Maid of Deception

by Jennifer McGowan

  Her words silenced the room.

  Cecil turned and narrowed his eyes on the girl, just as she nervously laid one of Cecil’s silver pens back upon his desk. “And just what do you mean by that, Sophia?” he asked.

  “Oh, God’s bones. It’s not a secret,” Jane said, her loud, plain voice brooking no argument. “There was that boy who came over the Channel from France and remained in London for—what—a week? When the Queen made haste to London last month. He stayed at your own house, Sir William, and took tea with the Queen at Hampton Court. He might not have been one of these Lords, but he was tied to them, ’tis certain.”

  Cecil turned a steely look upon Jane. “I thought you remained behind at Windsor during that trip.”

  She shrugged. “Even if your guards do not tell tales to outsiders, they canna always remain silent among themselves. And if I happen to be tucked away when they have a conversation, then I hear it as well, no?”

  Cecil exhaled a disgusted breath, and I watched the glance of unspoken satisfaction between Jane and Meg. Though Jane had originally spoken to draw the attention away from Sophia, her words had betrayed more than she realized, at least to me. There could be only one place where Jane could have hidden to overhear the Windsor guards speak of such a tightly held secret that even I had not caught wind of it: the hidden passageways beneath the castle.

  Entire new realms of possibility opened up to me in that moment. What secrets could I hear had I access to passages such as those—and with those secrets, what power could I wield? I’d have to ask to tag along on Meg and Jane’s next foray beneath the castle.

  “Very well,” Cecil said at length, as if coming to a grave decision. “If you know the half of it, you should know the whole, so that you have the story correct. The Earl of Arran, the boy Jane just referenced, had been a prisoner of the French Catholics. He was returned to his father from France this summer, with the aid of the Queen.” By that Cecil means with his own aid, his and Walsingham’s foreign spies. “His father, the Duke of Châtellerault, had previously supported the French—and the Catholics. With his son’s return, however, he has become one of the most prominent members of the Lords of the Congregation. There is no doubt that the rescue of the duke’s son made his conversion to the Lords’ cause possible. Which provides additional opportunities for us.”

  “We return the son, and ensure that powerful men in Scotland are allied with England and not France,” I said. “Nicely done.” Cecil’s glance flitted back to me, but I didn’t mind his scowl. This was my area of expertise, the give-and-take between friends and enemies, boons granted and debts repaid. “And now is the time when you will discuss the resulting agreement between England and the Lords of the Congregation?” I asked. “Who will be arriving?”

  “A half dozen of the Lords, and their guards, of course,” Cecil said. “While we meet with them, your roles are to watch everyone else in the court. If you see anyone talking with any Scotsman too closely, I want to know about it. Immediately. I expect the Queen will have her own tasks for you as well.” Once again the tiniest thread of irritation underlaced Cecil’s words. “But, Beatrice, you must begin at once.”

  “I must?” I opened my eyes just so, all winsome innocence and frail pain. I was supposed to get married today, you cur. Do not even begin to tell me that you are attaching me to—

  Cecil finished my thoughts. “Alasdair MacLeod,” he said flatly. “The young Scot is clearly some sort of leader of the delegation, and his family is old and well regarded.” This meant he had money, in Cecil’s manner of speaking. As if a stone fortress on a wind-battered island off the Scottish coast could have cost anything more than a herd of sheep. “There is some rumor he is tied to the Lords of the Congregation, though I cannot believe it. Still, if that is the case, it changes things.”

  “Such as?” I asked, unable to help myself.

  “Such as, if the Highlanders all the way up to Skye are ready to support a cause against the French, then we need only send a token force to Scotland to show our own support,” he said. “Or perhaps we need not send any support at all, and instead let the Scots deplete their men rather than risk our own.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but at Cecil’s black look I thought better of it. “Very well, Sir William,” I said sweetly. You skittering, slithering snake. “I cannot imagine a better use of my time than to play court to a loutish Scotsman.”

  That did cause him to smile, though in the gloom of his chamber it looked more like a sneer.

  “Funny,” he said. “Neither could the Queen.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  We were given the rest of the day to prepare for our various tasks—Anna to learn the histories of the men who would likely be arriving from Scotland; Jane and Meg to see what else might be known from either the Scots’ guards or our own. Sophia claimed a headache and so escaped to a quiet room to, as Cecil put it, “do whatever it is you do.”

  But I was not so lucky.

  With the promise of a wedding having fueled the influx of visitors into the Lower Ward, an unofficial Market Day had been assembled, all the more boisterous because the wedding had not, in fact, come off. It was into this rabble I was headed now.

  But not before I was stopped a dozen times. First to endure, counter, or spread, as necessary, gossip related to my own interrupted nuptials. Windsor loved a story, especially a story of a noble being rebuked. It was my task and honor to supply enough fat for the court to chew on long after the taste had gone out of the tale. Second, I had to reinforce my own position in the castle. There was no question that I had been delivered a terrible blow, and yet—this was important—here I was looking as fresh and unspoiled as washing-day linen. I parried this query and that, none more frequent than “Had the Queen spoken to my lord Cavanaugh directly? He looked so amazed, so distraught!”

  To that I said simply that what my Queen and my future husband discussed was not for me to know. This was the virtuous answer, this was the maidenly and modest response. It made me want to retch, but such was the price of position.

  Now I stepped into the bright light of the Upper Ward, the easternmost area of the enclosed walls of Windsor, a quadrangle of manicured lawn and walkways that made any approach instantly known to those watching from the high windows of the most royal section of the castle. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I took a bare moment to grimace in peeved annoyance. The sun would choose this day to shine forth in glorious splendor. It was supposed to have been my wedding day. Even the stars in the heavens were doubtlessly planning to shine the brighter for it. God save me from a meddling Queen.

  “Such a frown as I’ve never seen upon your face, Beatrice. Would that I could help take it away.”

  I barely kept myself from stiffening, and instead turned and favored Meg’s Spaniard with a smile. “What a charming surprise, Count de Martine. What brings you out into the sunlight?”

  Despite my pains to be polite, Rafe grinned at me, then took my hand in his and curled it into his arm. “No need to stare daggers at me, fair maiden, or tire yourself with attempting friendship. I merely wish to serve as an escort to you. A young lady of your soft beauty should not ever have to take her air alone.” He paused then, considering. “Unless that was your goal? To flee the confines of the castle and all who rest within it?”

  If only that were possible. But Rafe’s sudden appearance was something I could use. He was a dashing, handsome Spaniard, for all that he was still a Spaniard. Half the women in court swooned over him, though he only had eyes for Meg. He would do as a young man to squire me into the Lower Ward, I supposed. For as I’d already learned to my chagrin, nothing drew the attention of one Alasdair MacLeod to me as when I was receiving attention from another courtier.

  “I think you see the value I may bring you,” Rafe observed blandly, and I glanced to him, startled by his laugh. “Worry not, fair maid,” he said, patting my hand. “We shall put on a fine show of it until I get you to your destination.”

  “P
erhaps I have underestimated you, my count,” I observed archly, and was rewarded again by another of his chuckles.

  “You would not be the first.” We walked several paces more, down the quadrangle’s northern passageways and through the Norman Gate. We crossed into the Middle Ward, shadowed by the enormous Round Tower that marked the highest point of Windsor Castle.

  I stopped Rafe there, staring up at the Tower’s round bulk as if I hadn’t passed by the thing nearly every day for the past several months. But there was something else I wanted to ask of him, before we descended into the chaos of the Lower Ward.

  “The jade stone ring you brought to England,” I began. “How did . . . how did you come by it?”

  Rafe hesitated. Then I felt the warm pressure of his hand over mine. “Meg didn’t tell you?”

  “She said it came from your mother,” I said coolly. “I could only assume that your mother knew my father in an earlier time, and that he gifted it to her. On that topic you need explain no more.” God save me from philandering fathers as well. “But was there anything else she shared with you about it—or any other of my family’s treasure that my father seemed so fond of casting about?”

  “Fair questions all,” Rafe said. He gave me a little tug, and we moved back into the sunlight, strolling like bosom friends along the flower-edged lane. “She said nothing of your father. I have no idea how she came by the ring, only that it gave her great satisfaction to keep it secret from my own father.”

  I snorted. “As one might well expect.”

  “But as to other bits of your family treasure being strewn about the castle, she did say this—‘’tis but the smallest trifle from a wealth laid in the very earth of his holding.’ ” He shrugged. “I took it to mean that whatever lord she’d charmed was very rich indeed.”

  “Rich!” I burst forth with such a grim laugh that even Rafe was forced to check his stride, looking down at me in concern. Too late I realized my mistake, and struggled to amend it. “Rich we would be indeed if my father would forestall his own hand in giving away all our worldly possessions.” I glanced up at him with as rueful an expression as I could muster. “I do apologize, Count de Martine. I should not prattle on about something so inconsequential.”

  “We can only marvel at the actions of our parents,” Rafe agreed, turning again to escort me into the Lower Ward. “Their decisions remain a puzzle even to themselves, I suspect.”

  Or to any rational person alive. The Knowles family may have been rich at one time—our mansion in Northampton was a hulking effigy to that largesse. But the money had long gone from our coffers, which were systematically being emptied even further by my spendthrift father and addled mother. I’d not been back to Marion Hall since the Queen’s coronation early this year, and I had no great need to see it again anytime soon.

  “Ah, here we are, then. Shall I tarry with you farther, or have I served my purpose?” Rafe’s eyes were alight with good humor, and I supposed I could see why Meg fancied him. Even if he was a Spaniard.

  “Pray, you may consider yourself released to enjoy the day, good sir.” I found myself laughing the words, grateful for the moment’s respite from my own twisting thoughts. I curtsied to him with the coy flirtation of a blushing maid. “I do thank you for your gallant rescue to ensure I did not walk alone.”

  Rafe, for his part, executed a perfect courtly bow. “Your brightness only illuminates me further; I could not stay away,” he said, straightening with a flourish. His eyes shifted to something over my shoulder, and he winked at me. “I think we’ve caught our fish,” he said lightly.

  “Would that he not stink of one,” I returned, but I let Rafe, now laughing openly, take my hands in his. He brought them to his lips for a final flirtatious coup, and winked at me again. Then he took his leave of me, and I busied myself with my velvet pouch, as if I were searching for shillings to pay for a market day pie.

  I had just opened the strings when I felt a strong tug at my right arm, curling my hand over a thick, corded biceps. Even though I’d been expecting something along these lines, I could barely forestall my gasp at the temerity of the young man’s touch.

  Alasdair MacLeod turned me around smartly and walked with me into the midst of the teeming market, as if proclaiming to all that I was his property. He said not one word, and I strained against his arm. “I do beg your pardon, sir, but—”

  “Do not tempt me, m’lady.” Alasdair cocked a glance down at me. The faintest of smiles now stretched his lips. “The idea of you begging for anything would be too much for me to bear.”

  Irritation surged forth, as it always did with the impossible Scotsman. “May you at least lighten your grip? You’re hurting my arm.”

  That did it, as I suspected it would; the oaf loosened his hold at once, contenting himself with maintaining his hand over mine on his arm, as if he were afraid I would collapse if left completely free.

  Alasdair was a head and a half taller than I was, though I was certainly of a fine height—nearly as tall as the Queen. But he seemed overmuch concerned for my personal safety when he was around. “Thank you,” I managed, though I had done myself no favors. Now the Scot’s large hand covered mine, and I had left the castle interior without gloves. The feeling of Alasdair’s rough fingers on my skin left me oddly breathless, and I struggled to remember why I needed to speak with him in the first place. Thinking to head off any comments intended to nettle me, I broached the subject of my failed wedding directly. “ ’Tis a fine day, is it not? For all that it began with a disrupted wedding?”

  He grinned fiercely, firming his fingers on mine once again. “The day is all the better for that turn of events, aye.” He glanced down at me. “Tell me you were not relieved. I saw you watch me with hope in your eyes even as you strolled down the aisle.”

  “You saw no such thing!” I snapped. That only seemed to goad him on further.

  “You like me shaven clean and fit for your English weddings, eh?” He lifted my hand in his meaty paw and drew it down his cheek, before resettling it on his arm. “Find me much more civilized this way?”

  “Never fear that I will ever find you civilized, sir,” I said frostily, though my stomach had tightened at the bold caress and how quickly he’d managed it, and my fingers still tingled with the roughness of his face, his beard already returning though he’d likely shaven mere hours before. “In truth you may unhand me completely, if you please. I am well able to walk unassisted.”

  “ ’Tis no bother to me,” Alasdair said, and he tugged me along, only the crush of the crowd ensuring that I did not stumble over my own skirts in trying to keep up with his long stride. “You belong on my arm.”

  That drew me up short. “Sir, you must be mistaken. My wedding was postponed, not canceled.”

  “It looked canceled to me,” he countered. “The look on the face of that stick you were tying yourself to was something to behold. He looked like he’d eaten spoiled haggis.”

  “Lord Cavanaugh had every right to be upset,” I reasoned, pricked despite myself. “He was very much looking forward to being my husband.”

  “More like he was looking forward to having you all to himself. Not that I can blame the man, but I’d not wish marriage to him on my worst enemy.”

  “And you think what you have to offer would far outweigh one of the most noble houses of England?” I scoffed, at once furious with Alasdair and incensed with myself for being drawn out by him. This was not what I needed to learn from the scoundrel!

  “I have more to offer in my little finger than he does with all of his horses and land,” Alasdair replied, drawing his fingers over mine to emphasize his point. I felt the color rise in my cheeks, but he just continued talking. “Though your Queen does have an eye for making an entrance in the most dramatic way possible. I’ll give her that.”

  “She does,” I said, grateful for the change of subject. “Our Elizabeth is nothing if not dramatic.”

  Alasdair slanted me a look. “She is jeal
ous of you.”

  I grimaced as we stopped before a stand that sold savory pies. “I rather doubt that,” I said, though with Elizabeth it was well possible. Even though she was the most powerful woman in England, I’d seen her devolve into an apoplectic fit when she felt she was being slighted by one courtier or another. They’d quickly learned to not invite her wrath, but mayhap I should have had more of a care myself. If she felt I was trying to outshine her, then far more than a postponed wedding would be my reward.

  I blinked as Alasdair ordered enough food to feed a family of twelve. “I’m so sorry, sir. Did I interrupt your provisioning of your men?”

  “You canna interrupt me, m’lady,” Alasdair returned, tucking the pies into a sack he’d pulled out of somewhere and catching up a flagon of wine as well. He tossed a pile of coins to the vendor, waving off the man’s offer to count it. “I merely thought you must be fatigued at having your future so effectively ruined. I wish to help revive you.”

  “My future is not ruined.” Other than being dragged around by you. But I allowed Alasdair to pull me to the edge of the market, where benches had been set up in a loose group. He hooked a bench with one of his long legs and sat down upon it, patting the space beside him.

  “Eat something, wench,” he said, breaking off a piece of steaming pastry. “You’re skinny enough to see through.”

  “I am not—” I opened my mouth to protest, and he shoved the bit of pie in, as neatly as if I were his truculent niece. “Oof!” I managed, my eyes watering.

  He uncorked the wine and handed me the open bottle. “It’s hot. Drink this.”

  And thus was I in the middle of the teeming rabble of the Lower Ward, drinking wine straight from a bottle like any common Street Sally.

  Lo, had my fortunes changed.

  Still, I had my part to play, and by God I was going to play it. I handed the bottle back to Alasdair, noting his satisfaction as he stared at my wine-stained lips. Forcing myself to keep from snatching a handkerchief out of my pouch, I licked my lips instead. His eyes darkened, and I plunged forward.