Chapter 12: The Widow’s Bargain

Edmund Ashworth, Earl of Morland, had never in his life risen before the sun with intent. He had done so once, as a boy, to witness a foaling, and had spent the subsequent three days in a state of moral outrage that the world should conduct such business at such an hour. Now, as he stood in the chill grey of a Morland dawn, saddle-sore and profoundly disgruntled, he reflected that espionage was proving to be a singularly poor cure for his particular malady.

“You look as though you are being led to your own hanging,” Cecily observed from atop her mare, her breath pluming in the cold air. She was, infuriatingly, immaculate.

“I would prefer the hanging,” Edmund muttered, adjusting his cloak. “It is over quicker.”

They had ridden through the night to reach the coast, and then doubled back along the winding lanes towards the small hamlet where the widow with the blue door kept her house. Walsingham’s network, such as it was, had provided the address—a terse note slipped to Edmund by a one-eyed ostler at the sign of the Crooked Billet. The ostler had not met Edmund’s eyes, and Edmund had not asked questions. That was the way of this new world he inhabited: a world of shadows and whispers, where a man’s life could be traded for a scrap of paper.

The house was precisely as described: a modest timber-framed dwelling, its door painted a defiant, startling blue against the whitewash. It sat at the end of a lane, half-swallowed by ivy, and a thin ribbon of smoke rose from its chimney. Edmund reined in his horse, taking a long, slow breath. He felt the familiar pull of fatigue, the weight of sleeplessness pressing on his skull, but beneath it—and this was the troubling part—there was a spark. A flicker of something that was not quite curiosity, and not quite fear. It was, he suspected, the beginning of interest. He cursed it silently.

“I shall do the talking,” Cecily said, dismounting with a fluid grace that Edmund could only envy.

“You always do,” he said, sliding from his saddle with considerably less elegance. “I shall stand behind you and look decorative.”

“That is the most useful you have been in a week.”

The door opened before Cecily could knock. A woman stood there, her face lined and weathered, her hair a steel-grey swept beneath a simple coif. She was not old, precisely, but she was not young either. Her eyes were the colour of winter slate—flat, assessing, and utterly without warmth. She looked from Cecily to Edmund, and her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she spoke.

“You are early. I said the hour of ten.”

“We are eager for your company,” Edmund said, with a smile he did not feel.

The widow—for Edmund assumed this was she—did not return the smile. “Eagerness is a dangerous quality. It makes a man reckless.” She stepped back, holding the door wide. “Come in, then. The kettle is on.”

The interior was sparse but clean. A table, two chairs, a hearth with a small fire. A crucifix hung above the mantel, and Edmund noted, with a sinking feeling, the faint outline of a hidden compartment in the floorboards near the hearth. He filed that detail away, as Walsingham had taught him, and took the seat offered.

The widow poured three cups of herbal tea, the scent of mint and something bitter rising in the steam. She did not sit. She stood by the fire, her arms folded, and regarded them both with that flat, watchful gaze.

“You are the Earl of Morland,” she said. It was not a question.

Edmund inclined his head. “I am.”

“And you are the man who intercepted the letter meant for the Scottish queen.”

Edmund’s tea sloshed in his cup. He steadied it with a hand that, he was annoyed to discover, trembled slightly. “I am not sure what you mean by that.”

The widow’s lips twitched. It was not a smile, but it was close. “You need not play the innocent with me, my lord. I know what you are, and I know what you have become. The question is whether you know what you are.”

Cecily set her cup down with a decisive click. “We were told you had information. Information that could help us.”

“I have information,” the widow said. “I have a great deal of information. The question is what it is worth to you.”

“The security of the realm,” Edmund said, trying to summon a shred of earnestness. “The safety of the Queen.”

The widow laughed—a low, dry sound. “The Queen. You speak of her as though she were a person. She is not. She is a position. A symbol. And symbols, my lord, are only as useful as the men who hold them.” She turned to Cecily. “You. You are the widow Thorne. You have been nosing around London for weeks, asking questions you should not ask.”

Cecily’s expression did not flicker. “I ask questions that need answering.”

“And you have been answered,” the widow said. “But the answers you have found are not the ones you want.” She reached into her sleeve and drew out a folded piece of paper, yellowed and worn. “This is what you seek. The name you have been chasing. It is here.”

Edmund’s hand moved towards the paper, but the widow withdrew it.

“Not so fast, my lord. I told you: the question is what it is worth to you.”

“What do you want?” Edmund asked, and he was surprised to find his voice steady. “Money? Protection?”

“I want a promise,” the widow said. “A promise that when the storm comes—and it is coming, make no mistake—you will remember who helped you. That you will speak for me, and for mine, when the time comes to answer for what has been done.”

Edmund studied her. The flatness in her eyes had not changed, but there was something beneath it now—a weariness, a resignation, that spoke of a life lived in shadows. He thought of Walsingham, of his own reluctant service, of the web of deceit and betrayal that seemed to stretch across the whole of England. And he thought, briefly, of his bed at Morland, still warm, still waiting.

“You have my word,” he said.

The widow held his gaze for a long moment. Then she handed him the paper.

Edmund unfolded it. The handwriting was precise, slanted, the hand of a man accustomed to command. A single name, followed by a list of dates and locations. He read it once, then again, to be sure he had not misread.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

Cecily leaned over his shoulder, her face close to his. “Who is it?”

Edmund looked up, his mind racing. The name was one he knew, one he had spoken with in the Queen’s own presence, one he had shared a flask with at court. It was a name that would shatter the Privy Council, that would turn the court of Elizabeth I inside out.

“It’s the Lord Chamberlain,” he said. “Howard. The Earl of Effingham.”