Maid of Wonder (23 page)

“And have you ever seen this maid of honor, this servant of the Queen, engage in any acts against God or the Church?”

“What? No! Are you mad?” Seton takes the blow with a grunt, but he does not flinch this time. For his courage, the robed man picks up a short stick and cracks it across Seton's
back, instantly raising a large welt. I feel tears prick at the backs of my eyes, and I bring my fists up to my mouth. I will not cry, I resolve. I will not cry!

The questions do not seem to matter from this point forward, though the violence increases with Seton's each successive refusal to betray me. And I know this refusal is a
choice
that he is making, that he could easily give me away by sharing any number of my oddities: my wild unfocused eyes; my quiet, distracted manner. My coming and going from the King's Gate at odd hours. Any one of these acts would be enough, I suspect. Enough for the Questioners to claim me a heretic and a witch. Enough for them to take me from the Queen and throw me in some jail to rot. Or, as Beatrice fears, to do far
worse
things to me. There are no good ways to die in Queen Elizabeth's realm. But some are grimmer than others.

After one particularly intense blow, I finally cry out. “Stop this!” I implore the Queen.
She
is the one allowing this horrible abuse to continue.
She
is the one who watches with only mild interest, while every lash and strike wounds my soul. “Beat me, if you must beat someone. Rip my skin and bruise my flesh. But this man has done nothing to deserve this treatment. He has served you honorably!”

The Queen's bored glance shifts to me, her cold face inscrutable. But in her eyes I see the truth. She has no desire to see me damaged. I am the vessel of her visions, the cup of her future. She would keep me whole and lovely to look upon, a bauble most precious and fine.

I have never hated anyone, in the whole of my young life. Not even Dee, though he has given me most cause to do so.
But in this moment I hate Elizabeth. Hate her for the power she holds over me, and hate her for the favor I so desperately need her to show. She alone can protect my friends from harm, and she alone will . . . but only if I give her what she wants.

Me.

“I tire of this charade.” The Queen does not shift her attention from my face, but her words are no longer bored. Has she seen the emotion that burns within me? I do not care, if it means that Seton will be saved. “Finish with your questions, and let us leave this place.”

Before me the Questioner leans down to Seton's ear. By now the guard can no longer kneel upright, but is held on either side by his Questioners.

“And what about the day she saved your horse, Will Seton?” the Questioner asks, savoring what is clearly his most damning accusation. “We have witnesses who would swear that she ensorcelled your mare, to save her from a poisoning that took down every other horse in the Lower Ward that day. What say you to
that
?”

The sound that fills the room is a horrible one, and I watch, mortified, as Seton moans, his voice barely a rattle in his throat.
This is it,
I think.
It has all led to this.
For not even Seton can deny that I told him how to save Ladysweet after looking into the horse's eyes. Not even Seton—poor, brave Seton—can survive a beating like this, the stone floor around his kneeling body covered in blood and gore.

The sound mounts, and it chills my blood. Seton's shoulders are now heaving with effort, his head coming up—and his bloody, cracked lips split . . . into a wild grin.

“Ensorcelled?” He almost howls the word, and I realize that the hideous sound is his laughter. “Ensorcelled, by all that's holy. Are you mad? No mere child can enchant a Queen's man. The idea is ridiculous!”

“Well stated!” The Queen's loud voice stays the Questioner's hand, which is raised to crack down the whip once more. “Release him, and gently now,” she says, and the men gradually let the poor guard sag to the ground, as silent tears slip down my face at last. She stares implacably at the leader of the group. “I find I am quite satisfied with this demonstration,” she says. “I presume you are as well? Excellent.” Not giving him time to answer, she calls for the guards at the top of the stair. They clamber down, their faces impassive as they take in the body of the fallen Seton. “Remove him and have his wounds tended, sparing no expense. I will want a report of his care.”

The men pick up Seton, whose concerned eyes turn to me even as he's carried up the stairs. I dash my tears away, and the Queen returns to her pacing, crossing back and forth between Walsingham and Cecil, and the six robed men. I don't know if my own questioning will continue, though I brace myself for it. And yet I still do not expect it when Elizabeth stops before me, her dark eyes flashing as she looks at my face.

“Who are these men, Sophia?” she asks.

I stare at her, amazed. But I do not misunderstand her. She wishes me to scry here, amidst the Questioners, and without my obsidian stone!

Just then, in this bloodstained chamber beneath Windsor
Castle, the angels surrounding us shift, their faces serene, their wings shimmering, and watch as Arc steps into their midst. He regards me from the depths of his cowl, and the entire crowd of angels turns back to me as well, their soulless eyes fixing upon me too. With him at their head, the spirits' mouths open as one. Suddenly words rush over me, through me, all around me, the breeze seeming to shift my very bones with its strength, for all that I am standing still.

And I know. I know everything.

And this time I shan't pay the angels for the knowledge with my own blood, because Seton has already made the required sacrifice. So much do I owe the man, him as well as the doves that led me to his care.

I look at the Queen, and when I speak, my voice is as cold as the blue-white fire that flares along the angels' wings. “These men approached me several days' past, at your direction. They are followers of God, and of Your Majesty.”

“Indeed,” the tall man says, and I sense that he, at least, has begun to pick up the scent of danger. “Miss Dee was most forthcoming during our discussion.”

One of the other men—who is both fat and mean-eyed, I know now—scoffs at that, and I favor him with a gracious smile. “Lord Mallory, do you wish to say something?”

“What?” The Queen's shock is plain even as Mallory lets out a startled squawk. “Name them all,” she demands.

“Of course, Your Grace,” I say, and I see that Cecil has stepped forward as well, his manner intent. Behind him Walsingham watches me with frank appraisal. Surely both of them now see the value of a gift such as mine, I think
grimly. Still, I follow the Queen's command. I gesture around the room and begin ticking off names like dancing partners. “Lord Crowley, Lord Magnus, Sir Jonathan, Lord Brampton, Lord Mallory. And Lord Willoughby.” I end this recitation with a bow of my head, as Lord Willoughby is the leader. And as leaders do, he steps forward and directs the actions of his minions by dropping his own cowl, revealing a lined, intelligent face.

“She
is
a witch!” The hissed accusation comes from Mallory, as I'd felt it would. His face, free of his cowl, is broader and more bulbous than I expected. “There is no way that she could have identified us, she who is but a maidservant to the Crown and a child besides. Only the devil could have put such information in her head and bid her announce it so brazenly.” He wheels toward me, his pig eyes bulging. “How did you do it? Do you pray to Satan at night? Do you kneel before his false image?”

Cecil stands tall. “Stand back, Lord Mallory,” he barks. He observes the men with sharp eyes. “How the Crown receives its knowledge is of no concern to you, and if we choose to share it with the Queen's attendants, that is her pleasure as well. Your questions on the subject of Sophia Dee are done, however. We thank you for your pursuit of evil, and are reassured to have such men of God on the side of the Crown.”

The men dare to preen, while still standing in Seton's blood. I am sickened at the sight of them. At least only Mallory still looks ready to fall upon me, fists flailing.

The Queen now takes the floor.

“I and all of England are honored to bear witness to such
stalwart men who would band together to serve the common good. Where we accepted your anonymity to ensure you felt safe in doing God's work, please understand that henceforth there is no need for cowls or hoods. You may ask your questions plainly, to any of my court. These accusations of witchcraft are not made lightly, I know, but I also would not hide them. Witchcraft is a crime against my people, and should be treated as such; for those who would do harm to others by any means, cunning or no, shall be treated first and foremost as the criminals they are, before any question of heresy may be put to them.”

“But they sin against God!” Once again, Mallory cannot hold himself from comment, and the Queen beams at him beatifically—but silently—until he is moved to add, “Your Majesty.”

She nods. “Whether they sin against God is a matter of their souls, Lord Mallory. And I am not charged with the care of men's souls, but with the care of the people of my realm. So I will set down laws to govern their actions, and allow God to judge their souls as He sees fit.” She lifts her hand when Mallory would speak again, and instead addressees Willoughby. “Are your questions satisfied, Lord Willoughby? May we put an end to this, as regards my gentle maid?”

The request is a serious one, and she gives it its due weight. Such due weight, in fact, that I find myself holding my breath, wondering how Willoughby will respond.

He does not look at me or Elizabeth's advisors, but directly at the Queen. “They are, Your Grace. We shall remain vigilant, however, as regards the rest of your court. The plague of
a soul is ever a more insidious sickness than the plague of a body, and far less easy to discern.”

“And I rest easily knowing the castle's souls are in your care,” the Queen says, without a trace of mockery or derision. She gestures magnanimously. “You may leave, my lords. Pray join us in but a few hours at the celebration of Samhain.”

They climb the stairs silently, and Elizabeth watches them go. When they have all departed the chamber, she turns back to me. Her expression is unlike any I have ever seen on her face, a curious mix of girlish delight and hard-won vindication. It suddenly occurs to me that, as dangerous as these men were to me, perhaps they posed yet greater danger to the Queen.

“Well
done
, Sophia,” she says, her eyes flashing triumph. “Well done. You should return to your fellow Maids of Honor at once, to also prepare for tonight's revel.” Her smile is wide and satisfied. “You have performed all the service I need, this day.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” I curtsy, hiding my face, that she might not see the emotions surging through me. Relief, that this trial is done. Outrage, that she allowed Seton to be treated with such brutality. Anger, that she tested me so callously as well. And the silent, small knowing, that she'll test me again . . . and again.

But not this night at least.

For tonight is made for dancing and for revelry, and I more than most have reason to lose myself in laughter. Amidst the raucous festival fires of Samhain, I will celebrate being alive, being free, and being once more able to see the stars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I stride through the castle as quickly as I can, searching for my fellow Maids of Honor, for Marcus, for anyone that I might call a friend on this dark day. For all that I'm the one searching, Jane finds me first, stepping out of the shadows and plucking me from the corridor with a silent, firm grasp.

“Shhh,” she mouths, yanking me into an antechamber. “Cecil.”

I go still, and sure enough, Cecil's voice rings out down the long hallway. If I never see the man again, it will be too soon, and I willingly stand with Jane, waiting for him to pass. The moment his voice fades to a murmur, Jane turns to me. “Injuries?” she asks, pushing back my hood and peering at me. “Anything broken?”

“Only my pride,” I say. “Though, that is enough.” I grip her hands a bit too hard, and she suffers the contact, willing to let me be reassured by her presence. When I speak again, my voice is only slightly shaky. “Where are the others?”

She grins at me. “Waiting for you. We need to get you ready for polite company again—not to mention Marcus.
He's getting a little touched in the head, worrying over you. He's informed us that you were unharmed, said he's seen you in the angelic realm. An' to hear him tell the tale, he pushed Dee to demand your release a half dozen times, but the Queen has remained unmoved until just this morning.”

I grimace, knowing that the Queen's generosity of spirit came not through a quiet word from Dee, but from the urgent summons of the Questioners. No matter, though. They will bother me no longer; I have earned my rest.

Together Jane and I slip through the castle, staying to the shadows and alcoves so that we are not caught out to do some lord's bidding or fetch some lady's hat. When we reach our chambers, I'm startled to see the other maids there—with a huge bucket of steaming water.

“A bath! But how—who?” I frown, trying to make sense of it. “We've already bathed this month.”

Meg grins at me. “True enough, but it's not every day that you're released from the dungeons. And Heaven as well as I know the value of washing that place off. But still, we have to hurry. The guards will be back for the water in a half hour, and then there's the banquet and the festival after.” She gestures to me when I still hesitate. “Come on, then! Beatrice is like to burst, waiting to dress you.”

“This one, I think,” Beatrice says, holding up a dark russet bodice in one hand, full dark skirts in the other. Then she peers at me as I pull off my French hood, allowing my hair to tumble free. “Good heavens, Sophia, your hair,” she groans.

The maids commence their work upon me with the same efficiency and cheer that I have come to expect of them, and
I submit to their hands, their combs and brushes, welcoming the shock of the water, the sting of stiff bristles in my hair. Anything not to focus on the enormous swell of gratitude that surges up within me, threatening to spill over into a wash of tears.

“The Lower Ward is already lit up with bonfires.” I focus on Anna's bright voice, filled with wonder. “Fully half the townspeople are in costume too. I think they know the Queen will be taking her leave soon, and things will be right boring around here when she does.”

“Boring perhaps, but peaceful, too,” Jane says. “You cannot deny some will be pleased not to worry about seeing a royal litter every time they turn the corner.”

I wince as Meg works through a particularly rough snarl of my hair. “How goes James's
Play of Secrets
?” I ask.

“They've been working on the platform for it all day!” Meg says. “It's an enormous raised dais—not so high as the Queen's, of course, but with a half dozen sets of stairs ringed round it, so that the players can have the illusion of constantly coming and going. James is beside himself with excitement.” She elbows Jane, who is still watching me with her fierce grey eyes. “There's talk of him being made the Lord of Misrule, ere we reach Londontown. Wouldn't that be fun?”

“As fun as any plague, I suspect,” Jane says, her words betraying only irritation. But Anna laughs, taking up the refrain.

“We haven't had a worthy Lord of Misrule in years, what with Queen Mary so proper in all her ways,” she says. “With him in charge of all the season's festivities, and allowed to
commandeer the Queen's men to carry out his every whim, you cannot deny that Master James would make her first Christmas as Queen one to remember.”

“Let's just hope he doesn't make it one we'd like to forget,” Beatrice says wryly. “Elizabeth has already proven that her appetite for being entertained is as vast as the open sea.”

We chatter on then as my fellow maids present me with a new shift, bundling away the one Elizabeth gave me, then lace me into my skirts and bodice and sleeves. Somehow Beatrice has found shoes and warm hosiery to keep off the night's chill, and by the time the guards knock on the chamber's door to fetch the water, we are all properly prepared to enjoy the evening as the Queen commands.

I cannot help but tense, however, as the guards enter the room. Neither of them look like the men who stood watch at my cell door, but they still represent the Queen, and the power she held over me—the power to lock me away in darkness and then to set me free again. Meg, at my side, puts a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. “It gets easier,” she says simply. “They were just following the Queen's command—Cecil's and Walsingham's, too, I suspect.”

“That doesn't necessarily make me feel better.” A new thought presses down on me, and I turn to her. “What of Moreland's family?” I ask. “Are they safely away?”

“Away, yes,” Beatrice says from deeper in the room, and her voice is uncharacteristically stark. “‘Safe' depends a lot on the widow Moreland's new baby. If it's a girl, as the midwives predict, then she'll be safer, certainly.”

“The rest of Nostradamus's prediction played out as
well, at least,” Anna says, her voice equally grim. “‘His blood shall turn to gold.' The Queen settled enough coin on Mary Moreland to ensure she will live comfortably when she reaches Gravesend. The woman is distraught, as you can imagine, but at least she'll not starve.”

I consider this as we file out of the maids' chambers and toward the Presence Chamber, where the feast of Samhain awaits. Doubtless, the trail of the Queen's gold serves another purpose as well. If it ensures that Mary Moreland remains in Gravesend until the baby arrives, then the Queen's mind can be put to rest on the question of succession. For all that our current monarch is female, a boy with royal parentage is always considered a greater threat to one day overthrow the Crown. Accordingly, I send up a silent prayer that Mary's baby is healthy—and a girl.

Dinner is a boisterous affair, with the Queen leaving midway through the meal with her ladies to dress for the festival. Before she leaves, she commands her entire court to enjoy the evening, and her gaze rests on me long enough to make the fine hairs on my arms prickle.
I have plans for you,
her dark eyes seem to say.
But not tonight.

For which I am heartily relieved.

Once the meal ends, we are finally able to escape the castle and step into the open air. We pause a moment at the Norman Gate, watching the lords and ladies of the Queen's court stroll through the Upper Ward as the final touches are put on Master James's enormous stage. I feel I can finally breathe, the excitement in the air crackling along with the smell of wood smoke and ale. “It's wonderful!” I say, and my voice sounds
like—well, like that of the fifteen-year-old girl I am. No longer worn down with the cares of serving the Queen, at least not in this moment, but simply a young woman savoring a crisp October night.

Meg gestures to the Lower Ward with a laugh. “You must have a look at everything,” she says. “We've been watching the celebration all day, but you've not seen it.” She glances away, and her voice turns cagier. “Oh, but if only you had someone who could walk with you and ensure the ghosts and spirits won't distress you.”

And then a deeper laugh sounds, and I turn to see Marcus Quinn before me, offering a very polite bow. His words are light as he straightens, but the intensity of his gaze can't be denied. “I would be honored to walk with you, Sophia, if you'll have me,” he says.

I don't speak for a moment, my heart suddenly too full. And then a firm pair of hands between my shoulder blades sends me lurching forward, Anna's sigh of exasperation speaking volumes. “Go!” she says. “We'll meet up in the Upper Ward after
The Play of Secrets
.”

With that I place my hand on Marcus's arm, and we step into the night. The Lower and Middle Wards stretch out before us as we leave the shadow of the Norman Gate, the enormous space transformed. Bonfires dot the lawn, and there are stalls of the more enterprising local vendors, selling their pastries and meat pies. Both music and ale flow freely, and there is also a keen sense of almost desperation in the air. The festival of Samhain always plucks at the nerves of the superstitious, as it opens a door between the planes, to allow the
dead to walk among the living once more. For those who miss their loved ones dearly, the festival is a blessing. For those who would rather that the dead remain dead, it's a bit of a pox. Some of the revelers wear masks, to imitate or hide from the spirit walkers, though most do not.

For the children, of course, it is ever a reason to celebrate, and a burst of their laughter brings a smile to my face, despite the strain of the day. They gather around the stalls that sell the sweet pastries the festival is famed for, singing the timeworn chant.

“A soul cake, a soul cake!

I pray thee, good missus, a soul cake!

One for Peter, two for Paul,

Three for Him what made us all!”

“Sophia.” Marcus's voice recalls my attention, and I turn to him fully. His face is set with equal parts worry and relief. “Tell me they haven't harmed you.”

I shake my head. “They haven't, Marcus—” I try to speak more, but he pulls me roughly to him, his mouth coming down on mine. This kiss is nothing like the one we shared in Saint George's Hall, which was fresh and full of promise. This one is harder, surer, and far more desperate. Something cracks open inside me, an emotion I hadn't realized I was harboring, and it rushes through me like a spectral fire. I taste Marcus's anguish and his pain, and revel in the strength of it. When he finally releases me, however, I'm the one whose breathing is ragged. “I saw you in the angelic realm,” I say. “You came for me.”

“I couldn't reach you,” he says, sighing. “I didn't have the strength. I think . . . I think I once
was
able to move like you do, to walk unaided through the spirit realm. The way seemed almost familiar to me when I tried to step away from Dee's carefully constructed path. But in the end I could not manage it. I could only go where Dee directed me, could only watch you as if from across a great distance.”

I smile at him. “It was enough, Marcus,” I say. “It was more than enough.”

We make our way through the laughing crowds, bright faces reflected in the firelight, children singing for the white-sugar-and-black-currant-crossed soul cakes at the bakers' stalls, the smell of sweet spices wafting through the air. Once we again pass along the curve of the Round Tower, however, and angle into the Upper Ward, the mood shifts markedly. Throughout the Quadrangle, Elizabeth's courtiers and ladies are gathered in several small groups, also drinking and making merry, though no one sings for soul cakes here. Instead the laughter is artful and sly behind ever-more elaborate masks. I see John Dee and his companions, the men of science who revolve around him, like stars around the Earth.

I stiffen, realizing that this small constellation of learned men is the only one in the Quadrangle. “Marcus,” I say slowly. “Where is Nostradamus?”

“Long gone,” he says, patting my hand. “With his gold and the Queen's good favor, and a retinue of guards to ease his way. Should she ever have need of him again, he'll doubtless come running. Meanwhile, she's puffed up Dee so much that he's about to split a seam, and she's told him she
hopes the two of you can work together on future projects.”

I gape at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“Dee, being no fool, said he would be delighted.” Marcus grins. “And I, being no fool, asked for a raise.”

I can't help myself; I laugh. The sound seems almost foreign on my lips, a burst of sudden, reckless joy. Marcus squeezes my hand, and for this one moment I feel like any other girl in Windsor Castle, with any other boy, our entire lives lit up with love, with hope, with breathless possibility.

Then a crackling explosion rents the air, and a cheer goes up. “Huzzah!” I hear the voice of none other than Master James McDonald, booming out over the crowd. “I bring you all
The Play of Secrets
!”