Chapter 65: The Widow’s Survey

Coldstream Hall rose from the Devon mist like a question the landscape had forgotten to answer. It was not a great fortress, nor even a particularly grand manor, but it was built with the stubborn practicality of a man who expected trouble—narrow windows, a single stout door, and a gatehouse that commanded the only approachable lane. Edmund stood at the edge of the woodline, Cecily beside him, both of them watching the grey stone swallow the last of the afternoon light.

“You said your uncle had been here since spring,” Cecily murmured, her breath fogging the air. “That is a long time to wait for a nephew who never came.”

“He waited for the moment, not for me,” Edmund replied. “The twentieth of August is a date, not a person. I merely happen to be attached to it.”

Lady Margaret had been thorough. She had drawn the layout of the house on a scrap of vellum—kitchens to the west, stables to the east, a great hall that ran the length of the ground floor, and above it a series of chambers connected by a gallery. The master’s room faced south, overlooking a knot garden that had gone to seed. There were eight servants, two of whom were armed at all times, and a priest hole behind the tapestry in the gallery that had been sealed shut years ago. She had also noted, with a certain satisfaction, that the master of the house took his evening meal alone at seven, and that he did not like to be disturbed thereafter.

“She knew a great deal about a house she claimed never to have visited,” Edmund said.

“My mother always said that the best informants are those who have never been asked the right questions,” Cecily said. “Lady Margaret simply chose to answer them before they were asked.”

They had left the horses a mile back, with a groom who had been paid twice his weight in silver to wait until dawn. The plan was simple, which Edmund distrusted immediately. He and Cecily would approach from the south, cross the garden wall, and enter through the master’s chamber window, which Lady Margaret had assured them was never locked. The guards patrolled the perimeter, not the interior, and the master dismissed his personal servant at half past six.

“You think it is a trap,” Cecily said.

“I think it is a house that belongs to a man who has spent fifteen years as a Spanish creature. Such men do not leave their windows unlocked by accident.”

“Then why are we here?”

Edmund smiled, a thin expression that did not reach his eyes. “Because the alternative is waiting for the Falcon to find us again. And I am tired of being the mouse in that particular dance.”

They waited until the candles were lit in the great hall, then moved. The garden wall was low, crumbled in places, and the knot garden beyond was a tangle of brambles and wild rose. Edmund went first, his boots silent on the damp earth, and Cecily followed with the ease of a woman who had learned stealth in a harder school. The window was exactly where Lady Margaret had said it would be, set into the south face of the house, and the latch yielded to the pressure of his knife blade without protest.

The room beyond was dark, heavy with the smell of beeswax and old paper. Edmund paused, listening, and heard nothing but the distant crackle of a fire in the great hall below. He eased himself over the sill and helped Cecily after him. The chamber was furnished sparsely—a bed, a chest, a writing desk with a single candle stub—and the walls were bare except for a small crucifix above the bed that spoke of a man who had kept his old faith close even as he served its enemies.

“He lives like a monk,” Cecily whispered.

“Monks are excellent at keeping secrets.”

Edmund moved to the desk. The surface was clean, almost aggressively so, but the drawer beneath was locked. He worked at it with a pick from his boot, and the lock gave with a soft click. Inside lay a single sheet of paper, folded and sealed with wax that had not yet hardened.

“Fresh,” Edmund said. “Written today.”

He broke the seal and read by the light of the dying fire that leaked through the gap beneath the door. The hand was tight, controlled, the letters small and precise—a man who had learned to write in cramped spaces and uncertain times.

*Edmund —*

*You will not find what you seek in the house of my exile. The Falcon’s master is not a name but a position, and it changes with the tide of favour. You have been looking for a woman who sleeps beside the Queen. Stop looking. She does not know she is the vessel. The one who poured the poison into her ear is the one you have already met, the one who walks in daylight and wears the Queen’s own colours.*

*I have left you a greater gift than truth. I have left you a doubt. Use it well.*

*Your uncle, who loved you despite everything.*

Edmund read it twice, then handed it to Cecily. She scanned it, her brow furrowing.

“A doubt,” she said. “What doubt?”

“The doubt that makes me question everything I thought I knew about the Falcon’s master. About the woman beside the Queen. About who has been playing me like a lute from the very beginning.”

He folded the letter and tucked it into his doublet. The room felt colder now, as if the words had drawn the warmth out of the air.

“We need to leave,” Edmund said. “Whatever this trap is, I do not intend to spring it.”

They were halfway to the window when the door opened. A figure stood silhouetted against the torchlight of the gallery, tall and familiar, the scar on his cheek catching the flame.

“Lord Morland,” the Falcon said. “I thought you might come. Your uncle was always predictable in his affections.”

Edmund did not move. “You killed him.”

“I did what was necessary. He had outlived his usefulness, as you are about to outlive yours.” The Falcon stepped into the room, and Edmund saw the glint of a blade in his hand. “But I will give you the same choice I gave him. Tell me what you know about the woman who sleeps beside the Queen, and I will let the widow live.”