Maid of Deception

by Jennifer McGowan

  “Good.” She nodded, a small smile playing around her lips. Instantly I tensed. I’d thought with these intrusive comments on my personal life, she’d finished with the worst part of this conversation. But I knew that smile. The Queen was a conniving witch when she wanted to be, and her aspect of delicious anticipation never boded well.

  I did not have to wait long to know what amused her so.

  “I have a new assignment for you, as it happens. One which, I’m sure you’ll see, requires you to be unmarried, undistracted, and in full command of your . . . charms. In this assignment, should you have a need to appear less than chaste, well—I would be more lenient.”

  I could not avoid the flaring of my eyes. “An assignment?” I managed. The Queen noted my confusion and took ultimate delight in it, her eyes going even brighter.

  “Yes,” she said triumphantly. “We are given to understand that the Scottish rebellion continues to gain ground against the hated French, and that outright conflict is not long off. And here, in our very midst, we have more than a dozen Scotsmen milling about. They beg for my intercession, but can I truly trust them? Their country is so steeped in Catholicism, how can I truly know their loyalties to a Protestant Queen?”

  I frowned at her. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the members of the Scottish delegation have already pledged their allegiance to you in bold and overlong manner.” To a man the Scots had been loud in their praise of the new English Queen. “They could hardly do otherwise if they wanted to gain your assistance, and they clearly want the French at their threshold even less than you do. I cannot see how they would be false in this.”

  “Talk is meaningless with so much at stake. I would know their hearts.” The Queen was serious, I realized. She did want to know more about the Scots. I supposed it made sense, though I would rather not have been the one thrown at the delegation to learn their secrets. Still, I could be accommodating.

  “Very well, Your Grace,” I said. “I am happy to associate more closely with the delegation—”

  “No.” And now Elizabeth’s edge of malice returned, all the more alarming for its swiftness. “It is not the delegation as a whole that concerns me but one member in particular of their group. There is just something about him that I find . . . intriguing.”

  “One member—” I frowned at her, bemused, and then the reality of what she was asking smote me so hard in the face that even I lost my composure. “Oh, Your Grace, you cannot mean it!”

  “And yet I do.” She trilled off the words, exultant that she had made me flinch. “You will attach yourself quite completely to the young Alasdair MacLeod, draw him out in that way I have seen you draw out men of the court since you were barely seven years old, and gain the secrets of his holding and his people. MacLeod plays to our perceptions that he is an inconsequential part of that rabble, but the others clearly look to him for guidance. We can use that to our advantage.”

  “But—” I swallowed my own words. MacLeod did have the ear of his men, but of course he would. He was the biggest. And the loudest. That did not mean he was the smartest.

  “I wish to know what confidences his men are sharing with him,” Elizabeth continued. “I wish to know how much truth there is in the Scots’ assurances of fidelity to the English cause.”

  I gave a pointed glare at Walsingham, who surely had better men than me to carry out this simple task of spying. “But why do I—”

  “Because he fancies you, you stupid girl!” The Queen’s words struck out, as sharp as knives in the quiet room. I took a step back at her sudden, vicious anger. “Do you think me blind? He watches you whenever you enter a room and takes note of when you leave it. If I’m going to have a tool fashioned so prettily for my use, do you not imagine that I would wield it ever and always when I have need? Fie, the work should be easy enough for one such as you. Simper and pout and distract the boy, and learn what there is to be learned.” The Queen lifted her chin, curling her lip disdainfully. “This conversation bores me. You may go. But I will expect your report within the fortnight, on the truth of Alasdair MacLeod.”

  “Your Grace.” I sank down into a curtsy, then rose again, backing away as protocol dictated. My face was flaming with outrage and embarrassment.

  I was supposed to get married today! Not be set upon a thick-witted boor like some common street trollop, to bat my eyes and coo in his ear, all for secrets he probably didn’t even possess. I was a noblewoman; I should be respected! Everything I’d done up till then had been leading to one end, and yet the Queen, with a snap of her fingers, was setting me back days—probably weeks! It was not to be borne!

  Fury dogged my heels as I finally turned, gathering my composure before I strolled out into the Presence Chamber once more.

  I would spy on the accursed Alasdair MacLeod, and I would get the Queen the information she was so determined to acquire. But she would not defeat me.

  She would never defeat me.

  I was still steaming when I cleared the outer chamber, but I’d gone not three steps more when a hand reached out from one of the antechambers—and I was whisked into a completely undesired embrace.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “F-Father!” I spluttered, peeling away from him. He already smelled like the spiced ale of my wedding banquet, but I supposed he’d paid for it, so he might as well drink it. “What are you—”

  “Beatrice, ol’ girl, that Queen of yours is a royal bi—”

  “Hush!” I said hurriedly. Cecil and Walsingham may not have been hard on my heels, but the very walls had ears in Windsor Castle. “What is it you want? Why are you here?”

  “He wants an explanation,” came the cultured voice, as sharp as a slap. “As do I.”

  I felt my heart turn to stone. Now more than ever I had to play Lord Cavanaugh expertly. He was a proud man, as rich men often are. And he remained an exceptional match, despite the ruination of our wedding day—tall and slender and elegantly turned, his coolly patrician features a perfect counterpoint to my own soft beauty and feminine charms.

  My feminine charms. My stomach almost turned at the phrase. The one thing that had ever gotten me out of the scrapes of my family had now sorely landed me in the center of a thicket. But there was no time for thinking on that now. Lord Cavanaugh had to be assured of my love, my devotion, my fidelity. Starting immediately.

  “Dearest!” I beamed, turning to him with a delight that was no less heartfelt for all that it was feigned. “How kind of you to come to me, when you must be sorely put out at this morning’s delay. You handled the Queen’s command with such grace and dignity as I have never seen. She commented on it herself.”

  “Well, I certainly—” Lord Cavanaugh’s pompous outrage was effectively blunted with that salvo. “She did?” he asked, after a pause. “What did she say?”

  I smiled with genuine affection. I truly appreciated this man, perhaps most of all because he was so easy to redirect. “She said you were gallant and proud, and that I should hasten to assure you to not worry overmuch about the capriciousness of your Queen. She will get you your bride in good order, once our royal birthday revels are at an end.” I blushed credibly, even in the low light of that inner room. “She was afraid I would be too blind-eyed with love were we to be married, as to be completely of no use to her.”

  Cavanaugh’s eyes were on me again, but I felt uncomfortable beneath his gaze, as though he were inspecting a prize goat. I pushed the thought from my mind. “Hmmm,” he mused. “I suppose the wait could be turned to my advantage. . . .”

  “An’ how long was she thinking, Beatrice?” my father cut in, ruining—well, ruining nothing at all, in truth. The moment I’d just shared with Cavanaugh had not been precisely the coming together of tearful all-but-wed sweethearts after their most cherished love had been torn asunder. It had been more like—merchants coming to terms. Still, I had to be reasonable about this. Marriage was a contract first. I was blessed that Cavanaugh loved me, but that of course could not be his primary concer
n at all times. “Will it be a month or a year?”

  “Well, surely not a year, Father—”

  “A year would entirely be outside of too much!” Lord Cavanaugh blurted, but when I favored him with an appreciative glance, he was not looking at me but at my father. “We had an agreement, Knowles, as well you know. The marriage contract did not assume—”

  “The marriage contract didn’t have a date attached to it either, Cavanaugh,” my father snapped back. “You’ll get your dowry and to spare when Beatrice is your legal wife, and not before.”

  Dowry? I barely forestalled a gape at my father. What nonsense was this? My family had barely two shillings to rub together once our court allotment was factored in. Our manor house, Marion Hall, was a falling-down heap in the middle of a vast and unruly estate. Only God knew what was happening there now, with both of my parents here at court and our extended raft of foundlings and foster children left to wander its grounds. “Now, well and truly,” I said in my most conciliatory voice. “There is no need to argue. I will be free to wed no later than—”

  “Am I supposed to simper and dance attendance, then, a half-married man?” Cavanaugh proclaimed, as if he’d just now thought of this, a new outrage. “She cannot expect me to—”

  “You have a problem with paying attention to my daughter?” My father cut him off coldly. “Is it too much to ask you to accept the role of a married man?”

  What? No! I put my hands on both their arms, all soothing grace and comfort. “Indeed, I know you both must be sorely disappointed not to complete this, ah, most felicitous of transactions, but I can assure you—”

  “What is it you are implying?” growled Cavanaugh to my father. “You cannot tell me that you, of all people, expect me to change my life over the simple eventuality of becoming married.”

  “We had an agreement, and agreements must be honored,” my father said, his voice dripping equal parts syrup and lye.

  “Gentlemen!” I cried out, desperate to break through their conversation, even as my head began to whirl. “What is all this talk of contracts and terms? Lord Cavanaugh and I were just interrupted in the most sacred of events, and he is understandably hurt. As am I!”

  “Of course you are,” Cavanaugh said, as if such hurt were only my due. Just as I felt my own embarrassment prick, however, he turned to me. He lifted my hand, his eyes going soft and gentle as he brushed my knuckles with his thin, aristocratic lips.

  “You are a prize of the court, my lady,” he murmured. “And I will be delighted to stand up with you in a month’s time.”

  Then he dropped my hand with an almost unseemly haste, and leveled a look at my father. “No longer, I suspect.”

  “I rather suspect not,” my father agreed.

  Lord Cavanaugh glanced again to me. “Until such time as that, however, we have no need to consort with each other as betrotheds. You can tell the Queen whatever is the most expedient. That I do not trust myself near you, that I am swept away by your charms. But I shall not be made to dance for Her Majesty in hopes that she may hasten to grant me that which is already mine by contract and decree.”

  I stood there, stunned, then startled myself back into the moment with all the composure and grace I had left, which was precious little at that point. “I thank you for the compliment, my lord Cavanaugh,” I managed. “I am sure I will come up with a suitable explanation for Her Grace. Do not trouble yourself at all on my account.”

  “It is no trouble at all.” He glanced again my way. “You will be mine by month’s end, and we can depart this court for my home. You will be comfortable there.”

  “Of course,” I replied, though in truth his words struck fear straight to my core. I had just assumed we would remain near the Queen and the other maids until such time as Her Grace tired of needing spies. I’d imagined I would be put up in some fine apartment, perhaps one of the small homes in Dean’s Cloister, but still be close enough to keep my pulse on the court and its ever-changing politics. The idea of immediately going to Cavanaugh’s estate at the back edge of beyond had never even occurred to me.

  “Just plan on doing your part, and you’ll get your just rewards, Cavanaugh,” my father said, with his calculated callousness that never failed to grate on my nerves. He exchanged bows with Cavanaugh, but lingered long enough after my good lord left to see the fury seethe unchecked across my face.

  “Oh, now that’s the Beatrice I’ve come to know and love—”

  “How dare you!” I hissed. My father, to his credit, backed up a hasty step. “How dare you take what was already a ruined day and make it even worse!”

  “Beatrice!” He seemed genuinely shocked, but I did not have time for his silver-tongued apologies.

  “Is that all I am to you, still?” I demanded. “A tool to do your bidding—a negotiating ploy?” I lifted my hand to forestall his denials. “I must report to my quarters, on order of the Queen. Enjoy the rest of the wedding ale, and try to find Mother before she falls off a castle wall.”

  And with that, I was off.

  But as I rushed with officious dignity through the halls of Windsor, the cord of uneasiness that had begun curling within me during my own wedding twisted yet further, until I was choking with doubt and confusion. How would I regain my position with Cavanaugh when I would have to be throwing myself at Alasdair at every turn?

  And what did my father mean by Cavanaugh doing his part? In my distraction and dismay, what had I missed?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I didn’t know whether to rip my hair out or scream with frustration. Of course, I could do neither. The first was unsightly and the second unseemly. And if the walls of Windsor had ears, well, of course they had eyes as well. I would never—ever—allow my composure to be shattered on so public a stage. Deliberately I slowed my steps, smoothed my gown, schooled my expression, and remembered what was important.

  Cavanaugh loved me. He’d pledged his hand, his heart, and his future to me. And in hopefully one month’s time he would be my husband. Until then I simply . . . needed to pay court to another man under his very nose.

  What could be easier?

  By the time I rounded the corner into the maids’ quarters, I’d almost managed to square myself with the idea. Such were the games at Windsor, and who knows? Perhaps I could even turn—

  “Beatrice!” Sophia’s lilting cry shocked me out of my reverie, and I was smote with a whirl of flying silks topped by a mop of ink-dark hair. Sophia threw her arms around me like she hadn’t seen me in weeks, and there were actual tears staining her face. What on earth?

  “Beatrice, I’d no idea she would go so far or be so cruel. I’d feared there would be a disruption, verily I did, but I can never know exactly how such things will manifest, and I thought it could just as likely be a spurned suitor or a heartsick—”

  “Sophia!” I shouted into the barrage of words, not unkindly, but in truth enough was enough. My tone was sufficient to stem the tide, but Sophia hiccuped, hugging herself.

  I took the moment to glance at the other Maids of Honor, ranged as they were around the room. They all looked positively morose, which meant yet more work for me. “I’m well, truly I am,” I said, raising a hand as Sophia stumbled back, staring at me like she was the most wretched of souls. “It is not as bad as all that.” It is far worse. “The Queen has need of me to spy for her, and so spy I will.” On an accursed Scotsman who stinks of sweat and leather and ale. “She’s postponed my marriage, and I have already discussed the matter with both my father and Lord Cavanaugh.” And I will turn it to my advantage. Somehow.

  I switched my gaze back to Sophia. “Your visions were not so terribly far off, you see? You worried I would not have children with Lord Cavanaugh, and in point of fact, I cannot help avoiding the state of motherhood while I remain unmarried to him. So all is well.” I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “Your gift is closer than you think.”

  “I just do everything wrong!” she blurted, so startling me with
her anguish that I forgot myself and opened my arms to her as if she were one of the foundling children at Marion Hall. I gathered her slight frame close for a soothing hug.

  “Oh, Sophia, not at all,” I said, willing her quaking to cease. “You are doing the best that you—”

  “No, I’m not.” Sophia straightened away from me, scrubbing at her face, the action merely serving to brighten her cheeks in lovely counterpart to her huge violet eyes. “I know too much and too little. I hear too clearly and not clearly enough. I see what isn’t there, what might be, and what may never be. I’m useless.”

  I bit my lip and exchanged a long look with Anna, as Jane and Meg suddenly seemed endlessly fascinated with their own hands. Sophia was a riddle, there was no denying it. But she was far more powerful than even she realized.

  I’d been in my position as a Maid of Honor a scant month when John Dee had come calling to Elizabeth’s chambers, with his arms full of charts and his words full of portents. As the new young Queen’s official astrologer, Dee had become a constant guest in the waning days of 1558. Together he and Elizabeth had puzzled out when the Queen’s coronation should be held, when every important meeting should be scheduled, who should be added to her list of confidantes and who should be turned away.

  He’d brought his young ward, Sophia, with him after the third visit, and Elizabeth had quickly become fascinated with the girl. I’d been more wary, not that the Queen paid me any mind. Still, Dee had seemed too careful, too skittish around the quiet girl, too unsure of her even as he’d doted on her, too watchful and eager.

  It hadn’t taken long for the Queen to realize that Dee thought the girl possessed a budding psychic gift, that he’d waited long years for that gift to manifest, and that—finally!—he thought the time was nearing for it to arrive.

  After that the good astrologer hadn’t stood a chance.