Minutes pass, and more minutes. Distant creaks and footfalls tell of activity elsewhere in this warren of passages, but my corridor remains empty. Cupping my hands around my face to the window pane I can make out, under the moonlight, the expanse of the palace compound ahead of me, the great hall on the west side and the chapel on the east, connected to the complex of privy apartments by a narrow covered bridge that spans the moat dividing us from the Great Court. The palace is well protected, bordered on one side by the deer park and another by the river, and all its gates and entrances heavily guarded against intruders. But the truth is that any would-be assassin has ample opportunity to run at Queen Elizabeth during her open procession from the Chapel Royal to her chambers of state every Sunday, or her summer progressions around the country, or any of her many other public appearances. Walsingham frets endlessly over her faith in the love of her subjects – naïve, in his opinion – and her desire to show herself unafraid amongst them; but she insists that she will not be cowed by whispered threats. She likes to meet her people face to face, to give them her hand to kiss. Perhaps this is because Master Secretary Walsingham does not tell her everything he hears regarding plots hatched in the seminaries in France, now filled with angry young Englishmen in exile, who believe that the Papal Bull of 1570 declaring Elizabeth a heretic also gave them, in not so many words, a mandate to kill her on behalf of the Catholic Church.
But tonight’s murder is not the reckless act of a hot-blooded youth willing to martyr himself for his faith; there is a chilling touch of theatre about it, a degree of planning designed to inspire real fear. Fear of what, though? The Catholics? The planets? There is a message, too; Burghley reads it straightforwardly, but I am not so sure. The sign of Jupiter troubles me, perhaps only because it comes so near to me and Doctor Dee and our secret work. I stretch my legs out in front of me and sigh. After my experience in Oxford, I had hoped for some respite from the undercurrents of violence that attend the court of Elizabeth. I am a philosopher, after all; what I really wish for is time to work on my book in peace, for as long as King Henri III of France sees fit to go on paying for me to live here with his ambassador. When I agreed to work for Walsingham shortly after my arrival in England, I had thought it would be merely a question of keeping my eyes open at the embassy, watching who among the English nobles came to dinner there, who stayed for Mass, who grew close to the ambassador and who was corresponding with whom among the Catholics in exile. Now, for the second time, I find myself caught up in a matter of violent death and I am not sure what is expected of me.
My thoughts are disturbed by the soft click of a door opening at the end of the passageway; I shrink back into the window seat and lean my head around cautiously, but in the dim light I can only make out the figure of a woman, too slender to be Lady Seaton. She carries a candle in a holder and walks briskly towards me; as she passes under a sconce of candles on the wall, I catch a flash of red-gold under her white linen cap and whistle softly through my teeth. She gives a little cry and immediately stifles it with her hand; I press my finger to my lips, uncross my legs from the seat and we both freeze, still as marble, waiting to see if any guard comes running. A moment passes before we are satisfied that no one has heard.
‘I waited for you. Can we speak privately?’ I ask her, my voice barely escaping my lips.
She hesitates for a moment, then glances over her shoulder before nodding. Holding her finger to her lips, she gestures for me to follow her, and leads me down the staircase, along another passage and into an empty gallery, unlit except for the moonlight that spills through the diamond panes, casting pale shapes on the wooden boards, faintly coloured where the windows bear heraldic emblems of stained glass. Almost as soon as the doors swing shut behind us, she appears to regret her decision; her eyes open wide in fear and she looks frantically about her.
‘If they should find me here –’
I make soft reassuring noises, such as you might make to a skittish horse, while guiding her away from the door towards one of the large windows.
‘You were friends with Cecily?’
She nods, with emphasis, then smothers a sob behind her handkerchief.
‘What is your name?’
‘Abigail Morley.’
‘You know more than Lady Seaton, I think, Abigail,’ I prompt gently.
She nods again, disconsolate; she will not meet my eye and I guess that she fears disloyalty to her dead friend.
‘Did Cecily have a lover? Did she tell you she was going to meet someone? If you know anything, it may help to catch him.’
Finally the girl raises her head.
‘Lady Seaton says it was black magic.’
‘People talk of magic to cover their ignorance. But you know better, I think.’
Her eyes widen in amazement at this and she almost smiles; the audacity of someone questioning her mistress’s authority. She is standing close to me and I notice that she is pretty in that milky, English way, though there is something bland about her features that does not move me. I prefer a woman with more fire in her eyes.
‘We are not allowed to associate with the gentlemen of the court,’ she whispers. ‘It is strictly forbidden. Even the merest rumour could have us sent straight back to our families in disgrace with no chance of return, you understand?’
‘That seems hard.’
The girl shrugs, as if to say things have always been arranged like this.
‘Being maid of honour to Her Majesty is the surest step to making a grand marriage at court. This is why our fathers send us here, and lay out their money for the privilege. Cecily told me her father paid more than a thousand pounds to get her a place.’
‘Poor man. A double loss for him, then. But how are you supposed to make these grand marriages if you are not allowed near the courtiers?’
‘Oh, the marriages are made for us,’ she says, with a little pout. ‘Between our fathers and the queen. And naturally no man wants to know us if there are rumours flying about the court concerning our virtue. Besides,’ she adds, slipping into a sly grin, ‘Her Majesty is renowned as the Virgin Queen, so she thinks we should all follow her example. She should really know that all the tricks of secrecy make it the more exciting.’
‘Like dressing as a boy?’
‘Cecily was not the first girl to have tried that. You’re just noticed less – it makes it simpler to slip away. Men have it so much easier,’ she adds, with a pointed look, as if this imbalance were my fault.
‘Well, I’m afraid your poor friend is beyond any disgrace now. So she did have a sweetheart?’
‘She had met someone,’ the girl confides. ‘Quite recently – for the last month she was all smiles and secrecy, and quite distracted. If Lady Seaton chastised her for not having her mind on her duties, she would blush and giggle and send me meaningful looks.’ A resentment has crept into Abigail’s tone.
‘But did she tell you who he was?’
‘No,’ she says, after a slight hesitation, and in the silence that follows her eyes dart away. ‘But in the Maids’ Chamber at bedtime, she would hint that he was someone very important – someone she evidently thought would impress us, anyway. He must have been rich, because he bought her beautiful presents. A gold ring, a locket, and the most exquisite tortoiseshell mirror. She was convinced he meant to marry her, but then she always was fanciful.’
‘So he was here at court?’ In my haste I inadvertently clutch at her sleeve, startling her; quickly I withdraw my hand and she takes a step back.
‘I assume so. He must have been a frequent visitor, anyway, because lately she would often go missing at odd times, and she would come back all flushed and hugging her secret, though she made sure we all knew. She begged me to tell Lady Seaton she was feeling unwell, but the old woman is no fool, as you saw – she was growing suspicious. Cecily would have been found out sooner or later – or ended up with a full belly.’
‘But someone