Murder by Magic (41 page)

Well, then!
Pilbeam did know them. They were not his colleagues, but his competitors, Edward Cosyn, called Ned, and John Prestall. As Lord Robert had said, they were ill-nurtured cozeners, their loyalty suspect and their motives impure.

Perhaps His Lordship had himself bought the services of Prestall and Cosyn. If so, would he have admitted that he knew who they were? No. If he had brought about his wife’s death, he would have hidden his motives behind sorrow and grief rather than openly revealing his self-interest and self-regard.

God be praised, thought Pilbeam, he had an answer for Lord Robert. He had found someone for His Lordship to blame.

At the sound of a footstep in the hall Pilbeam and Lettice looked around. But the step was not that of the apprentice or the housekeeper. Amy Robsart walked down the hallway, head drooping, shoulders bowed, wringing her hands.

Lettice squeaked in terror and shrank against Pilbeam’s chest.

With a sigh of cold, dank air, the ghost passed through them and went on its way down the hallway, leaving behind the soft thump of footsteps and the fragile voice wailing, “Ah, woe. Woe.”

Pilbeam adjusted his robes and his cap. Beside him Martin tugged at his collar. Pilbeam jabbed the lad with his elbow and hissed, “Stand up straight, you lumpish ratsbane.”

“Quiet, you fly-bitten foot-licker,” Lord Robert ordered.

Heralds threw open the doors. Her Majesty the Queen strode into the chamber, a vision in brocade, lace, and jewels. But her garments seemed like so many rags beside the glorious sunrise glow of her fair skin and her russet hair.

Lord Robert went gracefully down upon one knee, his upturned face filled with the adoration of a papist for a saint. Pilbeam dropped like a sack of grain, jerking Martin down as he went. The lad almost fumbled the pillow he carried, but his quick grab prevented the witching-doll from falling off the pillow and onto the floor.

The Queen’s amber eyes crinkled at the corners, but her scarlet lips did not smile. “Robin, you roguish folly-fallen lewdster,” she said to Lord Robert, her voice melodious but not lacking an edge. “Why have you pleaded to wait upon us this morning?”

“My agent, Dr. Pilbeam, who is apprenticed to your favorite, Dr. Dee, has discovered the truth behind my wife’s unfortunate death.”

Robert did not say “untimely death,” Pilbeam noted. Then Her Majesty turned her eyes upon him, and his thoughts melted like a wax candle in their heat.

“Dr. Pilbeam,” she said. “Explain.”

He spoke to the broad planks of the floor, repeating the lines he had rehearsed before His Lordship: Cumnor Place, the maidservant overcome by her guilt, the death spell quickened by the doll, and behind it all the clumsy but devious hands of Prestall and Cosyn. No revenant figured in the tale, and certainly no magic circle in St. Mary’s, Oxford.

On cue, Martin extended the pillow. Lord Robert offered it to the Queen. With a crook of her forefinger, she summoned a lady-in-waiting, who carried both pillow and doll away. “Burn it,” Elizabeth directed. And to her other attendants, “Leave us.” With a double thud the doors shut.

Her Majesty flicked her pomander, bathing the men and the boy with the odor of violets and roses, as though she were a bishop dispensing the holy water of absolution. “You may stand.”

Lord Robert rose as elegantly as he had knelt. With an undignified stagger, Pilbeam followed. Martin lurched into his side and Pilbeam batted him away.

“Where are those evildoers now?” asked the Queen.

“The maidservant is in Oxford gaol, Your Majesty,” Robert replied, “and the malicious cozeners in the Tower.”

“And yet it seems as though this maid was merely foolish, not wicked, ill used by men who tempted her with gold. You must surely have asked yourself, Robin, who in turn tempted these men.”

“Someone who wished to destroy your trust in me, Your Majesty. To drive me from your presence. My enemy, and yours as well.”

“Do you think so? What do you think, Dr. Pilbeam?”

What he truly thought, Pilbeam dared not say. That perhaps Amy’s death was caused by someone who intended to play the Queen’s friend. Someone who wished Amy Robsart’s death to deliver Lord Robert Dudley to Elizabeth’s marriage bed, so that there she might engender heirs.

Whilst some found Robert’s bloodline tainted, his father and grandfather both executed as traitors, still the Queen could do much worse in choosing her consort. One could say of Robert what was said of the Queen herself upon her accession: that he was of no mingled or Spanish blood but was born English here in England. Even if he was proud as a Spaniard . . .

Pilbeam looked into the Queen’s eyes, jewels faceted with a canny intelligence. Spain, he thought. The deadly enemy of Elizabeth and Protestant England. The Spanish were infamous for their subtle plots.

“B-b-begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” he stammered, “but I think His Lordship is correct in one regard. His wife was murdered by your enemies. But they did not intend to drive him from your presence, not at all.”

Robert’s glance at Pilbeam was not encouraging. Martin took a step back. But Pilbeam barely noticed, spellbound as he was by the Queen. “Ambassador Feria, who was lately recalled to Spain. Did he not frequently comment to his master, King Philip, on your, ah, attachment to Lord Robert?”

Elizabeth nodded, one corner of her mouth tightening. She did not insult Pilbeam by pretending there had been no gossip about her attachment, just as she would not pretend she had no spies in the ambassador’s household. “He had the impudence to write six months ago that Lady Robert had a malady in one of her breasts and that I was only waiting for her to die to marry.”

His Lordship winced but had the wisdom to keep his own counsel.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Pilbeam. “But how did Feria not only know of Lady Robert’s illness but of its exact nature, long before the disease began to manifest itself? Her own housekeeper says she began to suffer only a few days before she died. Did Feria himself set two cozeners known for their, er, mutable loyalties to inflict such a condition upon her?”

“Feria was recently withdrawn and replaced by Bishop de Quadra,” murmured the Queen. “Perhaps he overstepped himself with his plot. Or perhaps he retired to Spain in triumph at its—no, not at its conclusion. For it has yet to be concluded.”

Lord Robert could contain himself no longer. “But, Your Majesty, this hasty-witted pillock speaks nonsense. Why should Philip of Spain . . .”

“Wish for me to marry you? He intended no compliment to you, I am sure of that.” Elizabeth smiled, a smile more fierce than humorous, and for just a moment Pilbeam was reminded of her father, King Henry.

Robert’s handsome face lit with the answer to the puzzle. “If Your Majesty marries an Englishman, she could not ally herself with a foreign power such as France against Spain.”

True enough, thought Pilbeam. But more important, if Elizabeth married Robert, then she would give weight to the rumors of murder, and might even be considered his accomplice in that crime. She had reigned for only two years; her rule was far from secure. Marrying Lord Robert might give the discontented among her subjects more ammunition for their misbegotten cause and further Philip’s plots.

Whilst Robert chose to ignore those facts, Pilbeam would wager everything he owned that Her Majesty did not. His Lordship’s ambition might have outpaced his love for his wife. His love for Elizabeth had certainly done so. No, Robert Dudley had not killed his wife. Not intentionally.

The Queen stroked his cheek, the coronation ring upon her finger glinting against his beard. “The problem, sweet Robin, is that I am already married to a husband, namely, the Kingdom of England.”

Robert had no choice but to acknowledge that. He bowed.

“Have the maidservant released,” Elizabeth commanded. “Allow the cozeners to go free. Let the matter rest, and in time it will die for lack of nourishment. And then Philip and his toadies will not only be deprived of their conclusion, they will always wonder how much we knew of their plotting, and how we knew it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Robert. “May I then return to court?”

“In the course of time.” She dropped her hand from his cheek.

He would never have his conclusion, either, thought Pilbeam. Elizabeth would like everyone to be in love with her, but she would never be in love with anyone enough to marry him. For then she would have to bow her head to her husband’s will, and that she would never do.

Pilbeam backed away. For once he did not collide with Martin, who, he saw with a glance from the corner of his eye, was several paces away and sidling crabwise toward the door.

Again the Queen turned the full force of her eyes upon Pilbeam, stopping him in his steps. “Dr. Pilbeam, we hear that the ghost of Lady Robert Dudley has been seen walking in Cumnor Place.”

“Ah, ah . . .” Pilbeam felt rather than saw Martin’s shudder of terror. But they would never have discovered the truth without the revenant. No, he would not condemn Martin, not when his carelessness had proved a blessing in disguise.

Lord Robert’s gaze burned the side of his face, a warning that matters of necromancy were much better left hidden. “Her ghost?” he demanded. “Walking in Cumnor Place?”

Pilbeam said, “Er—ah—many tales tell of ghosts rising from their graves, Your Majesty, compelled by matters left unconcluded at death. Perhaps Lady Robert is seeking justice, perhaps bewailing her fate. In the course of time, some compassionate clergyman will see her at last to rest.” Not I, he added firmly to himself.

Elizabeth’s smile glinted with wry humor. “Is that how it is?”

She would not insult Pilbeam by pretending that she had no spies in Oxfordshire as well and that very little failed to reach her ears and eyes. And yet the matter of the revenant, too, she would let die for lack of nourishment. She was fair not only in appearance but also in her expectations. He made her a bow that was more of a genuflection.

She made an airy wave of her hand. “You may go now, all of you. And Dr. Pilbeam, Lord Robert will be giving you the purse that dangles at his belt, in repayment of his debt to you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” His Lordship backed reluctantly away.

What an interesting study in alchemy, thought Pilbeam, that with the Queen the base metal of His Lordship’s manner was transmuted to gold. “Your Majesty. My lord.” Pilbeam reversed himself across the floor and out the door, which Martin contrived to open behind his back. Lord Robert followed close upon their heels, his boots stepping as lightly and briskly as the hooves of a thoroughbred.

A few moments later Pilbeam stood in the street, an inspiringly heavy purse in his hand, allowing himself a sigh of relief—ah, the free air was sweet, all was well that ended well . . . Martin stepped into a puddle, splashing the rank brew of rainwater and sewage onto the hem of Pilbeam’s robe.

Pilbeam availed himself yet again of Martin’s convenient handle. “You rank pottle-deep measle! You rude-growing toad!” he exclaimed, and guided the lad down the street toward the warmth and peace of home.

Grey Eminence

Mercedes Lackey

Mercedes Lackey has been an international supermodel, a psychic detective, an espionage agent, a rocket scientist, and a globe-trotting jet-setter, hobnobbing with the likes of Madonna and Elton John. She is currently nominated for both the Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes in literature and is coordinating and financing the effort to create the real-life version of International Rescue. She is five feet nine, with flaming red hair to her waist, an IQ of 250, and a flawless figure and complexion, and she thinks that if you believe any of this, you really need to get out more.

N
an Killian sat on the foot of her best friend’s bed, with her feet curled up under her flannel nightgown to keep them warm. Sarah Jane’s pet parrot, Grey, lay flat on Sarah’s chest, eyes closed, cuddling like a kitten. Warm light from an oil lamp mounted on the wall beside the bed poured over all of them. It wasn’t a very big room, just large enough for Nan’s bed and Sarah Jane’s and a wardrobe and chests for their clothes and things, and a perch with food and water and toys for Grey. If the wallpaper was old and faded, and the rugs on the floor threadbare, it was still a thousand times better than any place that Nan had ever lived in—and as for Sarah, well, she was used to a mission and hospital in the middle of the jungle, and their little room was just as foreign to her as it was to Nan, though in entirely different ways.

Sarah and Grey were from somewhere in Africa; Nan was a bit vague as to where, exactly—her grasp of geography outside of the boundary of London was fairly weak. Sarah’s parents were missionary doctors there, and as many parents did during the reign of Victoria, had sent their child to England, where, it was assumed, there were fewer diseases, better food, and better physicians, and it was altogether less likely that their darling would sicken and die. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of children like Sarah, sent off to “schools” that cared only to warehouse them and starved their minds, bodies, and spirits; or to caretakers who were as indifferent to the needs of a child all alone as the schools were. Fortunately, there were also good caretakers and, like this, the Harton School for Boys and Girls, good schools. On the outside, this school might not look like a “good” school—it was an old mansion, now on the outskirts of a neighborhood long since declined into a slum. It had seen much, much better days, and the Hartons had acquired it for a pittance, which was fortunate, since a pittance was all they could afford. They had spent their money on repairs, decent (if much-used) solid furnishings, and common comfort, and had advertised, as so many other schools did, that they took children sent back to England by their parents living and working in the service of the empire abroad.

This school, however, was just a little different from most of the others, to say the least. While only little Sarah had a pet from “home,” pets and other reminders of absent parents were encouraged here. Mrs. Harton—whom everyone called Memsah’b, from the servants up to and including her own husband—employed a staff of servants almost entirely Indian, including the cooks, so children ate the curries and rice and strongly vegetarian fare they were used to, and only gradually had to adapt to English dishes that would have been very heavy and difficult for their tropic-adapted appetites. Toddlers too young for schooling had two Indian ayahs to tend them—familiar lullabies, familiar sounds and scents, all designed to make the horrible separation from Mama less painful. No one was punished for chattering to the servants in Hindustani, and no one forbade the exuberances that were bound to break out in children raised by the indulgent native nurses. There was a great deal of laughter in the Harton School, and the lessons learned all the surer for it.