“Marlowe could never be trusted,” Hancock muttered.
Pierre slipped through the open door looking stricken, another piece of mail in his hand.
“Not now, Pierre,” Matthew groaned, sitting down and reaching for his wine. His shoulders sagged against the back of his chair. “There simply isn’t room in this day for one more crisis—be it queen, country, or Catholics. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”
“But . . . milord,” Pierre stammered, holding out the letter. Matthew glanced at the decisive writing that marched across the front. “Christ and all His saints.” His fingers rose to touch the paper, then froze. Matthew’s throat moved as he struggled for control. Something red and bright appeared in the corner of his eye, then slid down his cheek and splashed onto the folds of his collar. A vampire’s blood tear.
“What is it, Matthew?” I looked over his shoulder, wondering what had caused so much grief.
“Ah. The day is not over yet,” Hancock said uneasily while he backed away. “There is one small matter that requires your attention. Your father thinks you’re dead.”
In my own time, it was Matthew’s father, Philippe, who was dead—horribly, tragically, irrevocably so. But this was 1590, which meant he was alive. Ever since we’d arrived, I had worried about a chance encounter with Ysabeau or with Matthew’s laboratory assistant, Miriam, and the ripples such a meeting might cause in future times. Not once had I considered what seeing Philippe would do to Matthew.
Past, present, and future collided. Had I looked into the corners, I would surely have seen time unspooling in protest at the clash. But my eyes were fixed on Matthew instead, and the blood tear caught in the snowy linen at his throat.
Gallowglass brusquely picked up the tale. “With the news from Scotland and your sudden disappearance, we feared you’d gone north for the queen and been caught up in the madness there. We looked for two days. When we couldn’t find a trace of you—hell, Matthew, we had no choice but to tell Philippe you had vanished. It was that or raise the alarm with the Congregation.”
“There’s more, milord.” Pierre flipped the letter over. The seal on it was like the others I associated with the Knights of Lazarus—except that the wax used here was a vivid swirl of black and red and an ancient silver coin had been pushed into its surface, the edges worn and thin, instead of the usual impression of the order’s seal. The coin was stamped with a cross and a crescent, two de Clermont family symbols.
“What did you tell him?” Matthew was transfixed by the pale moon of silver floating in its red-black sea.
“Our words are of little consequence now that this has arrived. You must be on French soil within the next week. Otherwise Philippe will set out for England,” Hancock mumbled.
“My father cannot come here, Hancock. It is impossible.”
“Of course it’s impossible. The queen would have his head after all he’s done to stir the pot of English politics. You must go to him. So long as you travel night and day, you will have plenty of time,” Hancock assured him.
“I can’t.” Matthew’s gaze was fixed on the unopened letter.
“Philippe will have horses waiting. You will be back before long,” Gallowglass murmured, resting his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.
Matthew looked up, eyes suddenly wild. “It’s not the distance. It’s—” Matthew stopped abruptly.
“He’s your mother’s husband, man. Surely you can trust Philippe—unless you’ve been lying to him as well.”
Hancock’s eyes narrowed. “Kit’s right. No one can trust me.” Matthew shot to his feet. “My life is a tissue of lies.”
“This isn’t the time or place for your philosophical nonsense, Matthew. Even now Philippe wonders if he has lost another son!” Gallowglass exclaimed. “Leave the girl with us, get on your horse, and do what your father commands. If you don’t, I’ll knock you out and Hancock will carry you there.”
“You must be very sure of yourself, Gallowglass, to issue me orders,” Matthew said, a dangerous edge to his tone. He braced his hands on the chimneypiece and stared into the fire.
“I’m sure of my grandfather. Ysabeau made you a wearh, but it is Philippe’s blood that courses through my veins.”
Gallowglass’s words wounded Matthew. His head snapped up when the blow landed, raw emotion overcoming his usual impassiveness.
“George, Tom, go upstairs and see to Kit,” Walter murmured, pointing his friends to the door. Raleigh inclined his head in Pierre’s direction, and Matthew’s servant joined in the efforts to get them out of the room. Calls for more wine and food echoed through the vestibule. Once the two were in Françoise’s care, Pierre returned, shut the door firmly, and placed himself before it. With only Walter, Henry, Hancock, and me there to bear witness to the conversation—along with the silent Pierre—Gallowglass continued his efforts with Matthew.
“You must go to Sept-Tours. He won’t rest until he claims your body for burial or you are standing before him, alive. Philippe doesn’t trust Elizabeth—or the Congregation.” Gallowglass intended his words to bring comfort this time, but Matthew’s air of remove remained.
Gallowglass made an exasperated sound. “Deceive the others—and yourself, if you must. Discuss alternatives all night if you wish. But Auntie’s right: It’s all shite.” Gallowglass’s voice dropped. “Your Diana doesn’t smell right. And you smell older than you did last week. I know the secret you’re both keeping. He’ll know it, too.”
Gallowglass had deduced that I was a timewalker. One look at Hancock told me that he had, too.
“Enough!” Walter barked.
Gallowglass and Hancock quieted immediately. The reason blinked on Walter’s little finger: a signet bearing the outlines of Lazarus and his coffin. “So you’re a knight, too,” I said, stunned.
“Yes,” said Walter tersely.
“And you outrank Hancock. What about Gallowglass?” There were too many overlapping layers of loyalty and allegiance in the room. I was desperate to organize them into a navigable structure.
“I outrank everyone in this room, madam, with the exception of your husband,” Raleigh cautioned. “And that includes you.”
“You have no authority over me,” I shot back. “Exactly what is your role in the de Clermont family’s business, Walter?”
Over my head, Raleigh’s angry blue eyes met Matthew’s. “Is she always like this?”
“Usually,” Matthew said drily. “It takes some getting used to, but I rather like it. You might, too, given time.”
“I already have one demanding woman in my life. I don’t need another,” Walter snorted. “If you must know, I command the brotherhood in England, Mistress Roydon. Matthew cannot do so, given his position on the Congregation. The other members of the family were otherwise occupied. Or they refused.” Walter’s eyes flickered to Gallowglass.
“So you’re one of the order’s eight provincial masters and report directly to Philippe,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you’re not the ninth knight.”
The ninth knight was a mysterious figure in the order, his identity kept secret from all except those at the very highest levels.
Raleigh swore so vehemently that Pierre gasped. “You keep the fact that you’re a spy and a member of the Congregation from your wife, yet you tell her the most private business of the brotherhood?”
“She asked,” Matthew said simply. “But I think that’s enough talk of the Order of Lazarus for tonight.”
“Your wife won’t be satisfied leaving it there. She will worry at this like a hound with a bone.” Raleigh crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“Very well. If you must know, Henry is the ninth knight. His unwillingness to embrace the Protestant faith makes him vulnerable to allegations of treason here in England, and in Europe he is an easy target for every malcontent who would like to see Her Majesty lose her throne. Philippe offered him the position to shield him from those who would abuse his trusting nature.”