Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(52)

I tensed. For a moment, I’d completely forgotten about the priest.

At the edge of my vision, I saw Thomas Becket’s slash of a mouth tighten. The first crack in his cool fa?ade. “I do not, Your Grace. I trust my health to Christ alone. Not some heathen concoction.”

Eleanor leaned backward over the desk, whispering theatrically to the elderly nun. “The good father prays away his wind, Hectare. Oh, that I could rid myself of mine so easily.”

I couldn’t help it. The chuckle just popped out.

Becket stiffened and turned to me for the first time. “You understood your queen just now?”

Oh no. I gave an involuntary nod. The queen had switched to Latin and I hadn’t even noticed. Stupid.

The priest’s dark brown eyes narrowed on me. “Clearly the girl is no Jew, as she wears not the yellow veil,” he said in crisp Latin. “How is it that you consort with our Hebrew brethren”—his lip curled at that—“yet can speak the language of your betters and Holy Mother Church?”

“I—my mother taught me, Father.” I dropped my gaze to the floor, but he crowded me. His fingers dug beneath my chin, raising my face to his.

“Your speech,” he said, moving closer until his stale breath washed over me, “it is odd. And I do not know your face. What is your name? Tell me at once.”

Thrown off by the menacing tone, I completely blew any shot to use my aristocratic, fake identity as I blurted out my own name. “H-Hope, sir . . . F-Father. Hope Walton. I—”

Becket inhaled sharply and drew back. His hand fumbled for the bulky silver cross at his chest as his thin lips mouthed my name silently to himself.

With an abrupt half turn toward the door, he shouted, “Guards! Seize this girl!”

Two uniformed guards began hurrying toward us. I didn’t even have time for my utter confusion to turn to fear before the queen held up a hand, stopping the men in their tracks.

“Halt,” she told them, though her intense eyes sharpened on me. “Explain yourself, Thomas.”

“She is a spy, Your Grace,” Becket spluttered, crossing himself. “An agent of the French. I’ve had it straight from a trusted friend who warned me to watch for a young girl who speaks with an odd accent and knows all manner of languages. A girl with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of a stormy sky. She even gave me the traitor’s true name. An unusual name for a simple merchant’s child, do you not agree, Your Grace?”

When Eleanor didn’t answer, he went on. “I shall see her jailed. A few hours under the ministrations of—”

“No,” Rachel exclaimed at the same time I gasped, “That’s not true.”

“You lie,” Becket sneered. “She understood you, Your Grace. You spoke in Latin just now, and she understood. Explain that.”

Fear was beginning to eat away at my reason. The stifling room closed around me, and I had to force myself not to run. Everyone was staring at us, mouths open in shock.

The tiny nun stood and limped around the table. She tugged Eleanor down to whisper in her ear. The queen nodded, eyes narrowing on Becket, before turning her attention to me.

“Yes, girl,” the queen repeated in a tone completely different from that of the priest’s. “Tell me again how it is you speak the language of scholars.”

Voice shaking, I said again, “My mother taught me, Your Grace.”

“Hmmm. And do you read and write it as well?”

“I do, Your Grace. My mother thought it wise that I learned. We are in the shipping business, and we visit many countries, and . . .”

The queen stopped me with a languid gesture, then tilted her head. “Oh, Thomas.” She gave an amused scoff. “So because this poor child knows the Latin tongue, she must be a spy? I myself speak many languages. I suppose, then, you must arrest me as well. Yes?”

“No,” Becket snapped. When Eleanor’s eyes flashed dangerously, a blotchy flush bled across his gaunt, pallid cheeks as he seemed to remember who he was addressing. He gave a jerky bow. “No, Your Grace. I believe she is a spy because a trusted ally warned me of—”

“And who, Thomas,” Eleanor said, imperiously, “is this trusted ally of whom you speak so highly?”

I knew what was coming, knew there was only one person who could have warned Becket against me. And yet it felt like a punch when he said her name.

“The Lady Celia Alvarez, Your Grace. A woman gifted with holy visions. She—”

I snorted at the “holy visions” description. Becket took a step toward me, but Eleanor threw her head back. Her shoulders shook with a full-bodied laugh. “Alvarez? A Spaniard? Oh well, then. We must, of course, believe her.”

Still chuckling, the queen yawned. She slid around the desk and retook her seat. “So,” she mused, watching me thoughtfully. “A merchant’s wife who teaches Latin and languages to her daughters. Perhaps England is not the barbaric country I feared.”

For an instant, relief began to trickle through me. But Becket’s hand snaked forward and fastened around my upper arm. I winced as his fingers dug painfully into my flesh. “The girl should be questioned, at the very least. By your leave I will take her, Your Grace. I will draw the truth from her myself.”

“You will do no such thing.” Eleanor shot to her feet. Everyone jumped as the queen’s voice resounded through the room. “Let her go. This girl is now under my protection.”