The Lady of Secrets (24 page)

“I thank Your Grace for your confidence in me. I shall always do whatever is necessary to keep Your Majesty from harm.”

It sounded like the sort of flattering reply any courtier might make. Meg wondered if she was the only one who detected
the edge of warning in it, a warning that felt aimed at her. She edged a step backward, casting a longing glance toward the door.

“Your Majesty must have much to discuss with Lord Salisbury. I should not take any more of your time when there is so little I can do except to offer a humble healer’s advice. In times of great stress of the mind, one must take particular care of the body. I would recommend fresh air, sunshine, and diversion to improve your spirits.”

James beamed at the suggestion. “Why, you are indeed right wise for a woman, Mistress Wolfe. There is nothing like a good ride to the hounds.”

Salisbury cleared his throat delicately. “There is much to occupy Your Grace, pressing matters of business, petitions, writs to sign—”

“Pah! That is your idea of diversion, my lord. Not mine. Nae, I think I need must repair to my hunting lodge.”

When the secretary appeared about to protest further, James silenced him with a solemn look. “It is for the sake of your king’s health.”

Salisbury could not repress an audible sigh. “So Your Grace always tells me.”

“But what of the opening of parliament, Your Grace?” Sir Patrick asked.
He had stood by so quietly all this time, Meg wondered if the king even realized he was still present.

But now James smiled fondly and smoothed his hand down Sir Patrick’s sleeve. “Oh, I shall return in plenty of time for that. But for now, I shall hunt and you shall join me.”

“I fear Sir Patrick has other duties—” Salisbury began.

“Which can wait. You will come, laddie. You may even bring that friend of yours, Androcles.”

“Who, Your Grace?” Sir Patrick asked.

“The man who removed the thorn from Jowler’s paw last spring and applied that goodly salve that healed him fit to hunt the very next day.”

“You mean Armagil Blackwood.”

“Aye, him. A most amusing man and very good with dogs.” James gave Sir Patrick’s cheek a playful pinch.

The king’s spirits appeared much restored. He whistled for his dog. Barely acknowledging their obeisance, James left the gallery with Jowler hard on his heels.

Meg straightened from her curtsy, releasing a soft breath. This ordeal was over and she had survived, although she was not sure how much she had gained from this audience. Precious little, she feared. She longed for escape and she sensed that Sir Patrick felt the same.

But Lord Salisbury barred their path. “Your pardon, Mistress Wolfe, but I wonder if I might have a word with you
alone.
”

“Well I—I—” Meg stammered, looking to Sir Patrick for rescue, but none was coming.

He bowed to Salisbury. Even though he gave her an apologetic glance, she still felt abandoned as the door closed behind Sir Patrick, leaving her alone with the secretary of state.

“Beware of the king’s little beagle. He has been known to bite.”

How like Armagil Blackwood to couch what should have been a serious warning in such jocular and cryptic fashion. Meg would have a thing or two to say to the man when she saw him again.
If
she ever saw him again …

Lord Salisbury studied her in silence, a technique Meg was certain was calculated to make her ill at ease and thus off her guard.

It was working, but she determined not to show it. She
met his gaze levelly, although she kept her hands tucked in the folds of her skirts as though she did expect to have her fingers snapped off at any moment.

“When I heard the king was granting you an audience,” he said at last, “I made some inquiries. I have heard many strange and fantastic tales of the Lady of Faire Isle.”

“Your lordship does not strike me as the sort of man to listen to idle reports.”

“Oh, I listen to everything, mistress. I was especially fascinated by the tales of your midnight revels held high atop the cliffs among the druid stones.”

“Council meetings such as you might hold yourself with the other privy secretaries. Only ours were a gathering of wise women coming together to share our knowledge of the healing arts.”

“Cunning women from all over France, Spain, Italy, and Ireland.”

“Yes,” Meg conceded, wondering where this was heading.

“And England. You must know the names of many of them, some here in London, perhaps.”

Meg saw the trap and struggled to evade it. “No, I fear that I do not. It has been a long time since such councils were held on Faire Isle and they were but poorly attended in recent years. I no longer know where to find any of the English daughters of the earth, and even if I did—” Meg regarded him defiantly. “I did not come here to help you launch a witch hunt.”

“Exactly why did you come, mistress?”

“I came at Sir Patrick’s behest.”

“Sir Patrick,” Salisbury said thoughtfully, mulling over the name in a way that disquieted Meg.

“He begged me to come and ease the king’s mind of his curse.”

“I see. I suppose there is a precedent for such a thing. My late mistress, the good Queen Elizabeth, was wont to consult her necromancer Dr. Dee on such matters.”

“You served Elizabeth?”

“For many years, although not always in so high a post as the one I hold now. I began as a mere clerk to my father, Lord Burghley, when he was the secretary of state. So I was often at court, enough that I remember a curious incident when the queen consulted another sorceress, a little girl, if you can imagine.”

Meg could, all too well. She felt the color drain from her cheeks as she realized why Salisbury seemed familiar to her. The day she had slipped into the palace to approach Elizabeth, she had been overwhelmed, the entire court a vast sea of faces. But Salisbury was such an unusual-looking man with his dwarflike stature, hunched back, and pale face. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have noted him. But how much did his lordship remember? Could he possibly discern in her traces of the frightened child she had been?

Salisbury said, “This little girl flung herself at the queen’s feet and claimed that she was the Silver Rose, this infamous Megaera. What think you of that, mistress?”

Meg’s mouth was so dry, she had difficulty replying. “I think the child must have been fed a surfeit of fairy stories and possessed too much imagination. There is no Megaera.”

“So you say,” Salisbury returned politely, but his eyes seemed to pierce her clean through. Several tense moments passed that felt like a lifetime to Meg before the man bowed and stepped aside.

“You intrigue me, Mistress Wolfe. We must speak again, I think. Very soon.”

MEG DID NOT FEEL ABLE TO BREATHE UNTIL SHE WAS OUTSIDE
the palace walls. As she and Sir Patrick crossed the tilt-yard, it was all she could do not to run. Even hampered by her heels, she outstripped Sir Patrick. She wanted to find Seraphine and flee back to Faire Isle as swiftly as they could manage.

Lord Salisbury
knew.
He knew of her past, that she had once been Megaera. Even as that panicked thought raced through her head, the more rational part of her mind struggled to reassert itself.

Salisbury might suspect, but he was not sure or she would have been arrested before she had ever left the palace. And how could she leave England when this mystery of who was tormenting the king was no closer to being solved?

Sir Patrick caught up with her. He had said nothing in Whitehall where there was a danger of being overheard. But he seized her by the arm to slow her progress, his voice full of concern.

“What happened back there, Mistress Wolfe? What did Lord Salisbury want of you? You appear most distressed.”

“Distressed?”
Meg wrenched her arm free and rounded on him. “Yes, I suppose that I am. What his lordship wanted was to interrogate me, which you might well have guessed. Why did you leave me alone with him?”

“Because no matter how politely Lord Salisbury couched his words, it was not a request. He is a powerful man, perhaps even more so than the king. I have known great nobles
wait as much as four days for the honor of a private audience with his lordship.”

“I did not feel honored. I felt threatened. I fear he suspects me of being a witch, perhaps even the one behind this plot against the king. And I think he suspects you as well.”

“Suspects me? Of what?”

“Of being a Catholic.”

Meg expected Sir Patrick to stammer out a denial. He looked oddly relieved.

“Perhaps Lord Salisbury does suspect, but it hardly signifies. The king knows I am a Catholic.”

When Meg stared at him, astonished by his cool admission, Sir Patrick shrugged.

“His Majesty does nothing to prevent his ministers from persecuting Catholics, but he makes allowances for his favorites. His Grace once had a groom who was even a priest in hiding. James knew of it and did nothing. After all, the man was good with horses. Of course when Father Benedict was caught holding a secret mass, James felt obliged to let him be arrested. But the king is more than willing to turn a blind eye to your faith as long as you don’t inconvenience him by practicing it.”

There was bitter edge to Sir Patrick’s voice that Meg had never heard before when he was speaking of his king.

“You sound as though you do not appreciate the king’s tolerance. I thought you were completely devoted to him.”

“My feelings regarding the king are of no import. I am more curious about yours.”

“I fully expected to hate him,” Meg said and then admitted reluctantly, “but I could not. I pitied him more than I could have ever imagined.”

“You
pitied
him?”

“Yes. You would, too, if you had read his eyes as I did. He lived his entire childhood, indeed most of his life, in dread of being betrayed, murdered, of losing everyone he loves.” The same terror that Meg had experienced at her mother’s hands. “If you have never lived with such fear, you cannot imagine what it is like.”

“I believe that I could.”

“I am not excusing some of the horrible things James has done, but he is not some ruthless tyrant without conscience. He seemed full of genuine remorse when he spoke of the brother of that girl burned for witchcraft, the boy whose grief he could never forget.”

“Robert Brody?” Sir Patrick’s harsh laugh startled Meg. “You place far too much faith in the king’s conscience or his memory. James Stuart would not remember that boy, even if he tripped over him.”

Meg frowned. How did Sir Patrick know the boy’s full name? She was certain the king had never mentioned it. She started to ask Sir Patrick, but he had already turned away, striding ahead of her.

Not, however, before she caught a glimpse of his expression, the same one she had fancied she’d seen in her little mirror back at the palace. Only now she recognized it for what it was, a hatred that ran so deep, it was almost savage in its intensity.

Dear God, Meg thought.
Robbie.

MEG FASTENED THE BUTTONS OF HER PLAIN FROCK, GRATEFUL
to be shed of the finery she had worn to Whitehall. Seraphine had not yet returned, so Meg had had to summon one of the
maids to help free her from the cage of the close-fitting velvet gown, layers of petticoats, corset, and farthingale.

As soon as she was released, Meg had dismissed the girl, needing to be alone with her thoughts. As she had shrugged into her own simple dress, she had hoped to feel more herself, her sense of equilibrium restored. But her mind was in turmoil over her recent meeting with the king, Lord Salisbury’s veiled threats, and most of all, her suspicions regarding Sir Patrick.

Or should she say Robert Brody?

No, surely she was mad to entertain such a notion. Sir Patrick Graham was the scion of an old, established household. Even descending from more modest gentry, his family had to be well known.

That a boy from Scotland bent on revenge could assume the identity of an English knight, gain a position at court, even obtain the favor of the king … it was impossible.

She had nothing to base her suspicion upon except for a few unguarded moments when Sir Patrick had allowed his mask to slip, when he had revealed he knew Robbie’s name and when he had made that acid remark.