I strolled over to her, as guileless as a newborn lamb.
“Well met,” I said, and so focused had she been on her man, she fairly squeaked with surprise.
“Oh!” she said, coloring. “Lady Beatrice! I did not see you there.”
“I understand.” So the woman knew me, but I couldn’t place her to save my soul. Where had my training gone? And why had it chosen now to desert me? I followed her surreptitious gaze back to the two Scots, and made my gamble. “I should probably be jealous if you’re watching the young MacLeod—but I suspect it’s his friend who has captured your interest?”
“MacLeod? Oh!” She colored, and I knew I had her. She’d already heard of my betrothal, though no one was supposed to know. I could use that, though. “I did not realize that was him,” she said faintly, and I pushed out a wry chuckle.
“Well, that story will make its rounds soon enough, for all that it is not true.” I sighed.
She glanced at me sharply, her attention finally torn from Niall. She knew the power of information at court. “Not true?” she asked, feigning only casual curiosity.
“Well, not exactly,” I hedged. “Promise me you’ll keep it close? I’ve been about to burst with this news.”
“Oh, of course!” she said, and she put out her hands to mine. “What is it?”
I grasped her hands with girlish glee. “I’m not the only woman of the Queen’s court whose betrothal Elizabeth is negotiating,” I said, and the woman’s eyes flared wide with interest. “The Queen has the desire to demonstrate that the Auld Alliance between England and Scotland is well and truly firm. To do that she wants a bevy of English misses and lords mated with our Scottish neighbors. Can you even imagine!”
“I cannot,” the woman said, her eyes straying again to Niall. “Do you—” She swallowed. “Do you know who the Queen has in mind?”
“She referred to them only by their Christian names, and I don’t know everyone at court, I’m afraid, and—”
“Catherine Meredith Anne Marie!” the woman blurted. “Did she include that one? To be betrothed to Niall Garrett?”
“Oh!” Thank you, Catherine Meredith Anne Marie. I hesitated, biting my lip. “Well, in truth I should not be saying anything. Alasdair and Niall are friends, and I would hate to betray their confidences.”
“But you cannot stop now!” the woman interjected. “And Niall trusts me—we are friends! Why even now I know what he is sharing with his captain—Alasdair. He couldn’t stop speaking of it in his sleep last night—” Her eyes flared wide. “I mean—”
“Hush now,” I said over her sudden blushes. I squeezed her hands, the soul of understanding. “Your secret is safe with me.” My tone turned just the slightest bit more pointed. “What did he speak about?”
“Soldiers rallying to the cause of the Scottish rebellion,” breathed Catherine Meredith Anne Marie. “Niall’s clan—at Alasdair’s request—has just thrown their support into the Scottish rebellion.”
I lifted my brow. “He spoke of this?” So there it was. Alasdair was not on hand merely to learn about the talk of the Lords of the Congregation. He had a task as well. To build support for the rebellion, and commit men and arms to its cause.
“Well, not to me, precisely. And I confess, I find it all exceedingly tedious. All this talk of tyranny and battle in the middle of the night, when we have such precious few hours together . . .” She sighed and looked again at Niall, and it was all I could do not to slap her. Here she was being given battle preparations from a foreigner, and she wanted their talk to devolve into whether or not he found her eyes of the deepest blue?
I schooled myself to not sound impatient. “Yes, well, men never do find the right time to confide in us, I guess,” I said. “You are kind to give him solace that he might feel so comfortable to talk in his sleep.”
“Kindness!” She snorted. “ ’Twas hardly that. It was a tincture from that herb mistress in town. She said it would help him speak his innermost thoughts. Fat lot of good that did. All he could rattle on about was the men the clan was sending to Fife to join in the battle.”
“A . . . tincture?” I asked, keeping my voice as flat as possible. She’d poisoned Niall? With some sort of homemade truth potion? Made by a local herb mistress who was likely one part gardener and three parts witch? And we spies didn’t know the recipe? “How frustrating that he didn’t speak of you.”
“Oh, he did eventually,” she said, shooting me a knowing grin. “Once I chased away his words of battle with kisses. But first there were the endless talks about the plans of the French to gain a foothold in his homeland and turn the Scots into their serfs before they moved on to conquer England. All foolishness of course, but he did seem intent. The MacLeods are apparently spearheading an effort to ensure that all the clans to the north and west are ready at arms. Your Alasdair has become quite the leader among the clans—they will follow him into battle and beyond if he asks them to do so.” She turned her wide eyes back to me. “So, did the Queen mention my name?”
“She didn’t.” I squeezed her hands to take the sting out of my words. “But the day is yet short. You may land your Scot before it is through.”
“Oh, I do so wish it,” Catherine Meredith Anne Marie said. “They are just not like the English.”
Well, that was true enough. They were bigger and brawnier and smelled of leather and heather and spice. At least on their better days. I bade my leave of Catherine Meredith Anne Marie as Alasdair and Niall’s conversation took a turn for the more heated, and I barely made it back to my seat before Alasdair glanced up at me, assuring himself that I was in my proper place. I smiled at him serenely, and he returned me a worried look.
When he came back to me, however, he seemed at his ease, gathering up my hand to place it on his arm, proud and defiant to squire me around the Middle Ward. With each step his mood seemed to improve, even as mine worsened. Oh, I kept up my general prattle. I laughed and smiled and nodded . . . but I just—my heart wasn’t in it.
Being Alasdair, of course, he noticed. “My lady, what worries you so?” he asked, drawing me into the shade of another tree. There was no one near us, and when I made to look away, he tipped up my chin, his piercing eyes cutting me to the quick. My heart did an awkward little flutter . . . and then I quite lost my mind. All my years of training in the art of questioning, both formal and informal, completely deserted me, and I wanted more than anything—needed more than anything—answers.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Alasdair.” I lifted my hands to his hand, drew it away from my face, and clasped it tightly. “I know you were in the cellar room of Marion Hall with the Lords of the Congregation. I don’t— I have to— Why were you there? What were you doing? I—”
Now it was Alasdair’s turn to lift his other hand to clasp mine. We stood in the lee of the castle wall, an island amidst a teeming throng. “So that is what is troubling you so?” His expression was wry, though his eyes were still serious. “And here I thought I’d managed the switch most neatly.”
“You did!” I blurted, then immediately blushed. “You carried off the role well; I don’t think anyone else noticed. I just—I know your walk, your stance. I know you.”
“Do you, now?” he said, his eyes darkening. Without hesitating, though, he went on. “The answer is not so complicated as you fear, I suspect; I will tell you plain. I was in that room for Scotland for one reason alone: to preserve our greatest treasures.”
“Your treasures?” This was not what I’d expected.
He nodded. “In addition to fierce independence and victory in battle, my family has had a long history of valuing beauty. Small wonder that I am so drawn to you, my lady.” He squeezed my hands, and I felt my heart lurch. “We prefer to stay out of war that does not benefit us, but this battle is one we must take up. But not because of religion, or even power. Nay, our interest in this battle of men on Scottish soil concerns what might be lost. Priceless works of beauty, created by m
en of God and artists of worth, preserved through centuries. We would not see such beauty cast into the flames, lost for all eternity.”
I frowned at him, taken aback. “You are stealing from the Catholic churches? Before they can be plundered?”
“Aye,” he said. “Though I am not sure we would call it ‘stealing.’ The clan MacLeod has been tracking the work of the Lords of the Congregation for some time. Like most men who have never been soldiers themselves, these rich nobles soon enough decided that their loyal guards could be paid less than a fair wage, as they were doing ‘God’s work.’ Well, men who are poorly used soon find little value in God’s work. So when we came along, offering the guards coin for their information and aid, they were happy enough to help. I knew that this meeting in Marion Hall, when it happened, would name the churches the Lords would strike next. With the help of the guards, I stood among the Lords of the Congregation for that brief time, learned their plans, and then sent out my men.”
I stared at him, astonished. “You sent out your men, just like that? You will be found out—someone will tell!”
Alasdair shook his head. “Men of the cloth often do not care how the treasures of God are preserved from marauders—only that they are preserved. Most of the priests will not leave their abbeys, though we ask them to do so. But they will give us the most precious of their treasures, that we may keep them against harm.”
My customary mistrust surfaced, and I narrowed my eyes. “Keep them or sell them?” I asked, recalling the maids’ discussion of what Queen Elizabeth would do with “saved” treasures.
In response Alasdair gave a long, low laugh. “My lady, we have enough gold. We will never see a shilling for the treasures that we store. They are ours to protect, not profit from. An’ all goes well, no one will ever know we hold the treasures at all.”
“Then why do you do it?” I asked, completely puzzled.
He shrugged again. “For love, and for beauty,” he said, lifting my two clasped hands so that he could graze the knuckles with his lips. “And that is enough.”
We stood there for only a moment more in shadowy isolation, in time out of time, then, as if by common accord, turned back to rejoin the world of men and mayhem.
Though I was reeling with this new information and what to do about it, the rest of the day passed without incident. Still, I did not immediately try to catch the ear of the Queen in the midst of her “outdoor revels.” I tarried on Alasdair’s arm for several hours, all of us watching the most boring display of archery that ever graced Windsor Castle. (The Scots won.)
The longer I stayed with Alasdair, however, the more resolute I became. I needed to tell the Queen something of this. I wanted her to know that she had been right—that Alasdair was highly positioned in the Scottish rebellion, and he was someone who would be a good ally. Even if she didn’t need to know precisely how and why Alasdair was involved, she did need to know he had power among the clans. Among men willing to fight against the French. That information was power, for her, and that was my job as a spy. I had to let her know.
As evening drew down, I slipped away from the makeshift dinner tables and reentered the castle, safe and at home again among the familiar passageways.
I’d almost reached the Queen’s apartments when a hand reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder.
I stifled a squeak of alarm, spinning out of the grasp. I was about to execute a return chopping blow to the man’s neck, when I halted, my hand poised like a hatchet in the air. “Oh!” I gasped.
“Yes. ‘Oh.’ ”
Lord Cavanaugh stood before me, his eyes as black as murder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Cavanaugh took advantage of my momentary surprise to grasp my arm again and pull me, roughly, into the antechamber. It was the same one I’d tarried in with Rafe when he’d first come to Windsor, but this man’s interests were far more sinister, I could immediately tell.
I shrugged off his arm and stood tall. “Good evening, my lord Cavanaugh,” I said primly. “I hope you are doing well?”
“I’m doing very well,” he said, his voice razor sharp. “You, though, my dear, will not be doing very well shortly, unless we come to some understanding.”
I had heard courtly posturing before, from men as well as women. I had heard idle threats cast about. Cavanaugh did not have the air of a man who was playing games. Or rather, he did not have the air of a man whose game was played for sport. I needed to proceed with care.
“Very well,” I said, nodding as I allowed a worried frown to crease my brow. Cavanaugh knew me fairly well. He would be more difficult than most to dupe, but not impossible. “What is it that you mean?”
“To start, I mean that you are going to get the Queen to restore me with grace to the court, to recognize my position and grant me her full blessing.”
“I’m going to what?” Despite my decision to play this with skill and grace, this request was outside of enough. “Are you mad? I cannot sway the Queen in such a way.” And I surely wouldn’t be troubling myself to aid his cause.
“You have ruined me!” Cavanaugh spit, and his words carried a heavier sheen of hysteria now. “You, and your stupid ploy to reveal me, have made me a laughingstock at court. My family is one of the noblest in all of England, and you dared to bring me low!”
“My lord Cavanaugh, it was not I who chose a very public ball to embrace my ladylove. Where is she now?” I asked archly, casting a glance about. “I do hope you don’t have her hiding in the tapestries. They are very dusty this time of year.” I beat the nearest one. “Are you in there, dear?”
“She is gone from Windsor,” Cavanaugh said darkly. I immediately left off my game, now troubled. What had he done with the woman? She’d appeared capable and sturdy, but she’d been employed by the Queen. Forget about Cavanaugh’s hurt feelings. Had I ruined her life in truth by bringing her into the focus of the court?
“Gone from Windsor where?” I asked, playing the flounce. “It is not she who wished to be on that dance floor.” I opened my eyes wide, part terrified little girl, part chattering court gossip. “Please do not say you killed her!”
“No!” Cavanaugh drew back as if he’d been slapped. “She is the least of your concerns, so do not think you can start more false rumors about her. She is more woman than you will ever be.”
That stung more than I cared to admit. “So you are still seeing her,” I said.
“And that has never been your concern,” Cavanaugh snapped dismissively. “But if it soothes your sensibilities, no. I have broken off our liaison and settled her with enough funds and recommendations to find good work in the town. She will not starve.”
There was a lie in his words, but I could not quite place it. Cavanaugh was not by nature a generous man, though he knew the sense of buying off a woman’s silence—especially a woman as level-seeming as this one. Precisely because she had not been born to court intrigue, she’d take his money and hold her tongue. Far more likely that he’d set her up with money and still expected her to share his bed, just not within the walls of Windsor. Still, there was no way I could discern here which of his words were true and which were false. So I opted for a bridge comment. “Then I am glad to hear it.”
“As I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear this.” Cavanaugh’s tone was scornful. “You will convince the Queen to change her mind about me, to reinstate me in the court with full grace . . .”
I waited for the remainder of his request, that he also be reinstated as my betrothed. But as the moment drew out, I felt the tiniest bit of dread creep into my stomach. Cavanaugh, unlike his mistress, was a court insider. His plans, perforce, were more diabolical.
Finally I couldn’t stand the waiting. “Or—what, Lord Cavanaugh? Surely there must be a price to my rejecting your request.”
“My request is not quite through, my lovely Beatrice.” His lips twisted on the words, but he reached into his doublet and pulled out a letter. “But come. You’ll want to read this, I�
�m sure.”
I rather doubted that, but I pushed my feet forward. I joined him under one of the few lit sconces in the room. Cavanaugh had a formal piece of parchment—a letter—heavily inked with a slashing script. He showed it to me, then pressed it into my hands. “Go ahead. You can have this copy,” he said smugly. “I have had three more made.”
That . . . couldn’t be good.
I took the pages with a steady hand, then held them up to the light. I read carefully and thoroughly, with my eyebrows arched in indifference. As if I were reading any court letter, from king or countryman. What was on these pages, however, was much more damning than any casual letter.
Cavanaugh could sense my sharpening focus, even if I betrayed no other reaction. “Yes, my lady Beatrice. With the Queen refusing to grant me leave to join her at your rather-more-humble home than I’d realized, I had to take extra measures. I sent three of my associates along with Elizabeth’s courtiers, who quite enjoyed eating your food and draining your casks of ale while noting that, it seems, your mother is quite mad.”
With what I considered to be extraordinary patience, I forced myself not to tear the man’s eyes out. I’d learned how to perform that gruesome act earlier in the summer, and it seemed like a wonderful time to put the lesson to use. “I am grateful for the diagnosis of your friends, Lord Cavanaugh, but—”
“Keep reading,” he said, gloating.
And then I saw it.
It appears that the good owners of Marion Hall have not adequately instructed their servants in the proper treatment of foreigners, namely dark Egyptians, who have stained their forest within a quarter hour’s ride of the manor house. These Travelers squat upon the land, which is the Knowleses’ property, taking food and water and livelihood from the surrounding villages and farms. Worse, the staff of Marion Hall fully admit to stocking the home’s larders with potions and trinkets from the traveling troupe currently residing without censure on its land, and were not immediately aware that such interaction between them and the filthy Travelers was a crime against the Crown, punishable by death. They spoke openly of the “care” and “consideration” the household has long shown to unmentionable types, even during “previous persecutions” of same. Clearly a decades-long history of treason is demonstrated, which I leave to your careful handling. Rather than give the alert to the servants, who might then warn the rabble, we departed without further word.
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