Maid of Wonder (7 page)

“
He has granted you protection, hidden yet from your detection. Look to find the scrap of Fae to mark the vow that love has made.”

“What?” Beatrice draws back for just a moment, then grasps my wrists again. “God's eyes, you're seeing visions. Do you mean Alasdair and that infernal Fairy Flag of his?” She curses. “This is
not
the time, Sophia.”

I swing away from Beatrice's pinched frown, and it is Anna whose face I see next. Anna, looking up into the enchanted ceiling of false stars, her face alight with interest. Darkness clamps down on me, my voice going spindle-thin.

“
Death descends not once, not twice, blood and lies and blackened knife, three then four then more to come, not till seven is it done
.”

“Sophia, much as I adore you, I'm not going to remember this. Where is
Meg
?”

I am suddenly surrounded by spectral beings. Spirits and
angels, more than I have ever seen before. Some I recognize, most I don't. And they all are talking at once, seeking to fill my ears with words I cannot fully understand, so quickly are they clamoring, their voices blending together into an otherworldly storm.

I pull away from Beatrice, whirling around to see more clearly. The courtiers and ladies are all as ghosts, while the angels are as bright as day. They press in more closely, gasping with delight at the spectacle Dee has created, and I turn, and turn again, not knowing what I'm looking for, until—

There he is. The lone mortal visible among the spirits, standing far to the opposite side of the chamber, his sculpted face almost hauntingly beautiful, his eyes silver-bright: Marcus Quinn. He is lit up like one of the spectral beings, as bright and full as if he walked their dreaming plane like I do. But unlike the angels, who are all looking skyward, Marcus Quinn is staring right at me. Something shifts inside me, and I fall back—

Beatrice pulls me round, and I see Meg moving toward us. Her face does not give me the comfort it usually does, and I blurt the words that clamor in my brain.
“Loyalty shall serve her false, deceit at every turn—”

“Stop!” Beatrice commands, and her emotion is so intense that I come back to myself. It is like halting a horse by running it into the side of a castle wall. I am left reeling, struggling to breathe. Just then, however, the room visibly darkens. Dee has overlaid the frame of pricked holes so heavily with coverings that the firelight is slowly dying inside, giving the Presence Chamber the illusion of a fading spell.

“And so the stars all must finally slumber,” he says ponderously. “Except for our own Gloriana.”

With that announcement, Dee tosses a small package at the Queen's feet. The guards surrounding the Queen step forward, bristling, but they are nowhere near quick enough. The package bursts into sudden flame, illuminating the Queen in a brilliant yellow-white light.

Just that quickly, the flame is extinguished.

Complete darkness falls over the room.

Complete darkness . . . and silence.

For one long, heavily weighted moment.

Then Beatrice bursts into wild applause. “Bravo!” she shouts. “Bravo!”

Mad clapping breaks out as the courtiers follow her lead, while the Queen demands that the candles be relit and the music commence. I do not miss the glance exchanged between monarch and maid. Beatrice and Elizabeth are avowed enemies, yes. But they are also allies in a court susceptible to the slightest shift of public opinion. The tiniest hint of any royally sanctioned “grand spectacle” falling flat can all too quickly stir up the gale-force winds of whispered doubts. Everything the Queen does must succeed and be grander than all that has come before. Such is the price of currying favor among a fickle court.

I look to Dee, only to find him staring back. He stands in the lee and patronage of his beloved Queen, smug in his success. But his pride is not only a result of his trick of colored stars, I suddenly understand. John Dee's ways are subtle, and his trap was neatly sprung. I glance right, and see the young
man who has left the far side of the Presence Chamber to stand beside Dee. The young man I
felt
I'd met before—though it seemed impossible—the young man I saw quite clearly just now, as visible on the plane of angels as if he too could walk within that hallowed realm. The young man who I now realize is working with John Dee.

Marcus Quinn.

He has been watching me.

I think of my last conversation with the dark angel, the person I felt peering at me in the shadows. I thought it was a shade, some poor deceased soul, but it wasn't. It was Marcus Quinn. He somehow followed me onto the dreaming plane, I am certain of it.

Across the gradually lightening room, I can no longer perceive the angels or spirit beings pressing close around me. They have shrunk away from the noise and the clamor of the Presence Chamber, the clearing of tables and the moving of benches, as the gathered throng of mortals prepares for a night of drink and music.

Instead, all I see is Dee, turning to Marcus and his men, gesturing wildly as he appears to explain how to remove his strange machine, so that he might go and be properly honored by the Queen for creating such a marvelous distraction for her.

But even Elizabeth does not understand the full extent of that distraction. The display of lights and stars was also a ploy to draw
me
out, to prove to Dee what I would never have revealed on my own: that I have developed my Sight far more than anyone suspects, including the Queen.

And now he can betray me.

Dee is determined to prove his worth as the Queen's most trusted diviner, and his chance is before him, with the Queen's need to decipher Mother Shipton's prophecy. If he succeeds, his future is set. The Queen will grant him money, titles, and protection. But he is no fool. He knows that I, too, am being put to the test, along with anyone else the Queen sees fit to question. In Dee's mind, I have become a threat who stands between him and everything he has ever wanted.

And the first step to removing a threat is to unmask it.

Across the room, my adversary tips his head toward me . . . and smiles.

CHAPTER EIGHT

More of Dee's entourage arrived overnight, and the court is alive this morning with rumors that the Queen has made a special, secretive summons to draw another scholar into her presence as well, but no one can guess who. Given the size of Dee's company of learned men, I can scarcely imagine that anyone with a brain remains outside of Windsor. Elizabeth has closeted herself away with Cecil and Walsingham, and for the first time in a brace of days, no one has us running all over the castle.

This means that
finally
we maids can make our journey to Windsortown, to investigate the suspected poisoner, Mistress Maude. The boisterous herb mistress has not returned to the castle since the day the Queen received Mother Shipton's premonition of death, and we don't know what to expect when we reach the town. Will she have fled? Does she truly play any role in the current intrigues besetting the castle?

I shuffle along agreeably at the back of our group, glad to be leaving the castle. I was so disquieted by last night's events that once more I did not sleep.

For what will happen when I do? Will I meet Marcus
Quinn in my dreams? Dare I ever close my eyes again? Has he already breached that most private sanctum, as easily as he has entered the realm of angels? How is it he can watch me, in truth? And
why
is he doing so?

And, God's breath . . . how long has this been going on?

If Dee had suspected I was truly on the verge of making my own connection with the angelic realm a year ago, he never would have shared me with the Queen. I am certain of that. And thus the moment he learned of my abilities, I would think he would have come calling. Yet he has not darkened the Queen's door for months.

This means that his knowledge of my abilities must be recent. But how recent?

Did Dee set Marcus Quinn to the task of finding me? Or did Marcus find me all on his own, and then seek out Dee when he discovered our connection? Is Marcus a villain, or does he not understand that Dee means me harm? The way he looked at me at dinner, and then across the Presence Chamber, was so . . .

I scowl, forcing myself to see things as they are, not as I wish them to be. The way Marcus looked at me last night was simply part of his duty, perhaps seeking to draw me out to get additional information for his employer. And yet, no young man has
ever
looked at me the way he did, as if I were some rare and precious treasure . . .

Oh, leave off.

Of course I'm a treasure to Marcus Quinn. Dee doubtlessly is paying him a pile of gold for any information he can cobble together about me.

As we walk, Anna strides to the fore, excitement quickening her step. “The Queen's cooks were adamant. If we find dragon's blood, basil, lemongrass, or rosemary, Mistress Maude is likely only dabbling in the honesty tea trade—and no harm in that. Turmeric, sage, raspberry, nettle, even licorice . . . all of that's for love potions. The pieces we want to watch out for are bryony, mandrake—or anything you can't recognize.”

“Well, that should narrow it down,” says Jane.

“Cecil and Walsingham shouldn't be sending us to hunt down Maude. They should be sending us to thank her,” Beatrice puts in. “Without her potions, I doubt any of us would have paid so much attention in class of late.”

“We could use a good, deadly poison, though,” Anna says, in all seriousness. “It would be useful to understand what Maude finds the most potent, and in what doses.”

“Well, she certainly uses yew.” Meg's words are bitter. She wasn't in the Lower Ward when the guards' horses were poisoned, but she shares my horror for Maude's heartless act.

“A decision we would do well to understand better,” I say. “Maude risked much to create chaos in the Lower Ward, and for what? To ensure one old woman slipped into the Queen's presence to deliver a prophecy without anyone knowing who sent her? What has Maude to gain by upsetting the Queen?”

“Mother Shipton's prophecy has done nothing to improve the Queen's mood, that's certain,” Beatrice says. “And a frightened Queen is a less generous one. The people of Windsortown have all benefited from Elizabeth's largesse.”

“The guards have had no luck trying to find out any information about the old woman either,” Jane says, scanning the woods beside us as if the trees were intentionally withholding secrets.

“Oh!” Anna exclaims. “And the old woman herself only adds to the mystery. Our examination of that poor goodwife's corpse was the most enthralling experience I've had since coming to Windsor.”

“You frighten me, Anna,” Beatrice begins, but Anna will not be deterred.

“I'm serious! There was no reason why she should have died in such a sudden manner. There was no poison upon her tongue or obvious wound, no indication of foul humor in her blood or bile. Her heart just . . . stopped.”

“Then it is up to us to find out more,” I say. “Surely someone in this town can help. That woman cannot just have dropped into Windsor from nowhere. She's probably lived here all her life.” And if the town won't give up its secrets, then I have other sources to ask. Though I am nervous to reenter the angelic realm, I am certain Dee will be so distracted with his plans for the Queen that he will not be focused on me. With any luck, neither will Marcus Quinn.

We part ways outside of town. By previous consent, Beatrice and I were given the easier route. We must find Mistress Maude and her gaudy stall, and keep her occupied long enough to allow Meg, Anna, and Jane the opportunity to discover what they might at the woman's home. Then, when we are quite sure enough time has passed, Beatrice and I might even ask Maude a few questions of our own about
the old crone if the moment feels right. We cannot put these questions to the herb mistress too quickly, lest she chase us off. But we are determined to get answers.

From Jane's scouting, we know that Maude's small cottage is quite close, though her stall in town is still several minutes away. Beatrice and I travel on. “They'll not be caught, will they?” she asks. “Not that I can imagine the plight of anyone so bold as to lay hands on Jane, but . . .”

I shrug. “I have a sense that they are safe, but I have no basis for that belief, other than wishful thinking.” I squint into the bright sunlight. “I could scry?”

Beatrice's laugh is wry. “No. I've had quite enough of you dropping into a trance in public, thank you. We're far too exposed here.” We walk a bit longer in silence, Beatrice drawing the usual attention. She is lovely even in her serviceable skirts and modestly cut neckline. Her clothes are fine, though not luxurious, but her manner shouts out that she is a noblewoman. How do I appear, I wonder? I glance down at my own gown of fine-spun cloth. It's grey, with simple stitching, but there is a light line of elegant embroidery at the waist, hem, and sleeve. It's pretty, I think, though I usually pay no attention to how I look. A new thought unexpectedly strikes me. What did Marcus Quinn see when he looked at me last night? How
do
I appear to a young man?

It's such a strange idea, I at once chatter out the first question to follow on its heels. “Beatrice,” I ask, “am I pretty, would you say?”

“Whyever would you ask such a thing?” Her brows lift. “Is this about that young courtier who had you so distracted
last night? Marcus Quinn? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” I protest. My lies and half-truths are all twisting together, making it difficult to keep my place. “He is merely a member of Dee's company.”

“A member of Dee's company who clearly believes you're pretty,” she teases me, her grin wide. Then she relents. “Because of course you are, Sophia. You outshine everyone at court, I tell you plain. Even me, and that's no small feat.” Her laughter lightens any sting her words might have. “But be careful not to have your head turned by idle words. They fall too easily from the lips of courtiers.”

“Well, then, how do you tell flatterers and fools apart from men of worth?”

“That's easy,” Beatrice answers. “They're
all
flatterers and fools, even if they're men of worth.”

I consider this. “Because they fall in love so easily?”

Beatrice laughs. “Because they're men, Sophia. They do not think in terms of love, at least not at first. They think in terms of desire. Of possession. This is true from the finest man down to the meanest cur. Men don't fall in love at first sight—they
crave
something at first sight. Something they must have for their own. For most of them, their emotions never plumb any greater depths than that.”

“But Alasdair MacLeod loves you,” I say, referring to the Scottish lord who even now is embroiled in the Northern Rebellion of the Scots against the French. Though Beatrice was assigned merely to spy upon Alasdair during his recent visit to Windsor Castle, their relationship has become far closer. “He doesn't simply want you like a prized goat.”

“Well, he did at first, I wager.” Beatrice shrugs. “At first I was a conquest, and then a challenge. It was only later that his desire gave way to something more refined. Though he would not thank me for calling him refined, in any case.”

“And you could tell that, when?”

“Immediately,” she says, winking at me. “Men are not that complicated, I'm sad to say. Chances are, your young Marcus is looking for kisses and not conversation. If he's after your heart, it will be in his eyes. If he's after your body, well—that proof is yet easier to discern.”

“Beatrice!” Blood flares in my cheeks, and she starts giggling madly. I am spared any more of her teasing, however, as we are approaching Windsortown's collection of stalls. The smell of savory pies and sweetmeats fills the air, mingling with the scents of horses and goats and kindling sparking to fire. To my great relief we find Maude working at her stall at the edge of the throng, cackling to her neighbor.

“What 'o!” she cries out when she sees us, recognizing us as past customers to her stall—but thankfully, not seeming to recall me from a week ago in the Lower Ward. Perhaps my covering of dove feathers was an adequate disguise. “Maids from the castle, good day to you. Blessings to you both.” She waggles her brows at us. “You've tried my tonic, 'ey? 'As it worked well for you?”

She refers to her love potion, of course, which is all she would give us when we first visited her stall a few weeks ago—claiming she had none of the truth tonic we truly sought. We accepted the love tea as a show of good faith, vowing to return with five shillings, and I sincerely hope Beatrice will
not tell her the true fate of that potion—that Jane has dumped the rest of it out in the chicken yard. “It's worked surprisingly well,” Beatrice says. “We gifted it to a friend in need, and now she has all the male attention she could hope for.”

“So I tol' you it would be! An' yer back, since what Maude says, she means.”

“Exactly so.” Beatrice surveys Maude's impressive stall. It is filled with bottles and possets, the offerings all wrapped in brightly colored ribbons. “But, oh! You have so many things here! More so even than last time!”

“Look yer fill, ladies! But first, your special mixture.” Maude grins, and her shawl shifts as she leans forward, baring a swath of skin. I can see a large mole on her neck, and I try to quell my lurch of fear. Despite my own learned upbringing and my careful studies of the arcane, I still have to resist my completely irrational reaction to Maude's deformity.

To those who are superstitious—which includes nearly all the men and women of England—moles are considered signs of witchcraft or devil-worship. I have seen women slice themselves with a sharp blade, risking terrible injury, to remove a mole from their skin. Most of the time they end up with an unsightly scar, but at least the mole is gone. For some, the truly unlucky, the dark knot of skin returns, almost mocking their efforts, and they must work doubly and triply hard to hide it from the view of idle eyes. Even Anne Boleyn, Queen Elizabeth's own mother, endured cruel court gossip because of the moles on her skin—and such gossip eventually contributed to her downfall. When King Henry grew weary of Queen Anne's inability to give him a son, he used every weapon he
could to discredit her. Rumors that she was a witch swirled around her like a dirty fog, in part because of the way she looked.

I, however, should know better. Whether or not Maude is a poisoner, a murderer, or, yes, a witch, has nothing to do with how she appears . . . and everything to do with what she does. And I need more than a mole on her neck or a whisper on the wind to condemn her. We will study the potion she has made for us, and learn what Jane, Meg, and Anna find at the goodwife's cottage. If the evidence reveals her as a poisoner, then she will be judged. But she will not be tried for my fear.

Mistress Maude finishes rooting around in her basket, and emerges with a stubby glass vial with a stoppered top. The whole thing is no larger than a man's thumb, and Beatrice takes it with a frown, holding it up to the light. “Five shillings for this?”