Maid of Wonder (9 page)

CHAPTER TEN

We take our leave shortly after, but silence dogs our heels until we are well away from Windsortown yet still some distance from the castle. As if by common accord, we dismiss Master James from our conversation as easily as a cup of turned wine.

“Well?” Beatrice demands of Meg, Jane, and Anna. “What happened? What did you learn?”

Meg opens her mouth to tell the tale, but Anna rushes in. “It was extraordinary!” she breathes. “Beatrice, you've never seen the like. Mistress Maude has the makings of a scientific workshop right within her own cottage. Vials and bottles of every description, a cook fire ringed with shelves, and hooks to hang various potions and elixirs to heat. It was every bit of it marvelous.”

“And every bit unknown to her neighbors and to the local constable, I should say,” Jane puts in wryly. At our looks, she grins. “Place was filled to bursting with her sacks and bottles, containing God only knows what.”

“Her neighbors could tell us very little about her, though
they do seem to like her, in the main.” Meg takes up the tale. “I knocked on some doors, begging for work to earn a few shillings to go to the local doctor to heal my child, down with a terrible cough. To a one, the women listened and expressed dismay, then got a furtive look in their eye and told me to hasten back to Willow Lane and find Maude. They told me that she may not say as much in the town square, but she has exactly the thing to keep my baby healthy, mark their words.

“No one was watching the cottage, or paying us any mind either. We walked right up. There were no dogs or men to be found.”

“Or anything, in truth,” Anna observes. “There are no animals or birds within reach of the house. It was almost uncanny.”

“A real witch in our midst,” Beatrice says. “Now, that would be something.”

I eye her with amusement but say nothing. They've not found a way to describe me as yet . . . though the term “witch” appears to be out of favor, and for that I am glad.

“Witch, perhaps, or fledgling scientist,” Anna says, her words staunch. “We've no proof that Maude's tinctures or potions are anything more than an old herb mistress trying new recipes. There was no intent specified in her work room, no list of women to poison or animals to kill, and not a trace of yew.”

“And yet no evidence of a family either,” Jane says. “She told Beatrice and Sophia the first time they visited her stall that she took care of her husband and her husband's mother in that house of hers. So she's at minimum a liar.”

“Or simply a woman who does not wish to have her actions judged too quickly,” I offer. They shift their attention to me, as if surprised I spoke, and I don't blame them. I'm the one who labeled Maude a murderess and poisoner, after all. I am the one who insisted she brought yew into the castle. And one old blind woman's mutterings have made me doubt Maude further. I haven't changed my opinion of the herb mistress, but I still have nothing more to justify such a dire accusation than my own grim thoughts and my still-fallible Sight. I have condemned the woman based on nothing but hearsay and hunches.

Still, Bess the blind woman did offer me information we can use, and I hasten on. “Setting Maude's potions aside, I believe I've learned the name of the old woman who spoke to the Queen—Sally Greer.”

Beatrice gapes at me. “Who told you such a thing?” she asks. “And when?”

“The mother of the dove seller whose cart I so disrupted in the Lower Ward.” I am reminded of the dark angel's words,
Follow the doves.
“I met the mother today, and she mentioned the name Sally Greer—that Maude had given Sally the message to take to the Queen. At that, the daughter became quite distraught. I couldn't ask more questions, but I didn't need to.” I grimace. “Whether or not Maude's a poisoner, she definitely has some hand in this Mother Shipton business, for good or ill. Somehow.”

“She put the old woman up to frightening the Queen?” Anna asks. “Seems a dangerous game, to lie about a death in the castle.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that the prediction is quite real.” I shake my head, recalling the dark angel's chilling words. “Perhaps Maude received it in a dream, perhaps she heard it from a wandering bard, or perhaps she conjured it up in a flaming cauldron, if she really is a witch. Who knows? But there are many ways of delivering a message that would not have made the Queen so fearful. Maude chose to make a dark message several times more frightening.”

Meg scoffs. “There could be no sense in that.”

“Who's to say what's sensible to a witch?” says Jane, who has slipped her knife out of her skirts and is admiring it in the waning sunlight.

Beatrice eyes me knowingly. “Sophia, did you . . . see anything else? When you were away from Maude's stall?”

“No, I did not, truly. I just heard . . . that rhyme again, the one about the circling and crossing.” I feel suddenly ill at ease, reliving the dark angel's rasping voice once more. “And then everything became distorted. The carts were all ringed round me, pressing in too close. It felt like I couldn't escape, no matter how I tried.”

“Much like one of the Queen's feasts,” Jane observes, but I cannot smile. A sudden wash of dizziness is upon me again as I recall the old woman turning to me, speaking the dark angel's words. I reach out, and Anna catches up my hand.

“Good heavens, girl, you've dried blood on your fingers!” she exclaims. “Where did this come from?” She fishes out a handkerchief and rubs the stain away. There is not much, but my fingers are not gashed. Where
did
the blood come from?

We finally breach the walls of Windsor Castle and enter
the Lower Ward by way of the King's Gate. There are plenty of people milling about, both castle residents and villagers who came up to the castle for the day and are now departing.

But I feel something has changed here. This enormous castle now seems too small, too tight. As if it can no longer contain the energies swirling within it.

“Something is amiss,” Jane says, and I nod. I move slightly ahead, knowing that I alone can truly see what is happening at Windsor. I step behind her and Anna, and tilt my head . . .

Chaos reigns around me.

With the perspective of my Sight, I see Windsor Castle overtaken by a sudden tempest. Howling winds shoot through the space, racing along the walls as if they are trapped, exactly like the doves were. My fellow spies are replaced by four pillars of fire whose flames leap high and strong despite the storm. The advantage of the gushing wind is that the Lower Ward has been swept clean. There are no more pockets of thick, ugly darkness, there is no line of evil coiling across the grounds. The people, whom I can barely see in the windy torrent, are like mere ghosts, as if their spirits do not shine brightly enough to be discerned.

I feel eyes upon me, and I look up, my Sight sweeping along the walls of Saint George's Chapel and the opening to the Cloisters, where nobles and their families live in small, tidy homes. I skim along the outer walls of Windsor, over the Round Tower and—and somehow
through
it, so that its interior chambers are laid bare to me. My gaze pierces through walls and earth. This has never happened before—and it is not solely
my
doing. I can see so well and so far only because
something wants me to see . . . and because that same something wants to see me.

The dark angel? But, no. The strength of this vision does not have an otherworldly feel. I cannot sense my dark angel or any angel within the walls of Windsor. It is as if they had all taken flight.

I squint harder and begin moving again. The four pillars of flame circle around me like a slowly spinning wheel as I advance through the Lower Ward, up toward the Round Tower. And with each step I can see more deeply into the thick walls of the Queen's great castle, piercing the shadows cast by the sconce light. I do not worry with corridors or doorways—nay, I can see through solid rock. Until finally I observe a great gathering of curious souls, as weightless as feathers in the breeze that still blows stiffly around them, never mind that they are far inside the castle walls.

And it is here that I finally understand what lies at the center of this gale that has beset Windsor Castle.

It is not the Queen. It is not her advisors. Even glorious Elizabeth and stalwart Cecil pale beside this man. Even crafty Walsingham is naught but a timid shade.

And it is not John Dee.

For Dee is standing off to the side, and indeed he does outshine the other nobles and their ladies, the Queen and her court. Were he standing in the center of the Presence Chamber alone, he would quite dominate the room. Instead, he is barely a defiant star whose light is drowned out by a much brighter sun. Dee glints and sparks in protest while all the raiment of the universe adorns the man at the center of the room.

A man I have never seen before. A man who turns now, his long grey beard flowing down into two careful points. His deep-set, intelligent grey eyes scan the room until he spies me. He is dressed in heavy, clerical robes, a simple brown stole over his shoulders, and a thick black beret atop his head. He wears no proper ruff of an Englishman but merely a folded white collar, curling over onto his black robes. He looks like a priest perhaps, or a doctor or teacher, in every way but one.

His eyes.

Those ancient grey orbs search across the space, though the walls of Windsor, and onto the storm-swept lawn where I still stand. They fix on me, and I am held in the thrall of a power both great and arcane. A power that has quite broken the mind in which it has sought rest.

I stare as well, as the old man inclines his head to me, his haunting regard never wavering. We are two foreigners in a country—in a world—that is not our own, who yet recognize a strange and terrible kinship with each other.

For through walls and wind and earth, he can see me.

And, astoundingly, I can see him.

Nostradamus, mighty prophet-seer of France, has come to Windsor Castle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the time we five Maids of Honor breach the Presence Chamber, we're not running. Nor are we buffeted by a raging storm. With my Sight dimmed once more, my fellow spies are no longer pillars of flame but quite ordinary girls, dressed for walking and shopping. With all appropriate decorum we step into the crowd of eager courtiers and ladies, each of them straining for a look at the famous mystic of the Continent. And now he is here at the request of the Queen!

We pay close attention to everyone's excited murmurings as to why Nostradamus might be here, but Walsingham and his spies have been quite effective at hiding the truth. The man standing at the center of the Presence Chamber has not been summoned to the castle to solve some terrible crisis for the Queen. No! He has been brought to Windsor merely for her entertainment, along with all the other learned men who have recently graced the castle. The women think the French doctor should be younger. The men think he should be taller. But without question, Michel de Nostredame is the consum
mate diversion for this perpetually jaded court, and for that, he is a wonder.

Ducking into the rustling crowd, we make our way to the front of the room, and stop well short of the space where the Queen and Nostradamus stand. Since I saw him from my distant location in the Lower Ward, I have tried to avoid looking at the man directly, but he appears not to notice me any longer. Instead, he watches the Queen.

And she watches her people.

Elizabeth appears to have been speaking at length, and she is well into the summary of her pronouncements. While I know nothing of what she has promised the crowd, the thrumming intensity of their interest has not wavered. Of course, with the Queen clearly so entranced by the French seer, it is entirely possible that the clutch of courtiers in front of her is simply smart enough to appear engaged. To seek the favor of the Queen, you must understand her shifting temperament, and adore that which she adores. It is a simple game, to play the part of courtier. But it is a game nonetheless.

“And thus we bid great welcome to our esteemed guest, traveling all this way from France to grace our court with his presence!” Elizabeth cries. A smattering of cheers breaks out. She smiles at the Frenchman, and he inclines his head, looking somewhat mystified, though I suspect that is his usual look. “Would that we could convince him to stay longer, but his travels will take him beyond our sphere all too soon. As he takes his ease tonight, I bid you all to show him the very best of English manners. Tomorrow eve the general court will be free to make merry, while we entertain the
doctor in a quiet gathering of music, discussion, and dance.”

The entire court hums with expectation, talking in hushed tones. Who will be asked to dine with the Queen? What will be seen and said?

Meanwhile, we maids exchange grim looks. The great prophet Nostradamus will be here only a short while, which means I am almost out of time. I can no longer wait for the angels to come to me with the name of the person doomed to die at Windsor. I must go to them and demand answers. And it must happen tonight.

At that moment I feel a strange pressure, and I look up to see that the quiet grey eyes of Nostradamus have found me once more. He watches me with the odd, unfocused air of a man no longer of this world, and I wonder what he sees in me. A fellow seer, or a pretender to the title? Has he, too, heard the whispers of angels all his life? Have his dreams been beset with terrible visions? I have read
Les Propheties
, of course—Elizabeth's library contains every almanac Nostradamus has published since 1555. But in many ways, Nostradamus's printed prophecies are more confusing than the messages I receive from the angels. Anna maintains that the French doctor has deliberately obscured his prophecies to avoid censure, but I am not so sure. Has he developed some arcane magical rite that forces the angels to be clear, only to muddy the meaning of their words on his own? Or is his connection with the angels even weaker than mine?

The Queen, apparently finished with her announcements, strides into the center of the nobles. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her manner brimming over with confidence.
She has done what she intended to do: she has brought together her champions upon her own private battlefield, to tilt for her favor.

Death plays your Queen in a game without end . . .

“I invite you all to tonight's feast!” she exclaims. Now the cheers are in earnest, and the crowd lunges for the long lines of serving tables. The Queen, for her part, processes forward to the high table, but her head swivels around, searching the crowd. At length she finds me.

“Sophia!” she demands. “Attend me.”

It circles and crosses, then strikes once again.

With a last resigned glance to my fellow spies, I turn toward the Queen. With each step, I realize that this is what my future shall be. Forever walking into a murky unknown, forever put to the test. Still, I walk with my chin high and my brow untroubled, while both lords and ladies step respectfully out of my way. To be summoned thusly by the Queen is a great honor, but I am not the only one who has been accorded this attention. I see that Dee has already positioned himself to the Queen's left, while Nostradamus has been granted the higher seat at her right. I am grateful for my seat a few rungs below these august personages, as it will allow me to see them all easily, without—

The last courtier stands aside, and my view is obstructed by a face that is already too familiar to me. A face I cannot put from my mind, no matter how much it has already betrayed me. My heart gives a traitorously happy leap, even as fear and mistrust grip my stomach. I am a woman at war with myself.

Marcus Quinn proffers me his arm.

“You shall dine with us?” I ask, but he has no time to answer before Dee waves us forward.

“Sit, my niece, sit,” he says, as if he is naught but a kindly uncle. “Good that you have met young Quinn.” He bows to the Queen. “Marcus Quinn, Your Grace. A young man of letters and science whom I met when I was last in London. I consider him a colleague and entrust him with my confidence, and pray that you do the same.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth's tone is polite while promising nothing, but her eyes are shrewd. She sees Marcus standing close to me—too close, perhaps. Marcus may be Dee's entrusted friend, but he also appears to favor me. That can be for one of two reasons: either he has been beguiled by my great beauty, or he's working for my uncle to gain additional information about me. Neither the Queen nor I believe it's the former. And as Elizabeth's cool gaze slides to me, I sense her orders forming in my mind as if she were speaking them aloud.

I am to let young Marcus Quinn get as close to me as he desires, yet reveal nothing to him. In turn, I am to watch him closely, to gather what information I may.

The first seems fairly easy, as Quinn seats himself close enough to me on our shared bench as to trap my skirts beneath his leg. I'm strangely disquieted by his presence, though he is merely another young man to spy upon, as I have been asked to spy upon so many other members of the court. The Queen's sprawling retinue is fairly riddled with men. What's one more?

And yet, I have not been put to this task so often as have Beatrice and Meg, or even Anna. I have been held apart, much like grim-faced Jane, for other tasks that do not place me in the path of men. I have not minded, to be sure. Still, I feel woefully unprepared for the subtle task before me. My mind races ahead to tomorrow's entertainment. Music, discussion, and
dance
, the Queen has decreed.

I loathe dancing. In the past I could always work up a good swoon to avoid the exercise. Now, were Marcus to ask me, I might actually tread upon his feet. I feel the blush crawl up my neck.

“The Queen does not seem to trust me.” Marcus's cheerful words at my ear make me stiffen. “What have I done to earn her suspicion?”

“The Queen does not trust anyone she doesn't know well. And those she knows, she trusts even less,” I say easily. Marcus chuckles at my attempt at banter, and I feel strangely victorious, though I've said nothing of merit. Is this how it is between men and women? A smile, a nod, a few well-spoken words, and that is all?

I foresee another conversation with Beatrice in my future. Or Meg, who flirted quite scandalously with her dashing Spanish spy this past summer. I certainly cannot consult Anna, whose understanding of men is confined to the endless books she's read, and not Jane, either. She prefers to deal with men only at the tip of her sword.

“And what of you?” Marcus asks. “Whom do you trust more? Those you know, or those you do not?”

“I daresay it depends on the individual,” I reply. “But no
matter how long it takes to gain such trust, be assured, it can be lost in a moment.”

He lifts his brows, his cool eyes regarding me steadily. “So you
do
trust me, then.”

“I trust you to be exactly who you say you are.” I give him a politely chilly smile. “And who is that again?”

Marcus grins. “‘A man of letters and science' is as good as any answer, I daresay.” We are interrupted by the start of the meal, as servants scurry and Elizabeth speaks and giggles at her own joke, whatever it was. We all laugh in merry response, the ripple of amusement flowing down the table like leaves along a stream. Marcus waits just long enough for propriety before leaning close. “You have determined where you have seen me before.”

“I have,” I say. “And I would thank you to not follow me again.”

“Follow you! How do you know I wasn't there first?”

I don't honor this with a response, and Marcus shifts yet closer, his whisper brushing across my ear. “I can answer all your questions, lovely Sophia, but not here, I think. Perhaps we might have the occasion to speak later, somewhere more . . . quiet?”

My face heats at his scandalous suggestion. “Sir, you are quite bold.”

“All your questions,” he murmurs again. “About me, and about what I have seen in the angelic realm . . . in addition to whatever you might wish to learn about your beloved uncle.” He shifts back, but only slightly. “Surely that is worth a few moments of your time?”

I frown at him as the steam from the feast's heated platters curls around his face, as if he were once more in the realm of angels, watching me. Taunting me.

Whatever I hope to say next is lost, however, as I catch the end of Elizabeth's urgent query, seeming to carry with unnatural volume down the long table. “Can you do it?” she asks, and I can think of no question upon her mind but one. I casually glance to the head of the table, and see that Elizabeth is addressing Nostradamus, who looks at her with a face devoid of any emotion. As if she were asking him to solve some mathematics puzzle, and not predict a death within our very walls.

“By tomorrow moonrise,” he says, his voice as clear as bells. And he leans forward to eat his stew.

I blink, taking in Elizabeth's wide smile of relief and triumph.

Then I become aware that I am not alone in watching her. John Dee sits like a hawk on the Queen's other side. He and I are resolutely aligned against each other in this race to unmask the doomed soul at Windsor, it is true. And yet, if we are both of us supplanted by an outsider, then our fortunes shall equally suffer. As much as we cannot be outmaneuvered by the other, we even more cannot let Nostradamus rule the day.

My shoulders sag under the weight of what lies before me. I now have not only one great mind to conquer, I have two. And I, by far, have the most to lose.

Nostradamus's reputation will not be damaged if he is bested tomorrow, that much is certain. And if I succeed and
my “uncle” does not, Dee will not be sold into servitude, nor will he starve, I think bitterly. With his wiles and education, with his books and astrological charts and the newest rumors of his alchemical successes, he will survive.

I, however, will not be so lucky if Dee bests me in this test. I do not forget the Queen's dismissal of me last night, that I might serve the Crown in “other ways.” If I cannot serve her as a seer, I suspect that she'd just as happily marry me off to some dangerous lord who needs the eyes of a court-trained spy upon him. I also know that I would wither and die in such isolation.

As dangerous as it is for me to be too successful at my role of seer, being unsuccessful is far worse. I
must
discern first who is to die at Windsor, and stop it if I can.

“Sophia, what is it?” Marcus's voice makes me jump, and I realize I am clenching my hands. “What ails you?”

“Nothing at all,” I say quickly, and turn to give him my full attention. To defeat John Dee, I must learn everything about him. And if that means meeting Marcus in some quiet place, that he might feel comfortable sharing his secrets with me, well . . . what has this past year of training been for, if not for this?

I look into Marcus's eyes, glinting beneath his dark brows. I see those brows lift as if he could sense the shift of my interest, the increasing of my intensity. I watch his full lips curve slightly as suspicion dawns within him as to what I might say next. I feel him grasp my fingers lightly in his own.