The minister’s eyes traveled from me to Matthew and back again. I stifled a whimper.
“Her agreement with the devil makes it impossible for her to speak the truth,” Bidwell said.
“Hush, Master Bidwell,” Danforth chided. “What do you wish to say, my child? Who introduced you to the devil? Was it another woman?”
“Or man,” Iffley said under his breath. “Mistress Roydon is not the only child of darkness to be found here. There are strange books and instruments, and midnight gatherings are held to conjure spirits.”
Harriot sighed and thrust his book at Danforth. “Mathematics, sir, not magic. Widow Beaton spotted a geometry text.”
“It is not your place to determine the extent of the evil here,” Iffley sputtered.
“If it’s evil you’re seeking, look for it at Widow Beaton’s.” Though he’d done his best to remain calm, Matthew was rapidly losing his temper.
“Do you accuse her of witchcraft, then?” Danforth asked sharply.
“No, Matthew. Not that way,” I whispered, tugging on his hand to gain his attention.
Matthew turned to me. His face looked inhuman, his pupils glassy and enormous. I shook my head, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm both his fury at the invasion of his home and his fierce instinct to protect me.
“Stop your ears against his words, Mr. Danforth. Roydon might be an instrument of the devil, too,” Iffley warned.
Matthew faced the delegation. “If you have reason to charge my wife with some offense, find a magistrate and do so. Otherwise get out. And before you return, Danforth, consider whether aligning with Iffley and Bidwell is a wise course of action.”
The parson gulped.
“You heard him,” Hancock barked. “Out!”
“Justice will be served, Master Roydon—God’s justice,” Danforth proclaimed as he backed out of the room.
“Only if my version doesn’t resolve the matter first, Danforth,” Walter promised.
Pierre and Charles materialized from the shadows, throwing open the doors to shepherd the wide-eyed warmbloods from the room. Outside, it was blowing a gale. The fierceness of the waiting storm would only confirm their suspicions about my supernatural powers.
Out, out, out! called an insistent voice in my head. Panic flooded my system with adrenaline. I had been reduced to prey once more. Gallowglass and Hancock turned toward me, intrigued by the scent of fear seeping from my pores.
“Stay where you are,” Matthew warned the vampires. He crouched before me. “Diana’s instincts are telling her to flee. She’ll be fine in a moment.”
“This is never going to end. We came for help, but even here I’m hunted.” I bit my lip.
“There’s nothing to fear. Danforth and Iffley will think twice before causing any more trouble,” Matthew said firmly, taking my clasped hands in his. “No one wants me for an enemy—not other creatures, not the humans.”
“I understand why the creatures might fear you. You’re a member of the Congregation and have the power destroy them or, even worse, expose them to the humans. No wonder Widow Beaton came here when you commanded. But that doesn’t explain this human reaction to you. Danforth and Iffley must suspect that you’re a . . . wearh.” I caught myself just before the word vampire spilled out.
“Oh, he’s in no danger from them,” said Hancock dismissively. “These men are nobodies. Unfortunately, they’re likely to bring this business to the attention of humans who do matter.”
“Ignore him,” Matthew told me.
“Which humans?” I whispered.
Gallowglass gasped. “By all that is holy, Matthew. I’ve seen you do terrible things, but how could you keep this from your wife, too?”
Matthew looked into the fire. When his eyes finally met mine, they were filled with regret.
“Matthew?” I prompted. The knot that had been forming in my stomach since the arrival of the first bag of mail tightened further.
“They don’t think I’m a vampire. They know I’m a spy.”
Chapter Six
"A spy?” I repeated numbly.
“We prefer to be called intelligencers,” Kit said tartly.
“Shut it, Marlowe,” Hancock growled, “or I’ll stop that mouth for you.” “Spare us, Hancock. No one takes you seriously when you sputter like that.” Marlowe’s chin jutted into the room. “And if you don’t keep a civil tongue with me, there will soon be an end to all these Welsh kings and soldiers on the stage. I’ll make you all traitors and servants with low cunning.”
“What is a vampire?” George asked, reaching for his notebook with one hand and a piece of gingerbread with the other. As usual, no one was paying much attention to him.
“So you’re some kind of Elizabethan James Bond? But . . .” I looked at Marlowe, horrified. He would be murdered in a knife fight in Deptford before he reached the age of thirty, and the crime would be linked to his life as a spy.
“The London hatmaker near St. Dunstan’s who turns such a neat brim? That James Bond?” George chuckled. “Whyever would you think Matthew was a hatmaker, Mistress Roydon?”
“No, George, not that James Bond.” Matthew remained crouched before me, watching my reactions. “You were better off not knowing about this.” “Bullshit.” I neither knew nor cared if this was an appropriately Elizabethan oath. “I deserve the truth.”
“Perhaps, Mistress Roydon, but if you truly love him, it is pointless to insist upon it,” Marlowe said. “Matthew can no longer distinguish between what is true and what is not. This is why he is invaluable to Her Majesty.” “We’re here to find you a teacher,” Matthew insisted, his eyes locked on me. “The fact that I am both a member of the Congregation and the queen’s agent will keep you from harm. Nothing happens in the country without my being aware of it.”
“For someone who claims to know everything, you were blissfully unaware that I’ve thought for days that something was going on in this house. There is too much mail. And you and Walter have been arguing.” “You see what I want you to see. Nothing more.” Even though Matthew’s tendency toward imperiousness had grown exponentially since we
came to the Old Lodge, my jaw dropped at his tone.
“How dare you,” I said slowly. Matthew knew I’d spent my whole life surrounded by secrets. I’d paid a high price for it, too. I stood.
“Sit down,” he grated out. “Please.” He caught my hand.
Matthew’s best friend, Hamish Osborne, had warned me that he wouldn’t be the same man here. How could he be, when the world was such a different place? Women were expected to accept without question what a man told them. Among his friends it was all too easy for Matthew to slip back into old behaviors and patterns of thinking.
“Only if you answer me. I want the name of the person you report to and how you got embroiled in this business.” I glanced over at his nephew and his friends, worried that these were state secrets.
“They already know about Kit and me,” Matthew said, following my eyes. He struggled to find the words. “It all started with Francis Walsingham.
“I’d left England late in Henry’s reign. I spent time in Constantinople, went to Cyprus, wandered through Spain, fought at Lepanto—even set up
a printing business in Antwerp,” Matthew explained. “It’s the usual path for a wearh. We search for a tragedy, an opportunity to slip into someone else’s life. But nothing suited me, so I returned home. France was on the verge of religious and civil war. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn the signs. A Huguenot schoolmaster was happy to take my money and go to Geneva, where he could raise his daughters in safety. I took the identity of his long-dead cousin, moved into his house in Paris, and started over as Matthew de la Forêt.”