The Lady of Secrets (23 page)

“And what became of him?”

“I do not know for sure, but I heard some tale after of him taking his own life in the wildness of his grief. May God forgive him, if that be true. I hoped the report was false. He was such a beautiful lad. I can never forget him.”

The parallels between James’s story and the strange dreams she had been having were far too great for coincidence, Meg thought, fluttering her fan. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of Sir Patrick’s face reflected behind her. A strange look crossed his features, but when Meg spun around to look at him, she decided it must have been some distortion of the mirror.

He wore his usual expression of grave concern as he said, “A sad story indeed, Your Grace. But I am sure it is not this boy who has risen from the dead to torment you.”

“No, it is that damned witch who cursed me, Tamsin Rivers.”

Meg feared she had already been far too blunt, questioning the king’s wisdom. She tried to proceed more delicately.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. But what was it about this Tamsin that convinced you that she was a witch of such power?”

“Mistress Rivers admitted as much. She even boasted about worshipping some devil woman, some evil sorceress she called Megaera.”

“But it is still possible that Tamsin Rivers was just a madwoman.”

“Nae, she was a witch I tell you. The things that she said to me at her trial, what she whispered privately in my ear.” Even after all these years, James looked shaken by the recollection. “She repeated to me intimate words I had spoken to my bride on my wedding night. How could she know of such things?”

“She must have read your eyes.”

When James regarded her questioningly, Meg was forced to explain. “It is a skill that is acquired by many daughters of the earth.”

“Daughters of the earth?”

“That is what we prefer to call ourselves, the women who have struggled to preserve the ancient knowledge of the arts of healing and white magic. Among those gifts is the ability to read eyes, the windows to the heart. Those capable of doing it well can often perceive actual thoughts, sometimes even memories.”

“Do you possess this gift?”

The prudent thing would have been for Meg to deny it. Seraphine had rebuked her more than once for being too honest. But she said, “Yes, Your Grace, but only a little.”

“Show me.”

Meg was taken aback and tried to demur, but the king stepped closer, repeating his command. Meg had little choice but to raise her eyes to meet his.

When she had been younger, she had been far too skilled
in the art of reading eyes. It was not always a comfortable thing to be able to read another’s thoughts. Meg had left her ability unused for so long, it had grown as rusty as a neglected sword.

But it was all too easy to read James Stuart. For all his shrewdness, there was something vulnerable about the man. Her gaze locked with his and she peered deeper into his mind. It was like walking into a castle whose drawbridge had been left carelessly open.

She did not have to probe far before she stumbled across the fear that had governed much of his life, the dread of being betrayed, of being murdered like the father he had never known, like so many others James had loved.

She realized the king was not as thick of chest as he appeared. He wore a padded garment beneath his doublet to protect himself from an assassin’s dagger, afraid that it would not prove enough. As she went deeper and deeper into the fortress of his mind, she was assailed by a dizzying array of visions, rebellions, conspiracies, battles, James being abducted, held captive, barely escaping the sword held to his throat. And finally, behind the last door, a small boy crouched in the corner, shivering in terror, the sleeve of his doublet smeared with blood.

“Sweet heaven,” Meg murmured. “You were only five years old when you watched your grandfather bleed to death from an assassin’s bullet. And you thought it was your fault it had happened, that you were being punished by God because—because—”

Meg pushed a little deeper. “Because of the little bird you had inadvertently crushed, the wren you had wrestled away from your friend, Jocky … Jocky O’Scliattis.”

James had been staring at her as if mesmerized, but he jumped back at her words, his face drained of color. Sir Patrick likewise paled, so far forgetting himself as to make the sign of the cross.

Luckily James was too focused on her to notice. He started to speak, but no words came, yet the unspoken accusation seemed to hover in the air.
Witch.

Meg fidgeted with the handle of her fan. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to alarm or offend you. This is why wise women who possess this gift use it sparingly. It is wrong to invade someone’s most private thoughts or pain without a compelling reason. Only those daughters of the earth who have turned to the darkness employ it with malicious intent.”

“Like this Tamsin Rivers did with me.” Some of the king’s color had returned, but he maintained a wary distance from her. “Then you admit she was a witch.”

“Yes, I—I fear she must have been.”

“Therefore her curse was also real.” James exhaled a deep breath. “Very well. Cure me of it.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Use your powers or your white magic or whatever you call it and break this curse.”

“B-but—”

“Is that not why Sir Patrick brought you to me?”

“Yes, but—” Meg faltered in dismay, looking to Sir Patrick for help. He said nothing, steadfastly avoiding her gaze almost as if he had become afraid of her. Meg could not blame him after her foolish demonstration with the king. She had spent most of the voyage from France assuring Sir Patrick that she was no sorceress, that she possessed no extraordinary powers.

“Well?” the king barked. As though sensing the tension in his master’s voice, Jowler got to his feet. Even the dog seemed to scowl at Meg, as the king regarded her with impatience.

“What do you intend to do to rid me of this curse?”

“A
N EXCELLENT QUESTION, YOUR MAJESTY,” MEG THOUGHT
, but it was someone else who gave voice to the remark.

Meg whipped around to see who had dared enter the king’s presence, uninvited and unannounced. A man, soberly attired, he could not have stood much above five feet, although perhaps the fact that he was hunchbacked made him appear shorter than he was. His complexion was pale as though he seldom saw the sun, his face deep-lined, his mouth small and pinched.

“Salisbury.” The king greeted him, sounding a trifle displeased at the man’s intrusion. Undeterred, the man advanced.

Sir Patrick murmured in Meg’s ear. “Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury, the king’s secretary of state.”

Meg could not decide if Sir Patrick was passing information
or issuing a warning. She tensed even though no man could have appeared more unassuming or harmless than Lord Salisbury as he made his bow to the king.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. I heard that this meeting with the cunning woman was taking place and I ventured to join you.”

“Ha! You mean you would have liked to prevent it.” The king directed a wry smile at Meg. “My lord Salisbury does not approve of witches.”

“Neither do I,” she said.

“Indeed, mistress?” Salisbury accorded her a polite nod of acknowledgment. His tone was mild, but his eyes were shrewd as they assessed her. Meg had a disquieting notion that she knew his lordship from somewhere, but that was impossible. Yet something about the man’s steady gaze rendered her uneasy.

“His Majesty has been most troubled of late regarding past matters of witchcraft. I do not see how consulting another woman familiar with such arts can add to his peace of mind.”

When Meg opened her mouth to protest, Lord Salisbury cut her off. “No matter how benign you claim your magic is, surely all such dabbling in the supernatural is against the will of God.”

The earl cast Sir Patrick a stern look. “And that is why I strongly advised Sir Patrick against arranging his meeting.”

“I did so at the king’s behest,” Sir Patrick protested.

“Aye, I insisted upon meeting the lady of Faire Isle. I was very curious about her skills.”

Salisbury raised one brow. “What skills would those be, Your Majesty?”

“I was on the verge of finding out when you interrupted,” James replied irritably. “Mistress Wolfe was about to lift the curse.”

“I crave your pardon, liege.” Salisbury bowed again. “It would seem the lady had best proceed.”

All three men turned to stare at Meg, the king expectant, Sir Patrick grave as usual, and Salisbury skeptical.

This was the moment Meg had dreaded, when she would be called upon to perform some miracle. She should have better prepared, considered more carefully how she would respond.

She thought about asking for candles, a basin filled with holy water to perform some mock ceremony as she had done to trick Bridget Tillet. All she needed to do was make James believe the curse had been lifted.

But the king was no ignorant village girl to be so easily fooled by some mysterious incantations. Might not her best course be honesty?

A royal court is no place for sincerity,
Seraphine insisted. But that is exactly why it might work because it would be so unexpected. Perhaps Meg was being naïve, but amidst all the lies, the intrigue, the honeyed flattery, could not a simple act of truth be like a cleansing wind?

Bracing herself, Meg said, “There is no magic that can defeat a curse.”

Lord Salisbury’s mouth twisted wryly as if to say he knew as much. Sir Patrick stole an uneasy look at the king, who scowled at her.

“Then you are saying there is nothing you can do?”

“No, there is one thing.” Meg fastened her fan back to her belt, willing her fingers not to tremble. “After all, what is a
curse? Merely an evil wish, so what would its countermeasure be?”

When none of the three men vouchsafed a reply, Meg said, “A prayer. That is the only thing that can answer a curse.”

She approached James Stuart with her hands outstretched. His first instinct was to shy away, but the king was so astonished by the gesture, he allowed her to touch him.

His hands were like James himself, a strange contrast. His fingertips were those of a scholar, stained with ink, but his palms were toughened by frequent contact with leather reins, the mark of a horseman, an avid hunter.

Meg clasped James’s hands and intoned, “I pray to—” She hesitated, realizing now would not be a good time to invoke any goddess or the mother earth.

“I pray to God, to our great Father in heaven, to protect this king from all harm, all evil.”

James had been avoiding meeting her eyes, but his gaze was drawn to hers. Meg peered deep into his eyes, willing him to believe in the power of her words.

“May God and all His angels hear my prayer, that James Stuart be blessed with a long and peaceful reign, that he serve his kingdom wisely and well. That this same blessing be conferred upon his heirs, the entire house of Stuart.”

A heavy silence fell and then she heard Lord Salisbury say, “Amen.”

The king drew his hands away, breaking the contact that had bound them together however briefly.

“That is it, then?” James asked dubiously. “The curse is ended?”

“Does not Your Majesty believe in the power of prayer?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then the rest is entirely up to you, the strength of your own mind. Your Majesty is reputed to be a second Solomon.” Meg decided that at this juncture, a little flattery would not hurt. “I am sure you are far too wise to truly believe that these recent events were caused by any specter from your past.”

“So did I only imagine seeing a woman I believed to be dead? Am I going mad?”

Meg thought of her fear she had seen her mother in the garden. If the king was going mad, then so was she.

“No, Your Grace. I am sure you did see someone, but not a ghost. These messages written in blood, the trail of silver petals your guard found, these were all quite real, but the signs of an enemy of flesh and bone who conspires to torment you.”

“My view of the matter entirely,” Salisbury said.

“Humph! Then the lady’s accord should please you, Salisbury.”

The king fell into a frowning silence, scratching the ends of his beard. “Well, I would far rather there was no sorcery involved. Like any God-fearing man, I am alarmed by the supernatural. But as for the machinations of ordinary men—” James gave a wearied shrug. “I have survived too many such plots in my lifetime.”

“I doubt Your Grace would have to search far to find the source of this one,” Salisbury said. “Treasonous subjects, those who still cling to the Roman faith, are the ones most likely to wish Your Majesty harm.”

“God’s blood, Salisbury, you believe there are Papists hiding under every bed, sharpening their daggers.”

“Perhaps not under every bed, but there are still far too many of them, willing to do whatever is necessary to see a Catholic monarch on the throne.”

Did Meg imagine it or did Lord Salisbury dart a glance in Sir Patrick’s direction? It was difficult to be sure as the secretary’s expression was so bland.

Meg spoke up quickly. “I don’t think this plot is inspired by any religious fervor. It strikes me more as revenge, someone familiar with the witch trials in Scotland, nursing a grudge, perhaps a relative of someone who was condemned.”

“Another follower of this Megaera perhaps?” the king suggested.

“P-perhaps,” Meg agreed.

“You know something of this sorceress then, Mistress Wolfe?” Salisbury asked.

Meg folded her hands to suppress the tremor that coursed through her. “Only a very little. Of course one hears wild stories from other daughters of the earth. You know how—how women love to gossip.”

The king gave Meg an indulgent smile, which eased some of her tension. “Very true, that is why any serious investigation of treason is hardly a matter for a woman. From here on, I will trust this matter all to your capable hands, Salisbury. Whenever there is any plot a-brewing, I can trust to my little beagle to ferret it out.”

Little beagle?
The remark confused Meg until she realized with a jolt that the king beamed at Lord Salisbury. This was clearly the king’s pet name for his first minister. Meg did not think the secretary relished the form of address, but he forced a smile and accorded James a stiff bow.