Elizabeth bit her lip, as though struggling with her own conscience. ‘Ask then if I will ever return to London, or if I am doomed to die in this dreary prison. There can be no harm in such a question. I am so sick of captivity, Meg. With each day I spend hidden away here in the country, it becomes harder to imagine ever dancing at court again.’
I passed a hand across the dark mirror and spoke a few words in Latin that I had learned from one of my aunt’s spell books. The surface began to move, coiling smokily. I gazed down through rippling coils to the black velvet heart of the mirror, and repeated her question: ‘When will the Lady Elizabeth return to London?’
In the mirror I saw a broad road cutting through green fields towards distant towers, then a dreamlike procession of horses, carts, a swaying covered litter . . . and knew at once that this was Elizabeth returning to London. But when?
The wind blew strongly, flapping the litter curtains. There was a white scattering of blossom in the hedgerow and freshly unfurled leaves on the trees.
With a shock I saw a shadowy vision of myself, seated on a cart behind the princess’s litter. It was only a glimpse, then my future self turned to stare across the fields. I did not look much older though. A year, perhaps?
Under the cap I was wearing in the mirror, my fair hair seemed painfully short. My eyes widened and I felt instinctively for the long thick tresses now lying unbound about my shoulders.
Then my eye was caught by an odd thing. In the mirror, something dark stirred in the air behind the jolting cart. I looked more closely, holding my breath. A massed shadow grew and flickered at my back in the vision, as though some hideous creature of darkness were half creeping, half flying after us on the road to London. Yet my future self did not seem to have noticed it, smiling and looking ahead at the glinting towers in the distance.
‘What is it?’ Elizabeth demanded, leaning forward eagerly to stare down into the dark mirror. Some of the shock I was feeling must have shown on my face, for the princess sounded urgent. ‘What do you see?’
‘I see myself,’ I murmured, feeling a little sick and off balance.
‘You?’ Elizabeth appeared affronted by this. Her small mouth pursed tightly. ‘But what of me? Tell me what you have seen, and leave nothing out. Am I in the mirror? When will I return to London? How long must I waste my life in this prison?’
The mirror began to cloud over again, like the sun on a windy day. The vision of our procession was lost. I passed a hand across its smoky surface again, but nothing happened. Her question had been answered, and could not be asked again.
‘I can’t be sure,’ I admitted, sitting back. I saw her disappointment and hurriedly sketched out some details for the princess. ‘Next year. In the springtime, perhaps. I saw a procession on its way to London, but nothing to tell me when or why you were returning to the city.’
I did not mention the terrifying shadow-creature I had seen creeping at our backs. It might have been nothing but a trick of the mirror, after all. Instruments of witchcraft were tricky, highly unreliable, and often exacted some kind of payment for their services from the user. My fear might be what the scrying mirror wanted in return for showing us the future.
‘But was it a triumphal procession?’ Her voice dropped to a hiss. ‘Was I returning as Queen?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. The mirror did not show me that.’
Her pale cheeks flushed with sudden anger. ‘Then what use is this “dark mirror” of yours? You had your aunt send this magickal object to Woodstock, and promised it would tell my future, then you give me hints and whispers, half-truths and maybes instead.’ Elizabeth slid off the bed, contempt plain on her face. ‘You told me you had power, Meg. Yet you show me what I already know and call this divination.’
‘I do have power,’ I snapped, forgetting to sound deferential, my pride stung by her accusation.
‘Then show me some!’
My aunt had wrapped up a few of her old magick books along with the dark mirror. I had been playing all that week with one of the trickier spells in her books, and thought of it now, knowing how it would impress Elizabeth and banish her doubts for ever.
Without thinking of the risks, I raised a hand and pointed stiffly at Elizabeth. ‘Obscure!’
The spell had not fully worked for me yet, but I knew it would make at least a part of the princess invisible. What I had not counted on was it working perfectly this time.
Perhaps the anger in my voice had been enough to push this most difficult of spells beyond my half-hearted efforts earlier. It was all in the power of the voice, I knew that much. But whatever the reason for it, the spell suddenly worked. Where Elizabeth had been standing was nothing but a thin shadow, shifting subtly in the candlelight.
‘Well?’ her voice repeated impatiently. Presumably she could see me staring at her, my mouth agape. ‘What was that supposed to achieve?’
I swallowed, and pointed to the gilt hand mirror on the bedside table. ‘Look . . .’ I could hardly speak. ‘Look at yourself.’
The hand mirror floated into the air, then I heard a gasp. ‘I’m not there!’ The mirror was replaced on the table, and a silence followed.
Then I saw the shadow of her presence change, turning more solid in the middle. Her hands were becoming visible again. It was always the hands that came back first, my aunt had told me. They seemed to hate being invisible.
There was a muffled shriek as Elizabeth examined her hands, turning them over. Just a pair of long, white-fingered hands and a hint of her nightdress sleeve floating about in thin air.
This spell was clearly not a strong one, or not the way I had cast it. I wondered if it would be possible to strengthen it enough to last a few hours. It could prove useful when creeping about the old palace after dusk. But if the spell was unreliable, it would be best not to chance it. Becoming suddenly visible at a dangerous moment would surely land me in the hands of the witchfinder again.
‘My lady?’ I whispered, worried that she might faint.
Her voice shook, but Elizabeth sounded surprisingly calm. ‘I’m invisible. You did this?’
I nodded.
A sharp slap across my face shocked me and I fell sideways on the bed.
‘Make me visible again at once,’ the princess demanded coldly. Part of her face reappeared, scowling down at me. Then her hair also thickened into being, as ruddy as her flushed cheeks. ‘How dare you tamper with me in this wicked, freakish way? I am Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of a king, not something from a cheap street spectacle.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I rubbed my cheek, forcing myself to swallow my temper, and pointed at her shadowy form. ‘Reveni!’
Once more the princess stood before me, plain to see. I almost wished she was still invisible, sensing her prickling anger. Her arms were folded, her lips pursed tight. ‘You had better take your witching instruments and go to bed,’ she told me curtly. ‘And send Blanche to me.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
I covered the dark mirror with a cloth, tucked it under my arm, and scrambled off the bed.
‘Wait,’ she said, her voice sharp. I saw a glimmer of respect in her face. ‘It was a good spell, Meg. But never play such a trick on me again. Not without my permission, at any rate.’
‘I don’t know if I can work that spell again,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘That was the first time I’ve managed it.’
‘Well, it was very impressive. And a useful spell too, if I ever need to hide in a hurry. So perhaps you should keep practising it, just in case.’
I curtseyed and bowed my head in acquiescence, though the princess did not understand how magick worked. It was not merely a question of practising until the spell fell right. Sometimes these more complicated spells just refused to work as intended, or did not work at all, and that was down to the individual talent of the witch casting the spell.
It had to be my fault, there was no other explanation. The simple truth was, I did not possess as much witching power as my aunt,
and never would.
Malcolm sent me a letter a few weeks after I had seen him spying on us by the river.
I read it quickly, then tore it up. Malcolm was returning to the Low Countries with my foolhardy brother in tow, whose studies had been abandoned while he pursued their hope of rebellion. Malcolm begged me to reconsider the favour they had asked of me at their last visit.
My cousin merely wanted to make mischief, and even if my brother Will had been unable to resist his arguments, I would have no part in it. Not when Elizabeth’s life was at stake. One peep of sedition from the disgraced princess, and she would be marched straight back to London and the gloomy restraints of the Tower.
Nor would I escape punishment if we were discovered in such a dangerous course.
The penalty for treason was the most horrible death imaginable – to be hung until not quite dead, then drawn in agony, my guts spilled out onto the marketplace, my heart cut, still beating, from my butchered body, before finally being quartered with a knife. Only then would merciful death be allowed to close my eyes.
I threw the shredded remains of Malcolm’s letter into the cesspit where they soon blackened into filth.
If my hot-headed cousin and brother wished to raise a rebellion together against Queen Mary and her new Spanish husband, they would have to do so without my help.
NINE
The Queen’s Astrologer
WE LIVED QUIETLY at Woodstock for the rest of the summer, with no more letters from court. Distinguished visitors appeared in the village from time to time, however, much to Sir Henry Bedingfield’s frustration and annoyance. They stayed at the Bull Inn, and although I could never see how these visitors were making contact with the princess, she often seemed to have a secret smile and would tell us news of court in a whisper when the guards were busy elsewhere. I wondered whether the same servant who had sometimes brought me letters from Malcolm and my brother was also carrying secret messages from the Bull to the imprisoned princess.
More and more frequently that summer, as Father Vasco concentrated his efforts on the princess’s conversion to Catholicism, I found myself alone with Alejandro while his master and my mistress meditated together on the teachings of the scriptures. We spent these long hours in conversation, seated on the old wooden bench in the herb garden or strolling through the overgrown woodlands that bordered the palace. Sometimes we discussed philosophy, a subject that was relatively new to me, and sometimes darker matters, such as the origins of the universe and God’s purpose for his creation. Alejandro was a fascinating conversationalist, his mind always sharp and alert, his knowledge of the world extensive. Apart from the unbearable Marcus Dent, I thought him the most intelligent and well-read man I had ever met.
Though not all our time alone was spent in conversation. Occasionally as we walked, our hands would brush, and for a few heated moments it would feel as though we were lovers, or destined to become so. But then Alejandro would seem to recall that he was a priest and thrust his hands safely behind his back, or I would grow suddenly shy and avert my gaze. At night in my bed though, I would secretly imagine the two of us lying together in the darkness, and could not help wondering if the very cool and controlled Alejandro ever did the same.
In late September, as the warmth of summer had begun to fade and the leaves to turn a reddish gold, Sir Henry Bedingfield came to see Elizabeth. It was early evening, not quite dusk, and the sunlight filtering through the cracked window panes was still just strong enough for us to sew by without the need for candles.
From his flushed countenance and breathless state it was clear as soon as Bedingfield strode into the room that he was in a temper.
‘I can no longer allow these visitors of yours from court,’ he blustered, barely bothering with his customary bow on entering the Lady Elizabeth’s presence. ‘I must insist that they no longer visit you, nor stay in the village inn where they cause a nuisance to the locals.’
‘Sir?’ Like the rest of us, Elizabeth had looked up from her embroidery at this intrusion, her tone astonished, her face the very picture of maidenly innocence.
‘I am convinced you do not need this spelled out for you, my lady,’ Bedingfield continued raggedly. ‘These secret visits from your courtly followers must cease.’
‘Indeed, I would readily agree to any commands that come direct from the Queen or her council. But I have had no visitors, sir, as you know very well. No one has come to me from court since early summer, not since I was first brought here at my good sister’s will.’ Elizabeth hesitated, then laid aside her embroidery, pretending confusion. ‘Could you make yourself more clear on this subject, sir, for I cannot understand your meaning?’
Bedingfield withdrew a folded letter from inside his coat and waved it at her. ‘Today, madam, I have received this letter from the council. In it, I am accused of failing in my duty towards the throne, and informed that messages of a dubious nature have passed between you and various named individuals who have come to visit you here at Woodstock. Yet I have not seen you leave the grounds, nor have I permitted any such contact between yourself and the outside world. So explain to me, if you will, madam, how it can be that you have met and spoken with these individuals without my permission and in breach of the Queen’s express command?’
Elizabeth rose, clasping her pale hands before her. Her narrow face looked more pinched than ever, her tone a little more curt than usual. ‘Sir, I am at a loss to understand these accusations. They mean nothing to me. You yourself have just confessed my innocence. For I have spoken with no one beyond these four walls, nor have I received nor sent any letters since my arrival here that were not sent directly through you.’
‘Then how do you explain this information?’
She glanced at the letter he was holding aloft. ‘May I be permitted to read the contents?’
‘No, you may not.’ His nostrils flared. ‘I may not be as cunning a person as yourself, but I am not such a fool as to allow you to see which individuals have been named and what messages have passed between you.’
‘In that case, sir,’ Elizabeth pointed out coldly, ‘if I am not permitted to know these things, how am I to defend myself against this accusation?’
‘Have you,’ Sir Henry Bedingfield thundered, ‘or have you not, madam, received any visitors or news without my permission and knowledge during your time here at Woodstock?’
‘No, sir, I have not.’
Her gaoler stood a moment, his jaw working furiously, then stormed out of the room, kicking one of the Lady Elizabeth’s hounds out of the way as it tried to slink through the doorway.
Elizabeth waited a moment, listening to the noisy retreat of his boots down the stairway. Then she strode restlessly to the window and stared out across the palace grounds in the gathering dusk. Her back was very straight, her head thrown back in defiance. I heard her mutter something under her breath. The long white fingers of one hand tapped repeatedly at the cracked glass as though with some secret code.
When Elizabeth turned back to face us, I saw she had been crying.
‘Blanche,’ she said hoarsely, ‘I am unwell, you must help me to my room at once.’ She dried her damp cheek with the back of her hand, not quite meeting my eyes. ‘Meg, where is Alejandro? I need . . . I need someone to read the scriptures with me. There is a passage in Paul’s Epistles that I must have explained to me. Fetch young Alejandro to my chamber. Hurry!’
I curtseyed, dodged past the guard on the door and ran along the corridor to the small back room where the priests lodged. It had been Bedingfield’s own room before Father Vasco and Alejandro had arrived, but now Elizabeth’s gaoler had reluctantly set up a room for himself in the old gatehouse, allowing the two priests a more comfortable place in the lodge.
I knocked on the heavy wooden door and called out hurriedly, ‘Alejandro!’ I wondered what on earth Elizabeth could be planning.
She was not ill, that was for sure.
The door was thrown open within seconds and Alejandro
himself looked out at me, rightly surprised to see me knocking there at dusk. His long white shirt was undone and worn loose, his dark robe discarded. I averted my eyes from his bare chest, feeling myself flush. Behind him, stretched out on his narrow bed, I could see Father Vasco already asleep.
‘Meg?’ Alejandro frowned. He glanced over his shoulder at the old priest and kept his voice low, presumably not wishing to wake his irascible master. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Briefly, I informed him of Elizabeth’s odd request but did not mention Bedingfield’s accusations. Alejandro already disapproved of me, of that I felt certain, and I did not see why he should also disapprove of Elizabeth.
‘It’s lucky my master shows no signs of waking,’ Alejandro whispered, and reached for his coat and his sword. ‘I will come.’
I waited outside until he was respectably dressed, his shirt fastened and the sword buckled about his waist, then led him down the corridor to the Lady Elizabeth’s chamber.
To my surprise, there was no guard on her door. Could Elizabeth have bribed the man to turn a blind eye that evening?
My heart was beating fast – though with excitement, not fear. We had led such a narrow, stifling existence at Woodstock over the hot summer months. Now it all seemed to be coming to a head. Suddenly I was filled with a terrible restlessness, an irresistible itch in the palms of my hands that I recognized as the desire to work magick.
I scratched softly at the unguarded door, and heard the princess herself call ‘Come!’ immediately.
I had expected to find Elizabeth in her nightclothes, collapsed in bed, with Blanche Parry hovering at her side with some refreshing herbal concoction. Instead, she was standing against the wall, a few feet away from the now shuttered windows, fully dressed and wearing an old patched and hooded cloak I recognized as one sometimes worn by Joan, the simple-minded kitchen maid who had accused me of witchcraft. Blanche was fussing about the princess, tucking Elizabeth’s hair back under the hood.
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