, not graceful so much as precise. Fluid. The musicians are as shocked as we are, however, unable to take their eyes off her sinuous form. She is long and lean and deceptively strong, but she is still not at home on the dance floor. I suspect she agrees with this assessment, else she would not suffer to practice in our company. “We discussed dance as warfare. He said you gave him the idea.”

“Well. I did no such thing.” Beatrice sniffs.

“He has a point,” Anna supplies helpfully. She has capped the bottle of Jane's flask, and does look the better for having taken a drink. “I've certainly wounded more than my share of dancing partners, never having drawn a blade.”

“And you have learned your craft excellently, Miss Morgan.” Humor laces Rafe's voice as he holds Jane's hand aloft. “'Tis a question of subtlety, naught more. An easing to your manner. Perhaps, as a suggestion, I would urge you to think of the effort more as a game than an attack?”

“Mmph.”

I laugh, even as a short knock sounds at the door nearest our company. Rafe and Jane split away from each other and instantly balance on their toes, which I marvel at—they are both so primed for action, so ready for battle at the slightest provocation. What would it be like to have violence as your guiding star?

So entranced am I with this idea that I do not turn to see who enters our small group, and thus the young man's words
strike me unawares. I am glad that only Anna can see my face blanch in dismay.

“Good day, my ladies, sir. I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

“Master Quinn,” I say, masking my nerves by turning quickly to him and holding out my hands. The effect of seeing him again is stronger than I expected, and my face heats despite my determined smile. Was it really less than twelve hours ago that we spoke? That we kissed? It seems like a century has passed, and my fingers tingle with anticipation, my heart lurching into an ungainly gallop. “What a surprise to see you.”

“Pray, are we not yet so acquainted that you might call me Marcus?” He eyes me with keen interest as he walks the short distance to me and takes one of my hands in his. His kiss across my knuckles is the soul of propriety, but it still sends a skittering thrill through me. “I was walking with your uncle when I was blessed to cross paths with Her Majesty and her advisors. We spoke at some length; then she dispatched me here.”

I frown at him. “She did?”

“In truth, it was Walsingham's suggestion,” he says, and I have the fortitude not to flinch. Marcus bows to me. “I understand you are in need of a dancing instructor?”

“
You
are a dancing instructor?” Beatrice's words are patently disbelieving, but Marcus strikes an Honor to her, his elegant body perfectly posed in a flourish to rival even Rafe's splendid form. “There is no mastery in dancing with me,” Beatrice says. “If you can instruct, then instruct.
Gentlemen?” She gestures to the clutch of the Queen's musicians. “A Galliard, if you would.”

Jane instantly turns to Rafe, giving him a wink. “Stand up with Meg,” she says. “I have no need to practice this.”

She doesn't have to ask Rafe twice. He steps gallantly forward and gathers Meg to him in a brief embrace, before standing back as the dictates of the Galliard demand. For myself, however, I am immediately distracted as Marcus approaches me. He is devastatingly handsome this cool morning, his doublet of black velvet the work of a master, his breeches and hose spun of ebony thread. The jaunty hat on his brow is black as well, save for a single milk-white stone—an opal perhaps? It seems too bright for moonstone. He makes a great show of removing his gloves and straightening his white, ruffled cuffs, another shock of brightness against all that black. All thoughts of his attire are chased away, however, as he performs the flourish of the Honor, and I am forced to curtsy. Then I place my hand in his—and all is lost.

His touch shoots through me like a lightning strike, creating an awareness so big within me, so full that it threatens to swallow me whole. The surprise of that contact lasts only a moment, but I am left shaky, trembling, as if I have suddenly been transported to the angelic realm by naught more than the brush of his fingertips. Worse, he clearly knows it. He watches me intently, pulling me into his sway. It's as if he sought to ensorcell me . . .

And, heavens save me, he just may achieve his goal.

We move in the semicircle that the dance requires, the
light, skipping steps quickening my pulse. I'm sure the steps are the reason for my increased heart rate, and not Marcus's soft words, loud enough for me to hear over the sprightly strains of music wafting from the musicians' corner. He tells me to turn, to skip and nod my head, to hold my chin and hand this way and so, to glance from the side and steady my breathing. We part, and I watch him dance with an elegance that Robert Dudley, the Queen's favorite courtier, could scarcely better, and then he gestures to me to begin my part. My eyes are on his mouth, my ears attuned only to his words, and I hop and flutter and smile as if I were born to the music.

Then his hand is again on mine, and we spin around once more, the room practically shimmering around us. We are laughing and dancing, the music slipping from one song to another, and then to a third. I am performing well enough, and Rafe changes partners, allowing Anna to stand up with him and practice her steps. But for me there is only Marcus. I relax in his arms, the movement coming naturally now, as easily as breathing. I turn, and turn again, and once more my vision shifts.

The Presence Chamber seems suddenly filled with a curious trick of light, as if the sun were streaming through mists that swirl upon the floor. I am
not
in a trance, and yet, encircled in Marcus's loose embrace, everything seems magical. I sense eyes upon me and peer up at Marcus, but though he is looking at me and laughing, his is not the gaze I feel.

As I glance to the side, something moves in the shadows of the Presence Chamber, something just outside our circle
of maids and musicians. Something that seems to cleave the shadows in two, the darkness falling away, only to rush back in to fill the gap.

It is the hooded spirit.

It watches me with a fierceness I feel across the small space, and I cannot think what has brought it here. I remember all too well its furious attack on me just last night in the angelic realm. My grim specter shoved me out of its plane quite effectively, as if I should be banished, never to return. That rude action was the closest I have ever come to touching the angelic beings, and I certainly won't be inviting the experience again anytime soon.

But now the dark angel is standing here, on the other side of the veil, and once more it seems angry or . . . Perhaps “anger” is not the correct word. “Protective,” maybe. Intent upon our company, whirling across the floor. But why?

I look sharply around me. Following the dictates of the dance, we circle, my feet finding their way as I follow Marcus's careful instruction. No one seems to notice my split attention. But still, every time I turn, I see the dark angel there, waiting and watching.

How much do I know about this hooded specter? I believe I have felt it on the edge of my consciousness since I was very young. Still, it made its presence known only recently, whispering everything dark and dire. Has it truly haunted me all my life, or barely for a moment? Has it deceived me, as Marcus said it might, giving me memories that never happened? I cannot understand how that is possible. And yet . . . I want to understand.

The wisp of fire seems to burn a little more brightly at the edges of my dark sentinel's hood, as if it wanted to give me the answers that I seek. But for all the revelations I have received from my specter, there has been no true clarity in its messages. The other angels—those who remained when I asked them to reveal the doomed soul at Windsor—
they
had no problem telling me what I sought. Of course, they left me with blood spilling out of my eyes as well. How much more damaged would I be if the dark angel had not returned to push me from the spirit realm?

Was it, somehow, protecting me?

I sense another shift in the room then, as my heart takes up a strange, thumping beat, and I focus on the dance to ground myself once more in the world of men.

Jane is talking to the musicians as they play, Anna and Rafe are laughing and dancing, Beatrice is looking on with satisfaction, and Meg is using the opportunity to stare at Rafe without censure. The love in her face for her Spanish spy is impossible to miss, and I feel my own heart swell with the emotion. The strength of such happiness fills me to the tips of my fingers. I am so delighted for Meg, for the simple pleasures she takes in life, for her courage in going after the one thing that she would not give over to Queen and country.