Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  About Jennifer McGowan

  For my mother, who always believed I could

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to:

  My agent, Alexandra Machinist, whose remarkable expertise, insights, and energy have already proven to be life-changing. Thank you for this—and all that is to come.

  My editor, Alexandra Cooper, for saying exactly the right thing when we talked about my book—and then spectacularly delivering on that promise. It’s been a great adventure, and I look forward to continuing it with you.

  My dear friends Kay, Kristine, Liz, Misti, and Mona, who have shared different parts of this journey with me, a journey which, for some of you, began over a decade ago. Thank you for always being there.

  The groups of fellow writers who have taught me so much over the years, both in craft and in friendship: The women of OVRWA, the Five Corners, the 007s, the Fire Breathing Unicorn Starcatchers, the Success Sisterhood, and perhaps most especially the Phenomicons. Thank you for sharing so much of yourselves, and for welcoming me so completely.

  And to Geoffrey, who not only has made me a better writer, but who one day suggested I put all of that interest in Elizabethan history to use, and try writing about teens, for teens. You see? Eventually I listen.

  APRIL 1559

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Mule-brained Tommy Farrow would ruin everything.

  To my credit I didn’t even flinch as I caught sight of the boy’s white-blond hair bouncing through the crowd. I’d been trained better than that. But the fat purse I’d just lifted from an unsuspecting lord now felt too heavy in my hand. I shoved it deep into the folds of my overskirt with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

  Stepping away from my mark, I smiled easily and strolled forward a few lazy paces along the crowd’s edge; just another young English lady, out enjoying the day’s spectacle.

  No one so much as glanced at me.

  I ducked under a faded coronation banner that still whipped proudly above a milliner’s storefront, and paused to scan the knot of Londoners clumped together in the inn’s courtyard. Tommy wasn’t hard to spot.

  Where is the silly little bit going?

  The youngest—and by far the most hopeless—thief in the Golden Rose acting troupe could barely pick the pocket of the simplest of villagers, but this was Londontown. With his mutton hands and clumsy feet and a mouth that galloped well ahead of his brain, Tommy would be branded a thief before he’d bobbed his first lord. And then he’d be branded in fire, a white-hot poker pressed into the soft skin of his hand, forever announcing him a criminal.

  My mouth tightened into a grim line. No child deserved that. No matter how straw-headed.

  I threaded my way through the gawkers, steadying my nerves by snipping off another loose bauble from a velvet sleeve as I passed. Then the tuft of blond hair abruptly changed course in the crowd, and panic squeezed my heart.

  For Tommy, who couldn’t tie his own breeches without getting his fingers trapped, crowds were a disaster. The boy somehow always went after the one mark in the mob who’d never be taken in by his sweet-faced charm and big blue eyes.

  Show Tommy a hundred people to fleece, and he’d always choose the worst. It was almost a gift.

  Truly. I’d seen the boy target magistrates and nuns.

  Now, judging from the purposeful stride of his small, pumping body, Tommy had already picked out his next unlikely victim. I followed the child’s line of sight. And then I did flinch.

  Tommy was heading straight for the Queen’s court.

  More specifically, toward a hawk-faced scowler dressed all in black, bundled in a thick wool cape and in heavy trunk hose despite the balmy spring afternoon. I’d heard the man called Sir William, even as I’d brushed by him naught but an hour earlier. He looked like he was perpetually in a bad mood, as pale and sour as spoiled milk. The type of man who expected bad things to happen.

  So I’d stolen his purse.

  Sir William had been making a fine art out of flashing a temptingly round money pouch, loosely attached to his belt. He’d displayed the heavy bag no fewer than a dozen times with a toss of his cape. It was a folly, of course, meant to draw the eye and the errant hands of a thief, whom Sir William could then catch in the act and punish publicly. Our new Queen, as it turned out, hated thieves.

  Sir William’s smaller purse, discreetly tucked against his side, was the real prize. Or it had been, until I’d nicked that pouch without the good lord realizing it . . . which meant that Tommy still had a gift for picking the wrong mark.

  Figure it out, Tommy . . . .

  A sudden spill of people jostled in front of me, blocking my view. For the first time ever I wished a teeming crowd had not turned out to watch our company’s afternoon performance.

  The Golden Rose acting troupe had become London’s newest sensation—and not a moment too soon. Grandfather, God rest his soul, had always forbidden us to perform in any of the larger cities. But the young and dashing James McDonald was our troupe master now, and he’d seen the truth of things quickly enough: With the crowning of a new, triumphant Queen, no one much cared for traveling actors anymore. The village folk were giving all their time—and their money—to bards with stories of London and its new royal court. All eyes had turned to the capital city. To survive, that’s where we had to be as well.

  And without question, we’d never had larger crowds for our shows than here in Londontown, or riper pickings. Surely, Grandfather would understand.

  Just today, in truth, as we performed in the sprawling courtyard of the White Lion Inn, we’d won the ultimate boon. The dazzling Queen Elizabeth and her court of fools had taken it into their heads to walk the city’s streets and mingle with the common folk. Even now they tarried to watch our company shout our way through the second act of our most popular play, The Beggared Lord.

  We’d felt the court’s royal presence before we’d even been able to see it, like the quickening breeze of a seaborne storm. Gap-toothed urchins, worn-faced merchant’s wives, even sharp-eyed hucksters, had all tensed with expectation, eager to see the new young Queen. I confess I stared as well. She was nothing short of awe-inspiring, our Elizabeth. Young and powerful. Radiant. Gloriously free to do whatever she wanted.

  With her arrival the crowd had swelled to bursting. I’d caught Master James’s knowing nod, and had set to work among the smug-lipped lords. In no time a
t all, I’d secreted away a fortnight’s worth of their coin beneath my skirt’s heavy cloth.

  Master James would be proud. I smiled just thinking on that.

  But if Tommy picked the wrong pocket, the blessing of the Queen’s presence would become our curse. Even if the boy didn’t come away with Sir William’s purse successfully, he would be detained for trying. Searched.

  And though Tommy wouldn’t have Sir William’s money on him, he’d probably managed to lift someone’s silver this day. Which would be aught that was needed to doom us all. Unless I moved quickly, there would be twenty branded thumbs before the day’s end—the Crown’s punishment of choice for first-time offenders.

  And that was if we were lucky. If the Queen wasn’t feeling indulgent, our plights could be far, far worse. Gibbets. The stocks. The whistle of whip leather cutting into flesh.

  My stomach clenched and I plunged forward into the crowd, locating Tommy anew when he stepped deliberately into the outermost ranks of royal courtiers. With a nonchalance I’d perfected over long years, I moved ever closer to him, my steps meandering and my manner harmless. This was an act I knew all too well.

  Because I was female, I was forbidden to play a true role as a Golden Rose actor before the crowd. Instead, I’d honed my theatre craft in the crowd.

  I was a fine and laughing lady, a guileless merchant’s daughter, a scornful fishmonger’s wife. I mimicked those around me easily, be they farmers, freemen, or fools. To a one I smiled, nodded . . . then picked their pockets.

  By all accounts, you could say I stole the show.

  I reached Tommy just as I saw his tiny hand flash out toward Sir William’s false purse, brushing the man’s coat but missing the purse entirely. Then I heard the turning harrumph of Tommy’s target. The boy had committed no crime, yet that still might not save him.

  Moving quickly, I yanked a heavy brooch out of my bodice and swirled forth in a fluster, praying that my carefully painted face still gave the impression of sophistication far beyond my seventeen years.

  “What, ho, young man. You found it!” I cried, even as Sir William’s head jerked up at the interruption, his cold gaze flashing over me as I reached out, clasping my hands over Tommy’s and pressing the brooch into his dirty palm. “My sweet and heavenly days, this is some great luck. What a wonderful lad you are, for finding my lost treasure!”

  Even Tommy realized something had gone terribly wrong. “ ’T-tis nothing, m’lady. I saw it shining in the dirt?” he said hopefully, his wide eyes desperate as he proffered the brooch back to me.

  “And shine it would!” I beamed, taking the bit of jewelry with great show. “You’ve done very, very well. You should be proud of yourself.”

  Tommy nearly fainted with relief, his grin huge and heartfelt. God love the boy, he did try.

  As I cooed and fluttered, however, I could feel the chilly grey censure of Sir William, hovering like a soft-gloved hand over my throat, ready to squeeze. Panic clawed through me, but I kept my voice steady, my eyes bright.

  “There now. Off you go,” I said, plucking a coin from the largest purse in my carefully sewn pockets, and forcing myself not to smirk. I was paying Tommy with Sir William’s own coin, of all the grand irony. Swiftly I pressed the shilling into Tommy’s hand. “Run along and get yourself a pasty, sweetling, and tell your mum ’twas a gift for being the smartest of boys.”

  “I will! I will, then! Thank you!”

  As Tommy dashed away, shouting with his good fortune, I turned smartly in the other direction and clutched the brooch to my chest, a fine lady with her riches restored. I went five long paces, then stepped into a deep and shadowed doorway, holding my breath as I glanced back.

  I needn’t have worried. With The Beggared Lord to draw the people’s attention, no one paid any heed to a little boy running through the crowd, or to the woman who’d rewarded him so generously.

  Even Sir William watched the play now, a curiously soft, secret smile on the man’s thin lips. I offered him my own mocking smile from the shadows. Look your fill, you old goat.

  I had no way of knowing his smile would be my undoing.

  After allowing another few minutes to pass, I rolled out of the doorway, taking pains not to clink as I drifted through the crowd. Master James and I exchanged another nod as I passed, even as the crowd burst into rowdy applause. Had he seen me save Tommy’s thumbs? Had I impressed him?

  The sudden heat that swept through me at that thought made me wince, and I looked away hastily. Not for the first time, I decided that I cared too much what our new young troupe master thought.

  I lifted my chin, once more immersing myself in my role as a worldly merchant’s wife—whose husband was conveniently away on the Continent, and ergo not complaining night and day like all the husbands I’d ever seen.

  Pish on Master James. There was no harm in being glad he’d noticed my accomplishments, but that was as far as it could go. Master James was smart and handsome, to be sure—particularly this day in his deep black velvet doublet and slashed trunks, with his roguish grin and curling chestnut hair and bright green eyes. And, yes, he was doing a fine job as Grandfather’s replacement, safeguarding our traveling license and ensuring that our troupe of twenty-odd actors and their families did their jobs and ate their fill. There was much to recommend him, but he was still male. In the eyes of Queen and country, that meant he was my better. Should I ever be so stupid as to marry, my husband would own me like I was some prize goat . . . or, worse, a sturdy cow.

  I’d lived my life more or less as I’d wanted these past seventeen years. I could not imagine suddenly shackling myself to any man, for any reason. So, to me, Master James could only be a troupe master, nothing more and nothing less.

  And he would owe me for this day’s work. I grinned as I hauled my gold-laden skirts up a short stone staircase to gaze over the Thames, the last lines of The Beggared Lord booming out behind me. Grandfather had always worried too much about the dangers the cities held for our company. And for what? London had welcomed us with open arms—and pockets—and I’d never felt more right with the world.

  As my skills had sharpened dramatically over the past several months, I’d proven my worth to the troupe twelve times over. Soon Master James would promote me to lead the street thieves, and then I could begin keeping a portion of our profits for myself. Within three years—fewer if we kept to larger cities—I’d have enough coin to live anywhere, be anyone.

  That thought was almost too much to think about. I hugged it to me close, a hidden dream.

  Then I straightened, pressing my hands to the small of my back to counterbalance my heavy skirts, as acclaim for the Golden Rose troupe thundered through the courtyard behind me. I had no time for dreaming. There were riches to be sorted and sold, and plans to be made for our next performance. Master James relied on me more with each passing day. And if he hadn’t seen my work with Tommy, I’d be the first to tell him about it, and I’d bury my blushes in gold. Everything was moving forward the way it should, and I was at the pinnacle of my abilities: subtle, skillful, and—in my own way—wondrously free.

  Two weeks later, they caught me.

  “A moment, miss? A moment!”

  I wheeled around, glancing back in surprise at the extraordinarily beautiful young girl who stood behind me on Thames Street. Her eyes were large and luminous against her fair skin, but curiously sad, liked bruised violets in the snow.

  She stared at me expectantly, and I quelled my first thought, that she would make the perfect mark. Her dress was a vision of indigo pearl-sewn velvet, and her slippers—I would swear!—were made of satin, molded in a pristine dove grey as yet unsullied by the muddy streets. But young girls like her rarely spoke to me, especially when I was in costume. Today I was playing the role of a round and buxom washerwoman, certainly not the type of woman a well-bred girl would notice.

  Why had she stopped me?

  Quickly I checked to my right and left. A shadow passed just at the edge
of my line of vision, and I narrowed my eyes at the lovely waif in front of me, guessing now that her pearls were made of paste and her dress was as mended as mine. You’ll get no baubles from me, gypsy lass.

  “Do I know you, miss?” I asked with a broad Westcheap brogue, holding my heavy basket against my hip, well out of the girl’s reach.

  She watched my hands, not my face, another tell. Something was wrong here. “Am I interrupting you?” the girl asked. “I can take your basket.”

  Oh, I bet you could. “ ’Tis no trouble. How can I help you, poppet?” I needed to get back to my task. Today we were running a gambit to get into the back rooms of the Whitechurch Arms. Troupe Master James had petitioned for lodgings at the inn earlier in the day, and had been turned smartly away for his troubles as if we were common thieves.

  Not every inn welcomed actors into their midst. They thought us cutthroats and vagabonds; ruffians, villains, and curs. Incensed, our company had decided to teach the innkeeper at the Whitechurch Arms not to judge his customers prematurely, by stealing from his till. I was on my way to put our revenge in motion. My role would be to distract the innkeeper with my loud voice and boisterous antics, showing him outfit after outfit that I’d supposedly either washed, beaten, or brushed clean for his patrons, while other members of our troupe snuck in through the inn’s back entrance. But now this child stood before me. And she wasn’t moving.

  “Are you looking for someone, miss?” I prompted her, not bothering to hide my annoyance this time.

  “Oh, no!” she said, too quickly. Her gaze darted up to my face, shifted away, then came resolutely back. “I mean, I’m looking for a place, not a person. Do you know where the Crow and Pony Tavern is?” Her eyes slid away again, but I caught a look of sheer torture within them. I almost felt sorry for the poor thing. She was truly miserable at lying.

  I lifted my hand from my basket to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, I—” I started, but no sooner had I begun speaking than the girl gasped like she’d been punched in the stomach, then buckled right in front of me. Quick as a breath her face went slack, and her body collapsed into the most awe-inspiring swoon I’d seen in the past five years.