In spite of the alchemical distractions, I hadn’t forgotten my witchier concerns. I wove and rewove my invisible gray cloak, and each time I did it faster and the results were finer and more effective. Marjorie promised me that I would soon be able to put my weaving to words so other witches could perform the spell.
After walking back home from St. James Garlickhythe a few days later, I climbed the stairs to our rooms at the Hart and Crown, shedding my disguising spell as I did so. Annie was across the courtyard fetching the clean linen from the washerwomen. Jack was with Pierre and Matthew. I wondered what Fran?oise had procured for dinner. I was famished.
“If someone doesn’t feed me in the next five minutes, I’m going to start screaming.” My announcement as I crossed the threshold was punctuated by the sound of pins scattering on the wooden floorboards as I pulled free the stiff, embroidered panel on the front of my dress. I tossed the stomacher onto the table. My fingers reached underneath to loosen the laces that held my bodice together.
A gentle cough came from the direction of the fireplace.
I whirled around, my fingers clutching at the fabric covering my breasts. “Screaming will do little good, I fear.” A voice as raspy as sand swirling
in a glass came from the depths of the chair that was drawn up to the fireplace. “I sent your servant for wine, and my old limbs do not move fast enough to meet your needs.”
Slowly I came around the bulk of the chair. The stranger in my house lifted one gray eyebrow, and his gaze flickered over the site of my immodesty. I frowned at his bold glance.
“Who are you?” The man was not daemon, witch, or vampire but merely a wrinkled human.
“I believe that your husband and his friends call me the Old Fox. I am also, for my sins, the lord high treasurer.” The shrewdest man in England, and certainly one of its most ruthless, allowed his words to sink in. His kindly expression did nothing to diminish the sharpness of his gaze.
William Cecil was sitting in my parlor. Too stunned to dip into the appropriately deep curtsy, I gawped at him instead.
“I am somewhat familiar to you, then. I am surprised my reputation has reached so far, for it is clear to me and many others that you are a stranger here.” When I opened my mouth to reply, Cecil’s hand came up. “It is wise policy, madam, not to share overmuch with me.”
“What can I do for you, Sir William?” I felt like a schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office.
“My reputation precedes me, but not my title. ‘Vanitatis vanitatum, omnis vanitas,’” Cecil said drily. “I am called Lord Burghley now, Mistress Roydon. The queen is a generous mistress.”
I swore silently. I’d never taken any interest in the dates when members of the aristocracy were elevated to even higher levels of rank and privilege. When I needed to know, I looked it up in the Dictionary of National Biography. Now I’d insulted Matthew’s boss. I would atone by flattering him in Latin.
“‘Honor virtutis praemium,’” I murmured, gathering my wits about me. Esteem is the reward of virtue. One of my neighbors at Oxford was a graduate of the Arnold School. He played rugby and celebrated New College victories by shouting this phrase at the top of his lungs in the Turf, to the delight of his teammates.
“Ah, the Shirley motto. Are you a member of that family?” Lord Burghley tented his fingers before him and looked at me with greater interest. “They are known for their propensity to wander.”
“No,” I said. “I’m a Bishop . . . not an actual bishop.” Lord Burghley inclined his head in silent acknowledgment of my obvious statement. I felt an absurd desire to bare my soul to the man—that or run as far and fast in the opposite direction as possible.
“Her Majesty accepts a married clergy, but female bishops are, thanks be to God, outside the scope of her imagination.”
“Yes. No. Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” I repeated, a deplorable note of desperation creeping into my tone. I gritted my teeth.
“I think not, Mistress Roydon. But perhaps I can do something for you. I advise you to return to Woodstock. Without delay.”
“Why, my lord?” I felt a flicker of fear.
“Because it is winter and the queen is insufficiently occupied at present.” Burghley looked at my left hand. “And you are married to Master Roydon. Her Majesty is generous, but she doesn’t approve when one of her favorites marries without her permission.”
“Matthew isn’t the queen’s favorite—he’s her spy.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late to recall the words.
“Favorites and spies are not mutually exclusive—except where Walsingham was concerned. The queen found his strict morality maddening and his sour expression unendurable. But Her Majesty is fond of Matthew Roydon. Some would say dangerously so. And your husband has many secrets.” Cecil hauled himself to his feet, using a staff for leverage. He groaned. “Go back to Woodstock, mistress. It is best for all concerned.”
“I won’t leave my husband.” Elizabeth might eat courtiers for breakfast, as Matthew had warned, but she was not going to run me out of town. Not when I was finally getting settled, finding friends, and learning magic. And certainly not when Matthew dragged himself home every day looking as if he’d been pulled backward through a knothole, only to spend all night answering correspondence sent to him by the queen’s informants, his father, and the Congregation.
“Tell Matthew that I called.” Lord Burghley made his slow way to the door. There he met Fran?oise, who was carrying a large jug of wine and looking disgruntled. At the sight of me, her eyes widened. She was not pleased to find me home, entertaining, with my bodice undone. “Thank you for the conversation, Mistress Roydon. It was most illuminating.”
The lord high treasurer of England crept down the stairs. He was too old to be traveling about in the late afternoon, alone, in January. I followed him to the landing, watching his progress with concern.
“Go with him, Fran?oise,” I urged her, “and make sure Lord Burghley finds his own servants.” They were probably at the Cardinal’s Hat getting inebriated with Kit and Will, or waiting in the crush of coaches at the top of Water Lane. I didn’t want to be the last person to see Queen Elizabeth’s chief adviser alive.
“No need, no need,” Burghley said over his shoulder. “I am an old man with a stick. The thieves will ignore me in favor of someone with an earring and a slashed doublet. The beggars I can beat off, if need be. And my men are not far from here. Remember my advice, mistress.”
With that he disappeared into the dusk.
“Dieu.” Fran?oise crossed herself, then forked her fingers against the evil eye for good measure. “He is an old soul. I do not like the way he looked at you. It is a good thing milord is not yet home. He would not have liked it either.”
“William Cecil is old enough to be my grandfather, Fran?oise,” I retorted, returning to the warmth of the parlor and, finally, loosening my laces. I groaned as the constriction lessened.
“Lord Burghley did not look at you as though he wanted to bed you.” Fran?oise glanced pointedly at my bodice.
“No? How did he look at me, then?” I poured myself some wine and plopped down in my chair. The day was taking a decided turn for the worse.
“Like you were a lamb ready for slaughter and he was weighing the price you would bring.”
“Who is threatening to eat Diana for dinner?” Matthew had arrived with the stealth of a cat and was taking off his gloves.
“Your visitor. You just missed him.” I took a sip of wine. As soon as I swallowed, Matthew was there to lift it from my hands. I made an exasperated sound. “Can you wave or something to let me know you’re about to move? It’s disconcerting when you just appear before me like that.”
“As you’ve divined that looking out the window is one of my tells, I feel honor bound to share that changing the subject is one of yours.” Matthew took a sip of wine and set the cup on the table. He rubbed tiredly at his face. “What visitor?”
“William Cecil was waiting by the fire when I came home.”