I regarded my childhood home with a practiced eye, every winking flicker of light from the windows betraying a still-lit sconce or nighttime candle. The first glance caused only the slightest unease, but the second one stopped me cold, making Meg run flat into me.
“Oof!” She gasped out a short laugh, and was making to speak when I caught her arm and shushed her with a finger upon her lips. Her eyes went wide with curiosity, but I merely turned to the others.
“We’d best split up,” I said imperiously. “Our company is too large to go skulking through the house.” Alasdair turned on me quickly.
“No,” he said. “You all should—”
“Go—go!” I cut him off. “Meg and I will stroll around to the front entrance. If we’re seen, I can explain away a late-night walk with another maid in my own home easily enough. I can’t explain all six of us gamboling about.”
He clearly wasn’t pleased with this arrangement, but there was naught that any could offer to gainsay my logic, and with his last grumble of disapproval we parted company. I held Meg still until I saw our fellow skulkers disappear into a side entrance of Marion Hall, only the murmur of conversation between Alasdair and the servants disrupting the night.
“What are we doing?” Meg asked, peering at me through the gloom.
“Shh,” I said, pulling her along toward the far end of the house, below the western drawing room. “I thought I saw something back here, where there should be no one at all.”
“And we’re going to seek it out?” she asked. “Without weapons or a brawny guard or two?” Her teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Excellent.”
“I said be still,” I hissed, pausing as we came around another corner. My steps had slowed now, my eyes straining to see into the gloom to where I swore I saw . . .
And there it was.
A light flickered in the tiny window at the very base of the hall, above what I knew to be the old wine cellar. Old, as in empty, as in a chamber nobody ever used anymore. Not even for storage, though once upon a time it had provided an excellent cool, dry location to ensure that wine aged to its fullest taste.
“What is that?” Meg asked, following the direction of my gaze.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but where there are lights, there are generally people.”
“In your cellar?” She frowned.
“In my cellar.” I slanted her a look. “And we did gain several new guests this evening. Perhaps they were guests in need of a quiet place for a conversation.”
Meg grinned in the gloom. “Well, that seems promising, but how can we get in there? Not through that tiny window, certainly.”
“Not quite, but—come with me.” I took her by the arm, and we hastened through the darkness, moving past the row of windows and into a shadowed lee of Marion Hall. A cellar door there lay hidden in the tall grass, and I fished on my belt for the right key. It was the same key as opened every cellar lock in the hall, and it didn’t fail me here. The door gave way with a dry, crumbly woof of air, and I thanked the craftsman for his choice of timber and fastenings. The wall was not at all the worse for its age or the several bad winters I’d heard tell of in the servants’ quarters. Instead a spiraling staircase curved down into the darkness, hewn from the rock itself.
Without hesitating, Meg started down the steps, and it was all I could do to follow her into that pitch-dark space. She clucked with pleasure as she scampered ahead of me, waiting with barely concealed excitement as the low hum of men’s voices swam toward us. “They are talking plainly, so sure they are that they will not be discovered,” she whispered happily as I descended the stairs and landed next to her. “My favorite kind of mark.”
“Shh,” I warned, and she sobered. “There are spy holes built into the cellar room. My father had no sooner taken out all the wine than he realized he now had the greatest room possible for visitors to speak with absolute certainty that they would not be overheard. So of course he wanted to make well sure he could hear them.”
I reached for Meg’s hand, and we walked through the darkness, toward the raised voices. We positioned ourselves in a tight corner, one of the many fissures that had been cut into the walls to allow someone to peer into the space. Some of these fissures had already existed, cut by the same baron who’d built Marion Hall. Though their purpose was not certain, both my father and I had always speculated that either the good baron had thought his servants were stealing his wine or the room had once been used for something other than simple libations. We’d crafted many a tale of secret negotiations in these hidden rooms, with King and country depending on a loyal patriot pledged in aid of the Crown.
And here we were this night, about to embark on a fell plot not too far removed from those childhood imaginings.
Meg and I fit our eyes to the tiny holes, both of us as still as mice. The room beyond was lit up like full day, and though all of the men were cloaked except for Cecil and Walsingham, their speech branded them as Scots, bristling with the thick inflections of their homeland. I gave Meg a quizzical look at their heavy accents, but she just grinned and nodded. She could understand these men, or at least memorize their words. Still, to hear more effectively she adjusted her stance and placed her ear to her spy hole, while I leaned close and refit my right eye to mine.
And that’s when it happened.
The door at the far end of the room opened, allowing one last man to enter the chamber, cloaked as all the rest, his shoulders broad, his walk assured. The others turned his way but did not acknowledge him, and he took his place by the door, clearly a guard of some sort who had just assured that their secrecy was absolute. He was dressed in the same dun-colored garb I’d seen the Lords’ guards wear throughout their stay in Windsor. If I hadn’t seen the man move, I wouldn’t even have noticed him, most likely.
But I had seen him move. And I knew that walk.
For reasons I could not begin to fathom, Alasdair MacLeod had just joined the secret meeting of Scots and English advisors. And he’d breathed to me not a word about it.
I struggled to make sense of his presence in the cellar room. He was the one who’d told me in the first place about the arrival of the additional guests to Marion Hall. Why? Did he know that I would hear about it anyway, and seek to twist the information for his own benefit? But why agree to travel with us to find Sophia, when he knew such an important meeting was to take place this night?
And, again, what was he doing here? And how dare he get angry with me for anything, as he had in the western drawing room, since he was perpetrating a lie under my nose as a part of the very Lords of the Congregation upon whom I was supposed to spy!
How could I have missed this connection!
The words of the Scotsmen washed over us like water then for several minutes, and one thing was certain. These were definitely the Lords of the Congregation. There was even the young Earl of Arran, whom I identified only because he eventually dropped his cowl, complaining of heat. The earl was the man whom Cecil had helped bring safely back home from France. He wandered near Alasdair, and I stiffened, pressing my eye so closely to the wall, I was surprised no one sensed the very rafters watching them. But the two men did not speak, and the Lords themselves argued much and decided little, most of it focusing on how much aid the Queen would send in arms and men.
Gradually, however, despite my focus on Alasdair, I became aware of another sound in the distance, a scrape and a shuffle—not constant, but just often enough to seem like someone was repositioning himself or herself much the same as Meg and I were.
Perplexed, I peered off down the corridor. Meg pulled back from the wall and frowned at me, but I motioned for her to return to her task while I stood away from the spy hole, smoothing my dress down resolutely.
Only one person knew the Hall so well as I did. And only one person would also know where to stash a half dozen foreigners who’d come to speak with the Queen’s most trusted advisors, in such a way that he could spy on their entire conversation, breath by b
loody breath.
My father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I slipped off my boots and moved down the corridor. Questions crowded in upon me. What had Father learned so far by spying on the Queen’s men and the foreign diplomats that Meg and I had missed? And what would he do with the information he was gaining?
And perhaps most important, did he realize that Alasdair was also in that room?
If it had been any person other than my father, I would have suspected that his interest in the Lords of the Congregation lay solely in the idea of learning something that was clearly intended to be secret. Such was the way of a courtier—knowledge was power in our enclosed society. And the grander the secret the more powerful it was. But power was profitable only if you chose to wield it. And, given that the holder of this information was my father, I had no doubt but that he planned to sell it to the highest bidder.
A dozen possibilities assaulted me as I crept along the corridor, virtually soundless in my stocking feet. Was my father also a spy for the Queen?
This option I discarded immediately; it was simply ludicrous, and my father was too often out of royal favor for him to be considered a favorite of Elizabeth’s.
So, failing that, was my father hoping to improve his position in society by learning something of import? Would he slip this information to the Queen at some informal meal over the next few days, or wait until we had all returned to Windsor?
Or indeed did he have in mind some other group entirely—perhaps one loyal to France, or perhaps one sympathetic to the Catholic cause? Would my father help defend or support a cause that would get him labeled a traitor?
He already was in a tangle up to his ears with Travelers on his property. If anyone learned that he knowingly allowed a group of “filthy Egyptians” to squat on his land, his life already was forfeit. But would he go yet a step further and engage in deliberate treason?
How well did I know my father, anyway?
So intent was my thinking that I almost plowed right into the man as he knelt awkwardly on the packed dirt floor, his head canted at an odd angle to gain a better view into the room beyond. When he realized he was no longer alone, I saw him take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out with the air of a soldier willing to face his destiny.
Then he turned and saw me. His eyes widened, and he grinned.
“Bea—” he began, but I held up a sharp hand, unwilling to speak until I drew near to him. I tiptoed up and hissed into his ear, for once not bothering to hide my fury:
“What in God’s name are you doing here?”
Father jolted back, surprise and amusement still evident on his face. “I could ask the same of you,” he whispered back, “but I doubt I’d like the answer. Now hush and take the next position.” He indicated another set of spy holes. The Lords of the Congregation would be ill-amused to learn their hidden cupboard had walls that were more like windows.
He fitted his head to the wall again, and I did the same. I had to admit, this vantage point was better than Meg’s for viewing, but I had no doubt that she would hear and retain more than either my father or myself. Accordingly I focused on what I was seeing.
It wasn’t much. Other than Cecil and Walsingham, most of the other men gathered round were almost shapeless beneath their heavy woolen coverings. A few more heads had been bared, and I thought I recognized the Duke of Châtellerault, who was the father of the Earl of Arran. That young earl was now looking almost feral with intensity. I’d heard his temperament was somewhat unstable, and I wondered at his inclusion here in this close group. Still, if he was not to be counted upon, at least this way he could be watched. Also in the group were a baggy-eyed man in a full red beard, and a heavy-jowled frowner with eyes so small, they were almost lost in his face. Everyone still seemed focused on men at arms and ships from the English fleet, and how quickly they could be dispatched to Leith, the port town where the Scottish rebellion against the French was coming to a head.
Walsingham and Cecil, to their credit, gave no solid assurances, though they were open and encouraging and gave every indication that yes, of course, they could bring the Queen around; no, she would not put any undue strictures on the Protestant Scots in return for her aid; and yes, her faith was utterly important to her, and they would ensure she lived up to the sanctity of her position.
This last assertion brought me up short. There was no indication in my father that he thought this statement was odd, but I knew if any of my fellow maids had been standing next to me, we would have been eyeing each other in quizzical concern.
Did Cecil and Walsingham presume that they could guide the actions of the Queen beyond simple advisement? Did they think they could direct her, like puppeteers with a prized doll, to merely do what they thought was right? Up to and including how she worshipped God?
I wasn’t a child; I knew the kind of guidance that advisors had given to Edward VI, King Henry’s son. They’d bullied and coddled and outright lied to the boy, when needed, to get him to sign required documents or give approval on directives of state. But Edward had been a mere nine years old when he’d taken the throne, and he’d died when he was barely fifteen. He’d needed that type of guidance.
Queen Mary, Elizabeth’s older half sister, certainly had not. She had been crowned in her midthirties after successfully deposing the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey, who’d stupidly tried to take the throne, instead of seeing the folly of standing in Mary’s way. Jane had seemed savvy enough, from what I had seen at court. More learned than even Elizabeth, or so I had thought. But she had been manipulated by the Duke of Northumberland and been led into the madness of her reign like a sheep to slaughter. And slaughtered she had been.
Of course, Queen Mary had not been ruled by advisors, but then again, there had been her husband to contend with. So the ruling had still been there, just in finer robes.
I realized that the Lords’ conversation was drawing to an end, and I leaned back from the wall to see my father doing the same. He stood, dusting himself off, and grinned at me in the weak light streaming from the chamber. “Nice trick that, eh?” he whispered. “I always thought that wine cellar might be put to good use. Never expected it to have such high company, though.”
“Why are you spying at all?” I asked, and was rewarded with a cavalier wink.
“Why not?” he said. “If there’s information to be had, I might as well have it.” He waggled a finger at me. “I find it more interesting, though, that you are here, sweet Beatrice. Why isn’t the Queen in this underground hall with her advisors gathered round, instead of sleeping prettily in her own bed—whether alone or with her dashing neighbor?”
“Father!” I hissed, knowing the damning accusation in his words. He just shrugged.
“That’s of no account to me, in truth. Being a monarch is a lonely business. But surely she has more of a care for England than to rely upon the accounts of her men, when she might hear with her own ears, eh?”
I had no answer to that, and his expression turned a bit grim. “It is never an easy thing to be a woman, Beatrice,” he said. “And a woman in power is more at risk than any other. She invites attention. She is strong when the whole world thinks she should be weak, and there are those who don’t like that fact. Remember that.”
“And you should remember that we are not talking about some milkmaid but of your Queen,” I said, surprising even myself at my defense of the woman I despised. “She deserves better than what her advisors are giving her, if she doesn’t know of this conversation.” My gaze hardened as I saw his quick smirk. “And if you’re thinking of betraying her, Father, by selling the information you’ve gathered here to the highest bidder, then you should take great care. She would not hesitate to kill you, for even the smallest slight.” That was only the truth, and it didn’t pain me much to say it. My father was a charlatan and a fool, but he at a minimum valued his own skin. Or at least I’d thought so up until now.
Father put a finger to his lips as the men
exited the secret chamber beyond, to enter the short corridor that would lead them through the hidden doorway to the gardens of Marion Hall. When the last of the men had gone, he leaned forward to me once again, his glance uncharacteristically somber.
“You may not realize this, Beatrice, but I’ve worked your whole life to help ensure your safety and position in a court that grows more dangerous with each new monarch at its head. Though it does my sense of pride good to see you here this night, it pains my heart.”
I stiffened, drawing away from him. “I have no need of your help, Father.”
He nodded, his mask of affability slipping back over his face. “Then just be sure that when heads begin to roll, my sweet, you have the sense to duck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We gathered back in our suite of rooms and divided our knowledge like victors sharing spoils. Sophia was still sleeping off the effects of both the day and night, and Anna watched her with an odd intensity, even as she gave her attention to us as well. Jane stood at the window as if she might jump out of it, and I wondered at how hard it must be to have freedom all around her, without the ability to flee.
But Meg was the principal player in this drama, and she handled the role with her customary mastery. She shared everything she’d heard within the room, but breathed not a word about my father’s presence, although she must have guessed that he also had been spying on the “secret” conference. I thanked the heavens above that Alasdair had remained quiet in the room. I still did not know how to manage my knowledge of his presence, let alone share it with the other maids. Because surely I would have to tell the Queen about it. . . .
Surely.
Anna finally roused from the other side of the room. “Knox was not among the group, was he?” she asked as Meg finished her tale.
Meg glanced at me, but I shook my head. “No. Even he would not be so bold as to tarry in the same location as a Queen who thoroughly hates him.”
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