Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  “It’s all I can think of anymore,” I said. So far, I’d not spoken of Marie to any of our small group except Sophia. Her death was a mystery I had to puzzle out without tipping my hand, at least until I had a real lead.

  Sophia nodded. “I knew the guards would find her that night—or, I should say, I was not surprised when they discovered her,” she amended quickly, her cheeks going pink as she caught me staring at her in surprise. “I dreamed it, I think. Before it happened.”

  I felt my eyes go even wider. This was new information to me. “You dreamed it, Sophia? As part of your gift? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  She gave a pretty shrug, dismissing her own abilities. “Mine is no gift worth wanting.”

  I thought of my own skills, and the flaw that the Queen had so callously assigned me. “Sometimes we don’t get to choose our gifts,” I said, and she sighed.

  “But my dreams don’t always come true. They never did when I was a child. And most still don’t, in fact, so it would do me no good to share what is so often false—or to claim a skill where none exists.”

  She fell silent, and we walked a few steps more. Then she continued speaking quietly, as if she were talking to herself, not to me. “I dreamed about Marie three days before . . . before it happened,” she said. “A horrible dream that I remembered too well. I was so frightened! Then nothing happened for a bit, and I thought it was another false vision. I even thought to warn Marie, but . . . ” She looked away quickly, and my heart twisted. When you couldn’t trust your own instincts, what could you trust at all?

  Sophia shook her head. “When the alarm went up that Marie had been found, I knew how it had happened exactly. Or I believed I did. But several days passed without any word on her killer. So once again I feared that I’d been wrong.”

  I felt my breath quicken. “Can you remember your dream about Marie Claire? Can you share it with me?”

  She bit her lip. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  I nodded. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.

  “Well, it’s just . . . ” Sophia stopped, her head tilted, apparently unaware of the odd pose she struck. I glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention, but the cloisters were blessedly empty. Then Sophia began to rock a little, and I looked at her in alarm. Rocking I could cover, even a little humming. But if she started screaming or bleating like a sheep, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  Then Sophia began to speak, and her voice was startlingly different and gorgeously lyrical, almost like a bard’s. The words that tumbled out of her rooted me to the ground.

  “Great excitement marked her steps.

  She was moving fast,

  The kind of pace that starts with ease

  But can never last.”

  I blinked rapidly, focusing on Sophia’s mouth, on the words washing over and through me. Something powerful was happening here, something almost magical. I knew I had to memorize Sophia’s words exactly. There’d be time to understand them later.

  “The darkness came down far too quick,

  A light put out, she turned.

  Her face, it spoke of sly delight,

  The power of what she’d learned.

  But then he bore down swift and still,

  His hands about her neck.

  His blade it flashed into the night,

  No pity or regret.

  His task was only that she died.

  His cuts, howe’er, were those of pride.

  And as he stole away, he smiled,

  His light eyes dead, his dark hair wild.”

  Sophia stopped talking, and in the sudden silence I felt as if a chasm had opened up between us. She looked at me, a blush crawling up her cheeks.

  “That’s it, I’m afraid,” she said quietly, her voice dropping back into normal cadence. “I know it makes no sense—it was a dream, nothing more.”

  I fought to keep the excitement from my voice, drew her hand back into mine, and started walking again with her. “You’ve told no one else this? Not Cecil or Walsingham?” I asked.

  “No one at all,” she said, biting her lip. “It offered no real clues, other than the light eyes and dark hair—and that could be any of a hundred men.”

  “But from what you say, she knew the man who attacked her,” I said. “She smiled at him, let him get close. And she was clearly coming from somewhere specific, still flush with excitement from what she’d learned.” What had you overheard, Marie? What had you learned?

  Sophia was unconvinced. “There is too much that can be discredited,” she said. “I can only recall it in verse. It sounds like a bad play. No one will ever believe me.”

  I snorted. “I know far more about bad plays than you do.” I quirked a smile. “Heavens, I know a certain troupe master who’d put you to work tomorrow if he could get you to write whole plays in rhyming schemes. Much easier to memorize that way.”

  Sophia laughed wistfully, and the look she gave me was far too wise for one so young. “I’m afraid I’m not meant for traveling theatre troupes. You’ve no idea how lucky you are, Meg, to have lived the life you have.”

  “Your life’s not over yet,” I said, squeezing her arm. I thought of Cecil’s excitement as I’d recounted the conversation between de Feria and Rafe. I thought of Walsingham and his careful eyes and deceptive manner, his many twisting demands. These were men who thought of us as tools, Sophia included. But neither the Queen nor her advisors would marry off a useful tool. “If your dream helps lead us to Marie’s attacker, then your gift is something rare indeed. I doubt Cecil and Walsingham would allow you to leave the court for wedded bliss, with such a gift as that.”

  Sophia frowned at me, then sudden comprehension dawned, bright in her eyes. She clasped her hands together like the child she still was, and my heart twisted again. Who in their right mind could marry this girl off to a man such as Lord Brighton!

  “I—I would do anything, Meg, anything to remain here, and not cause anyone harm.” She swallowed, looking around. She moved closer to me, and I took her hand in mine again, two careless maids going for a stroll through the Middle Ward. “I fear for Lord Brighton’s safety,” she confessed in low tones.

  I still could not quite reconcile this idea, and it made me impatient. “It’s not Lord Brighton I’m afraid for. It’s you.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head resolutely. “He is in danger—I can feel it. But I just don’t know why.”

  Maybe Jane is planning to poison him? The thought gave me unaccountable cheer. “Well, do not worry about it,” I said with conviction. “You won’t be marrying anyone, anytime soon.”

  “You’re sure?” Sophia asked hopefully, and I thought inexplicably of Tommy Farrow, all morning-bright eyes and tow-headed trouble. How long ago it seemed since I had seen the boy . . . or his gallant troupe master. And where would they be now?

  We passed under the archway of the Norman Gate and into the Upper Ward, the more private area of the castle grounds welcoming us home. I realized that I was no longer sure of anything in this place, especially for a girl as remarkable as Sophia. I couldn’t change her fate any more than I could my own. I should have told her she had better chance trusting in the stars than to trust me. I was only one petty thief, up against the whole Queen’s court.

  “I’m sure,” I said instead.

  “Go for his eyes!”

  I heard the barked command, but I was already punching my assailant’s nose. He deflected me with a grunt of anger and unleashed a torrent of blows. He was stronger than me by far; I would never win this. Instead I crouched low and leaped toward my attacker, wrapping my hands around his waist and slipping behind him in one swift move. I straightened, pulled my arms up and clasped tight, kicking out his knees. As he dropped, I repositioned my arms around his neck and clenched him in an iron grip. He flailed at me, fingers stretching for my eyes now, and I tucked my head down then tightened, tightened, tightened until he spit with rage and pounded the dirt floor.


  “Again!”

  I rolled away to the right and he to the left, and then both of us staggered up. The guard eyed me malevolently. His nose was already streaming with blood from the last round’s direct hit, and I couldn’t blame him for being irritated. In the corner, the short, stout fight master conferred with Cecil, then sent Jane jogging across the small space.

  Wonderful. I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes, reluctantly getting into ready position. “What now?” I asked grumpily. Jane routinely beat the stuffing out of me, and I was already tired. It felt like we’d been at this for hours. I slid my gaze to where Anna, Beatrice, and even little Sophia were working on clawing their attackers’ eyes out, the guards wearing protective masks against the girls’ nails. “I’ll go for his eyes next time, I promise.”

  “You never go for his eyes,” Jane retorted.

  “Attack!” shouted the fight master.

  We came together then, blocking and thrusting with the short, jabbing punches that would be our only defense in a fight. We were strong, but we were women. We would neither outweigh nor outmuscle a man, but we could hold our own if we were shrewd.

  Jane cracked me on the skull, making my head ring, then darted back again. She was faster than I ever wanted to be, I decided, but there was nothing for it. I was not a killer; I was not a thug.

  You don’t know who you really are, I heard the Queen’s voice accusing me.

  Jane came at me again, and I slipped away barely in time, managing to land a glancing blow as we shifted our positions once more. Breath was coming fitfully for me now, and I blew out hard as I lifted my arms, my wrapped fingers already swollen.

  “You’re distracted,” she said harshly. “Drift, and you die in something like this, Meg. You know that.”

  Anger flashed through me. Since Sophia had told me about her dreams three days earlier, I’d spent every free moment listening at doors and skulking in corners, trying to find out more about Marie’s untimely death. I now had several theories about who might have been staging the court disruptions that so irked the Queen: a member of the Spanish delegation, an Englishman with Spanish connections, an Englishman with Catholic sympathies, or simply an Englishman who intensely disliked his new Queen. That didn’t much decrease my number of suspects, and I was no closer to finding Marie’s killer. I felt time was running out, the sands in the hourglass at a constant pour. If I was going to put any of the girls in danger, it would be Jane. She could take care of herself better than most. “I have learned—possibly—some new information,” I said, my words sharp whispers in between swings. “About Marie. And her killer.”

  Jane grunted, her swing going wide but the movement carrying her close to me. She went for my throat, and we grappled together until she slid around me. “Good. That death has gone too long un-avenged.” She pulled me back, exposing my neck. Uh-oh. “We can talk here,” she said. “What did you learn?”

  “Wait!” I lifted my hands and gripped her shoulder while hurling myself forward. We somersaulted off the woven-rush mat and to the straw-covered floor, breaking apart easily. No one noticed, and we sat for just a moment as if we were merely discussing the finer points of strangulation.

  “Two things,” I said. “First, I’ve learned that Marie’s attacker was in fact male, and I suspect he was known to her. He was aware of her work with the Crown, was possibly an informant. Light eyes, darker hair. Emotional. Proud. Operating under some kind of vendetta against her or against . . . something. The killing was not strictly professional. He was glad to do it.” I paused. “And this I’m less certain of but still believe to be true: I suspect that whoever did the killing is also behind the disruptions we’ve experienced in the court. Certainly the theft of the baubles and the soaking of the women’s gowns.”

  “Why?” Jane asked, glancing to me sharply. “There is a fair distance between petty theft and murder.”

  “But the same result, in the end. The court in disarray, just to a greater degree. And it is the women of the court who were targeted.” I paused, considering. “How many days did it take to quell the speculation about Marie’s death? I certainly heard nothing of it.”

  Jane tilted her head, considering. “A fortnight, nothing more. The story was passed about that she’d been robbed by a townsperson.” She pursed her lips. “They moved her body outside the castle gates to avoid suspicion falling on the court. That’s why I found it where I did. Everyone was more than willing to forget.”

  I nodded. “And when did the small disruptions begin again after that?”

  “Mid-May. They’ve been increasing in frequency but not severity, other than the vestments-burning.” She shrugged. “And that could be something entirely different. It was so much more violent than the rest, just like Marie’s death.”

  “So two violent acts bracketing many small slights,” I said. “It’s been more than a month since the vestments were burned. I fear our villain may strike again.”

  “Why now?” Jane asked. “Last week’s ball would have been the best opportunity for him. A revel, the castle overflowing with guests and courtiers.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it is all mere coincidence.”

  “Enough!” The fight master’s command drew us up short, and we were instantly on our feet, back in ready position. But Cecil had left, and Beatrice was delicately picking straw out of her hair, while flirting with the guards. Our session was at an end. “You’re to attend the Queen in the Privy Garden,” the fight master announced. He nodded to the guards, who were paid handsomely for both their silence and their aid in this particular set of studies. “Clean yourselves up and begone with you.”

  We curtsied dutifully, then hurried out of the stable area into the adjoining privy, which had been substantially improved since we’d first begun our lessons. In addition to the close stool in the corner, which harbored a chamber pot that was now faithfully changed after every use, there was a series of water jugs and basins lining one wall. We took turns pouring water to clean our faces and arms and changing out of our practice kirtles and bodices, lacing up our finer gowns with speed born of long practice. We helped one another, despite any small annoyances among us. The object was speed and thoroughness, and we were judged on this as much as everything else.

  Less than a quarter hour later, we were all in the Privy Garden, keeping pace as the Queen took her walk. After the flurry of the practice session, it was a welcome respite to be asked to do nothing but wander along aimlessly. Excitement flowed through the air around us. The Queen, her closest ladies, and her nonspying maids had just returned from London, where she’d spent the last several days since the ball, entertaining the Bishop de Quadra, the stout new ambassador from Spain. Today was the first time all of her ordinary attendants and we maids a-spying were together in this private sanctuary since I’d received my initial orders.

  And how private was it, really? I glanced around. There were dozens of women here; that made for scant solitude. We rounded the next bend in the garden path, and my thoughts strayed inexorably to Cecil’s heinous assignment. Where could the Queen have true privacy in the castle, if only for the briefest of times? Her chamber would seem a natural location for privacy, of course, except the Queen slept with a half dozen ladies in attendance just beyond her bed’s ornate canopy. This garden was a lovely oasis, but still—out of doors, and open to prying eyes. She seemed to favor Saint George’s Hall, of course . . . .

  That tripped my memory. The large, drafty Saint George’s Hall was a wreck and a ruin, built more than a hundred years earlier and never updated. But more than once the Queen had tasked me to find a dropped bauble or bracelet in that unwelcome space and return the item to her in secrecy. She’d planted other trinkets around the castle, in other places, but none so frequently as in Saint George’s Hall. I’d assumed it was a silly test. But instead did she venture there to be alone? Was that her own secret hideaway, to escape her royal obligations? As if I were running lines for the Golden Rose, another couplet began dancing through my mi
nd: To slip away a-wandering without the world a-wondering . . .

  Perhaps there was not so much freedom in the Queen’s world as I was determined to believe. The thought made me curiously sad. A chain too tight for sundering, her royal gilded cage.

  We turned again, a river of muted colors flowing down another cobbled walkway. The Queen was well ahead, the deep emerald of her gown startling in the morning light. The rest of us followed en masse, both ladies and maids, like an extended train. I gazed over the women, taking in details with rote practice. A smile, a cocked head, a whisper. Hands fluttering or at rest, skirts swishing in hypnotic measure.

  And then I saw it.

  “What is it?” Jane instantly tensed, still attuned to me after following me so closely in our staged combat session. “What just happened?”

  It had been only a flash. A hand gloved in milk-white satin secreting a folded square of parchment from her dress, then pressing it into the slim fingers of an ungloved hand, just at the turn of the cobbled walkway. The bare hand slipping the package into her waistband. Fingers both covered and bare now smoothed down skirts, and no one but me had seen the subtle movement. It had happened so quickly, but I’d just seen one of Rafe’s letters get passed from hand to hand, I was sure of it. I grinned, triumphant. Got you.

  “A moment,” I murmured, memorizing every detail as we continued our sedate progress. The woman who’d taken the letter was a lithe figure in a soft green gown, a gown whose subdued shade perfectly offset an ornately styled pouf of white-blond hair. Hello, Lady Amelia. If I’d not been looking exactly where I had, I might have missed the exchange entirely. But then, that was my role here. To watch—and to steal. And, apparently, to catch other light-fingered ladies.

  Lady Amelia . . . she had been friendly enough with the Spaniards, but her family was old and well respected. Was this just an innocent transfer? And who was the other woman, who’d given the letters to Lady Amelia? I’d seen only her hand. Gloves were not much favored among the younger women of the court, at least not in high summer. I frowned, my eyes darting from hand to hand. Only the ladies of the bedchamber wore any gloves at all.