Maid of Wonder (8 page)

“Use it, an' if you don't think it worth ten I will be shocked. It renders the speaker quite ready to spill his secrets, whether he's asked to do it or no. Just be careful that you're ready to 'ear what 'e 'as to say.”

“
His
secrets,” Beatrice says. “It will work on any man?”

“Or woman or babe as well,” Maude says. “You shall not be disappointed, this I swear.”

We both nod, suitably impressed. If Anna can discern what this tonic is made of . . .

Money changes hands, and we turn with noisy delight to the rest of Maude's goods. I carefully scan the crowd as we do so. We attract no attention, which speaks well for
Maude's position in this town. Clearly, no one here suspects her of poor dealings. Instead children run round her stall, and Maude leans over to talk to her neighbor again, keeping one cautious eye on the ladies poking through her sachets.

“How much longer do the others need, do you think?” Beatrice asks beneath her breath. She holds up a pretty fabric-covered pillow that smells like dried lavender.

“They've not been there long, but their work should be quick. When we parted, we had farther to go than they did.” I glance back to Maude. “Should we ask her about the old woman who spoke with the Queen?”

“Perhaps not,” Beatrice says. “I would rather keep in Maude's good graces, if this truth tonic proves to be useful. The Queen may well send us back for more.” She gestures to a neighboring stall owner. “Poke around for a few minutes. Then we can be gone,” she says. “And try not to get into trouble.”

Beatrice thanks Maude prettily, then flounces off as if to do more shopping elsewhere, and I move to the next stall, making a great business of bending down to inspect its baskets of freshly cut flowers and herbs. One stall leads to another, then another, and I find myself moving farther and farther away from Maude. The air seems to clear with every step, and I realize I am enjoying the pretty fall day. Lavender tendrils in large bound bunches mixed with sage catch my eye, and I stop at another stall, noting the woman's broad collection of herbs. Sage is for purity and protection, and she has ringed it round her cart. She's also taken the time to scatter a bedding of rushes around the space, so that vil
lagers might be more comfortable while they view her wares. Beneath this layer of straw and herbs, the earth is stamped down, the ruts of the wheels deep.

I squint hard, and then I see it—a thin line of salt beneath the rushes, circling the stall. More purification, more protection. Of what is this stall owner afraid?

“Someone there?” A thin, reedy voice startles me away from the cart, and I turn. A hunched old woman leaning heavily on her staff peers up at me, and my mouth goes dry as I see her eyes.

They are milk white with age. The woman is blind.

“Ma'am?” I say, reaching out to her instinctively. “Is this your stall?”

“My daughter Agnes's.” She smiles, and I feel slightly more at ease, but the woman tilts her head to the side, as if catching the tone of my sigh. “You're too young to be so old,” she says. “You've seen too much, too soon.”

“Mother!” A woman comes round the corner, and we both stop short in recognition. It is the dove seller from a week ago, hardly a young woman herself. I blink from one of them to the other.

“This is your mother?”

“Aye. Her name is Bess.” The dove seller smiles indulgently at the older woman, who croons at me, stroking my arm. “Yes, sweetheart,” Agnes continues to her mother. “She's a lovely young maid. I told you about her, remember? The one who startled my doves away? Fortunately, they all came back again.” She gestures, and I see the cages on the other side of her cart, the doves lightly cooing in the breeze.

“She saw them, didn't she?” the old woman says. “Five scolds with only ravens for friends, and poor Sally Greer caught among them all.”

“Excuse me?” I blink in surprise. “Is the old woman who spoke to the Queen, then—this Sally Greer?”

Agnes the dove seller pats her mother on her stooped shoulder and glances at me ruefully. “Don't listen to her. Her mind is not always with us.”

“I say, she saw them!” the old woman protests. “Sweet, dumb Sally never did have a thought in her head unless someone else put it there. She was no match for ol' Maude.” She spits into the dirt. “That one's carried hate in her heart for so long, I'm surprised she hasn't rotted from it.”

“Have a care!” Agnes's voice is harsh, and I step back quickly as she moves between us. “I think it's time for your nap, sweetheart,” she says, but the ancient woman is looking directly at me with her odd, milk-white eyes.

“Hated the Queen, she did, and hates the Queen, she does. One is the same as the other to her, don't you e'er forget it.” Then the old blind woman stiffens, her face going blank. And when she speaks again, the voice that tumbles from her mouth doesn't sound anything like her own.

It sounds like the unearthly rasp of the dark angel.

“Death plays your Queen in a game without end,”
she moans, her sightless eyes flaring wide.
“It circles and crosses, then strikes once again.”

I wheel back, horrified. This is the first time I have seen the angels speak through a mortal, and to hear such a terrible, choked sound come out of a woman whose voice I verily know
seems the height of wrongness. Surely, this should not be allowed. Surely, I am hearing things I should not be hearing! Everything around me seems to press in, adding to my bone-deep dread. I am still in the courtyard, still in Windsortown, only the stalls seem to be no longer scattered through the space as a happy company, but are ringed around me. I whirl round, but there is no way out. Panic clutches my throat. I try to scream, but my mouth seems full of dust. Darkness races toward me over the ground like spilled ink, curling and eddying across the courtyard.

The scene tilts and shudders, and between the two farthest stalls I see a flash—not of light but of bright yellow fire, surrounding a dark and fathomless hole where a face should be. I stare into the hooded cowl of the hunched spirit who haunts the spectral plane, the one who speaks to me in riddles and rhymes. I hear its mocking laugh.

Death comes to Windsor.

A child's piercing shriek rends the air.

CHAPTER NINE

I come back to myself, wiping sudden, burning tears from my eyes, as children race screeching with laughter through the middle of the courtyard. They barrel into Agnes and myself and nearly knock us over in their mad dash. They run heedlessly, their shouts full of sunshine, and I exhale in sudden and unexpected relief before turning to Agnes and her elderly mother, both of them hunched over and wheezing.

“Are you well?” I ask, and then I realize that while the dove seller is in distress, her mother is
laughing
. Laughing!

“You will see! You will see!” Bess hoots as Agnes recovers enough to encircle her mother's thin shoulders with her sturdy arms. Agnes scowls at me, and I shrug helplessly. I have no idea what the old woman is trying to say to me either.
See what? And why will it be so funny?

“You've quite upset her,” Agnes snaps. “Please, leave us alone!” She sweeps her mother up in a protective clasp, and they duck and hurry around the corner of the stall, out of view.

“I didn't mean— I'm so sorry!” Neither woman is paying me any mind, however, and at that moment I hear my name
called. I look up to see Beatrice heading my way. I hasten toward her, smoothing down my hair, and present myself with a smile to my fellow maid, whose sharp eyes miss nothing.

“What happened to you?” she asks as she links her arm with mine. We stroll along easily enough, but her grip does not loosen. “I say, where did you go? I looked over, and you were no longer at Maude's, no longer anywhere in the courtyard that I could see.”

I peer back toward the dove keeper's stall. It is lost amidst the other carts. “I don't—”

“Tell me you were not
trancing
, Sophia,” Beatrice says, using the word as if it were an abomination. “You have to be more careful, especially here in the open.”

I press my lips together mulishly. “I am aware of the danger,” I say. “I will not put myself at risk. I will not put anyone at risk.”

“Right, exactly like you didn't put anyone at risk last night,” Beatrice retorts. “I'm serious, Sophia. We need you with us, not rotting in some moldy cell, condemned of witchcraft.” She glowers at me. “Or worse.”

I am saved from a reply as her chin lifts in triumph. I can almost see the tension easing in her shoulders, her hands. “They're here. Thank goodness.”

The three remaining Maids of Honor are chatting like old friends in the shadow of an inn, Meg making eyes at passersby while Anna and Jane appear to be arguing over whether or not it makes sense to enter the establishment, certainly a risky prospect for innocent maids. It's all part of our plan, and as Beatrice and I join them, we prevail upon
them to be sensible. We will venture back to our own homes together.

The excitement in our small knot of women is palpable, but other than a quick nod to indicate that the tour of Maude's holdings has been successful, we keep our chatter idle. We, more than most, understand how easy it is to overhear the schemes and secrets of the unwary.

The day is stretching toward evening. We have nearly cleared the town's limits, when a hearty voice cries out a single word. “Meg!”

We stop, and my heart sinks for no good reason. It is Master James McDonald.

“Master James!” Meg does not share my disquiet about this man, and why would she? She has known Master James for many years. He is the troupe master of the Golden Rose acting troupe, where Meg made her fortune before she came to serve the Queen. She and James are fast friends. While Meg greets James warmly, however, Jane sidles alongside me. Her sense of dismay in Master James's presence is of a decidedly different nature from my own. For his part, the dashing troupe master takes note of Jane's reticence even as he moves from Meg to Beatrice. By the time he reaches me, I have composed myself. I have no reason to distrust him, any more than I have reason to distrust Maude based solely on a mark upon her neck. I of all people should be slowest to judgment, and yet here I am, willing to denounce an herb mistress because of an errant mole, and an amiable troupe master because his manner seems too polished.

Who am I to make such rash decisions based on so little?

“Master James,” I say with more meekness than I feel as
though I have shown in an age. He takes it as his due and bows over my hand as I sink into a curtsy. I need not worry about his attentions regarding me, though. As I rise, he is already shifting his focus to Jane, who steps back when he would lean in for a social kiss.

He merely grins. “Miss Morgan,” he says, then includes us all with his grand gesture. “But say, what brings all of you lovely women into Windsortown, without so much as a word to me?”

“You seem to have found us as easily without the word,” Jane observes, and James's eyes dance at his success in drawing her out.

“True enough!” he says. “But it still does not answer the question. What could a poor village offer all of you that the Queen's own castle cannot?”

“Naught but fresh air,” I say. “And there is safety in numbers.” I watch him with interest, remembering Beatrice's idle remarks about Master James. She's convinced the troupe master is the by-blow of some great house, and in truth I can see the mark of it upon him. He is straight of carriage and strong of jaw, his bright eyes flashing with intelligence and wit. Only, he looks like no nobleman I've ever seen, exactly. Rather, in his way, he looks like all of them.

“Safety indeed, when you are so well protected,” Jane says. She is confident in her ability to defend us, and she wears it like a suit of well-fashioned armor.

“But now that you are here, and we are here, we can make the most of this happy event,” Beatrice says. “How fare you with the Queen's play?”

“Ah!
The
Play of Secrets
, to be held at the festival of
Samhain. Surely it will be an event to stun even a court as jaded as yours, my ladies.” James sketches a bow and leaps lightly back, the better to entertain us. He is ever thus, moving so quickly that it is difficult to track him, and now he lifts his arms in a grand flourish. “First we assemble the cast. Mostly men of my company, but perhaps a half dozen more of your nobles, if they dare.”

“Why not any of the ladies?” Meg asks in a huff. “We can act a fat lot better than most men, I tell you plain. And a play with all male characters is boring indeed.”

“A great possibility! And one I have considered myself, though I've not had a chance to bend the ear of the Queen to gain her approval of such a scandalous suggestion.”

“Indeed, sir,” I say, charmed despite myself. “You seek an audience with the Queen?”

“That is not necessary. If one of you might bring her a note, that would be sufficient. I can have it delivered on the morrow, and sent to—who?” His gaze roves over us all, resting the longest on Meg, who rolls her eyes. She knows what he is about. “I should insist upon its most careful protection,” he murmurs. Then he snaps his fingers. “Miss Morgan! Of course.”

“Oh, spare me your foolishness,” Jane says. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“'Tis no trouble at all. I will craft a message to Gloriana, to be placed in her hand by her most stalwart of maids. But that is not all I need you for!” James tosses his cape over his shoulder, and while the gesture is intended to impress us with his grace, I find my eyes drawn to the long rapier at his side. That—seems new. The style of the blade itself is popular of
late, but this one is finely crafted, judging by its hilt. Where would a hand-to-mouth troupe master find such a lovely weapon? And why would he have need of it?

“I need you to seek out likely candidates for the play,” Master James continues. “They must be nobles who are not so highly placed as to be unable to laugh at themselves, but not so low as to be of no interest to the gathered assemblage.”

Beatrice snorts, somehow still managing to make the sound ladylike. “I can assure you, you'll find no one willing to mock himself in Queen Elizabeth's court.”

“Oh, come now, surely there are a few?” James snaps his fingers again. “Sir Francis or Sir William?”

Meg laughs outright, and I find my lips curving into a smile. “Lord Cavanaugh?” he suggests, and Beatrice places her hands on her hips. “Ah!” he says, before she can speak. “Lord Robert Dudley. Unless I miss my guess, he would be the perfect choice.”

“James, I really think—” It is Meg now, instantly sober.

“You think too much, Meg.” The barb is lightly intended, but with just enough censure that twin stripes of color flare in Meg's cheeks. I force myself not to frown. It is only because of Meg's loyalty to her troupe that
she
is now in the Queen's service, and Master James and his lot are not branded as thieves. And yet now, suddenly, she thinks too much?

“Robert Dudley would certainly not miss an opportunity to draw the Queen's eye,” I say, and even Beatrice slants me a startled look at my confident speech. But if I do not speak, I will scream, such is the tension building inside me. “Still, I think he has secrets he would prefer not to share.”

“Once the players are on the stage, there is no telling what shall be spoken. Who can say what is truth and what is falsehood? It will be up to the court to guess!” James says, merry once more. “I wish to cause a stir!”

Anna sniffs. “You wish to cause a riot, you mean.”

“Even still!” James laughs. “It will be a coup, you must agree.”

“More likely a rout.” Jane's tone is flat, and her blade somehow, inexplicably, is in her hands again, as if she must weigh her words against it and see which side comes up wanting.

“And it will be for naught, if we don't get back to Windsor before nightfall.” Meg's glance is to the heavens, her manner once again mild, but I catch a feeling of wrongness despite her easy laughter. Meg has a memory that is already legend. A word, once spoken, will always be recalled by her. But that also means a slight, once endured, might never be forgotten.

This time, James takes his cue gracefully enough. “I am, as always, at your service. You will receive a letter from me—”

“Oh, pish,” I say, wanting us to be gone. “We'll simply tell the Queen that you have need to speak with her about
The Play of Secrets
. I suspect she will want to see you. It is her way.”

“Then huzzah for her mysterious ways, my lady.” James reaches out and draws up my hand, grazing my knuckles with his lips like the finest of nobles.

I drop into a shallow curtsy. “And with your dazzling play, Master James, may all the court's greatest secrets come to light.”

James pauses for a breath, then lifts his gaze to mine. His eyes are as vibrantly green as emeralds. And just as hard.

“May they indeed,” he says.