Maid of Wonder (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The hours bleed into one another, with Cecil accosting me at odd intervals, until I do not know when is day and when is night. The cell is buried too deep within the castle for me to hear the chiming of the bells, and it appears this is one place that not even the Maids of Honor can find. I have no visitors but Cecil, no company but the silent guards. After that first day, Will Seton is not assigned to guard me, a fact that makes me fear for the stalwart man.

I am not wholly alone, however.

I lean against the cool stone wall, my knees curled beneath me in my grubby gown. For Cecil is correct. Though I do not venture far there, it has become easy enough for me to slip into the angelic realm when I am surrounded with nothing but darkness. While I sense there is something changed on the spectral plane, something different, I can still see the angels and spirits floating in the shimmering half-light.

And perhaps most important, I can see Marcus Quinn.

He is always there, his face filled with pain and anger, his mouth working, though he is never able to speak. If he
is being sent by Dee to spy upon me, I cannot guess, but he stands among the angels ever vigilant. More vigilant certainly than my dark specter, whose shrouded form I have not seen since he assaulted me with the image of Walsingham and Moreland, Maude and the Queen. I cannot understand the creature—
Arc,
he said. His name is Arc. He helps me and then he vanishes. He breaks the boundaries of the spirit realm and then he flees. I find myself looking for him in the shadows, but he is never there. There is only Marcus. And Marcus is enough.

I smile at him now across the shadowed glade, and his eyes grow wide, his hand stretching out.
Reach for me,
I beg inside my mind, knowing he cannot hear me, that he is too far away. Still . . .
Reach for me.

The sound of a crossbar grinding against wood startles me, and I straighten on my bench, swinging my legs down to plant my feet upon the floor. I wince against the sudden bright light, raising a hand to shield my eyes.

Which is why my first vision of the Queen is the hem of her gown.

“Get up, get up, let me see you,” she says. The torch is affixed to the wall, and I do as she says, rising to stand straight, my shoulders back, my chin high. “They could have cleaned you up,” she says peevishly. “But you are unharmed? They're feeding you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. Cecil has given me to understand that you are ready to answer my question.”

I blink at her. “Cecil has not already told you?”

“Told me what?” She scowls at my confusion “He's asked you to scry my future? For that is what I want.” She folds her arms. “Walsingham says you use some rock to help you, so bring it out. Who gave you that, anyway?”

“Beatrice,” I say, trying to get my bearings. “It is something she found at her house and passed on to me.” Close enough to the truth.

“It's probably flawed, then. I can't see that shrew giving up anything of value otherwise.” She exhales an irritated breath. “Well, come on then, girl, show it to me. I don't have all day.”

“I can't.” I flutter my hands helplessly. “Cecil took it from me when he put me here. He told me I needed to learn to scry without it.”

“Ha!” The Queen is surprised but also pleased, I can tell. My suffering and doubt is nothing to her. “Well, let us see, then, how you do. I wish to know my future, something near. Three months out, six months. Nothing more. I'll want to verify it.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I say. Without the obsidian stone to ground me, I firm my hands into fists and focus. Once again I enter the angelic realm. And once again, something seems different here, as if a vital piece is missing from the shadowy glade, but I cannot place it. Instead, from my vantage point upon the spectral plane, I look back toward the mortal plane. I can see the Queen in front of me, and the walls beyond her. I know I cannot trust her question to any angel, as I did Walsingham's future. I have to know that what I see is true, and right, and sure. And so I say the word I must.

“Arc,” I whisper.

Instantly he appears at the edge of my vision, staring out from his shadowed cowl, as leaping, twisting flames surround the space where his face should be. Despite myself, I feel shame for my purpose here. This realm is not a book to be opened at my leisure. There is a price for its secrets, a price I have not yet begun to truly pay. By the same token, however, my very existence at Windsor—nay, even the safety of my friends—is dependent upon the grace of the Queen. If I am unable to serve her needs, then my status among the angels is of no merit.

“Please,” I say. The Queen stiffens before me, but to her credit she does not speak. Instead she stares at me quite curiously, her eyes wide. Behind her, the dark specter tilts his head, as if to mimic the Queen. He regards me silently, his anticipation plain.

He is waiting for something more. An exchange. A promise.

Please,
I say again, this time firmly in my mind.
Please tell me . . . Arc.

The creature draws in a deep breath. Then he leans forward, and a whisper flutters across my face before—

“Sophia! Sophia, enough of this, wake up!”

My eyes pop open—when did I close them?—and I feel myself urged up to my feet, my head pounding and a moist pressure against my cheek. The Queen's delicate lace-edged handkerchief comes away from my face, and I see what I expect: the fine cloth is soaked with blood. A guard is at my side now, holding my weight, supporting me back onto the
bench. I am barely seated before Elizabeth is in front me.

“I did not believe Walsingham when he told me of this. By the saints, Sophia! You were crying tears of blood!”

“I know,” I begin, but she merely thrusts another linen square at me, then takes a seat next to me on the stone bench, her eyes mirror bright, her hands clasped in front of her chest like she is a girl of fifteen and not a monarch of twenty-six.

“Get out!” she says impatiently to the guard. Then she stares at me. “Tell me everything.”

I take in a deep and steadying breath.

“You should live a long and fulfilling life, rich with success and challenges met,” I say. In my mind's eye there are still too many images to count. “It is not easy to parse out individual events, but your reign is full and prosperous—though your enemies are many.”

Elizabeth grimaces. “I don't need a seer to divine that. What else?”

I have seen too much, far more than I should ever share. I have seen men aging and dying around the Queen, and her remaining stolid, more icon than woman. I have seen her alone.

No woman wants to hear that about herself, however.

“I must take time to fully understand everything in this vision,” I lie, racing through the images to find one that will serve. “The more distant the image, the less certain it is. But one thing I can share with certainty. You will be hard pressed to marry the Swedish king, Your Grace. But you must hold fast against it.”

“Swedish king?” the Queen asks. “Erik, you mean? He is not yet king.”

“Then he will be, in these coming months,” I say. “Though his ardent passion is naught but your due, his mind is not fully whole. You must hold fast.”

“Erik . . .” Elizabeth's tone is bemused, calculating. I do not tell her that the future King Erik will die in prison, a madman, within the next few decades. I also do not mention that Elizabeth's love for Robert Dudley will also receive its first devastating blow before another year passes, forever removing him as a suitable candidate for her hand—the untimely and highly suspicious death of his own wife. It is one thing to be courted by a married man . . . but quite another to be courted by a possible murderer.

The Queen's mind is far away from Dudley in this moment, however, and I am grateful for it. “Very well, then. I thank you for the warning.” Her smile is radiant. “And I daresay that is enough for one day. Here.” She presses her handkerchief to me again, folded over to hide the blood. “Lady Knollys will have apoplexy if she believes I have been bleeding, and you look like you're about to begin anew. Tell your angels, or whoever gives you these visions, to take better care of you.” She glances around the cell. “Cecil believes you need another day in seclusion. But I am not so inclined.” She frowns at me. “Still, I can't have you walking through the castle, looking as you do. Prepare yourself to leave this place, and I'll have Meg bring you down new clothes. And a hood to cover your hair.”

She moves to leave, and I stand quickly, willing myself to return back to the present moment—and its present dangers.

“A moment, Your Grace,” I blurt. For regardless of what
Cecil believes, I must warn Elizabeth as well. Now, when she believes what I can see. “These images I have of you, they are but one possible future. The most likely one, I'll warrant, but not the only one.”

She stops, her face a mask of confusion. “What do you mean?”

“There yet remains a threat to your person, here at Windsor Castle.” I cannot hesitate now, when I have her full attention. “In another vision I had, while attempting to discern Mother Shipton's prophecy, I saw you dead, Your Grace. Fallen on a field of white, a black cross etched into the ground.”

Impossibly, she just shrugs. “Oh! So that is what Cecil would not tell me. Very well, then. We shall be prepared,” Elizabeth says. “It is not even November; there is no snow upon the ground. And by the time there is, I shall be long gone from Windsor.”

I can only stare at her. Does no one see the importance of this vision? “That's not the point, Your Grace,” I try, but Elizabeth will have none of it.

“You are overwrought, Sophia, and well you should be,” she says, her voice cool and patronizing, for all that she attempts to be kind. “You have worked long and hard to tell me what I should know. But come to me with visions that might play out in the next few
weeks
, not months hence. You said yourself that the further out you see, the murkier your vision becomes.” She smiles confidently. “I assure you, I have no plans to be standing on a field of white anytime soon, so your warning can certainly keep.”

“Your Grace, you don't understand!” I hear my voice rising against the hysteria in my heart, and the Queen hears it too. She steps back, startled, but I can no more stop my words than I can stop the roaring of the tide. “You do have enemies at Windsor, and in Windsortown. You do! You cannot afford to let yourself go lax, you cannot assume that you are safe, you cannot mingle among your people. Not when any one of them might even now be notching a bow or drawing a knife to slay you!”

“Fie! You think I don't know this already?” In my clumsy attempt to warn Elizabeth, I have instead lit the fuse of her anger, and it sparks back at me, quick and hot. The Queen lifts her chin, her back rigid, her shoulders straight, looking more like a warrior than I have ever seen her. “You think I don't understand that even my friends would easily become my foes if there were enough gold and power in the offing for them? I am no fool, Sophia. Why do you think I have sheltered you, clothed you, fed you these long months against the hope that one day you may see something of merit? I have gathered a veritable arsenal around me against the attacks of any who would challenge me, and you are not the least of my weapons.” She leans forward, fixing me with a glance. “But I will not be browbeaten into some cowering wretch of a woman, either. I did not survive to become Queen at twenty-five, only to die a death born of my own fears every day of my life thereafter. You must learn to share your portents when they are useful. And not a moment before or after. Else you are no use to me.”

She casts a hard gaze around the room. “Perhaps Cecil is
right,” she says coldly. “Perhaps additional seclusion will do you well.”

I do not speak, but merely bow. Elizabeth sweeps out of the room, secure in her cloak of outrage and indignation, her sheltering mantle of privilege and pride. And in the echo of the slamming cell door, I can almost hear the rolling, raucous laugh of Mistress Maude.

A royal house defeated,

disaster unforeseen.

Death comes to Windsor

to court the maiden Queen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I have no further visitors for what seems like far too long. How many days or weeks will they keep me here, I wonder? With no one to talk to, at least on this plane, I find myself sleeping more and more, if only to have the company of angels to help me pass the hours.

The angels . . . and Marcus. With each new visit, his form seems to grow stronger in the spirit realm, as if Dee is learning how to pierce the veil more deeply. We still cannot speak, but we can see each other. And with that sight comes hope. I yearn more and more to spend every hour in slumber or in trance, for the possibility of seeing him.

My heart aches for the loneliness that Meg must have endured while locked in her watery cell, an act also sanctioned by the Queen's advisors. She had no one but herself to keep her company for days on end, and I stiffen my own resolve to wait as long as necessary.

My resolve, it turns out, needs much stiffening. Fortunately for me, I am given ample time to perfect the art. And in my silence I am forced to consider everything the
angels have ever told me. All of the predictions that have not—or at least not yet—come to pass, such as the strange predictions I spoke to my fellow maids the night of Dee's arrival, during the great spectacle of stars in the Presence Chamber, or my vision of the Queen upon a white field. As I've turned these images over and around in my head, a curious sense of relief has formed there. The angels have lived a millennia, I think. What is time to them? What they have shown me could happen tomorrow, or it could happen five years from now. It is up to me to take what clues I might from the vision and prepare accordingly. And so, if I ever get out of this squalid cell, I will wait and watch for the first snowfall like everyone else, and
then
prepare to save the Queen. But until then, at least, I can rest easy, knowing she is safe.

Rest is also in great supply, here in the darkness.

At last the door opens again. Only, it's not Cecil or Walsingham or even the Queen this time. Instead, a page stands before me, a young boy not ten years old. He thrusts a bundle of clothing at me.

I straighten and squint at him, but take the fresh-smelling garments quickly enough. “Miss Sophia Dee,” he cries, not looking at me, “the Queen has need of you! You are to come with me once you . . . once you . . .” He gestures at me, and I understand.

“Once I dress?”

“Yes!” He scurries back, bleating at the guards to shut the door. To their credit, they do not unlatch the cover over the grate, and I change in darkness, using what is left of the water to wash the worst of the dirt and grit from my face
and hands. The new shift is a particular blessing, though the clothes are servants' garments, and the Queen has had the foresight to include a French hood to cover my hair.

When I emerge from the cell, I cannot see well at first, but I stumble after the page without speaking. I expect him to lead me to the Queen's chambers, but I am mistaken. Instead, he turns deeper into the castle, and I draw up short. “Where are we going?” I ask.

He looks back at me. “The dungeons. The Queen said to tell you that all is well, though it's an awful place.” He screws up his face in thought. “Then again, where I have fetched you from is awful too.”

I smile wearily, my mood buoyed by the simple fact of talking to anyone, even a page who seems to be delivering me to yet more doom. “It is at that,” I say. “What day is this?”

“'Tis Friday, the feast of Samhain,” he announces excitedly.

I try to hide my shock. That means I was locked up for three whole days. Three days! How could I have lost track of time so completely? The page escorts me down the long hall to where it opens onto a rocky stair, a guard on either side of the opening. He hesitates. “This is as far as I'm to go.”

“Off with you, then,” I say with a courage I do not feel. “You must follow the orders you've been given, and I will do the same.” I hear him fleeing down the long corridor, back to hearth and safety, as I continue down the stairs. The passage is lit by torches hung upon the walls, and at length a large chamber opens up around me as I descend the last few steps. Doors line the walls, but I have no eyes for them. I see only
the men who are standing there—four of them in the heavy grey robes of the Questioners. With them stands the Queen and her chief advisors.

Amidst this dour group, Cecil and Walsingham stare at me, their faces naught more than careful masks. The other men are silent as well, hidden in their robes. The Queen, for her part, waits until I am almost upon them. Then she says my name, as curt as an open slap. “Sophia.”

Bowing my head, I drop into a curtsy at the edge of their circle. “Your Grace,” I say, staring at the stone floor. “Is there any way I can serve?”

“It seems that word has gotten out about your seclusion. I have been asked to present you once more to the Questioners, that we may be done with their interest in you.” Her words are heavy with meaning. “And I am most sincere, my lords. After today you will trouble the Crown no more on this score.”

One of the men coughs discreetly. “Given the nature of the questions, I ask again, Your Grace, should we not have a
Catholic
priest in attendance?”

“No, we should
not
,” Elizabeth snaps. “The pope holds no sway here, only God. Now begin, that we might have this trial done. Sophia, you may rise.”

In the Questioners' semicircle of scrutiny, I stand tall, grasping for a strength that seems to be ebbing away. I know what to expect from these men, I reason. They do not frighten me.

But I am wrong on both counts.

Two of the robed men position themselves on either side of me, while the Queen stands at a short distance with Cecil
and Walsingham. I try to feel Arc in this dread place, but I don't. I wonder if the dark angel even realizes I am in danger. And Marcus is yet further from me, separated by stone and the whims of the Queen.

The Questioners waste no time. One of the doors swings open along the wall, and two more hooded men approach me, carrying items as if in offering to an obscene god: a bottle and a burning brazier with a long iron rod protruding from its base. I can smell the hot metal, and my mouth goes dry in fear. What could they mean to do with that? And why does the Queen remain placid, simply watching?

“Sophia Dee, you will submit to the questioning, that we may prove your soul is blameless before God. Are you prepared to answer truthfully and without guile?” It is the tall man who speaks, and I tear my gaze away from the burning poker to gape at him.
What am I supposed to say here?

“Yes, my lord.” I gesture to the tools. “But there is no need—”

“Silence!” he thunders. “You will speak only when spoken to, and respond only to the questions we put to you. We will not be ensorcelled by any dark spirits.”

My eyes widen, but not entirely out of fear.
Ensorcelled?
This assumes a great deal that simply is not true. Then the man to the right of me, slender and nearly quivering with excitement, uncaps the bottle. A noxious odor wafts up, and I can discern some of its makeup. I wonder if he's procured this little treasure from Mistress Maude, or if the good cooks of Windsor know enough to make such a terrible brew.

The man seems to revel in my confusion—a brazier to the
left, an odious draught to my right. Does he mean to give me the choice between the two?

Alas, no.

“Drink this,” he growls, and I look at him in alarm.

“What is it?” The Queen's voice floats over us. She seems supremely bored.

“Naught but a mixture of wine and herbs, Your Grace,” the tall man says, though I think “herbs” is a rather broad statement. Hemlock is an herb, after all. But he goes further. “Crafted to be drinkable by only the pure of heart. Anyone with secrets against God will not be able to tolerate it.”

I force myself not to gasp, but in truth this is outside of enough. The vile concoction might well contain a purgative, in which case I would be forced to vomit it up whether I was “pure of heart” or not.

The Queen seems to consider this, remaining unconcerned. “And the other?”

“No witch can withstand the placement of a hot poker in her mouth.” The man with the slithery voice speaks up, and I realize with dismay that he's the one holding the brazier. His fellow pulls out the poker and brandishes it for inspection. It is quite red, glowing brightly in the center of the torch-lit room.

“I rather doubt anyone can withstand that, my lord,” the Queen says dryly. “And a burned mouth cannot speak God's truth, can it?”

“Or the devil's lies,” the man says, clearly affronted. “You forget that we are here to protect the sanctity of your position.”

“
My
sanctity is never in question,” the Queen says. “But proceed. Sophia, drink.”

I look at the Queen with dismay, but I cannot gainsay a direct order. Either she knows what is in the slop in the bottle, or she is not worried about what it will do to me. I do not share her confidence, but I present myself to the bulky man, holding out my hand.

Without warning, I'm grabbed hard on either side, my chin stretched up. The bottle is forced to my lips. My head is tilted back, and my mouth fills with too many tastes at once. There is wine, certainly, cheap and sweet; and at least a half dozen herbs: thyme, dragon's blood, gardenia, lavender . . . every truth-serum herb I've ever encountered, but with wormwood and devil's snare included, unless I miss my guess. I'm forced to swallow before thinking too much, and the effect is unfortunate—and nearly immediate. My vision goes blurry and my body slumps, causing the men on either side of me to hold me yet tighter. The man who stands before me looks like the devil himself, the edges of his body becoming distorted. I know better, however, and I view the scene before me as dispassionately as I can. By virtue of the fact that I have seen specters for these past many years, I can identify a real spirit. In fact, the room is filled with them as I glance around, unfamiliar angels that are leaning into the circle of the Questioners as if they have never seen anything more fascinating. They can feel the righteous zeal of these men. They are feeding on it.

“What is it you would know?” I hear myself asking.

The questions are surprisingly rote at this point. I recite
the Lord's Prayer, I decry Satan and all his works. I deny any ability to consult with spirits, despite the curious looks of the angels who press close beside me. I claim only a deep desire to worship God, and any thoughts in my head are nothing more than my own thoughts, not messages from God, the angels, or any other agency. I repeat my daily schedule, my devotion to the Queen, my work in the castle.

And on it goes. The brazier swings close to me, but the Questioners never remove the poker to wave at me a second time. They seem mollified by my abject sincerity and stoic responses. I cannot weep, though, even if I want to. With such a vile combination of herbs and spirits in my stomach, any extreme emotion is likely to make me violently ill.

At last they finish and, abruptly, stand away from me. I sway forward, but catch myself in time. “We are done?” I ask when no one speaks.

I hear the smile in the thin man's voice, for all I cannot see it. “Not quite,” he says.

Another door swings open. And what I see next withers my heart into a hard and shriveled ball.

Will Seton is brought out of the chamber, his upper body stripped, his lower body clad only in loose-fitting breeches. His hands are bound before him and he stares out in wild confusion. When his head swings around and he sees me, he gapes still further. “Miss Dee!” he says, and I reflexively move forward, only to be caught in the iron grip of the closest robed man.

The man behind Seton shoves him to his knees. “Will Seton, you will submit to the questioning, that we may prove
your soul to be blameless before God. Are you prepared to answer truthfully and without guile?”

“What—” At his confused response, one of the robed men strikes him, the act so abrupt and vicious I cannot stifle my scream.

“Answer the question!” the man roars, clearly relishing his role as enforcer.

Please just answer their questions!
I silently beg. Will Seton has a wife and family, all of whom need his support and protection far more than I do.

“Yes!” Seton shouts as the man raises his fist again. “Yes. God's breath, what is this—”

This time the blow drives him to the ground, his bound hands unable to break his fall. The Questioners roughly pull him back up to a kneeling position. His face is bloody, and his eyes fix on me. I see for the first time a flicker of doubt.

“Do you know this woman?” the Questioner asks, and Seton frowns.

“I do! Of course I do.”

“Her name?”

“Miss Sophia Dee.”

“Her role within the castle?”

“She serves the Queen. She's a maid of honor, or—” He hesitates. “Lady-in-waiting. No, a maid.”