Maid of Wonder (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“Look 'ere! Wot's this!” The woman's caterwauling sounds far too loud in my ears, and my hands fly to my pouches, scrabbling for coins. Nothing soothes the affronted like shillings. I've learned to carry money with me at all times, as I am constantly running into everyone, from goodwives to guards.

“I'm so sorry!” I begin, still fumbling with my skirts, but the woman is already speaking over me.

“Ye've released all my doves, you silly chit! I'll never— Ah!”

She chokes off her own words so sharply that I glance up at her. The old woman is suddenly as pale as death, her mouth agape. I turn to see what has caught her up so completely. Then I stare too.

Her flock of doves hasn't scattered to the sky as we both expected it to do. Instead, the birds are racing through the market stalls, weaving and bobbing and diving around townsfolk and farmers, nobles and serfs. I grow dizzy trying to follow their flight, and then I notice something else. The birds are
trying
to escape, to soar up into freedom, but they just . . . can't. An invisible force is somehow holding them
back, trapping them within the circle of carts in the Lower Ward.

I see other shadows among the carts then, skimming and darting like half-remembered dreams. The angels? Are they yet with me? I purse my lips, trying to focus. I need to see what's happening here.
I need to see!

I tilt my head, and the world around me shifts, signaling that I have breached the spectral plane. I can see more when I am grasping the obsidian stone, but for now this half trance will do. Through the prism of my altered vision, the ward is transformed from a raucous collection of hucksters and buyers and steaming meat pies into a crush of carts that seem hemmed in by a malevolent force—everything trapped, frozen in place. The doves that I startled cannot escape this invisible force either. They are beaten back every time they reach the edge of the carts.

Through the frantic weaving of the doves, I see something else as well—ravens. Several of the large glossy birds are perched atop the outermost stalls of the market day crowd, their beady eyes locked on the frenzied white doves. The carts the ravens have chosen are all prosperous, large, and overflowing, with grinning, gap-toothed women out in front. When I focus on the women, however, a chill clutches at my heart. I know one of them.

It's Mistress Maude.

As round as an apple, with steel-grey hair and a loud, boisterous manner, Maude is an herb mistress in the town of Windsor, renowned for her true love tinctures and honesty teas. But of late, my fellow spies and I suspect that she brews
far more than harmless potions in her cottage workroom. I, for one, came away from her market stall in Windsortown but weeks ago
convinced
she was a poisoner. So far, however, I have no proof, only my suspicions. Which is hardly enough to call in the magistrates.

But seeing Mistress Maude here, in the Lower Ward of Windsor Castle, strikes me as important. And important in a very bad way. I glance from her to the women standing next to the other carts where the ravens have perched. Their presence feels dark, almost ominous. What is their purpose here?

“'Ave a care!” The startled voice of the dove seller cuts across my half trance, and I snap back to the present moment, just as we're both surrounded by frantically flapping doves. The birds—quite literally—have come home to roost, landing with a flurry of wings at the old woman's feet.

“God's breath,” she says, her voice awed. “I've never seen the like.”

Stupefied, she sets her cage upon the ground and opens it, and the birds walk, flop, and hop in, as docile as hens at feeding time. We both stare at the cage, then at each other. When have wild birds ever acted this way?

“Ho there, Miss Sophia!”

The booming voice nearly scares me out of my skin, and I spin round in alarm, recognizing the speaker immediately. The thick, burly man is one of the nicest members of the Queen's guard, but he is still a guard. I must always remember that.

“Master Seton!” I manage. “You startled me.”

“Not 'alf as much as you just startled that poor goodwife,
I wager.” Seton chuckles and moves his hand over my hair. At the light brush of his weathered fingers, a few white feathers drift down past my face. “Shouldn't you be in the Upper Ward?”

I try to quell my nerves. Of late, it seems as though every guard in the castle knows my business. Has the Queen ordered that I be watched? I know Elizabeth is eager for me to show signs of my skills, but surely she hasn't grown so impatient that she tracks my every move. “I was getting some air.”

“Outside the walls? Good Windsor air does not suit you?” Seton draws in a deep breath, his barrel chest expanding to its full bulk, and I cannot help but laugh. I do like Seton, no matter that he treats me not as a young woman of the court, but as if I were his own grandniece, always underfoot. I glance past him and see his mare tethered away from the other mounts, and I blink in surprise. Sitting on the horse's back, right at the crest of the saddle, is another blasted dove. “Since when does Ladysweet give shelter to birds?”

Seton glances over as well, and an indulgent smile creases his face. “She's feeling poorly today.” He shrugs. “Perhaps the wee thing will lift her spirits.”

Only then do I note the mare's drooping head and tired eyes. I am well acquainted with this horse, as I try to sneak her an apple more days than not. She's normally as lively as a foal in the springtime, but not today.

“What ails her?” I move toward the horse, noting her unusually full belly beneath the loosened saddle straps. As I approach, the dove startles. It flies over my shoulder to where I suspect it will rejoin its fellows.

“A touch of the megrims, I warrant,” Seton says. “She was 'appy enough when we started the day, but she's been off since we opened the ward to the carts.”

I frown, patting Ladysweet's sweaty neck. She snuffles at me, and I can almost taste the wave of despair coming off her, thick and murky. “What's wrong, sweetheart?” I move around to look into her eyes. There's something there, behind the large brown orbs, that speaks of pain and yet more sorrow. But pain from what? Seton takes almost obsessively good care of the mare; her coat is glossy, her hooves well shod. Suddenly Ladysweet rocks her head forward, and my hand slips to her chin. It's a testament to my affection for the horse that I don't wince as she wetly smears grass and saliva into my palm.

“That's quite disgusting, Ladysweet,” I say. I glance down at my hand as I prepare to shake it dry . . . then pause. There's something odd about this chewed-up mixture of grass that the horse hasn't quite seen fit to swallow. A sprinkling of short, dark leaves, a few seeds, and a sliver of red, like the skin of a cherry but smaller—far smaller.

Oh, no.

I act without caution, once more slipping over the precipice between this world and the next. I glance up at Ladysweet again. Now in her dark eyes I can observe far more. I can see her trotting into the Lower Ward, having been tied up too loosely by her kind owner. I can see her greedy mouth as she nips up the falling treasures from one cart, then another—and finally from Maude's cart, which trails boughs of yew.

Lovely,
deadly
yew.

I close my eyes, understanding her pain at last. “This is not going to be easy,” I murmur, “but you must do this.” The horse nickers wearily at my words, and my Sight expands, my heart jumping in fear to match the rapid beating of her own. Even if she has ingested only a few of the seeds, yew poisoning almost always leads to a quick and horrible death. I squint at the other guards' mounts. Some of them are already listing. This is not an accident, I am certain. These horses were deliberately poisoned.

But why?

Will Seton steps to my side. “Are you . . . well, Miss Sophia?” he asks, in that tone I have heard too often, when I do not mask my oddness quickly enough. But I don't have time for the guard's delicate sensibilities. Not now, with Ladysweet so close to death.

“Get water and honeycake, or send a page to do so,” I snap. “In but a few moments, when she works up her strength, Ladysweet will empty her stomach quite violently and long. When the fluid she purges is naught more than water, provide her with a quarter cake each hour, no more, and a quarter bucket of water. She will live, I swear it, but only if you do this and do it quickly.” I shudder, seeing the mare's future painted before me in whisper-thin strokes, unsure of whether I can trust this image in my mind. Still, for Seton, I speak with calm assurance. “She will live.”

“What're you talking about?” Seton's voice is harsh and filled with fear. “What's wrong with her?” He reaches out and pulls me around to face him, and I do not flinch, though I sense his shock as he takes in my appearance. My eyes—it's
always my eyes that are affected most when I draw upon the Sight.

“Yew,” I say, and he visibly recoils, whether at the word or my face, I am not sure. Our time together is at an end, however. Ladysweet gives a keening cry, and her head jerks wildly.

“God's teeth!” Seton curses. I step aside as he lunges for his beloved horse, and I swing my Sight-widened gaze back across the market stalls. Once more I sense that the carts are hemmed in by a dark force, only now I also see a thick, black trail of energy that knifes through the gathered carts, a pathway of spite and sorrow that seems woven together by the devil's hand. I follow the coarse line to where it reaches the far edge of the carts, deep inside the Lower Ward.

But the trail does not stop.

It continues on, this spew of filth and darkness, roiling across the grassy field in front of Saint George's Chapel, on up through the Middle Ward. It curves around the Round Tower and flows toward the Norman Gate and the Upper Ward of Windsor Castle, dense, black, and ugly— and on an unmistakable trajectory for . . .

The Queen.

CHAPTER THREE

I am running again, though I can hear another guard crying out in alarm as his horse suddenly buckles beside him, trembling and thrashing.

Follow the doves,
the dark angel said. The doves led me to Ladysweet, and Ladysweet may die, in truth. But is that the death predicted to come to Windsor? Surely not!

So why tell me to follow the doves?

I can only pray that death has not come for the Queen so quickly. I run yet faster, hiking up my skirts, my Sight dimming as my exertion grounds me more firmly on this plane. But I can still see the stain of evil as I race through the Norman Gate and enter the Upper Ward.

I burst into the castle, past startled guards, but the familiar gloom of Windsor's corridors provides none of its usual balm. Instead I feel trapped, the dank air too heavy for my lungs.

I do not slow until I reach the Presence Chamber. I enter the wide doors, also flanked by guards, but even as I cross the threshold, I sense I am too late.

Far to the front of the room, a frail old woman is on her
knees before the elegantly gowned Elizabeth. The Queen herself, her crown glittering in the waning light, has descended from her dais and leans forward as if to hear the crone more clearly. And surrounding them the thick cord of darkness suddenly tightens, like a snake eating its own tail.

“No!” I gasp, though no one hears my cry. My feet are rooted to the rush-covered floor, and I can barely breathe. I force myself to open more fully to the Sight, and the words that tumble toward me are as dire as the ancient woman who speaks them:

“A royal house defeated,

disaster unforeseen.

Death comes to Windsor

to court the maiden Queen.”

Elizabeth jerks back as if she's been slapped.
Death comes to Windsor—
these are the exact words of the dark angel. But the rest of the prophecy is terrible and new. A phalanx of guards immediately presses forward, surrounding the old woman as Elizabeth is hauled back by the strong arms of her advisors, Sir William Cecil and Sir Francis Walsingham. The Queen's advisors take charge, and Walsingham's sharp, imperious command fills the space. A pair of guards sweeps forward to accost the old woman.

But she will have nothing more to say. As I take one last look before quelling my Sight, I can see the thick knot of evil drifting away from the old woman, like smoke on a fitful breeze, as she crumples to the ground.

She is dead.

Instead of apprehending her, the guards change course smoothly, one of them lifting her in his arms, the other clearing the way. It's not common for villagers to drop dead while in audience with the Queen, but that doesn't mean the guards aren't prepared for it. They walk by me, carrying the old woman, and I step into their wake—only to be turned back by a firm hand.

“Why are you here?” Cecil growls as Walsingham hurries by us, supporting the Queen. Only the tips of Elizabeth's gilded crown are visible as more guards gather close, ushering her back to her Privy Chamber. “Shouldn't you be with your fellow maids?”

“I, ah, sensed that something was happening here and slipped in but a moment ago,” I say, not missing Cecil's sharp glance. This is a dangerous game, to indicate that my Sight is manifesting. But it is no more dangerous than admitting to Cecil that I disobeyed the Queen's command and wandered off while I should have been bent to my studies. I rush on. “Who was the old woman? And how did she gain entrance?”

“She came in after the last of the commoners left. None of these fools noticed her.” Cecil's voice conveys his disgust, though I am not surprised. The elderly are often overlooked, and if the woman was dressed in simple clothing, who was to say she was not some servant or another, sent here to carry out the scraps of the last meal? “She had to have traveled past the front doors in the thick of the petitioners, then waited until the day was done.” He scowls. “The Queen's audience should have ended a half hour ago.”

“So she simply approached the Queen?”

“Called her out!” Cecil says. “Said she had news, important news, from none other than Mother Shipton.” His face registers yet more disgust. “And at that, of course, Elizabeth all but leaped off her throne, the better to hear the creature.”

“Mother Shipton,” I murmur. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Cecil rubs his hand over his eyes as we step aside to make way for another wave of guards.

Old Mother Shipton is quite possibly the most notorious woman in all of England, though she generally keeps to her own tiny cottage far to the north. Born in a cave as her mother was dying, she grew up to possess two singular traits: extreme ugliness and, by all accounts, the Sight. Unlike most women with the gift, however, she has used it openly and to great effect. She has become so powerful that
no one
dares cross her, not even the Church. Her mystical portents have been frightening both commoners and kings for the past fifty years, particularly when she correctly predicted the downfall of old King Henry's chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, before I was even born.

Now she is famous throughout the land. Not even the French prophet Michel de Nostredame is more renowned than Mother Shipton, though at least Nostradamus can claim an actual medical education to his name. Mother Shipton merely snatches her prophecies out of smoke.

Still, this is the first I've heard of the ancient seer speaking of Elizabeth.

I tilt my head, lost to my own thoughts. Shouldn't I have divined that Mother Shipton had targeted the Queen? Couldn't the dark angel have said
Mother Shipton is sending an
old woman to disturb the Queen with a terrible prophecy,
instead of
Follow the doves?
I mean, yes, the specter did speak the words “death comes to Windsor” but not the other three lines, which are equally important! And nowhere in Mother Shipton's prophecy is there any mention of
doves
.

None of it makes any sense. As usual.

Cecil sighs heavily, recalling my attention. “Fortunately for us all, the old hag's words were loud enough for only Elizabeth to hear. To the court this was naught but an odd disruption to an otherwise ordinary day.” He grimaces, and I don't even try to explain that I also heard the old woman's prediction with my Sight-enhanced senses. “To the Queen, however—”

“Sir William!”

We're both startled by the arrival of a new young guard, whose relief is clear when he sees me. “And Miss Dee. The Queen sent me to collect you both.” He scowls at me. “You were not with the other maids.”

“I needed some air,” I protest again, praying the man doesn't ask any questions of his fellow guards who were in the Lower Ward. I'm reminded of that scene—wild-eyed Sophia Dee, covered in dove feathers, racing away from a small herd of soon-to-be-dying horses. That should add to my sterling reputation as the oddest girl at Windsor.

Before the guard can say anything else, Cecil cuts in, directing him to take us to the Queen. And as we pass through the double doors into the Privy Chamber, I at last see something to gladden my heart this day.

The Queen is seated upon her throne, her back straight, her color quite regained.

Walsingham stands at her side, looking like he has eaten something bad, which is his natural look.

But it is the four young women now ranged around the Queen who truly comfort me. The Maids of Honor are my family, though they do not know it. The witty, resourceful Meg Fellowes, the quickest thinker of our group; the lovely, sharp-tongued Beatrice Knowles, whose cool exterior cannot quite mask her gracious heart; the impossibly intelligent Anna Burgher, who sees windows where the rest of us see walls; and the grey-eyed, grey-souled Jane Morgan, who has stared death in the face one too many times, yet lived to fight again. Thief and beguiler, genius and assassin. And finally, myself—the seer. I am the youngest of these women, and yet the oldest, too. The maid who has seen too much.

And Elizabeth has called us here, with her most trusted advisors and no others. Not even the guards remain inside the room once Cecil and I arrive. From her height upon the dais, Elizabeth gazes at me without expression as I join my fellow spies, while Cecil mounts the short steps to stand beside her. I straighten carefully under her regard, trying to look useful without betraying my secrets.

For I am the keeper of words that cannot be spoken, of visions that cannot be shared. From the crashing, jumbled nightmares of my youth to my more recent, saner forays into the angelic realm, I have chronicled the rushing tide of both the past and future—loves, losses, deaths. Wars won and lost. I have witnessed more than most can imagine. And more than I can ever reveal.

Because though my gift is grand, it is also flawed. I don't
see merely one future for a person. I see two. Sometimes more. And until I can say with certainty that yes,
this
is the true future that will pass, then I dare not say anything at all.

My Sight remains both a weapon and a weakness, and I must guard it at any cost.

Elizabeth waits another long, measured moment. Then she speaks. And given my weapon—and my weakness—her accusation cuts me to the bone.

“You have all failed me,” she hisses, her voice heavy with outrage. Her gaze sweeps along the line of maids, then fixes on Cecil and Walsingham. “You, who are my chief advisors, my closest counselors. You have been put to the test, and you have failed.”

Cecil stiffens, indignant. “That old woman was part of the petitioner group, Your Majesty,” he protests. “You would rather us keep your people at a distance?”

“No!” Elizabeth says. “But I would rather not hear of a death in my own castle from a dying peasant at my feet, but from the people I feed and clothe and house!” She curls her hands into fists, her body rigid on her throne. “She presaged a death, Cecil. And not just any death, but one that courts
me
—”

“She was an old woman breathing her last,” Walsingham cuts in, speaking in reasonable tones. “You cannot place any import in her words.”

“She received a vision from
Mother Shipton
,” Elizabeth retorts. “A vision that, despite the old woman's failing health, brought her to my castle in supplication and warning, that I might be prepared. Would that those closer to me have such a care about my person!”

Cecil sniffs. “I hardly think—”

“Do you not understand? I do not need your thoughts!” The Queen's face is white once more, and I realize she is well and truly filled with fury. Fury, and perhaps a little fear. “If Mother Shipton is presaging a death in my house, do you think this one old woman in Windsortown is the only one who has heard about it? Do you not suspect that news such as this will travel far and wide, giving rise to suspicions about the stability of my throne? And, worse, if it
is
myself who is predicted to die, do you not imagine that my enemies might think this is an opportune time to strike? A time ‘blessed by the heavens'?”

She slumps back against thickly embroidered cushions. “Everything I have done this year is to convince my people that their kingdom is safe and secure. I have worked for tolerance. I have endeavored to heal the wounds of faith wrenched open by my sister. I am securing our borders and making sure the French do not gain a foothold in the north. But I cannot do any of these things if I am dead, Cecil. And I will not be a mere note in the annals of history. I will not!”

I open my mouth to protest, but the words will not come. I do not trust my Sight so much that I would counsel my Queen that she will live to a ripe old age, though I have seen that she does, over and over again. For if in telling her this, I put her at risk, then it is not merely my judgment that will be held accountable, but my life.

And, far worse: if Elizabeth were to die as a result of my smug boldness, the kingdom would be ruined.

Such is my constant dilemma:

Speak, and risk everything.

Stay silent, and risk everything.

“I demand a convocation,” Elizabeth declares. “If the simplest goodwife of my kingdom can give me such information willingly, freely, and on her deathbed, then surely the greatest minds at my disposal can shed light on the full meaning of her words. I want those minds here, within the fortnight, that they may discern this prophecy and expose every subtlety of the old woman's message.”

“A convocation?” Walsingham's voice is steady, but the concern in his tone is plain. “Here at Windsor Castle? But a gathering of strangers will only increase any risk to you, Your Grace, not diminish it.”

“The risk is already too high!” Elizabeth fairly spits the words. “Until we root out the truth of this prediction, Walsingham, my court is not safe. I am not safe.”

“According to a woman about to die,” he observes. “A woman with nothing to lose.”

Elizabeth glares at him. “And nothing to gain, either.”