The tiny nun stood and limped around the table. She tugged Eleanor down to whisper in her ear. The queen nodded, eyes narrowing on Becket, before turning her attention to me.
“Yes, girl,” the queen repeated in a tone completely different from that of the priest’s. “Tell me again how it is you speak the language of scholars.”
Voice shaking, I said again, “My mother taught me, Your Grace.”
“Hmmm. And do you read and write it as well?”
“I do, Your Grace. My mother thought it wise that I learned. We are in the shipping business, and we visit many countries, and . . .”
The queen stopped me with a languid gesture, then tilted her head. “Oh, Thomas.” She gave an amused scoff. “So because this poor child knows the Latin tongue, she must be a spy? I myself speak many languages. I suppose, then, you must arrest me as well. Yes?”
“No,” Becket snapped. When Eleanor’s eyes flashed dangerously, a blotchy flush bled across his gaunt, pallid cheeks as he seemed to remember who he was addressing. He gave a jerky bow. “No, Your Grace. I believe she is a spy because a trusted ally warned me of—”
“And who, Thomas,” Eleanor said, imperiously, “is this trusted ally of whom you speak so highly?”
I knew what was coming, knew there was only one person who could have warned Becket against me. And yet it felt like a punch when he said her name.
“The Lady Celia Alvarez, Your Grace. A woman gifted with holy visions. She—”
I snorted at the “holy visions” description. Becket took a step toward me, but Eleanor threw her head back. Her shoulders shook with a full-bodied laugh. “Alvarez? A Spaniard? Oh well, then. We must, of course, believe her.”
Still chuckling, the queen yawned. She slid around the desk and retook her seat. “So,” she mused, watching me thoughtfully. “A merchant’s wife who teaches Latin and languages to her daughters. Perhaps England is not the barbaric country I feared.”
For an instant, relief began to trickle through me. But Becket’s hand snaked forward and fastened around my upper arm. I winced as his fingers dug painfully into my flesh. “The girl should be questioned, at the very least. By your leave I will take her, Your Grace. I will draw the truth from her myself.”
“You will do no such thing.” Eleanor shot to her feet. Everyone jumped as the queen’s voice resounded through the room. “Let her go. This girl is now under my protection.”
“Madam,” Thomas said. “Surely—”
Eleanor’s voice turned to a malevolent whisper. “I said release her.”
The priest’s fingers burrowed viciously into my skin before he let go. Dropping a choppy bow, he spoke through clenched teeth. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Becket backed toward the door, clearly furious. “If that will be all, madam, I shall get back to the king. I’m quite certain he’ll be interested in what happened here today.”
Still petrified, I wanted to rub my aching arm, but refused to give Becket the satisfaction.
“Ah, yes. I am told that since we’ve arrived, you are always buzzing in my husband’s ear. And that in turn you have a thousand little bees of your own, scattered throughout this city, whom you pay to buzz news of my kingdom to you. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.” The queen’s hand idly caressed her belly as she bestowed a malicious smile on the priest.
At the door, Becket turned and began to stomp toward the door, his earlier arrogant, gliding step forgotten.
“Oh, Thomas,” Eleanor called.
Becket’s lips were white as he swiveled to face the queen.
“You know what they say about bees, don’t you?”
Thomas Becket glowered but said nothing.
“Bees,” she said, “are ruled by a queen. Not a king.”
Thomas Becket jabbed a bow and fled. Dead silence ruled the chamber for a beat, before the tension slowly bled away. Everyone began chattering among themselves, though Eleanor’s eyes remained fixed on the door.
Sister Hectare placed a gnarled hand on the queen’s arm and whispered to her.
Eleanor blinked hard and shook her head as if throwing off disturbing thoughts. “Yes,” she said. “Of course he will. Henry’s always taken my view in the end.”
The nun mouthed a few more words to the queen that I could not hear.
“Tell me your name again, child?” I startled when the queen addressed me. For a moment, I thought she’d forgotten all about me. But her eyes were fixed on me now with a sharp curiosity.
“Mistress Hope Walton, Your Ma—Your Grace.”
Careful. I’d almost said “Your Majesty,” a term that wouldn’t come into play until the reign of Henry VIII.
“The good sister here informs me you’ve come searching for your cousin?”
My gaze shot to Rachel, who stood pale and shaking at my side. She nodded, though, encouraging me.
“Yes, Your Grace,” I managed. “My cousin Sarah de Carlyle.”