Maid of Wonder (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

The following several days pass in a blur of activity, as I feel every day will until the Queen learns the name of the poor soul predicted to die in her court. The servants prepare rooms for the men of science that Elizabeth has invited to solve Mother Shipton's prophecy, and the Queen is using the occasion to turn the Visitors Apartments inside out. As we expected, additional metaphysicians and arcane scholars have also somehow learned of the mysterious prediction spoken to the Queen and have journeyed to Windsor Castle to pledge their assistance. With his usual skill and diplomacy, Cecil has turned them all away, none of them the wiser that their suspicions are well grounded.

While they remained under our roof, however, the Maids of Honor performed our task of following them around, listen­ing to their conversations, and reporting on their activi­ties. Anna, most of all, has enjoyed this work; talking with the scientists for long hours about recent discoveries in science and alchemy has been a true thrill for her.

As for me, I cannot focus. Even this morning, when I am
supposed to be in class with my fellow maids, I tarry in the shadows of the great kitchens, grateful to be alone, if only for a moment. Elsewhere in the castle, and everywhere I look, I see a guard, or Cecil or Walsingham, staring at me from across the room. I cannot escape to scry in the forest, and my dreams have been blank canvases, despite my impassioned nightly prayers that the explanation of Mother Shipton's dread prophecy might grace my sleeping mind.

It is almost as if the more desperate I am for answers, the more I am forsaken. It is likely to drive me mad.

Since I have received no grand revelation, however, I've been forced to join my fellow spies in our daily classes . . . though I constantly am late. Like now. I cannot claim any good reason for my tardiness this morning either, other than that I closeted myself away in the eaves of Saint George's Chapel, peering out over the Lower Ward as I watched the arrival of the first learned man Elizabeth has called to Windsor Castle to solve her dilemma. John Dee—astrologer, scientist, metaphysician, alchemist . . . kidnapper, criminal.

Villain.

The sage now considered the greatest mind in Europe has not always been so distinguished. Not twelve years ago, certainly, when he stole me from my family, kidnapping me and hiding me away to wait until the day when I would help him achieve greater mystical accomplishments than he apparently believed he ever could on his own.

I discovered this treachery only recently, when Jane and Meg stumbled across documents earlier this summer that revealed that the man who was my betrothed—Lord
Brighton—was actually my long-lost
father
, a man John Dee had told me was dead. My father somehow discovered my existence and traveled to Windsor Castle, duping the Queen into believing he wanted to marry me, in order to keep me from being married to anyone
else
until he could devise a way for me to escape the castle.

It was a dangerous game. If my father's ruse had been discovered, he would have been charged with treason. Fortunately, I convinced him that I could fight my own battles, and Beatrice used her wiles to persuade the Queen to encourage my father's engagement to another, far more suitable woman of the court—thus keeping him safely out of harm's way.

But now John Dee is here once more; now I will have to face him, with the knowledge of what he did to me so long ago. Now I will have to nod and curtsy and look into the eyes of the man who took everything away from me . . . and all I will be allowed to do is smile.

For after all, it was by John Dee's own hand that I was brought to serve the Queen barely a year ago, with whispered assurances to Her Grace that I would one day blossom with the Sight. But Dee doesn't know that, in fact, I
have
begun to gain control of my Sight—just as he doesn't know that I am aware of his villainy. There is much he doesn't know.

I need to keep it that way.

“Sophia? Sophia!”

I jerk to attention, only to see Anna peering at me from the top of the stairs at the far end of Windsor Castle's enormous kitchens, where my feet have taken me, despite my mind's insistence on wandering.

“I've been sent to fetch you.” Anna purses her lips, blowing a curl of red hair away from her face. “We've been waiting this half hour! Have you been here all this time?”

“A half hour?” I am aghast. Even under castle watch I cannot seem to keep track of time. “I'm so sorry. I—”

“Well, be sorry with your feet.” She grins at me. “It's poisons, and I canna wait to get back to them, I tell you plain!” She whirls and clatters back down the stairs toward the cellar chamber, and I come more slowly behind.

Anna has a passion for knowledge of any stripe, be it of poisons or princes or Ptolemy. She seems born to ask questions that have no answers, to crack open every dusty book, pry apart every locked chest. I have seen visions of nearly all my fellow spies at one time or another, but Anna's future remains murky to me.

Now, as I near the lower level, I hear voices and am relieved that Meg is in class. She can recite any lesson from memory, no matter how lengthy, and she is cunning besides. She will remember the important bits of today's class more clearly than even Anna, for whom every aspect of every discussion is interesting.

Anna dashes ahead of me to join my fellow spies, and as laughter breaks out among them, I glance up, missing the end of the stair entirely. I stumble forward and catch myself against the rough wall. Instinctively I reach for my necklace.

When my fingers touch the stone's cool surface, the scene around me snaps and flutters, like a sheet caught up in a stiff breeze. Instead of thick cellar walls, I see a man in a beautifully appointed bed, draped with luxurious coverlets.
A crown rests on his head, and a mantle of purple drapes his shoulders. In his lax grasp a gold scepter lies awkwardly across his legs. He is not old, but he looks as if he has been terribly ill, his face lined and gaunt. Beside him sits a weeping young woman, pretty and blond, the swell at her abdomen indicating she is heavily pregnant. I look more closely at the man and recoil, wishing the image away.

He is dead. His sightless eyes are fixed on some far-off horizon he will never reach. His mouth gapes open, and blood trickles from the corner. Only, the man's blood is not red but a rich purple, the color of his cloak. The color of kings.

The faintest whisper curls around me.
Death comes to Windsor.

I jerk away from the wall, both hands to my face, my breath catching in my throat. Who is this man? Is he already dead, or is his death something I'm supposed to prevent? And the scepter and crown—there is no mistaking
that
implication, but are those riches allegorical, or is a true king about to breathe his last? He looked like no king currently enthroned across the Continent, but I have only painted miniatures to go by. Those are no real indication of anyone's actual appearance but, rather, are an artist's oft-desperate portrayal of the subject's best features.

Forcing my breathing to slow, my heart to stop pounding, I step into the cellar chamber as quietly as possible . . . though, of course I am noted. The head cook of Windsor doesn't stop her lecture, but her glance flies to me, then slides away in fright. I am certain that if her hands were not holding up a bunch of wild lettuce, she would cross herself.

Among the servants of Windsor Castle, there are two decided reactions to me. The first is that of Will Seton: indulgent protection, as if I were a fey bird hopping along a tree branch. The second is that of this woman and so many of the servants: fear and mistrust. I have done naught to deserve such a reaction, I swear. Yes, I flinch at shadows that no one else can see. Yes, I mutter under my breath while standing alone. And yes, I am the supposed niece of the most celebrated astrologer in England—and a seer in my own right. But still.

Fortunately, the cook, who is also the royal herb mistress, does not hesitate, but plunges on with her lesson. We have long studied obscure poisons from all over, from Italy to the Netherlands, learning in detail who poisoned whom and with what from the ancient times on. But today our interest is much more homespun. We seek to understand what the local cunning folk might be able to pull from the ground or the trees, or to purchase at market day, for these are our greatest threats. We also wish to understand what tinctures and tonics lie within our own storerooms, and what they are used for at Windsor Castle.

The herb mistress details the contents of the royal larder, and I mark her words as I ease into a seat beside Jane. As usual, Jane is polishing the hilt of her blade, this one a short, vicious-looking dagger recently come to England from the Alhambra of Spain. Caring for her weapons collection soothes Jane unlike anything else, which is all one really needs to know about our resident assassin.

Now she grins and points to the front of the room with her knife. “Sleeping potions,” she mouths, and I nod. The
courtiers are besotted with such remedies, the endless round of festivals and parties exhausting them to the point where they crave a peaceful sleep they can never seem to find.

“Coriander, lemon balm, sweet cicely, rose petals,” the herb mistress intones, causing Anna to draw in a breath.

“Rather a lot for one tincture, is it not?” she asks.

“And saffron as well,” the woman says triumphantly. “To be mixed with equal parts sugar and wine. We used it just last night for the Queen, and it worked like a charm. If you'll wait a moment, I'll prepare it for you all, that you might recognize the taste.” She bends over the table, measuring drops from several vials into five empty cups.

Jane snorts beside me. “I'm not drinking that swill.”

“I fail to see how this helps us.” Meg sits forward on the edge of her chair, a frown marring her face. “We need to leave off sleeping potions and return to poisons. That is the danger here.” She shakes her head. “And if we can ever break free of this accursed castle, we need to get to Windsortown and see what Maude is cooking up in that cottage of hers.”

“Everyone, please take a taste.” The herb mistress's command drowns out Meg's quiet words.

Reluctantly the five of us move forward and lift up the tiny glass cups. I wrinkle my nose at the overly sweet scent. “This smells like a pomander, not something to drink.”

“You canna know until you try it,” Anna says, and she shrugs and tosses hers back. Jane has already dumped hers out onto the rushes, and Beatrice and Meg are eyeing their glasses with bemusement, as if the liquid might reveal its secrets solely under the weight of their stares.

“Now we shall discuss the Crown's cures for poisons, though, God bless her, this is not a concern for our Elizabeth.”

That brings us all up short. “Not a concern?” Anna asks, her head tilting. “Whyever not?”

The woman chortles. “Well, she has the horn, of course.”

All of our faces remain blank, and our instructor immediately realizes her mistake. “Let's carry on,” she says briskly.

“No, wait.
What
horn?” Anna asks. “Do you mean an animal horn, like a stag's?”

“'Tis nothing at all. I assumed you knew,” the herb mistress responds, clearly distressed. She has information we do not, which is not unusual. Servants possess a deep ocean of knowledge, while the rest of us barely skim the surface of the sea. But now she has let her secret slip, and she doesn't know how to act. We rank higher than she does, but if she is not supposed to share the information with anyone of any station, I understand her fright. The politics of Windsor are not for the faint of heart.

“Mistress Frances,” Beatrice speaks up, her voice as gentle and full as an opening rose. “You have been
so
kind to share with us the strengths of the kitchens of Windsor in protecting our Queen. She is truly blessed to have a mistress such as you caring for her needs. You are to be commended, and I shall tell her so myself.”

I bite my lip. The Queen and Beatrice would sooner throw daggers at each other than speak, though they have seemed to come to some compromise over the past weeks.

The herb mistress's eyes flare at the unexpected flattery. “In truth?”

“In truth,” Beatrice says firmly. “But we have been sent here by Her Grace such that we may understand the full arsenal of Windsor's protections, and you have already so admirably explained the wide range of poisons we should fear.”

I lift my brows. I clearly missed this part, but Meg is helpful enough to supply the list, most likely for my bene­fit. “Aconite, yew, caustic lime, bitter almonds, and—this is a nice touch, I'll say—powdered
glass
. And don't forget the arsenic, with a little honey to ensure it all goes down smoothly. Makes pills the size of walnuts, but with enough wine to dissolve them, you could fell a household in no time at all.”

“But not
this
household!” the herb mistress insists. “The Queen's food is all tasted by willing agents, her gloves and handkerchiefs switched out repeatedly to ensure no poison might touch her fair skin. And then—and then there are the antidotes she stirs into her nightly sleeping draught.”