Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

“Look at that,” I said, amazed.

Matthew smiled at me. It was a smile still tinged with regret, but there was some hope in it, too.

Red fruits appeared among the leaves, sparkling like tiny rubies. Mary began to murmur a prayer, her eyes wide.

“My blood made the structure of the tree, and your blood made it bear fruit,” I said slowly. My hand went to my hollow belly.

“Yes. But why?” Matthew replied.

If anything could tell us about the mysterious transformation that occurred when witch and wearh combined their blood, it would be Ashmole 782’s strange pictures and mysterious text.

“How long did you say it would take you to get Dee’s book back?” I asked Matthew.

“Oh, I don’t imagine it will take very long,” he murmured. “Not once I put my mind to it.”

“The sooner the better,” I said mildly, twining my fingers though his as we watched the ongoing miracle that our blood had wrought.

The strange tree continued to grow and develop the next day and the next: Its fruit ripened and fell among the tree’s roots in the mercury and prima materia . New buds formed, blossomed, and flowered. Once a day the leaves turned from gold to green and back to gold. Sometimes the tree put out new branches or a new root stretched out to seek sustenance. “I have yet to find a good explanation for it,” Mary said, gesturing at the piles of books that Joan had pulled down from the shelves. “It is as if we have created something entirely new.”

In spite of the alchemical distractions, I hadn’t forgotten my witchier concerns. I wove and rewove my invisible gray cloak, and each time I did it faster and the results were finer and more effective. Marjorie promised me that I would soon be able to put my weaving to words so other witches could perform the spell.

After walking back home from St. James Garlickhythe a few days later, I climbed the stairs to our rooms at the Hart and Crown, shedding my disguising spell as I did so. Annie was across the courtyard fetching the clean linen from the washerwomen. Jack was with Pierre and Matthew. I wondered what Françoise had procured for dinner. I was famished.

“If someone doesn’t feed me in the next five minutes, I’m going to start screaming.” My announcement as I crossed the threshold was punctuated by the sound of pins scattering on the wooden floorboards as I pulled free the stiff, embroidered panel on the front of my dress. I tossed the stomacher onto the table. My fingers reached underneath to loosen the laces that held my bodice together.

A gentle cough came from the direction of the fireplace.

I whirled around, my fingers clutching at the fabric covering my breasts. “Screaming will do little good, I fear.” A voice as raspy as sand swirling in a glass came from the depths of the chair that was drawn up to the fireplace. “I sent your servant for wine, and my old limbs do not move fast enough to meet your needs.”

Slowly I came around the bulk of the chair. The stranger in my house lifted one gray eyebrow, and his gaze flickered over the site of my immodesty. I frowned at his bold glance.

“Who are you?” The man was not daemon, witch, or vampire but merely a wrinkled human.

“I believe that your husband and his friends call me the Old Fox. I am also, for my sins, the lord high treasurer.” The shrewdest man in England, and certainly one of its most ruthless, allowed his words to sink in. His kindly expression did nothing to diminish the sharpness of his gaze.

William Cecil was sitting in my parlor . Too stunned to dip into the appropriately deep curtsy, I gawped at him instead.

“I am somewhat familiar to you, then. I am surprised my reputation has reached so far, for it is clear to me and many others that you are a stranger here.” When I opened my mouth to reply, Cecil’s hand came up. “It is wise policy, madam, not to share overmuch with me.”

“What can I do for you, Sir William?” I felt like a schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office.

“My reputation precedes me, but not my title. ‘Vanitatis vanitatum, omnis vanitas ,’” Cecil said drily. “I am called Lord Burghley now, Mistress Roydon. The queen is a generous mistress.”

I swore silently. I’d never taken any interest in the dates when members of the aristocracy were elevated to even higher levels of rank and privilege. When I needed to know, I looked it up in the Dictionary of National Biography . Now I’d insulted Matthew’s boss. I would atone by flattering him in Latin.

“‘Honor virtutis praemium ,’” I murmured, gathering my wits about me. Esteem is the reward of virtue . One of my neighbors at Oxford was a graduate of the Arnold School. He played rugby and celebrated New College victories by shouting this phrase at the top of his lungs in the Turf, to the delight of his teammates.

“Ah, the Shirley motto. Are you a member of that family?” Lord Burghley tented his fingers before him and looked at me with greater interest. “They are known for their propensity to wander.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a Bishop . . . not an actual bishop.” Lord Burghley inclined his head in silent acknowledgment of my obvious statement. I felt an absurd desire to bare my soul to the man—that or run as far and fast in the opposite direction as possible.

“Her Majesty accepts a married clergy, but female bishops are, thanks be to God, outside the scope of her imagination.”

“Yes. No. Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” I repeated, a deplorable note of desperation creeping into my tone. I gritted my teeth.

“I think not, Mistress Roydon. But perhaps I can do something for you. I advise you to return to Woodstock. Without delay.”

“Why, my lord?” I felt a flicker of fear.

“Because it is winter and the queen is insufficiently occupied at present.” Burghley looked at my left hand. “And you are married to Master Roydon. Her Majesty is generous, but she doesn’t approve when one of her favorites marries without her permission.”

“Matthew isn’t the queen’s favorite—he’s her spy.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late to recall the words.

“Favorites and spies are not mutually exclusive—except where Walsingham was concerned. The queen found his strict morality maddening and his sour expression unendurable. But Her Majesty is fond of Matthew Roydon. Some would say dangerously so. And your husband has many secrets.” Cecil hauled himself to his feet, using a staff for leverage. He groaned. “Go back to Woodstock, mistress. It is best for all concerned.”

“I won’t leave my husband.” Elizabeth might eat courtiers for breakfast, as Matthew had warned, but she was not going to run me out of town. Not when I was finally getting settled, finding friends, and learning magic. And certainly not when Matthew dragged himself home every day looking as if he’d been pulled backward through a knothole, only to spend all night answering correspondence sent to him by the queen’s informants, his father, and the Congregation.

“Tell Matthew that I called.” Lord Burghley made his slow way to the door. There he met Françoise, who was carrying a large jug of wine and looking disgruntled. At the sight of me, her eyes widened. She was not pleased to find me home, entertaining, with my bodice undone. “Thank you for the conversation, Mistress Roydon. It was most illuminating.”

The lord high treasurer of England crept down the stairs. He was too old to be traveling about in the late afternoon, alone, in January. I followed him to the landing, watching his progress with concern.

“Go with him, Françoise,” I urged her, “and make sure Lord Burghley finds his own servants.” They were probably at the Cardinal’s Hat getting inebriated with Kit and Will, or waiting in the crush of coaches at the top of Water Lane. I didn’t want to be the last person to see Queen Elizabeth’s chief adviser alive.