Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  Anna nodded, setting some official-looking documents aside. “Well, she likes the Flemish painters well enough, and it is said Philip rules the Netherlands with a heavier hand than he does in Spain. Perhaps the Queen is looking to build alliances?” She pursed her lips together, thinking. “King Philip has not been idle, despite his love for his new bride, and with France firmly in hand, there now is whispering that he seeks to shore up his position on the Continent. The Queen will have to counter that with something. I’ve heard word that there will be visitors from the Ottomans as well.”

  “The Ottomans.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “But they’re infidels!”

  Beatrice snorted. “Elizabeth would allow the devil himself to pay her court, after what Philip did to her. He was still having de Feria beg for her hand on his behalf while he was finalizing his own marriage negotiations with France. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do to thwart him.”

  Sophia’s voice piped up from the corner. “There is darkness coming,” she said in her soft trill.

  That, perhaps not surprisingly, froze us. We looked as one to Sophia, who was still focused on her embroidery. In the past weeks, she had taken to spending hours a day on her complicated needlework. Now she was working on a wide swath of black silk that Anna had whispered was part of her bridal ensemble. I was ever reminded of the tale we had read of Odysseus’s wife, Penelope, weaving on her loom during the day, only to undo all her work every night.

  Sophia ignored our stares and kept sewing, her needle flashing in and out of the expensive cloth. Jane broke the spell first. “What do you mean, Sophia?”

  “Hmm?” Sophia looked up, plainly startled.

  “You said there was darkness coming,” Jane prompted. Her voice was surprisingly gentle, as if she were talking to a fawn.

  Sophia colored. “I did?” She shook her head, pursing her lips. “I—” She floundered a bit, her hands clenching on the fine fabric. “I did not realize. I’m so sorry . . . but . . . ”

  Another pause ensued.

  Beatrice opened her mouth, no doubt ready with a cutting remark, but Anna raised a hand. Shockingly, Beatrice remained still. More shockingly, Sophia did not.

  “Darkness flows to Golden Splendor,” she said, with just the slightest trance-lilt to her voice. She hesitated, but no more words came out. “That’s it, I’m afraid. That phrase alone.”

  I glanced at Jane. “ ‘Golden Splendor’?”

  “Could be the masque,” she reasoned back.

  Beatrice nodded. “It will be the highlight of the season, another chance to assert the Queen’s position.” She smoothed her hair. “It would also be an ideal time to announce my betrothal, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Have you heard aught from Lord Cavanaugh?” Anna asked, her mind nimbly jumping to this newest bit of information.

  “Cousin Henrietta could tell me only that he had requested a private audience with the Queen. But that was days ago. It’s beyond time!”

  I winced, thinking of the ball we’d endured just a few weeks earlier, and none too comfortable with the thought of anyone’s betrothal, even Beatrice’s. “A full house in just seven days,” I murmured, feeling all of the intrigues of the court crashing in on one another. “The courts of Spain, the Netherlands, and the Far East all together.” I glanced at Anna. “Surely the French will be here too.”

  “And the Italians,” Anna said. “It will be a grand spectacle. And all in costume. So you really won’t know whom you’re speaking with, friend or foe.”

  “And yet we are not learning anything new, nor have we received new assignments,” I mused, “even though we all did exactly as we were asked during the welcome ball. It’s all the same lessons, over and over again, and Cecil hasn’t been here in days. Why?”

  Anna opened her mouth, then shut it again. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said. “That does make it even odder.”

  “Perhaps it is too dangerous?” Beatrice mused.

  “Or perhaps we’re ready, and our class time is at an end,” I said.

  “Or perhaps it’s time we put our training to use, and discover the answers to our questions ourselves.” Jane’s gaze slid to me. We had held the letters in our possession for fewer than than twelve hours, but already they burned to be returned.

  I swallowed. She was right. If only I’d managed to keep the letter Rafe had taken from Turnip Nose as well!

  But first . . . “Anna, I know it may not be as interesting as political treatises, but how would you feel about translating a conversation I heard all in Spanish?” I asked, and Jane raised her brows in surprise. This wasn’t exactly what she’d expected to hear.

  I nodded at her, even as Beatrice turned to stare at me.

  “What conversation did you hear?” Jane asked, her curiosity plain. “And when?”

  “And where?” Beatrice’s voice was pointed.

  But I ignored them both as Anna held up a hand, gesturing me forward. “Speak on, fair maid,” she said serenely. “I am at your service.”

  A quarter hour later she was not nearly as serene. None of us were. Five secret maids, all in disguise, I thought.

  Beatrice was wearing a line in the carpet. “Why on earth would two Spaniards be arguing over how much disruption they could safely cause in the Queen’s court?” she asked. “You’re sure you did not recognize either of them?”

  “They were in full darkness,” I lied. “And I only caught the haziest line of their bodies.” Hearts full of questions, words full of lies.

  “But they would only cause themselves discomfort,” Sophia pointed out. She’d at last been drawn out of her fascination with her embroidery task and was now sitting by Jane. “Another disruption at court would mean a greater presence of the guard, fewer entertainments, tighter restrictions. We’ve only just been granted more freedoms with the rain coming to an end. You were not here, Meg, but we were practically confined to our own bedchambers in the days following Marie’s death. That was no fun for anyone, especially not the Spanish.”

  “And they would be the first to be held accountable, would they not?” Jane put in. She’d taken out her knife and was polishing the hilt with a bit of linen. I could tell the movement soothed her. Sadly, it didn’t have that effect on the rest of us, but Jane was oblivious to our discomfort.

  “I should think yet another disruption would begin to make people wonder if the Queen were truly fit to rule,” Anna murmured, and I shot her a look. I had not told them about the Queen’s own fears about this exact outcome, but if Anna could puzzle it out on her own, I would not gainsay her.

  “And that would help the Spaniards how?” Beatrice asked.

  “It might push parliament to force a marriage, for the Queen’s own protection,” Anna said pensively. To suggest that anyone could force Elizabeth to do anything smacked of disloyalty, but the reality was plain. And, as I well knew, Anna was exactly correct in her fears.

  “But to whom?” I put my chin in my hand. I had been racking my brain about this problem. “She could marry an Englishman, but how would that benefit the Spaniards? Or an Italian—or a Frenchman.”

  “She would not marry a Frenchman,” Beatrice said with confidence. “She despises them.”

  “She won’t marry anyone,” Sophia said, her voice as clear as prophecy. We all looked at her, and she blushed. “Just a sense I get.”

  Jane snorted. “Anna, we may want to start writing down these ‘senses’ of little Sophia’s here. You never know when they might become valuable.”

  Sophia smiled, the color still high in her cheeks. “Don’t worry, Jane,” she said, reaching out to pat Jane’s hand, despite the fact that it was still holding the knife. “You will marry.”

  The moment she’d uttered these words, Sophia clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes flying wide. Beatrice’s jaw dropped, and Anna turned quickly to Sophia, all thoughts of Queen and country momentarily banished.

  “How can you know that? What do you mean?” Anna gushed, and Sophia
shook her head quickly.

  “And what of me?” Beatrice demanded. “Surely I will marry before Jane! If the Queen would only give her consent, we could be married in one month’s time.” I blinked at her, but she was right enough. After three consecutive Sundays of her family Crying the Banns at services—and with the blessing of the bishop—Beatrice would be free to wed. “All the court is waiting for it. It needs to happen!” she cried, stamping her foot. She turned on Sophia. “How can you not know if it will come to pass?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know! I have no way of asking questions; answers just sometimes come.” Sophia lifted her hands to forestall us. “I don’t even know if I will marry.” She sighed. “And I assure you, if I could call upon that information, I certainly would.”

  Jane chuckled, out of all of us the only one who seemed at ease. “Don’t worry, Sophia. I won’t be Crying the Banns anytime soon.” She hesitated just a moment. “But if you ever do get a name to go along with this sense, I would appreciate knowing.” She hefted her knife expertly before stowing it again in its sheath. “I may need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I pulled the letters from my skirts, where I’d hidden them all morning. “If we’re finished with talk of marriage, we’re not done with translations, Anna. Can you read these?”

  “It seems you have been busy, Meg,” Beatrice said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Jane took them,” I said, and Jane merely grinned. Anna took Lady Amelia’s packet of letters from me. She scanned the first few of the open missives, then shrugged. “At first glance, they are the safest of letters,” she said at length. “A discourse on the weather, and prayers for a rich harvest, and a lot of God saving the Queen . . . ” Her voice drifted off, and Beatrice looked up.

  “What is it?” she asked sharply.

  “Just something . . . strange. The writing of this one does not quite match the others, though they are all signed by the same woman. Still, on these two . . . the hand seems to have shifted,” Anna said, her voice taking on the air of distraction. “And some of these suggestions seem . . . a bit oddly worded.”

  I looked at her, knowing that if there were a puzzle to solve, Anna could do it. And additional words to my impromptu couplets sprang to mind, as if I was once again helping the Golden Rose players fix an errant line of a play. All of them guessing, with questioning eyes. Five pretty maids, all of them spies.

  After a moment, Anna continued. “They look like they’re written from a Spanish lady of some standing, this Dona Victoria, who is on familiar terms with various members of Lady Amelia’s family.” She frowned up at Beatrice. “Does that signify?”

  Beatrice shrugged. “Lady Amelia’s mother is Spanish, and she’s well-placed at court. It’s hard to turn around without running into a relation of hers.”

  Anna nodded. “She’s mentioned several times here. There’s a few strange phrasings, some more random girlish scribbling in the corners, but really . . . nothing I can quite . . . hmm . . . ” Anna paused, reading further. “I wonder why Lady Amelia still had these letters? They appear to have been read and returned to her? And they seem all so . . . dull . . . Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, her ears glowing bright pink as she held a letter up. “This one is a love letter to Amelia! In Spanish!”

  Beatrice glanced at her, then back at us. “From Dona Victoria?”

  Anna dimpled. “Ah, no.”

  “From a Spaniard, then,” Jane said, satisfied.

  “No . . . no, I don’t think so,” Anna said, and that caught both Jane and me up short.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “They’re written in Spanish.” But Anna shook her head.

  “Yes, but,” she mused, “it’s a Portuguese man writing in Spanish. A few of the words are different.”

  Beatrice flapped her hands. “Well, close enough! Is there anything good in them?”

  “A lot about divine love, actually,” Anna conceded, wrinkling her nose. “An educated hand wrote these words, though they slant oddly, not far enough to the right for proper form. Hmmm.” She fanned through more of the letters. “You want me to open the rest of them?”

  Beatrice answered for us. “No,” she said. “Just tell us if—” She stopped abruptly. “Now what is it, Anna? What do you see?”

  I glanced up. Anna was now as white as a sheet.

  “Where did you get these letters?” Anna asked Jane, her eyes wide.

  Jane didn’t even have to look to me for confirmation. “The chamber of the ladies-in-waiting. Why?”

  Anna held up a letter. “Because this letter talks about Marie! And it mentions both her eyes and her tongue, as if as a warning.” She shook her head slowly. “Nobody was ever told about that. Nobody knew.”

  We stared at Anna. I was the first to speak. “Except for the person who killed her.” I swallowed. “We need to return these letters tonight.”

  “Hush!” Jane said abruptly. “Someone’s coming. A lot of someones, in fact.”

  We surged to our feet, silent and intent, listening. Jane was right. At least twenty people, from the sound of it, were marching their way toward us. There was only one person in the castle who would command such an entourage as that, and my heart leaped to my throat.

  “Hide the letters!” I blurted, and Beatrice and Anna scrambled to move. I snatched Marie’s letter and had just tucked it into my skirts when the footsteps stopped outside the door.

  We’d settled back in our seats, five maids conversing about the importance of the current political scene, when the door swung open and a magnificent portrait of color and opulence swept into the room.

  The Queen had arrived.

  Queen Elizabeth Regnant surveyed us with cool eyes as we lined up to curtsy low. When she commanded us to rise, we did so as one, a perfect line of maids, ready to do her bidding.

  I looked beyond the Queen to Cecil and Walsingham, who flanked her on either side. Behind her, in the hallway, stood the royal guard. The Queen was dressed in high court finery, clearly on her way to her Presence Chamber. Interestingly, however, no ladies-in-waiting attended her. She scowled.

  “They are not presentable,” she said dourly. “Except Beatrice.”

  “You had only decreed their involvement this morning,” Cecil said. “I do not think—”

  “All you do is think,” the Queen snapped. “We’ve discussed this. The time has passed for thinking.”

  I felt out of my depth. What had happened here? She viewed me next with a critical eye, then surveyed Anna. Disgusted, she glanced at Sophia, who seemed to shrink into herself but couldn’t hide her loveliness. “She’ll do. And you,” she said, eyeing me. “Tell me you have something more appropriate than that sack you’re wearing.”

  “Your Grace?” I managed, looking down at my dull grey frock, stung by the Queen’s words. “I . . . I’m sure I have something finer,” I said, though in truth my wardrobe was as limited as Jane’s. We alone out of the five maids had not come from upperclass families, and so our clothing allotment was meager.

  “She can borrow a dress of mine, Your Grace,” Beatrice spoke up quickly. I didn’t dare glance at her, but something unfurled inside me. Beatrice’s clothes were her most prized possession! “We are of a height and nearly of a build.”

  “Good.” The Queen nodded at Beatrice with approval. “Go now. I will be hearing petitions this morning and want you with me. You,” she said to Anna, “need to start dressing at your station. I would like you at my side. For now, though, I have translation work for you.” She gestured imperiously, and Cecil opened up the bag he was carrying and brought out a sheaf of pages. Beside me Anna nearly leaped with excitement. “You will await me in my Privy Chamber. And you,” she said, pointing to Jane. “Go with Walsingham. He will give you instruction.”

  I glanced again hurriedly to Cecil, and the man looked positively morose. What had happened?

  The Queen clapped her hands in imperious command. “Sophia, attend me now. Beatrice and Meg, present yourselves at my P
rivy Chamber in a quarter hour, then you will stand behind me in attendance in the Presence Chamber for the day. Yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully as she glanced between us. “This will do well.”

  And then she swept out of the room, a royal storm, with Sophia bobbing in her wake. The march of guardsmen’s feet attended the Queen down the hall.

  “Miss Burgher, please await me outside,” Cecil said curtly, and Anna scurried out the door.

  Walsingham gazed at Cecil a moment with hooded eyes, then gave Jane a courtly bow. “Miss Morgan?” he said, the perfect gentleman. He gestured ahead of him, and without a word, Jane moved forward. The two of them disappeared silently through the doorway.

  “I need to speak with you both a moment,” Cecil said.

  Beatrice exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Is the Queen not waiting for us?” she asked petulantly, but I was too amazed by her gracious offer of a gown to begrudge her. In truth, I was as ready to hasten off to primp as Beatrice seemed to be. I had never expected her to share so much as a hairpin with me, much less a gown, which in Beatrice’s world was tantamount to being bosom friends.

  “First, Miss Knowles, I would give you your charge.” Cecil strode forward to Beatrice, took her by the arm, and turned her to the side. He thrust a small slip of paper into her hands, then stonily eyed her as she read it. I noticed, even in the dim light of the study room, that she turned pale, and he nodded once. “So you understand. Burn it.” He directed her to the fire.

  Beatrice curtsied, her composure not one whit dimmed by Sir William’s tone. Then she turned and moved with grace to the fireplace. Without hesitation she cast the document into the flames, picked up a poker, and proceeded to beat the offending scrap to death. She looked positively ill. What had her assignment been?

  Cecil turned impatiently and eyed me with some distaste. I could see the Queen had overridden his better judgment. Again. I did my best to look capable and eminently reliable. He had no other slips of paper; he merely approached me and turned me so my back was to Beatrice. “Lest you wonder why your orders are not contained in writing, rest assured, I would have done so, had I any trust in your reading skills.”