Slowly, red-faced and shivering, I waded to the marshy river bank, scrambled out through the waist-high sticks of reeds and handed the ring back to my mistress with a curtsey.
The man on horseback reached us first, approaching at a steady trot across the field. As he drew nearer, I realized he was younger than he had looked from a distance; I guessed he must be a year or so older than me, maybe seventeen years of age.
He sat tall and relaxed in the saddle, wearing a fine suit of armour with a white surcoat decorated with a red cross over the top, its fine silk rippling in the breeze. He wore a black velvet cap with a feather instead of a helmet, and the jewelled hilt of his sword suggested nobility – though he was clearly not of English descent. His skin was deeply bronzed, as though he was constantly in the sun, his hair black and his eyes too, lowered to examine our faces as we examined his.
His mouth unsmiling, his look sombre, the young man reined in his horse. He glanced at my sodden skirts, and then at Elizabeth’s plain gown and cap.
‘Well met, ladies,’ he addressed us at last, inclining his head. From his accent it was clear he was a foreigner, though his English was perfect. ‘I was told on the gate that this was the road to Woodstock. But I fear we may have taken the wrong turn, for it has been half a mile at least and still no sign of the palace.’
‘This is the road to Woodstock, sir,’ Elizabeth replied, standing straight before him, her chin slightly lifted. ‘You will see the palace towers beyond those trees. But you would do well to turn back now, before you are seen by one of Bedingfield’s guards. Indeed, I am surprised you were allowed to pass through the gate. Visitors are not allowed here, by order of the Queen.’
He studied her face again, more slowly, his gaze lingering on her reddish hair under the plain cap.
‘Forgive my intrusion, madam. My name is Alejandro de Castillo, and I have been sent by the Queen’s Majesty as a servant and companion to my holy master here’ – he indicated the old man lying on scarlet cushions in the horse litter, which was approaching more slowly over the bumpy ground – ‘on a visit of instruction to her sister, the Lady Elizabeth.’
‘Instruction in what, sir?’ Elizabeth demanded, her voice a little shrill, though still not revealing her name.
Alejandro de Castillo regarded her steadily. ‘In the tenets of the Holy Catholic faith, Your Highness.’
Astonished, I looked again at his splendid Spanish armour, the red cross on his white surcoat and the serious expression on the young man’s face.
He was a priest?
Elizabeth flushed then, as it became clear that he had guessed her identity. Almost invariably polite in company, she pulled herself together with an effort.
‘I need no religious instruction, sir, from your master or anyone. I’m sorry you have had a wasted journey. But you must not address me so royally. After my mother’s death, my father King Henry decreed that I was no longer to be known as the Princess Elizabeth, but the Lady Elizabeth.’
He swung down from the saddle, landing lightly before us. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘I had forgotten.’
Then his head turned, and his eyes finally met mine.
I felt an odd shock, as though the power had suddenly descended upon me. My legs began to tingle, and my lips itched and burned as though I had been kissing nettles. I clutched at the sodden folds of my skirts, unpleasantly faint.
Perhaps I had been in the sun too long.
‘Madam,’ he said, turning back to Elizabeth as though he had examined and dismissed me as unworthy of his attention, ‘I understand your frustration. But we are under orders not to leave this place until my master is satisfied with the state of your immortal soul.’
‘Father—’
The young man interrupted her with a shake of his head, his bearing suddenly a little stiffer, his Spanish accent more pronounced.
‘I am not yet a priest, madam. I am a novice in the Holy Order of Santiago de Compostela.’
‘I see.’ Elizabeth looked past him at the elderly man in the litter, his dark robes and heavy silver cross proclaiming him a Catholic cleric of some importance. ‘And your master has travelled all the way from Spain to see me?’
‘My master attends you here at the Queen’s personal request,’ Alejandro corrected her swiftly, and I wondered if he considered Elizabeth suspect in some way. ‘You must know that Prince Philip of Spain is due to arrive on English soil within the next few weeks, when he will be joined in holy matrimony to your sister.’
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment, though her lips worked silently. She seemed a shade paler than usual. ‘I knew they were to marry this year. I did not know it would be so soon.’
‘They are to wed at Winchester Cathedral at the end of this month, madam. We sailed to England ahead of Prince Philip and his entourage, on his express orders, to bring spiritual sustenance to his bride. And the Queen sent my master to you here, so that her sister might also benefit from his wisdom.’ Suddenly the cleric in the litter signalled impatiently to the young man. Alejandro removed the cap from his head and swept a bow, low and graceful, his Spanish armour glinting in the sun. ‘My Lady Elizabeth, I have the honour to present to you my master, His Excellency Father Vasco Fernandez de Aragon.’
‘Your Excellency,’ Elizabeth murmured to the man in the litter, and sank into a curtsey, her head bowed.
I too curtseyed, as did the plump and breathless Blanche Parry, who had finally caught up with us, her face flushed with exertion and dismay.
‘I was told that a letter had been sent ahead of us, advising you of our arrival,’ the elderly Spanish cleric remarked, sitting up against his cushions to stare unpleasantly at Elizabeth. I was shocked by the acidity of his tone. ‘Yet you seem unaware of our mission here. I trust there will be comfortable rooms prepared for myself and my novice at the palace. We had expected better hospitality of the Queen’s sister, even if you are a prisoner and suspected of treason.’
‘I received no such letter, sir,’ Elizabeth replied, and I could tell that she was angry by the curtness of her voice.
‘Well, that is vexing news indeed,’ Father Vasco commented, his thin lips pursed. His disapproving gaze swept across us, lingering on Elizabeth’s simple gown and my own dishevelled appearance. ‘Nonetheless, Her Grace the Queen informed us that you had agreed to take into your household any priests who came to you in faith.’
I glanced at Elizabeth. She was biting her lip. ‘It is true,’ she muttered reluctantly. ‘I did make such a promise to my sister.’
Alejandro looked at the princess encouragingly, his smile a sharp contrast to the cold gaze of his master. ‘So you will receive us into your household, my lady?’
The princess looked almost disdainful. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You have our thanks, my lady.’ Alejandro de Castillo bowed at this, as though Elizabeth had graciously welcomed him into her home. He had not looked in my direction again since I had first waddled out of the river. For this I was deeply grateful, as my wet skirts were now steaming in the midday sun like a cow’s droppings, and I was sure there must be strands of green river weed in my hair. ‘The Queen has generously provided for our needs and comforts while under your roof, including those of our servant.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself, sir.’
This time the bite in her voice was unmistakable. This was Elizabeth standing tall, at her most icy.
Still the young man did not flinch. ‘Forgive me if my words were insolent, my lady,’ he said solemnly. ‘I am here to serve my holy master, and by request of Her Grace the Queen.’ His dark eyes flitted to mine again, and I felt a shudder run through me at that contact. ‘Might I suggest we adjourn to the manor and continue our discussion there, so this lady may make herself more comfortable?’
For a moment, I did not grasp that the Spaniard was talking about me. Then I felt everyone’s gaze turn towards me and my steaming wet skirts.
Oh, he would pay for this humiliation.
I saw his eyes narrow, and suddenly realized that he had noticed my birthmark, a small clover-shaped blotch just above my left breast. I tugged at my bodice, which had gone awry in my struggle to climb out of the river, and hid the offending mark, which I knew a superstitious priest might consider a sign of the Devil’s favour. A flush came into my cheeks as I bowed my head and stared at my sodden feet instead.
‘Very well,’ Elizabeth agreed tightly.
‘Will you take my mount, my lady, to rest your feet? Your lady-in-waiting may take a seat in the litter,’ Alejandro added, glancing at Blanche Parry and then at me. ‘There is only room for one, I am afraid.’
‘The girl can walk,’ Blanche responded with a snap, and accepted his hand up onto the driver’s seat of the litter.
The sturdy man with the whip made room for her, his weatherbeaten face crinkling into a half-smile, half-grimace, though Mistress Parry barely acknowledged his presence, pulling her skirts tight about herself as though she did not wish to brush against him.
Alejandro de Castillo lifted Elizabeth up onto the high stallion’s back, then wheeled the animal in a careful circle. He glanced back at me over his shoulder, an odd little frown on his face, then the small procession started off across the sunlit park towards the woodlands, beyond which stood the ancient Palace of Woodstock and the lodge.
I followed on foot, my feet squelching at every step in the river-clogged shoes, my sodden gown clinging to my body. The dizzy, tingling sensation I had experienced under his gaze seemed to have spread all over my body now. Had the Spaniard put some kind of foreign spell on me? If so, he would soon taste plain English magick, and be sorry for it.
Yet I was uneasy.
Beware a traveller who comes over water, over land.
Perhaps it was the arrival of Alejandro de Castillo that my aunt had seen in the lamb’s entrails.
THREE
At the Sign of the Bull
JUST BEFORE SUPPER was laid out for us that evening, I received a note from my older brother, William.
His unexpected message came to my hand via one of the groundsmen, a servant who often sneaked in messages, food and other tokens when Sir Henry Bedingfield was occupied with other matters, expecting a small coin at least in return for his troubles.
I hid my brother’s note in my gown during our meagre supper of bread, cheese and salted ham, then ducked into the gloomy stairwell with a candle to read it.
M., I’m up from Oxford for the summer. Come and see me at the Bull tonight. I have news you must hear. Your ever-loving, W.
Shocked, I read this message several times, not quite able to believe it.
Did my brother William seriously expect me to trudge nearly a mile cross-country at night to the notorious Bull Inn, at risk of being caught by Bedingfield’s guards and suspected of seditious leanings?
I have news you must hear.
I bit my lip, staring down at the hurriedly scrawled note. My brother might be irresponsible and foolhardy, but he would not endanger me lightly. There must be something urgent he needed to tell me. Something that could not be put in a letter, for fear it might be seized and read by the wrong person.
For all I knew, it was news of my father or my aunt. Though why such news needed to be kept secret was beyond my comprehension.
I was just turning away from the unlit stairwell when I bumped into someone, and was so startled I almost dropped my candle.
I stared up, dismayed, into the face of the young Spaniard, Alejandro de Castillo.
Had he been standing there in darkness the whole time, watching while I read my letter?
Fury choked me. ‘What are you doing, lurking about down here?’ I demanded, momentarily forgetting the courtesy due to a guest, particularly one who had come to Woodstock on the orders of the Queen herself.
His dark eyes glittered at me in the candlelight.
‘I was not “lurking” down here,’ Alejandro countered smoothly. ‘I have just come in from the stables. My servant Juan has been quartered there, for want of a bed in the house. I merely wanted to assure myself that he was comfortable.’
Incredulity made my voice high. ‘You were checking that your servant was comfortable?’
Though unsmiling, his face seemed to mock me. ‘Juan has served my family loyally since I was a young child. What kind of master does not look after his servants’ needs?’
I could not answer that, and the candle was beginning to burn low, so I turned to climb the stairs. But Alejandro de Castillo had not finished with me. He caught at my left hand, in which I had hurriedly crumpled the note from my brother, and held me fast by the wrist.
‘Wait,’ he said, his tone unhurried and all the more sinister for that. ‘What are you hiding in your hand there?’
‘Let me go!’
Mercilessly, Alejandro unpeeled the clenched fingers of my left hand to reveal the tiny, crumpled piece of paper there.
My heart was thundering under my ribs. I was afraid, yet furious too at his arrogant interference. It was all I could do not to call on my power right there on the stairs, make the young Spaniard gibber incoherently, oink like a pig, or bark and chase his own tail.
His eyebrows rose and he looked at me assessingly, no doubt seeing the anger in my face.
‘What’s this? A letter?’
‘It’s nothing!’
‘If it is nothing,’ Alejandro replied coolly, ‘then you will not mind if I read it.’
He removed the paper from my grasp, smoothed it out and read William’s message by the light of my candle.
Alejandro frowned, then met my eyes directly.
‘Who is this . . . W?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Is it not?’
‘The letter is addressed to me.’ I straightened my back, glaring at him. ‘Not to you, priest. Give it back to me at once and let me go to my bed.’
I had hoped to influence him with those words, all my witch’s power thrown behind them like a man’s shoulder pressed to a cart stuck in the mud.
But, like the Lady Elizabeth, Alejandro de Castillo seemed infuriatingly oblivious to my gift. Ignoring my command, he lowered his head and read through my brother’s note again, this time aloud.
I stared, speechless and dumbfounded. I understood why the Lady Elizabeth would be able to resist my spells – but a priest? Surely it was impossible that he could possess magickal powers to rival my own. After all, could there be a more unlikely warlock than a priest? Then Alejandro surprised me by folding the note carefully and handing it back to me.
‘This letter comes from a lover, I think. You should be more careful where you open such intimate messages, mistress,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘But you forget. I am not yet a priest.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ I snapped, and thrust the incriminating note back into the folds of my gown. ‘But you should not call me mistress either. Just plain Meg will do.’
‘Plain Meg?’ he repeated. His gaze moved slowly across my face before dropping to examine my figure. ‘No. Such a word does not suit you.’
I thought he would say something else then. But suddenly Alejandro bowed and left me without another word, climbing the stairs until he was lost in the shadows above.
I stood a while after he had gone, my eyes narrowed, staring up at the empty stairway.
So Alejandro de Castillo dared to lift his eyes to me as a man, did he? Even priests in training were expected to practise strict chastity and keep themselves only for God. To do otherwise would be to commit a mortal sin, I was sure of it, for he would be committing that sin in the full knowledge of its wickedness.
I wondered what his priestly master would say to such a look. Did Catholic initiates still have to scourge themselves for impure thoughts?
I reached the Bull Inn without incident, though my gown was now almost as soiled as the previous one. I had been forced to cross the narrow stream that skirted the village and had slipped on the muddy
bank. But there had been no other way to reach the inn if I wished to avoid the guards on the gate. At least the moon helped me find the stream in darkness, its pale light gleaming on the water.
The public taproom at the Bull was lively and well-lit. The men were delighted to see a woman enter the place, sending up whoops of excitement as I elbowed my way through the crowd.
Some hurried words with the landlord led me to the snug, a quieter room at the back of the inn. A small fire was burning in the hearth, filling the room with a harsh smoke that made my eyes sting. I found my brother playing dice with two young men I didn’t recognize.
At sight of me, William leaped up and embraced me, knocking the dice table to the floor. ‘Dearest Meg, I knew you would not fail me!’
We had not been in each other’s company more than twice in the past few years, since my brother had left to study in Oxford, making a home for himself there. Will looked more mature, his shoulders broader now, his narrow face filled out, with a full beard instead of the stubbly chin I remembered.
‘You’ve changed,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek.
‘So have you, little sister. Though by the Rood, you are not so little as you once were. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you here tonight.’ Will eyed my tight bodice as I swung the cloak off my shoulders. He frowned, glancing around at his friends’ faces in the firelight. ‘Don’t look at her like that. She is too young for either of you.’
I suddenly realized that one of the young men was my cousin, who had sailed from England to the distant Low Countries when I was barely twelve years old.
‘Malcolm?’
My cousin kissed me enthusiastically, though with much muttering from my brother, who accused him of being over-friendly and of putting his hand on my hip, at which all three men laughed.
Malcolm too had sprouted a beard since I’d last seen him, and had shaved his hair close to his head, a style which became him rather better than his previous boyish curls. I realized that he must be in his early twenties now, no longer a youthful student like my brother.
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