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?”
Chapter Eleven
“AN 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.
“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.”
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“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.”
The Lady of Secrets Page 18
