Chapter 68: The List of Sleeping Names

The tide was out, and the stink of the harbour mud crept through Plymouth’s narrow streets like a confession. Edmund Ashworth, Earl of Morland, stood at the window of their hired room above a chandler’s shop, watching the masts sway against a sky the colour of pewter. His doublet was unlaced, his boots discarded, and his hair—usually immaculate—stood up in dark spikes from a night of too little sleep and too much thought.

“You look like a man who has been dragged backwards through a hedge,” Cecily observed from the bed, where she sat with the laundress’s ledger open across her knees. She had not slept either, though her voice was as sharp as a new pin.

“I feel like a man who has been dragged backwards through a conspiracy,” Edmund replied, not turning. “There is a difference. Slight, but real.”

Cecily made a sound that might have been amusement. “The laundress’s name was Goody Marsh. She kept this ledger for eleven years. She lists the Queen’s bedchamber staff by their duties, their wages, and their—here is the word she used—‘inclinations.’” She paused. “There are seventeen women who sleep in or near the Queen’s rooms at any given time. But only three who sleep *beside* her.”

Edmund turned at last. “Three?”

“The senior chamberers. Women who share the Queen’s bed—not for warmth, but for ceremony and safety. Elizabeth sleeps alone, but she does not sleep unattended. These three rotate through the nights.” Cecily’s finger traced a line of cramped handwriting. “Mistress Blanche Parry. Mistress Dorothy Stafford. And Lady Mary Sidney.”

Edmund crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. The names were written in the laundress’s careful, unlovely hand, each followed by a list of linens washed, mended, and pressed. The ordinariness of it was obscene.

“Parry is ancient,” he said slowly. “She has been with the Queen since Elizabeth was a child. Her loyalty is beyond question.”

“So they said of Hunsdon,” Cecily reminded him, her voice low.

Edmund winced. The memory of the Queen’s cousin—her own flesh and blood—standing revealed as a traitor still burned. It had burned the Queen most of all.

“Dorothy Stafford,” he continued, “is the mother of the Queen’s messenger, Sir Edward Stafford. She is a widow of impeccable reputation.”

“And Mary Sidney?”

Edmund was quiet for a moment. “Mary Sidney is the sister of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. She was once the wife of Sir Henry Sidney, the Queen’s lord deputy in Ireland. She is a poet, a patroness of scholars, and a woman who has spent her life in the Queen’s shadow.” He met Cecily’s eyes. “She is also the mother of Sir Philip Sidney, who is even now in the Low Countries, fighting the Spanish.”

“And whose fleet is compromised,” Cecily said slowly, “because of a list marked with her brother’s name.”

Edmund sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The ropes creaked beneath him. “Mary Sidney would not betray the Queen. She has everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

“Unless she believes her brother’s cause is the realm’s cause,” Cecily countered. “Leicester is the Queen’s favourite, but he is also a man of Protestant fervour. If he believed Elizabeth was being swayed toward peace with Spain—if he believed her counsellors were leading her to betray the Dutch—”

“Then he might move to save her from herself,” Edmund finished. “And his sister, who sleeps beside the Queen, might help him do it.”

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The hour was early, the light thin, and the weight of the twentieth of August pressed against his chest like a stone.

“There is another possibility,” he said at last. “The laundress’s ledger speaks of three women who sleep beside the Queen. But the Falcon’s ledger spoke of one who *sleeps beside the Queen*—singular. If we are meant to take it literally, then the traitor is one of these three. But what if the phrase is not literal?”

Cecily frowned. “What else could it mean?”

“It could mean the Queen’s most trusted counsellor. The one who stands so close to her throne that he might as well share her bed. The one who knows her thoughts before she speaks them.” Edmund looked at her. “Leicester himself.”

“But Leicester is in the Low Countries,” Cecily said. “He commands the English forces. He cannot be in London and in Flanders at once.”

“No,” Edmund agreed. “But his sister can be in London. And his sister can write to him. And his sister’s son is fighting beneath his command.”

He stood and began to pace. The room was small, and his strides ate up the distance in four steps, then four again.

“Mary Sidney lost her husband two years ago. She has retired from court, they say, to mourn. But mourning women do not sleep beside the Queen unless the Queen summons them.” He stopped. “If Mary Sidney is at court, it is because Elizabeth asked her to be there. And if Elizabeth asked her to be there, then the Queen believes her loyal.”

“Then we must prove her wrong,” Cecily said quietly.

Edmund looked at her. She was watching him with that steady, measuring gaze she had worn since the day they met—the gaze that saw through his pretence of idleness to the restless, calculating mind beneath.

“We cannot go to court and accuse the sister of the Earl of Leicester,” he said. “Not without proof. Not without something that will make the Queen listen.”

“Then we find the proof.” Cecily closed the ledger and set it aside. “Mary Sidney has a house at Baynard’s Castle, on the river. She has been there since her husband’s death. If she is corresponding with the Falcon, if she is the one who gave him the list of ships, there will be letters.”

“Letters,” Edmund repeated. “You speak as though breaking into a noblewoman’s private chambers is a simple matter.”

Cecily smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “I speak as a woman who has done it before. You forget, my lord, that I was married to a man who kept his secrets in a strongbox beneath his bed. I learned to read them while he slept.”

Edmund regarded her for a long moment. The morning light caught the edges of her face, softening the lines of weariness around her eyes. She was, he thought, the most dangerous woman he had ever met—and the most necessary.

“Baynard’s Castle,” he said at last. “We will need a boat.”

“We will need more than that,” Cecily said. “We will need a reason to be there. Mary Sidney receives few visitors. She will not open her doors to strangers.”

Edmund was silent, thinking. Then a slow smile spread across his face.

“She will not open her doors to strangers,” he agreed. “But she will open them to a fellow poet. I have composed lute music, Cecily. I have written verses that have been sung at court. Mary Sidney is a patroness of the arts. If I present myself as a humble musician seeking her patronage, she will receive me.”

“And while you charm her with your lute,” Cecily said, “I will search her chambers.”

Edmund’s smile faded. “You will be alone. If you are caught—”

“If I am caught, I will be a widow who lost her way looking for the privy.” Cecily rose, smoothing her skirts. “It is a performance I have given before.”

Edmund wanted to argue, but he knew it would be useless. Cecily had made her choice, and she would not be moved.

“Then we go to London,” he said. “And we pray that Mary Sidney is as fond of music as she is of her brother.”

He did not add that they were running out of time. He did not need to. The twentieth of August was a week away, and the Armada was gathering like a storm beyond the horizon.

Cecily was already pulling on her gloves. “I will find us a boat. You will need to shave.”

Edmund touched his jaw and grimaced. “I had hoped the stubble might lend me an air of romantic suffering.”

“It lends you an air of indolent decay,” Cecily said. “Which, I grant you, is charming in its own way. But we have no time for charm.”

She was gone before he could reply, and Edmund was left alone in the thin morning light, staring at the closed ledger on the bed.

Three names. Three women. One traitor.

He had pulled the thread. Now he would follow it to the heart of the Queen’s own household—and pray that the woman who smiled in her sleep did not smile at his funeral.