In the deserted common room, he took a seat in the corner near the fire. The hearth was empty on this warm summer afternoon. He huddled in the chair and waited.
He did not wait long. An Englishman’s voice, well-modulated, but pitched to carry, called out, “Jack! Up here!”
The landlord pounded down the steps, his florid face flushed, even as the blond boy bolted up the steps, the trunk on one shoulder, the pack on his back. The landlord pushed past the boy, bellowing for hot water, and disappeared behind a swinging door directly opposite Figueroa’s seat. The boy hauled his burdens up the stairs and disappeared briefly. A buxom barmaid entered the common room from the same swinging door, which Figueroa presumed led to the kitchen, dragging two buckets of steaming water. She staggered up the steps.
From the depths of his cowl, Figueroa watched the activity in silence. Finally the landlord emerged from the kitchen, wiped beads of sweat off his face, and belatedly noticed the cowled friar sitting by the fire.
With only the suggestion of a surprised frown, he crossed the room and put his hands on his hips. “God’s greetings, Friar.”
“Greetings, my son,” Figueroa replied, motioning the same blessing in the air with a bony finger. “I’d rest here a moment or two, if you’ll be willing.”
“This is a Catholic house, Friar. Rest and be welcome. Will you have a cup of ale?”
“Sì, ale.” He nodded.
At once the landlord retreated to the bar, withdrew a clay cup from someplace beneath, and filled it to the brim with foamy ale. He carried it carefully to the small table and set it gently before Figueroa. Figueroa sipped and smiled his thanks. With another bow, and a murmur of apology, the landlord turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
For a long moment there was silence, then the sound of heavy steps on the floor above, followed by the whisper of a woman’s skirts on the stairs, told him that the two guests were on their way down once more.
“…to the hostler and see if we can get horses,” the nobleman was saying to his servant, who preceded both the noble and his wife down the stairs.
“Aye, sir.” The boy pulled his forelock and sped out of the inn.
“Stephen,” the woman said as they emerged into the common room, “should we not go and see…”
They were speaking English. Figueroa tightened his grip on the rude clay cup and held his breath. Stephen. Yes, that was the name of the contact. He peered at the two of them from under his cowl, secure in the fact that neither of them had yet noticed him. He frowned again at the woman. All reports of her had been that this waiting woman to Mary, Queen of Scots, had deteriorated greatly when she’d gone into deep mourning upon her mistress’s untimely death. Only the pleading of the husband, and the payment of a sizable bribe, had allowed him to take her away.
But the woman who stood laughing up at her tall husband, who in turn leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose, looked no more sad or sick than a blushing bride on her wedding night. She looked up at her husband with eager, open eyes and soft, slack mouth, the lips slightly upturned in the smallest smile. For an instant, Figueroa was forced to recall the brief months when he, too, had witnessed firsthand that look on a woman’s face, and then to endure the flood of grief that inevitably followed, brought on by the memory of how their sweet short months of wedded bliss had come to a bitter end when his bride died miscarrying their first and final son. Then he coldly dismissed those thoughts and transformed the grief into hatred for the man who pressed a kiss into the open palm of the woman’s hand.
“Come, we must get you outside into the sunshine. You’re much too pale and peaked after all those months confined.”
At that, Figueroa started upright and tried to peer more intently at the woman. She threw back her head, laughed again, and said, “Indeed, my lord, so glad am I to see the sun after all those months abed.”
Hmm, thought Figueroa. Something about that speech didn’t quite ring true. She sounded more like a schoolboy aping a phrase than someone speaking genuinely.
“If I’d my way,” her husband was answering softly, “you’d spend more months abed—more months of nights.” They exchanged a look that twisted Figueroa’s heart and, linking arms, stepped outside into the crowded street.
Figueroa stood up and watched them disappear into the press of human bodies. They were clearly here for a reason. The amount of their luggage suggested they were expecting to make a short trip. The man’s name, Stephen, was the same name as that of his contact. He would return and inquire the full name from the landlord shortly. The wife was all blooming roses and dewy petals, and she looked younger than he expected. But she’d been in the service of the Queen of Scotland for only a brief time, he remembered, for the last eighteen months or so of the Queen’s captivity. And given her relative attractiveness, and the reported wealth of her husband, it would stand to reason that she’d be one of the few of Mary’s servants allowed to leave. The reports of her ill health could have been greatly exaggerated. Figueroa tightened the rough rope belt he wore at his waist and started off. He would return when he was much more presentable.
“Ugh,” Olivia grunted, clinging to Nicholas’s arm as they picked their way through the offal of the fish market. “Don’t they clean the streets?”
“Only when it rains,” he answered with a laugh.
She wrinkled her nose. The stench was overpowering in the sun, and the piles of rotting fish refuse threatened her skirts at every turn. She breathed a loud sigh of relief as they waded through the last of the mess and, turning a corner, found themselves in the vegetable market street. The air was much fresher here, and the streets were only littered here and there with piles of dung from the oxen and donkeys used to bring the vegetables to the market stalls. Only littered with piles of dung! She laughed to herself and shook her head.
“What is it?” asked Nicholas as he guided her around one of the larger piles.
“I was just thinking how much better this street is from the last, and how much more preferable manure is to fish guts. And then I was thinking that before—before coming here through the maze—not only have I never reached that conclusion, but I never dreamt of actually having either opportunity or need to reach it.” She turned her head to look up at him, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. “Does any of that make sense to you?”
“Yes. I think so, yes.” He tightened his hold on her arm, as the cobblestones beneath their feet rose unevenly.
“I mean,” she continued, “I suppose there’re places where you can still walk down a street and have to dodge dung or fish guts, but I’ve never been to one. And in all the places I go, the worst you might see is maybe paper—paper trash, blowing around in the wind.”
At that he paused. stock-still. “Paper trash?”
“Yes.” She waved one hand airily. “Old newspapers, advertisements, candy wrappers—” She broke off, realizing the implications of what he asked. “You never imagined that, either, did you? A world where paper is so worthless we throw it away without thinking…”
“Paper—parchment—it isn’t something you throw away unthinking.”
“I know.” They exchanged another long look of sudden and unexpected communion.
Finally he nodded toward the church spire. “Come, lady. Let’s find the meeting place. We’ll talk more of these marvels in the privacy of our room.” And with another smile, they started off once more.
CHAPTER 10
A POX UPON these whoresons, thought Sir John, as his elbow was jostled by yet another scurvy Catholic. Mass was just ending, and the steady stream of the faithful was at peak tide. He clutched his money belt closer as the crowd pushed by.
Three times now, he’d come to St. Mary-by-the-Sea just as Mass was ending, on the instructions of Christopher Warren. And three times now, he’d endured this human deluge, and so far there’d been no sign of Talcott, or that whore who traveled with him. He flicked away lint and brushed off the fine dust the passing heels had raised.
He was just about to retire to his offices above the fish market when he saw a familiar head pass beneath the privet hedge arch. He shrank back into the protection of his niche beneath a stone arch as Nicholas Talcott, and his companion, walked by.
Now in the costume of a Spanish grandee, Figueroa strolled into the common room of the Gold Angel with studied insolence and demanded the landlord in heavily accented French. The barmaid, eyes wide in alarm, hastened into the kitchen, calling, “Papa, Papa!”
A few minutes later, the fat landlord emerged, a scowl on his red, sweating face.
Figueroa yawned. “The Englishman—Master Stephen Steele? Is he here?”
The landlord looked taken aback. “Who wants to know?” He stuck his chin out over his fat belly.
“My name is Iago Montera de Valez.” His alter ego as his own cousin was quite useful much of the time. “I have an appointment with Master Steele, and I was to meet him here.”
The landlord appeared mollified by this ready information and spread his hands. “A man by that name came earlier, but he left with his lady. They were eager to explore a church—St. Mary-by-the-Sea.”
“And when will they return?”
“To be sure, I’ve no idea. ‘Tis not for me to mark the comings and the goings of my guests. But I reckon they’ll be back by dinner—he asked for a meal to be laid for them by the supper hour.”
“In the private parlor by their room,” volunteered the maid, who’d crept out of the kitchens and now peeked from behind her father’s bulk.
“Hush, Aliza!”
Figueroa’s eyes flicked over the girl briefly. She was not uncomely. Her light brown hair tumbled from her kerchief in heavy locks, and her eyes were a bright and lively blue. Her face was round and rosy. For a moment he was tempted. His priestly disguise demanded the appearance of chastity, and his masquerade as an itinerant monk made even bathing difficult. His metamorphosis into Iago was a welcome relief. But no, he sighed. He’d dare not risk the father’s anger. Better to be done with this business and then return to Spain, where he could indulge his appetites in the privacy of his own estates. “Then tell him I shall call upon him tomorrow, at the appointed hour.” He smiled at the girl, who simpered in response, and, tossing his short cloak over one shoulder, turned on his heel and left.
Nicholas and Olivia genuflected before the altar and rose together, crossing themselves. Nicholas peered around surreptitiously. “I believe this is the place.”
“When are you to meet him?” Olivia whispered, looking around. A few people lingered after the service, and a young boy on his hands and knees was laboriously washing the dark red tiles around the altar. The whitewashed walls rose between the narrow windows of stained glass, covered, for the most part, in square stone memorials. The crucifix that rose above the altar was ornately carved, the depiction of Jesus in his final agonies so realistic it bordered on the gruesome. There was a familiar hush about the place, and Olivia was struck by how similar the atmosphere was to all the churches her father had insisted they explore. There really was a certain agelessness about the place that tempted her to examine every nook and cranny. It was only with effort that she turned her attention back to Nicholas, who was speaking so softly, she had to strain to hear him.
“Warren said he—the Spanish agent—would contact me first.”
“So that means we just—wait?”
Nicholas shrugged. “So it would seem.” A lazy smile lifted the corners of his lips and his eyes met hers. “But surely, my lady, there’re ways to pass the time—a new city to see? New worlds to explore?” He’d drawn closer and raised her hand to his mouth, when a discreet cough close by made them jump.
Olivia looked up into the eyes of a black-robed priest, who wagged an admonitory finger at them. But the man’s dark eyes danced in his wrinkled face, and a smile revealed toothless gaps. With a gesture he indicated the door, winked, and continued on his way.
Olivia laughed. “I think the good father thinks we should find another place to do our exploring. Would you mind if we took a few minutes and looked around?”
“Not at all.” He leaned down a little closer and whispered, “But we’ll save our discussions for later.”
“Of course.”
He offered her his arm, and they walked to the windows. Olivia gazed up at the elaborate stained glass, which depicted the scene from the Crucifixion where St. Veronica wiped the face of Christ. The workmanship was beautiful, the colors, unlike modern stained glass, were rich but muted, the depictions intricately lifelike. They walked slowly up the aisle, Olivia pausing briefly before each window or to read the inscriptions carved into the walls, commemorating parishioners.
“I wonder…” she murmured, forgetting herself.
“Yes?” Nicholas prompted, since there was no one nearby.
“I was just wondering if this church still exists, and if so, how fascinating it would be to find it, and see how much it’s changed.” Olivia opened her mouth to say more, but stopped in amazement. A tall man, dressed in severe black, hovered at the entrance of the church, next to one of the supporting pillars. His posture was stiff, but his head was turned in a way that made her think he’d been watching them. “Nicholas,” she said, before she remembered to call him Stephen, “isn’t that Sir John Makepeace?”
Nicholas looked up. “By our Lady,” he swore softly. “As I live and breathe. To think the day would come when yet I’d see Sir John darken the door of a Catholic church—” He broke off, clearly puzzled.
“Do you suppose he’s following us?”
“Us? Whatever for?”
“Well, he knows we aren’t really married, for one thing. Maybe he intends to have you arrested for fornication, or public immorality, or—”
Nicholas held up one warning finger. “Whatever he’s doing here, I don’t like it.” He looked up and down. “There—there’s another door back that way. Let’s give him the slip.”
He took her arm and, as quickly as was seemly, the two of them hastened out of the church and into the deserted churchyard. Nicholas looked both ways. “Let’s walk down that way a little bit. We’ll circle around and make our way back to the inn from the opposite direction. I don’t like this at all.”
He was silent and clearly troubled all the way back to the inn. Olivia scarcely noticed the sights and smells and sounds all around her, so absorbed was she in keeping up with his long strides. He negotiated the crowds with certain ease, and when they finally arrived back at the Gold Angel, he paused in the innyard and nodded toward the building. “You go inside, my lady. I want to find Jack and ask him if he’s noticed Sir John hovering around here at all, and to tell him to be on the watch for him. Although it’s likely enough Sir John’s business matters might take him to Dover and then Calais, I cannot believe anything beneath God’s blue sky would make him darken the door of a Catholic church.”
Olivia turned obediently, knowing instinctively that he did not want her to concern herself with these matters, when the landlord hailed them both as he was crossing the yard from the stables. “Master Steele!”
Nicholas turned with the hint of a frown on an otherwise bland face. “Yes, my good host?”
“Your friend has been here looking for you,” the man said, his English heavily accented.
The frown deepened between Nicholas’s brows. “My friend? Sir John?”
“No, no,” answered the landlord, waving an airy hand.
“A Spaniard, by the look and sound of him—wait, wait, I remember—” He held up one finger. “Igano—no, that’s not right. Iaccomo—no, that’s not right, either—”
“Iago.” The rosy-cheeked serving maid had come up behind her father, her arms full of a basket filled with laundry. “His name was Iago Montera de Valez. He said he’d see you, sir, at the appointed time tomorrow.”
Beside her, Olivia felt Nicholas tense. “Tomorrow,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. I’m quite sure that’s what he said.” She bobbed a little curtsy and sp
oke to her father in quick French.
Nicholas turned back to Olivia and indicated the inn.
“I’ll find Jack later. Tomorrow—it seems so sudden, somehow.”
“How did he know you were here?”’
“This is where we were to come. He must have been watching for us.”
A cold chill shivered all the way down her back to her toes, but she said nothing until they were behind the safety of their locked door. “I’m glad it’s to be tomorrow,” she said as she watched him slide the bolt across the door. “There’s something about this that’s beginning to make me very nervous.”
“And you’ve been through every calculation? Checked every angle? Cast the horoscope for each day?” Dr. John Dee peered at both of them over the tops of his rimless spectacles. They were the most bizarre arrangement of glasses Alison had ever seen—two round pieces of glass, held together by thin wire and looped over Dee’s ears with pieces of cord. They made his eyes look enormous every time she happened to glance at him. But he’d accepted Geoffrey’s story and her own presence with remarkable aplomb, and had immediately plunged into the work with an almost fanatical glee. His long gray-streaked hair was pulled off his face in a wispy tail, but the linen that peeked from below his dark blue academic gown was amazingly fresh and crisp. His dark eyes jumped from Geoffrey to Alison, and he no more seemed to find it odd that Alison should be included in the discussions than she did herself. Geoffrey had said something to the effect that the good doctor’s close association with the Queen had doubtless prepared him for someone like Alison. Taken aback at first, Alison realized that Geoffrey’s own nearly total acceptance of her as an equal was most unusual as well.
Geoffrey and Alison exchanged glances. “We’ve been through every single one of those calculations three times or more. I’ve checked them twice myself, and Allie’s been through them herself at least once. I’ve not yet cast the horoscopes, but I thought I’d better leave that to you.”
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