The Devil's Looking-Glass

Chapter EIGHT





NONSUCH PALACE ECHOED with the sound of feet moving through vast chambers and down winding stairways. Candles threw swooping shadows across the stone walls as breathless servants hauled wooden chests between them, and dragged well-stuffed sacks, and staggered under the weight of bales. In the moonlit inner ward, horses stamped their hooves upon the cobbles. Blasts of hot breath steamed in the chill air. Cart after cart creaked under the weight of loads waiting to be transported along the highway to the Palace of Whitehall just beyond the city walls. The Queen and her court were returning to London.

In the ruddy glare of hissing torches along the walls, guards watched the hasty exodus, their furtive eyes flickering from the frantic activity to the darkness that suffocated the surrounding countryside. Make haste, make haste, the orders rang out, every voice trembling with unease. The bitter reek of sweat born of dread hung in the air.

Grace Seldon paused in the long gallery leading from the Queen’s chambers to peer through the diamond-pane windows at the confusion in the yard below. Her arms ached from the weight of the Queen’s sumptuous dresses, each one jewelled and heavily embroidered. She was wearing her plain yellow travelling skirt and bodice, and a matching ribbon held her brown hair away from her face during her labours. Since sunset had she carried garments to the other ladies-in-waiting in the courtyard, and there would be no respite until all the monarch’s chambers were bare. She had heard the tales of nameless enemies marching upon Nonsuch, the mutterings of blood and thunder and impending doom, as she had heard them so many times before. She raised her chin in defiance. These were dangerous days and she would not jump at shadows.

The murmur of familiar voices rustled along the gallery, and Grace pressed herself back into a darkened chamber before she could be seen. She bristled as she heard the arch tones of that duplicitous little man, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster, who had often turned his poisonous words against Will. The other was the Earl of Essex, a self-important braggart who swaggered through the palace in his white doublet and hose as if all eyes must ever fall upon him. She peered through the crack in the door as they neared.

‘Too many rumours swirl around this palace. Threat, danger, death, drawing closer by the hour,’ Essex was saying in a grim whisper.

‘You think we should speak true?’ Cecil exclaimed with contempt. ‘Better by far that they have their imagined fears.’

‘Though the spectre of the plague still haunts London, I will feel some comfort once we are behind the walls of Whitehall. The defences still hold there?’

‘For now.’

Plotting as ever, Grace thought. Never could a word be trusted that came out of either man’s mouth. And upon their shoulders rested the future of England. As they neared, she stepped back a pace, still watching. What an odd pair they made, the tall, muscular Essex looming over the shorter, hunchbacked Cecil. Yet power resided with the smaller man, she knew.

‘And have we news from Swyfte?’ the Earl asked.

Grace’s ears pricked and she leaned closer once more.

‘As yet, no word. It sickens me to have to put our faith in such a coxcomb.’

‘Elizabeth favours him.’

Clenching his fists, Cecil ground to a halt only a step away from Grace. She held her breath. ‘Will our Queen hold such a high opinion of that rake if he fails to return Dee and she is tossed into a burning pit with all of England?’

‘Swyfte—’

‘Speak to me of Swyfte no more,’ the spymaster snapped. ‘He has always been one step away from turning upon us, and only his effectiveness has kept his head upon his shoulders.’

‘If he learned the truth about the woman he lost—’

Cecil ground his teeth, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘He will not. If he fails to return Dee to us, his life is forfeit. If he succeeds . . . He has brushed close to the truth too many times and we can tolerate it no more. Too much is at stake.’

The spymaster grunted his distaste and set off along the gallery at a fast pace. Essex hurried to keep up. Once the two men had disappeared from view, Grace eased out of her hiding place, chilled. She heard herself hailed and turned to see Will’s young assistant Nathaniel Colt, red-faced and sweating, with a large sack thrown over his left shoulder and another gripped in his right hand.

‘Nat!’ she exclaimed, relieved to see a friendly face. Clutching the monarch’s dresses to her chest, she hurried up to him and whispered, ‘I fear Will’s life is in danger.’

‘Will’s life is always in danger,’ Nathaniel sighed. ‘Rogues, cuckolded husbands, poor card players, jealous rivals . . . and that is even before we discuss the Spanish.’ He saw her worried expression and softened. ‘Tell me what you know, Grace.’

She glanced over her shoulder, repeating in grim tones what she had overheard. ‘And what did Essex mean, the truth about the woman he lost – about my sister Jenny?’ she asked as she finished. She felt a tremor of unease run through her.

‘These spies would find a plot in the contents of their evening stew,’ Nathaniel replied with irritation. ‘They can as much trust their own as the foreign agents they presume to fight.’ He set his jaw, thinking, and then replied, ‘There is nothing we can do but wait until Will returns. He will be grateful for this information, I am sure, and will know the right course to take. Come, let us talk as we walk. I have a chamber full of chests and bales to empty and I would catch one wink of sleep this night.’

Together they carried their individual burdens along the gallery towards the stairs. ‘Will never lost faith that Jenny still lived, never wavered even once,’ Grace said, feeling the weight of this new mystery, ‘and that alone was a beacon of hope in those dark moments when I feared she could only have been taken by rogues and killed that summer’s day in Arden. Even after all these years, Will loves her very much.’

‘More than life itself,’ Nathaniel replied. ‘I have seen him reading through old letters that she wrote to him in the days of his youth. He keeps them locked away in a chest beside his bed.’

Grace paused at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark. ‘I was but a girl when Jenny disappeared. That night I was woken by a sound at the well, and I ventured out to find Will returned from his long search, washing his hands. I can never forget his expression. Haunted, he looked. Broken, as if his life would never be well again.’ Her chest tightened with grief at the memory. ‘Will was a changed man after that night.’

‘He has searched high and low for her. He will never relent.’ The young assistant struggled with his sacks down the creaking wooden steps.

‘Has he ever spoken of any knowledge he might have of where Jenny might be,’ Grace asked, adding quietly, ‘if she yet lives?’

Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Will is a man of secrets. He shows one face to the world, a carefree gentleman who likes his wine, good sport and laughter, but behind that mask there are many chambers, all of them dark.’ He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. ‘Despite what many here think, he is a good man. I see him in his private moments, when the mask falls away, and I know the truth. And yet I fear he does not believe it himself.’ Nathaniel’s brow furrowed.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Part of his darkness is that he believes he is as base as the enemies he faces.’

Grace could not disagree. They continued down the steps in silence. Crossing the echoing entrance hall, they stepped out into the night, enjoying the cool air on their flushed faces. Nathaniel dumped his sacks upon the cobbles and grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘You will be awaiting the return of Master Strangewayes eagerly, I would wager.’

She blushed. ‘Why, he had never entered my thoughts until you mentioned his name,’ she lied. She felt surprised by her growing affection for the young spy. At first his gloating manner had only served to irritate her until she realized that, like Will, he too wore a mask.

Servants streamed around them, muttering curses under their breath as they heaved their heavy loads on to the backs of the carts. The hard work was near done. Soon the long journey through the dark countryside would begin.

‘You are pleased to return to Whitehall?’ Nathaniel gasped as he threw one of his sacks on to the nearest cart.

‘If I call anywhere home now, it is there.’ She pursed her lips, trying to identify the prickle of unease she felt. Then she had it. ‘Would that I never had to venture near the Lantern Tower, though.’

The young assistant laughed. ‘What have you against it?’

‘It scares me.’

Nathaniel shook his head in disbelief. ‘The monument our Queen built to remind her of her father? No wonder, no awe, no reflection on the achievements of old Henry?’

‘What is in it?’

He shrugged. ‘It is empty.’

‘The other ladies-in-waiting say that all roses planted in its shadow wither and die,’ Grace said. ‘And Charity Gomershall declares she heard a strange sound one evening, like a mournful song, rising from the summit. Ghost-lights flicker around it—’

‘Superstition,’ Nathaniel chuckled.

‘It is haunted,’ she replied emphatically, ‘and I will have nothing to do with it.’

As she handed the dresses to one of the other ladies-in-waiting for storage on the Queen’s own carts, her gaze fell upon the spymaster and the Earl of Essex, still deep in grim-faced conversation in the shadows by the palace wall. She felt her unease grow stronger still.

Across the inner ward, the grinding of the opening gates echoed. Eager cries rose up from the crowd, keen to leave Nonsuch for the safety of Whitehall. But Grace couldn’t help but wonder if worse things lay ahead.