Chapter 4: The Spider’s Parlour

The morning light crept through the mullioned windows of Walsingham’s study like a thief, casting long shadows across the clutter of papers, sealed letters, and the grim-faced men who stood about the room like crows awaiting carrion. Edmund Ashworth, Earl of Morland, sat in the only comfortable chair—a fact he had noted with grim satisfaction—and wished, not for the first time that hour, that he had feigned a sudden ague and remained abed.

Sir Francis Walsingham stood behind his desk, his thin fingers steepled beneath his chin. His face, already gaunt, seemed carved from old parchment, and his eyes held the weary vigilance of a man who had spent twenty years seeing traitors behind every tapestry.

“You are certain the letter you intercepted was a copy,” Walsingham said. It was not a question.

“I am certain that the one I gave you was a copy,” Edmund replied, shifting in his chair. “The seal was fresh, the paper new. Whoever made it knew the original well enough to imitate it flawlessly. I did not think to question it. I was rather hoping to be home for supper.”

“And now the original is gone,” Cecily said from her place by the window. She had insisted on accompanying him, and Edmund had lacked the energy to argue. She turned to face Walsingham, her dark eyes sharp. “Who else knew of the dispatch’s existence?”

Walsingham’s mouth tightened. “Myself, my two principal secretaries, and the Queen’s private secretary, Sir William Davison. A small circle.”

“And yet the letter vanished,” Cecily pressed. “Which suggests either a traitor in your own household, or a key to your strongbox that you do not know of.”

Edmund sighed. “Or someone who simply told a servant to lift it while the master was at dinner. The simplest crimes are often the least detected.”

Walsingham gave him a long, measuring look. “You have a talent for reducing conspiracy to the mundane, my lord. It is oddly refreshing. But this is no petty theft. The letter was meant for Mary of Scots. If it falls into the hands of her agents, it may well be the spark that sets the north ablaze.”

“Then why not simply tell the Queen?” Edmund asked. “Post guards, intercept every courier, and hope the culprit grows bored and returns it out of charity?”

“Because,” Walsingham said, his voice dropping, “the Queen believes her household is loyal. She will not hear of suspicion among her own servants. And if I accuse the wrong man, I lose both my credibility and my head.”

Edmund rubbed his temples. “So you wish me to find the thief without appearing to look.”

“I wish you to find the thief, period. Discreetly. Quietly. Without the Queen’s knowledge, without the Privy Council’s interference, and without the Spanish ambassador catching wind of it.”

“And if I refuse?”

Walsingham smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Then I shall remind Her Majesty that the Earl of Morland has been most remiss in his attendance at court, that he has avoided her summonses with excuses of hunting and gout, and that he owes the Crown no small sum in unpaid subsidies. I am sure she would be delighted to have you explain yourself in person.”

Edmund stared at him. “You are a blackmailer, Sir Francis.”

“I am a servant of the realm,” Walsingham replied, without a flicker of shame. “And you, my lord, are a servant who has just discovered he cannot sleep while the house is on fire.”

There was a long silence. Edmund looked to Cecily, who raised an eyebrow, as if to say, *I told you so.* He looked back at Walsingham, at the grim faces of the clerks, at the stack of papers that seemed to grow taller by the moment.

“Very well,” he said, rising to his feet with the reluctance of a man rising from a warm bath. “But I require two things. First, the names of everyone who had access to that strongbox, including servants, cooks, and stable boys. Second, I require Lady Cecily’s assistance.”

Cecily blinked. “You require my assistance?”

“You see things I do not,” Edmund said simply. “And you are far more likely to be invited to the ladies’ chambers, where secrets are often whispered and rarely kept. Besides, you are the only person in this room who does not look at me as though I were a puzzle to be solved.”

Walsingham considered this, then nodded slowly. “I will provide the names by noon. But I must impress upon you both the gravity of this matter. If the original letter reaches Mary’s hands, it may embolden her supporters to attempt an assassination before the year is out. And if that happens, the Queen’s life—and the peace of this realm—will hang by a thread.”

Edmund paused at the door. “And if I fail?”

Walsingham’s eyes were cold as winter stone. “Then you will not have to worry about napping ever again, my lord. You will be dead.”

The door closed behind them with a soft click. Edmund and Cecily stood in the corridor, the morning light filtering through the high windows, the sounds of the household beginning to stir around them.

“Well,” Cecily said, folding her arms. “You have managed to trade an afternoon nap for a hanging offence. I do hope you are proud of yourself.”

“I am a master of poor decisions,” Edmund admitted. “But I did learn one thing.”

“What is that?”

“The letter was taken by someone who knew Walsingham’s habits, his schedule, and his strongbox. And they took it the day after I delivered the copy. Which means they were watching me.”

Cecily frowned. “Watching you?”

Edmund nodded, his usual laziness replaced by something sharper, more focused. “They knew I would be the one to intercept the dispatch. They knew I would bring it to Walsingham. And they knew that if the copy was found, suspicion would fall on me, not the true thief.”

He turned to her, and for the first time, there was no weariness in his gaze.

“Someone is playing a deeper game, Lady Cecily. And I intend to find out who—before they decide that I am the easiest piece to sacrifice.”

Cecily studied him for a long moment, then gave a small, reluctant smile. “Well. At least you are finally awake.”

“Do not celebrate too soon,” Edmund said, starting down the corridor. “I intend to be back in my bed by supper, and nothing—not traitors, not spies, not even the Queen herself—will keep me from it.”

But even as he said it, he felt the cold weight of Walsingham’s words settle in his chest, and he knew, with a sinking certainty, that his nap would be postponed for a great deal longer than he had hoped.