S Parris - Prophecy

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 import ant — 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 tortoise-shell 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 found her first,’ I muse. ‘So she never mentioned his name? You’re certain? Or anything that would identify him?’

She shakes her head, firmer this time.

‘No name, I swear. Nothing except that he was unusually handsome, apparently.’

‘Well, that would narrow it down in the English court.’

She giggles then, finally looking me in the eye; at the same moment, the sound of footsteps echoes along the passageway outside and the laughter dies on her lips.

‘Have you told anyone else of this?’ I hiss. She shakes her head. ‘Good. Say nothing about the secret suitor — neither you nor any of the other girls who knew about it. And tell no one that you spoke to me. If you remember anything else, you can always get a message to me in secret at the French embassy. I have lodgings there.’

Her eyes grow wider in the gloom. ‘Am I in danger?’

‘Until they know who killed your friend and why, there is no knowing who might be in danger. It is as well to be on your guard.’

The treads — two people, by the sound of it — grow closer; just as they stop outside the doors to the gallery I motion to her to keep back in the shadows, out of sight. Then I open the door just as the guards are about to reach for the handle, affecting to jump out of my skin at the sight of them.

‘ Scusi — I was looking for the office of my lord Burghley? I think I have become lost in all the corridors.’ I offer a little self-deprecating laugh; they glance at one another, but they lead me away without looking further into the room.

‘Lord Burghley, my arse. You’ll answer to the captain of the palace guard first, you Spanish dog,’ says one, as he drags me roughly towards the stairs. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘Lord Burghley let me in,’ I repeat, with a sigh; in six months in England I have learned to expect this. They regard all foreigners — especially those of us with dark eyes and beards — as Spanish papists come to murder them in their beds. I will find my way to Burghley eventually; what matters is that no one should know the maid Abigail has spoken to me. Cecily’s mystery inamorato may not know that she kept his identity a secret; there is every chance he may want to silence her friends too. Assuming — and I have learned to assume nothing without proof — that he is connected to this bizarre display of murder.