Maid of Deception

by Jennifer McGowan

  Alasdair MacLeod was at my wedding!

  The boorish Scot had trampled into the refined English court not four weeks past, part of a grand onslaught of foreigners who’d come to pay court to the Queen. He’d seemed instantly out of place to me, for all his apparent high standing within the Scottish delegation, a bull among chickens—all brawny shoulders and roguish leers and rough manners and knowing grins. The Queen, with her usual perverse pettiness, had assigned me to fawn over Alasdair, of course, to see what secrets I might find out about his true intentions toward the English. As a result I’d been forced to dance with the hulking brute on far too many occasions, and he’d taken every opportunity to embarrass me, press me, hold me too close. The worst had been during a late summer wedding I’d been forced to attend with the oaf, wherein the Clod MacLeod had put both hands around my waist and drawn in a breath so deep it seemed as if he’d sought to distill my own essence within himself. Thank God he’d never tried to kiss me.

  Still, had he tried, it would have been entertaining for me to disable him. I had my choice of methods too, one of a half dozen favorites I’d honed during my schooling as a spy. Each more painful than the previous.

  There were some benefits to being a Maid of Honor, after all.

  Still, whyever is he here? Weddings of commoners were open to all, true enough. But I was not a commoner.

  And he had not been invited.

  I stared ahead stonily, feeling the cur’s eyes scorch through my gown as I walked sedately toward my future husband, Lord Cavanaugh. My future respected, respectable, and very respectful husband.

  The young Scotsman may have been heir to some hulking rock of a castle in the middle of the northern sea, but he was nothing next to Lord Cavanaugh. And he had no business being here. Especially . . . especially looking the way he did now.

  This Alasdair had been bathed and shaven smooth, his thick beard now gone; his wild, unruly mane now trimmed and luxuriously thick, its dark blond curls draped carelessly over his sun-warmed face and fierce blue eyes. This Alasdair must have stolen his clothes, so fine were they, the blue and gold doublet undone just enough to show a snowy white tunic beneath, and the slightest glimpse of his broad, firm, powerful chest—

  “Beatrice, you’re wounding me.”

  I blinked up at my father’s words, and saw him now looking at me with genuine concern, all the anger that had lit his aristocratic features gone. We were at the front of the chapel. The minister was there and Lord Cavanaugh was there, looking handsome and perfect and holding my entire future in his hands. He was everything I wanted and needed, and as if in recognition of that fact, the chapel was finally quieting to allow the solemnity of our service to take place.

  I smiled, my heart no longer bursting with joy as much as whirling in utter confusion, but I forced my expression into one of absolute bliss that I hoped would carry the day. My father seemed satisfied, and patted my hand before turning me forward.

  To my right, Lord Cavanaugh eyed me with approval.

  In front of me the minister lifted The Book of Common Prayer.

  And behind me, somewhere in the knot of courtiers and noblemen, aunts and cousins, and neighbors and enemies and friends—stood Alasdair MacLeod.

  I straightened my back and drew a deep breath, gratified at Lord Cavanaugh’s soft exhalation. He was staring at me now, taking in every detail of my gown. Good.

  Alasdair MacLeod could go hang himself.

  The minister began to speak, and I heard his words as if from far away. “. . . for their mutual joy; for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity; and, when it is God’s will, for the procreation of children and their nurture . . .” I frowned, instantly recalling Sophia’s concerns. Would Lord Cavanaugh and I not have children? There must be a male heir, eventually. There had to be. I had only to look back at Queen Elizabeth’s own long and troubled history to explain why. How many lives had been changed irreparably, in houses grand and small, all for the want of a son?

  A bit of murmuring struck up in the back of the chapel, but my eyes were trained on the minister, and on the play of light shining down from the stained-glass windows, rendering him into soft reds and greens and blues. He looked like something out of a dream landscape, holy and inviolate, and I finally began to relax.

  “Into this holy union Lady Beatrice Elizabeth Catherine Knowles and Lord Percival Andrew William Cavanaugh now come to be joined. . . .”

  Behind me the whispering grew louder, and even the minister looked up, his face flickering with shock. I stared at him as he kept speaking, my stomach slewing sideways as Lord Cavanaugh turned with a gasp that had nothing to do with my neckline and everything to do with what he saw coming up behind us, as relentless as a winter storm.

  And still the minister pressed on, as if he could no more stop the sacred words than he could stop his own breath. “If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married,” he cried out, his voice sounding almost desperate to my ears, “speak now; or else for ever hold your peace!”

  A moment of deafening silence passed, and then another, and the clutch of terror in my throat was only just coming undone when the sudden sharp, imperious crash of a staff striking the floor nearly turned my knees to water.

  “This wedding shall not go forward!” came the voice, as loud, proud, and mighty as the wrath of God, and every bit as damning.

  It was the Queen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I kept my eyes forward for just a bare moment more. I focused on the minister, whose mouth was still moving, though no words issued forth. The sweat on his balding head was gleaming in the candlelight, and he looked stricken, his anguished eyes going first to the Queen and then to me.

  And that was why I needed the moment desperately. I could never show weakness in court, especially not to the Queen. Especially not when she had just stretched out her long, bejeweled fingers and crushed with a sharp, triumphant squeeze the only thing I’d ever wanted in this life. I felt the tears rise up within me, an implacable tide, and I steeled myself against them.

  It was my fault for holding on to this hope so tightly, I knew. For thinking I could keep it precious and safe from the one woman who would delight in ruining even the joy that she had so pompously delivered into my hand.

  I would not show weakness.

  I turned then, finally, my blue eyes still serene, my blond hair still perfect, my skin still porcelain fair, the soft folds of my petal-pink gown showing all the world that I was a true flower of England. I lifted my gaze to meet the Queen’s down the long church aisle, not missing the high color that slashed our monarch’s cheekbones or the fevered glint in her eye. The expression I’d plastered on my face was cool and beneficent, but Elizabeth was not so cunning. She could not hide the smug twist to her lips.

  She was majestic and regal, and she would be obeyed. Even in—especially in—God’s own house.

  In one small corner of my mind, the only place not suffused with bitterness, I had to grant the woman this: It truly was a grand play she had devised. What faster way to get the whole of the court wagging its tongues on the one subject she favored most—herself? Even now fans and hands were raised in apparent shock to many mouths. The better for the courtiers to speak in low tones among themselves, of course.

  I sank into a deep curtsy, remaining just a heartbeat longer than propriety dictated. Whether those who watched raptly read service or defiance into that heartbeat, I did not care. It turned the tide of attention ever so slightly back to me. I might not have ruled the land, but I would rule this mob . . . and unlike with the Queen, it would not be because they owed me their fealty.

  I rose and spoke over the whispers that slithered through the gathered crowd. “How may I serve you, Your Grace?” I asked, pitching my voice loud enough to be heard at the back of the hall.

  The Queen drew herself up sharply, astute enough to sense the shifting focus of the congregation, though I had done her no overt insult.
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br />   “It is unseemly for this wedding to proceed with such haste in the middle of the royal celebrations,” she pronounced, her hauteur firmly in place. “I am fatigued by the distraction and require you to attend me during these most auspicious events.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” I said promptly. My voice was as smooth as the silk with which I wanted to strangle her. She was the one who had given permission for the wedding to move forward, and she was the one who’d set the timing—after her first grand ball but before the revels that followed. The “auspicious events” she referenced were her interminable and ongoing birthday celebrations. The woman was only twenty-five years old! To think the Crown would be financing these celebrations for her entire reign. . . . England would be bankrupt before the harpy showed her first grey hair.

  I said none of these things, of course. Instead I turned and curtsied to a shocked and wild-eyed Lord Cavanaugh, inclining my head to him as if we’d just completed a country dance. He barely returned my bow, so suffused with emotion was he, his lips thin, his face white, and his eyes filled with fire. If anything, his outrage made him even more handsome to me. So he loves me this much, then! It was a blessing and a marvel.

  I turned away and walked down the long aisle, my shoulders straight, my head high. The Queen, well in advance of me, spun officiously and banged her ceremonial staff hard upon the chapel floor again, effectively stifling any further discussion.

  But she couldn’t stop the shock and dismay that colored the features of the members of court, nor the shrewd-eyed calculation among the most seasoned of them. And she certainly couldn’t stop the pity.

  I had sworn long ago that I would never be the object of that hateful sentiment, and anger and bile roiled within me. It was all I could do not to scream.

  Then we gained the doorway, and someone did catch my eye just as I swept out of the chapel. A young man, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, his face alight with interest, stared at me unabashedly while everyone else in the room had the grace or wits to look away. Alasdair MacLeod would no doubt be laughing deep into his miserable Scottish ale after this debacle.

  Well, he could go to the devil. They all could.

  I exited the chapel and found myself surrounded by a gaggle of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. We marched behind Her Royal Insufferableness as if we had been summoned to her presence to discuss the latest dance steps out of France, but I was not fooled by Elizabeth’s carefree manner. Not when she started laughing again with her advisors, and not when she consulted with a bevy of servants to bring us refreshments. Instead I nodded serenely at the other ladies’ exclamations of how lucky I was to enjoy a precious few more weeks in Elizabeth’s court as an unmarried woman. I watched. And I waited.

  “Lady Beatrice Knowles!” As if on cue, Gloriana’s broad tones rang out over the space. She did so love to hear herself shout.

  I turned immediately and curtsied to her, every inch the dutiful maid. “Your Grace?” I offered, in the excessively respectful tone I’d learned to affect in her presence.

  “Attend me.” She glided into her Privy Chamber, and I followed, not at all surprised to see Cecil and Walsingham joining us, shutting the doors quietly to cut off the clutch of curious-eyed females we’d left behind.

  The moment we were alone in the Privy Chamber, the Queen’s manner changed.

  We had no need of disguises anymore. To all the court, I was with the Queen and her maids and ladies. To all the maids and ladies, the Queen was calling me in for a conciliatory chat. Elizabeth and I both knew better, however.

  The Queen was my enemy.

  She would always be my enemy.

  I suppose we could be nothing else to each other.

  When Elizabeth had come to power last fall upon the death of her sister, Mary Tudor, she had set immediately upon the idea that she would have a group of young women around her—unmarried, of course, that their loyalties be fixed solely on her; and young, that they might be overlooked more easily, or considered stupid.

  She’d immediately named two girls to join this special corps of Maids of Honor: Marie Claire and me. Marie Claire had been the darling of court, a laughing, haughty flirt who’d been as adept as Meg at thieving, and far more knowledgeable than Meg about the ways of the nobility. But Marie had grown too careless, and she’d died because of it, in early spring. By then we’d added three other maids to our number—brilliant Anna, moody Sophia, and murderous Jane. And then there was me, the Maid of hidden truths.

  Secrets were my treasure—and had been since I’d been very young, a bright, pretty girl of noble blood shipped off by my father to serve as an elevated companion to young women in other royal houses. Whether he’d done this to protect me from the darkness of my own home or simply because he hadn’t been able to stand the sight of me, I never knew. But the result was the same. In my half servant, half elite role, I’d quickly realized that knowledge was power. In no time at all I’d developed a mental ledger of information on every noble I’d met . . . dozens of them; hundreds, even.

  I’d learned a great deal in those great houses. And in one of those houses, I’d met Elizabeth.

  And oh, to her everlasting horror, what I’d learned about her.

  She’d been only fourteen when I had met her at Sudeley Castle, and I a mere seven years of age. Elizabeth had lived with the King’s new widow, Katherine Parr, and the woman’s even newer husband, Thomas Seymour. Even at that tender age, the princess had been vain and self-serving, prideful and reckless. I’d been assigned as her child-companion, a fetching girl she liked to keep around as a sort of exalted slave.

  However, all was not as it should have been in that household. Thomas Seymour had been a scoundrel and a schemer, and he’d liked the young Elizabeth far too much. She’d thought it was her beauty that entranced him; I thought otherwise. But either way, the scandal that erupted in Elizabeth’s young world nearly destroyed the princess when the details later came to light.

  Who had been there to see it all happen? I had. Who had helped save Elizabeth’s misbegotten skin when the questioners had come? I had. She’d defended herself brilliantly . . . and I had defended her as well.

  But there was the truth Elizabeth had told her questioners, and then there was the truth we alone both knew. She could never forgive me for knowing her secrets, nor ever overtly destroy me. For I was no fool. Even at a young age, I’d ensured that my secrets were not solely locked in my own head. And Elizabeth had no way of knowing what information might come out, were I to meet a bad end.

  But that didn’t mean she had to treat me with kindness. She’d raised me to the highest position at her court that I could attain, true. And she made me pay for it daily.

  So now we were squaring off yet again under the watchful and almost reproachful eyes of her advisors. The conservative, tight-lipped Sir William Cecil was the titular head of our small select group of spies, but the darker, more audacious Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, was never far from our midst. I suspected Sir Francis and Sir William rather hated our corps of maids, and we certainly held no affection for them. However, our group had not been assembled by them but by the Queen. And in this (as in many things), she brooked no opposition.

  “You may approach!” At the Queen’s haughty command, I swept forward and dropped into a low curtsy, straightening only after she bade me rise. I’d learned to time my responses to a fine art, but I didn’t play such games when I was alone with the Queen. No need to stoke the fire that was always banked low, waiting to flare to life.

  Now Elizabeth looked at me, assessing, clearly trying to decide between the roles of benevolent dictator and horrible shrew. I could almost see when she landed just to the side of benevolence, and I let out the tiniest of sighs. She was still my Queen, and I was her pawn. As much as it grated, I dared not ever forget that.

  “We are most distressed to command you to put off your wedded state, Beatrice, but the demands of the Crown know no season,” she said, her words almos
t pious. It was all I could do not to throw up.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” I said, keeping my voice even. “How may I serve you?”

  “Your betrothed, Lord Cavanaugh, will doubtless be . . . sorely distressed at the postponement of your wedding night.” Elizabeth went on as if I hadn’t spoken, and I stifled a groan. Apparently the Queen wasn’t quite ready to let my humiliation pass. “True enow, he is a well-regarded courtier, his family without compare. But he is still a man, and as such ever sensitive to the comments and knowing glances of the court around him. You must endeavor to set his mind at ease, to let him know that naught is amiss with your love of him.”

  I nodded, forcing myself not to furrow a brow at the woman. What did she mean, my love? I was not the one who’d delayed the wedding.

  “There is also the matter of his manly . . . requirements,” Elizabeth went on. And now I did furrow my brow. This area in particular was none of her concern. “You know I absolutely forbid any interaction between my maids and the men of the court,” she said sternly. She looked at me as if awaiting a response.

  “Of course not, Your Grace. Your court is devoted to reflecting your virtue.” I framed my words with a completely guileless tone, not missing her sharp look. Elizabeth’s court was a debauch, make no mistake. My fellow Maids of Honor and I were chaste, but that happy state did not fully extend to her entire retinue of maids and ladies-in-waiting. Still, one thing was certain: If Elizabeth caught out an indiscretion among any of her court, her wrath was swift and sure. Ladies were sent packing home, and gentlemen fell out of her favor, or were married off to the first plain-faced, simpering fool the Queen could find.

  “Then you will note that I will not make an exception in your case,” the Queen continued repressively. “You are not yet married to Lord Cavanaugh, and you will conduct yourself in his presence with the ultimate care of a chaste and godly maiden. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Completely,” I said, the word just shy of a snap. Beside me Cecil and Walsingham stirred restlessly, but the Queen did not seem to notice.