Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  “You would not do that!” I gasped, too shocked to couch my words in careful phrasing. Cecil was not a madman. He would not do such a thing—he could not do such a thing. He wouldn’t!

  Cecil leaned forward in his chair, his body tight with purpose. “I would do anything for England,” he said, his bland words a frightening counterpoint to his intense glare. “The Queen brought you here to serve her, Meg, and serve her you will. But you will serve England, too. Otherwise, you are useless.”

  I stared at Cecil blindly, but he said nothing further, busying himself instead with the papers on his desk. Silence stretched out before me, a pit of darkness that threatened to swallow me whole. Somehow I managed to nod, to mumble something, and I dropped to a curtsy as my only means to tear my eyes away from Cecil’s hard, implacable face.

  As I came up again, he was still there, his dark eyes boring into mine as if he could see all the way down to my heart.

  “You dare not fail in this, Meg,” he said, and there was real menace in his voice. The menace of a man who would care nothing for an actress and a thief, were she to lie crumpled against a low stone wall, her eyes sightless, her dress torn, and her face and neck streaming with blood. The menace of a man who, if I did not follow his orders precisely and do exactly as he said, would simply find another thief to do his bidding. He had been willing to let me rot in the Queen’s dungeon when he’d first caught me out as a thief. He was willing to put me back there now if I fell short in this new charge. Or even . . . do something far, far worse.

  I turned from him and fled.

  I know I started by walking, with careful measured steps as befitted a maid of honor. But as I turned the corner and realized that Cecil was not giving chase, I allowed my pace to quicken until I was in a full-out run through the castle, desperate to escape the Queen’s advisor and his harrowing words.

  Spy on the Queen! In her own bedchamber! The thought roiled through me like a sickness, leaving me at turns hot and cold. I needed to get out—needed to think. How could I do this, commit this crime against the Queen? And yet, how could I not? Cecil’s orders had been plain. I was here to serve the Crown, and if the Queen was . . . somehow being led astray? By a man she trusted? Then surely . . . I should help her? And did she realize she was in danger? Is that what she had meant by every man being a threat?

  My face flamed at the very thought, and I came to a halt quickly in the shadows of the corridor, slapping my hands to my cheeks to cool them. My palms gave little comfort, as wet and clammy as they were. I forced myself to step farther into the murky darkness, pressing up against the paneled wall. Nervously I passed my hands over my hair, which was fairly standing on end, and tried to loosen the stranglehold of my neck ruff. Accursed scrap of material!

  With a yank I wrenched the tiny ruff away and balled it up—then just as quickly I smoothed the ruff out again, my fingers trembling at my indiscretion. I would never be able to reattach it, not by myself. But I couldn’t lose it either. My clothes were not my own here. Nothing here was my own. I clenched the thin ruff in my fingers. There would be time to reset the fool thing in the morning, if I managed to survive tonight.

  I needed to find Jane. She’d been here longer. She would know what to do. Then again, Cecil had forbidden me to speak of my assignment, so I couldn’t tell Jane. Or anyone, not if he’d find out. Not even the Queen. Especially not the Queen. But Jane—Jane wouldn’t say anything, would she? Not about this. Not about—

  My thoughts were cut off as a gust of conversation tumbled into the hallway ahead of me.

  I froze.

  I knew that voice. Knew the rise and fall of the words, the laughing, musical cadence, at once indolent and on edge. And instantly I grasped at a new thread of hope.

  Perhaps . . . perhaps if I learned more of what Count de Martine was doing at Windsor Castle, maybe that would distract Cecil from his task of madness. I could not spy on the Queen, but I was not useless. My ears could still be bent to her service. I could still gather secrets.

  I crept forward slowly, along the wall, and the talk grew more distinct but still curiously muffled, as if the young count and his partner were speaking behind their hands. I came to the small, pretty antechamber we called the Blue Room, a sitting area for lords and ladies to refresh themselves, with its newly cut doors opening onto the crumbling North Terrace. I slipped inside and scanned the room . . . only, it was empty. Frowning, I reached out to the tapestry-hung wall to steady myself—

  And felt my ruff-clutching fingers connect with a broad, firm, and decidedly male chest.

  “What’s this?” Count de Martine’s words were amused as his hand swiftly closed around mine, capturing my hand against him.

  I could feel the searing heat of his chest through his thick doublet, and I struggled to free myself. “My apologies! I am so sorry—” I blurted, but my frantic movements pulled him out of his shadowed hiding place. Behind him, a young woman in long rustling skirts followed.

  And my misery was complete.

  Beatrice.

  I flushed crimson in the semidarkness, grateful I could not be fully seen. “I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” I said hurriedly, holding myself upright even though Rafe still imprisoned my hand. “I thought this room was empty; I needed time away from the crowd.”

  “What has troubled you so, fair maid?” Rafe asked, still amused, as if I were some grand joke presented for his entertainment. His hold on my hand was light but firm, and his fingers kept moving upon mine. I pulled again, and still he held. I decided a little honesty was necessary to fire my lies.

  “Forgive me. I’ve had a terrible shock,” I said, staring desperately at Beatrice. She stepped forward, and as she moved, Rafe turned to her. I took the opportunity to wrench my hand free from his grasp. To my dismay, Rafe still held on to my small ruff. He tucked it into his sleeve with a dexterity that would’ve marked any other man as a thief.

  “What sort of shock?” Beatrice asked, plainly irritated. “Were you assaulted?”

  “No!” I protested, but as my mind caught up to my words, I realized Beatrice had just given me the perfect excuse for my disarray. “I mean, not exactly. You know I am not used to crowds.”

  “Meg is here on the charity of the Queen,” Beatrice explained. A new wave of mortification washed over me. She didn’t need to put it quite like that.

  Smirking, Beatrice sidled closer to Rafe, and I stepped away. I had no designs on her conquest for the evening, even though my hand still burned from his touch and it felt like a flock of butterflies had taken flight inside my chest. For his part, Rafe wrapped one arm over Beatrice’s shoulders, the gesture entirely too intimate for their short acquaintance. I absently wiped my hand upon my skirt, and saw his quickly suppressed smirk. I hastened on.

  “Yes, well, I am not used to the rush and flurry of the revelers, and one man, I do not know who—I thought at first it was Lord Bensman, or perhaps Lord Wallace . . . ” And here I was making up names completely, but I needed time to think. “In truth I could not identify him. He came up behind me and placed one hand upon my neck, the other around my waist.”

  “Enterprising of him,” Rafe drawled, while Beatrice now stared at me, wide-eyed, no longer sure I wasn’t speaking the truth.

  “Where is your ruff?” she demanded, leaning closer. Rafe still had my ruff, blast him. “Tell me you didn’t lose it!”

  “I don’t know!” I shook my head hard. This was all wrong!

  “The lecherous lord must have pulled it away from you,” Rafe supplied, and I shot him a glare.

  “All I could think to do was flee,” I said. “I do not think the man knew what maid he’d caught, for he didn’t call my name, but in truth I was hurrying so fast, I doubt I’d have heard a baying hound.” I blinked at Beatrice, and her eyes narrowed again, her mouth turning down at the edges.

  “That lord has your ruff, Meg. How will you explain that?”

  “Or perhaps it’s not as bad as you think,” observed Rafe g
enially. “Perhaps the cur simply loosened it and it fell away as you ran?” I scowled at him. He was not helping matters, and even as he spoke, he curled his fingers to tease a lock of Beatrice’s hair next to her cheek, distracting her. It made my stomach twist. I don’t belong here, in this castle of lies and games. In the streets, at least, I knew my . . . my role! I reached for that idea. Held on to it.

  “I apologize again for interrupting you,” I said with just the right mix of embarrassment and distress. I was an actress, playing a role. “I stopped running as soon as I realized that I wasn’t being chased. I just wanted time away.”

  “And so you shall have it,” Beatrice said, her patience with this interlude at an end. “Rafe and I will leave you to your sulk.”

  That brought my head up again, but Beatrice was already tugging at the Spaniard. “Come, then, Rafe. I would like to finish our conversation, if we could.”

  “And I am glad to hear it.”

  Rafe stepped forward then, away from Beatrice, and I lifted my hand to ward him off. Instead he deftly caught it and lifted my fingers to his lips. “I will pray for a more satisfactory end to the evening for you, fair maid,” he murmured. “May you find all for which you search.”

  He brushed my fingertips with his soft lips, and it was all I could do not to yank my hand away. Instead I bobbed a half curtsy, because that’s apparently what I did when I was flustered, and by the time I’d risen, Rafe had moved back to Beatrice’s side.

  She, for her part, was staring daggers at me, a reaction that was wholly unwarranted. But as she pulled at him, Rafe went willingly enough, without a backward glance.

  I stood in the center of the Blue Room a moment more, cupping my fingers to my face.

  My cheeks were burning hot, of course. Stiff with embarrassment, I turned and moved to the doors to the terrace and pushed the nearest one open.

  The night air welcomed me, beckoning. Calling me home.

  I stepped outside, and something hard shifted in my chest. The Queen might have thought I didn’t know myself, but I did know this: I could not stay trapped inside these walls. I could not spy on the Queen, not in the way Cecil needed. And I could not put my own people at risk with my undoubted failure.

  Beyond the terrace, I could almost see the distant river through the nighttime murk. There were plenty of boats clustered upon the Thames, merchants heading into London or back again north. I leaned upon the stone wall, looking at nothing, pulling in deep breaths. The brisk night air had now replaced my heat with an unnatural chill. In my borrowed ball gown I was not dressed to be out of doors for long. But I could make it to the Thames. I had my grandfather’s book and picklocks tightly sewn into my shift—all that I owned in this place. And the jewels I’d secreted away in my waistband this evening would more than buy me safe passage.

  London was only a short boat trip away, and then . . . I swallowed. Surely the players of the Golden Rose could be found again. It was still high summer, and the money had been good in London; perhaps they hadn’t yet left. I would find them. Cecil would quickly tire of looking for me, realize I was no threat. He would convince another hapless spy to serve the needs of Queen and country. And then I would be free.

  I began walking, slowly and idly, sidling into the Middle Ward and past the Round Tower, keeping to the shadows. Far below, the Lower Ward was more boisterous, a large open yard where the servants and merchants and townspeople gathered, their lighthearted revelry a bright mockery of the ball that went on within the Presence Chamber. Still, they were intent upon their own celebrations, and I was intent on not being seen. I touched the jewels snugged against my waist. I could do this. I could escape.

  I slipped back onto the North Terrace of the castle as soon as I could, my pace quickening.

  Winchester Tower loomed ahead of me, just as Jane had described. The Hundred Steps leading down from the Tower marked the break between the castle and the town, the threshold between the world I could never be a part of, and the one that was welcoming me back into its embrace.

  I’d just set foot on the third stair when I saw him.

  Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, leaned against the thick stone wall of Winchester Tower not ten paces ahead of me, his eyes dark as thunder, his face implacably set.

  Waiting for me.

  “ ’Tis a fine night for a walk, isn’t it, Miss Fellowes?”

  Walsingham’s words were as quiet as his person, a mere whisper in the oppressive gloom. An unusually tall man, he seemed to draw the shadows around him like a second cloak. Though I knew his hair to be the color of russet hounds, in the night it looked nearly as black as his habitual attire. His white ruff was pristine and almost shockingly bright in contrast. He was slender but not gaunt, and he carried himself with both grace and power. He watched me with flat eyes a moment more as I stood on the third step, transfixed. Then he pushed off from the wall.

  “I’ve seen many members of the town stumble down these steps tonight, after taking their fill of the enjoyment in the Lower Ward. But—it’s interesting, this—you are the first—the very first member of the actual court who has passed this way. Could that be because if members of the court come down these steps without an escort, they know they are leaving the Crown’s protection? Surely that is it. And yet, I do not see an escort with you, Miss Fellowes. How can that be?”

  The question was rhetorical, but I willed myself to respond with the kind of prim superiority with which the well-bred ladies of the court seemed to be spoon-fed from birth. “Indeed you startled me, Sir Francis,” I said. “I am but on a walk to clear my head. You’re out late yourself—and also without an escort, I see. Perhaps we shall escort each other?”

  Walsingham’s eyes flared with what might have been a spark of humor, then narrowed again at his momentary lapse.

  “Verily, if I did not know any better,” he said, “I would say a young woman leaving under dark of night, with nothing on her back but the gown given to her from the Crown, I would say that such a young woman rather thought she would be fleeing the court this eve.”

  “Without a cloak or bag? And by herself?” I challenged back, as if the young woman in question were anyone but me. “That would be an unwise course, even on so fine a night as this.”

  He tilted his head at my rebuttal, considering me. “Pray, then, where were you heading just now?”

  “Naught but down the stairs and up again, to take in the night air in relative peace.” I waved vaguely behind me at the revel still going strong in the Lower Ward. “ ’Tis too close within the castle, and too loud without. I craved solely my own company for a time in the open air. A foolish caprice, I’m sure you would think.”

  He smiled, but there was ice in his bantering tone. “You sought to daydream in the nighttime?”

  “A folly, to be sure.”

  “Naught but a fancy?”

  “Nothing but a whim.”

  Walsingham folded his arms, leaning forward, his brow furrowed. “And yet,” he said, with the first fell hint of rebuke in his tone, “I rather doubt such bursts of whimsy would be regarded favorably by the Queen. You shall have to educate me on why this act of yours could not be considered treason.”

  My eyes flew wide. “Treason!” I said, making my shock sound like laughter. “Surely you jest.”

  “Treason,” he confirmed. “And surely, I do not. Walk with me.”

  Walsingham stepped close and grasped my hand as he turned me smartly back up the steps, folding my arm into his. Every bone and muscle in my body cried out that I was heading the wrong way, back into the castle of noise and intrigue, of scandal and embarrassment, and I hesitated even as his hand tightened.

  “Oh, come now, Miss Fellowes,” he murmured into the night air, not looking down at me at all. “You have already so much to explain—”

  “I was simply on a walk,” I scoffed, trying not to sound desperate. I committed to my words even as I spoke them. I had been, in fact, simply on a walk. What was the harm
in that? The words that came to mind could have been spoken by a Golden Rose player: The best of our lies are those we believe true.

  “And what a dangerous walk it could have proven to be,” Walsingham said. “You are a member of the Queen’s most trusted corps of maids. If you were caught out here by her enemies, unprotected as you are . . . Well, you can see how it would go. It would put the Queen in a position she would not care for.”

  “But I am the very least of all the maids,” I said reasonably, even as he persisted in carting me off in the wrong direction. “I am of no consequence.” I must first convince me, and then play to you.

  “Well, of course Her Grace would be devastated at the loss of one of her maids, but your point is well taken, Miss Fellowes,” Walsingham said. “Unfortunately, that’s not precisely the issue here. If you were taken by an enemy of the Queen, and made to share details of Her Grace’s private life—”

  I blinked at his profile. Did he know what Cecil had already asked of me? “Details of her private life? I would never do that. And I know little of her life in any case—”

  “You and I know that, true enough. But the Queen, well, she could not take the risk. What if you were to be tortured into revealing some detail, some sight, or perhaps some words you’d overheard?” His emphasis on the phrase was deliberate, drawing it out like an accusation. Clearly, everyone knew of my mimicry skills. It was the worst-kept secret in Windsor. “Well. You see it’s simply something that we could not allow. And then there is the treason of any who may have helped you form this foolish plan to escape. That is a concern as well.”

  “There was no ‘plan to escape,’ ” I said stiffly, recognizing the trap of his words. “No one even knows I am gone.”

  Walsingham nodded as we strolled on. “And I would believe you, if it were in my nature to do so. But unhappily for us both, it is not—particularly not when your situation presents such an intriguing possibility to set a few court issues to rights.”