“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.”
“‘Matthew of the Forest’?” My eyebrows lifted at the irony. “That was the schoolmaster’s name,” he said wryly. “Paris was dangerous, and Walsingham, as English ambassador, was a magnet for every disenchanted rebel in the country. Late in the summer of 1572, all the simmering anger in France came to a boil. I helped Walsingham escape, along with the English Protestants he was sheltering.”
“The massacre on St. Bartholomew’s Day.” I shivered, thinking of the blood-soaked wedding between a French Catholic princess and her Protestant husband.
“I became the queen’s agent later, when she sent Walsingham back to Paris. He was supposed to be brokering Her Majesty’s marriage to one of the Valois princes.” Matthew snorted. “It was clear the queen had no real interest in the match. It was during that visit that I learned of Walsingham’s network of intelligencers.”
My husband met my eyes briefly, then looked away. He was still keeping something from me. I reviewed the story, detected the fault lines in his account, and followed them to a single, inescapable conclusion: Matthew was French, Catholic, and he could not possibly have been aligned politically with Elizabeth Tudor in 1572—or in 1590. If he was working for the English Crown, it was for some larger purpose. But the Congregation had vowed to stay out of human politics. Philippe de Clermont and his Knights of Lazarus had not.
"You’re working for your father. And you’re not only a vampire but a Catholic in a Protestant country.”
The fact that Matthew was working for the Knights of Lazarus, not just Elizabeth, exponentially increased the danger. It wasn’t just witches who were hunted down and executed in Elizabethan England—so were traitors, creatures with unusual powers, and people of different faiths. “The Congregation is of no help if you get involved with human politics. How could your own family ask you to do something so risky?”
Hancock grinned. “That’s why there’s always a de Clermont on the Congregation—to make sure lofty ideals don’t get in the way of good business.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve worked for Philippe, nor will it be the last. You’re good at uncovering secrets. I’m good at keeping them,” Matthew said simply.
Scientist. Vampire. Warrior. Spy. Another piece of Matthew fell into place, and with it I better understood his ingrained habit of never sharing anything—major or minor—unless he was forced to do so.
“I don’t care how much experience you have! Your safety depends on Walsingham—and you’re deceiving him.” His words had only made me angrier.
“Walsingham is dead. I report to William Cecil now.”
“The canniest man alive,” Gallowglass said quietly. “Except for Philippe, of course.”
“And Kit? Does he work for Cecil or for you?”
“Tell her nothing, Matthew,” Kit said. “The witch cannot be trusted.”
“Why, you sly, wee boggart,” Hancock said softly. “It’s you who’s been stirring up the villagers.”
Kit’s cheeks burned red in twin pronouncements of guilt.
“Christ, Kit. What have you done?” Matthew asked, astonished.
“Nothing,” said Marlowe sullenly.
“You’ve been telling tales again.” Hancock waggled his finger in admonishment. “I’ve warned you before that we won’t stand for that, Master Marlowe.”
“Woodstock was already buzzing with news of Matthew’s wife,” Kit protested. “The rumors were bound to bring the Congregation down upon us. How was I supposed to know that the Congregation was already here?”
“Surely you’ll let me kill him now, de Clermont. I’ve wanted to do so for ages,” Hancock said, cracking his knuckles.
“No. You can’t kill him.” Matthew rubbed a hand over his tired face.
“There would be too many questions, and I don’t have the patience to come up with convincing answers at present. It’s just village gossip. I’ll handle it.”
“This gossip comes at a bad time,” Gallowglass reported quietly. “It’s not just Berwick. You know how anxious people were about witches in Chester. When we went north into Scotland, the situation was worse.”
“If this business spreads south into England, she’ll be the death of us,” Marlowe promised, pointing at me.
“This trouble will stay confined to Scotland,” Matthew retorted. “And there will be no more visits to the village, Kit.”
“She appeared on All Hallows’ Eve, just when the arrival of a fearsome witch was predicted. Don’t you see? Your new wife raised the storms against King James, and now she has turned her attention to England. Cecil must be told. She poses a danger to the queen.”
“Quiet, Kit,” Henry cautioned, pulling at his arm.
“You cannot silence me. Telling the queen is my duty. Once you would have agreed with me, Henry. But since the witch came, everything’s changed! She has enchanted everyone in the house.” Kit’s eyes were frantic.
“You dote on her like a sister. George is half in love. Tom praises her wit, and Walter would have her skirts up and her back against a wall if he weren’t afraid of Matt. Return her to where she belongs. We were happy before.”
“Matthew wasn’t happy.”
Tom had been drawn to our end of the room by Marlowe’s angry energy.
“You say you love him.” Kit turned to me, his face full of entreaty. “Do you truly know what he is? Have you seen him feed, felt the hunger in him when a warmblood is near? Can you accept Matthew completely—the blackness in his soul along with the light—as I do? You have your magic for solace, but I am not fully alive without him. All poetry flies from my mind when he is gone, and only Matthew can see what little good I have in me. Leave him to me. Please.”
“I can’t,” I said simply.