Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  Mortification rushed through me. Cecil’s words had been low, but not so low that Beatrice could not hear, if she had any mind to be distracted from her desecration of Cecil’s assignment paper. Cecil seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I curtsied. Of course.

  “I appreciate your kindness, Sir William.” I said the words levelly and with neither rancor nor embarrassment, as if he had just told me that he had not written out my assignment because I was blue-eyed.

  “You will see today the full contingent of the Queen’s admirers, both within England and across the Continent,” he said. “Watch them all, memorize them all. That is your role for her. For me—” Here he leaned down toward me, and I could smell the scent of parchment and leather-bound books around him, all wood smoke and gloom. “For me, I expect you to pay particular attention to the Queen’s own attendants. Specifically, the ladies of the bedchamber who traveled with her to London and back again.”

  My tongue suddenly felt too heavy in my mouth, blocking both breath and speech. I stared at him, and he stared back, his eyes as flat and lifeless as river stones. I should have asked why he’d ask me to do such a thing, but I was afraid of the answer. It had been a gloved hand that I’d seen give Lady Amelia the letter. The letter hadn’t been exchanged until the Queen had returned from London. And there were letters in Amelia’s packet that had been addressed to Lady Knollys. Did Cecil know there was a traitor in the Queen’s very midst?

  Or was he still more concerned with the Queen’s heart, not her head?

  Suddenly, Cecil lifted his hand and snapped his fingers in front of my face. With my mind racing as it was, I didn’t even flinch. He raised his brows in mock admiration. “Are you still attending me, Miss Fellowes?”

  “Yes, of course, Sir William,” I murmured. “I shall be honored to serve the Queen however she most needs.”

  “And England thanks you for your service,” he said stiffly. He gestured to both Beatrice and me. “Now go find something to wear that doesn’t make you look like a poor relation.” And with that he was gone.

  I turned to Beatrice at once, nearly overcome with gratitude at the loan of her fine clothing. The look on her face stopped me.

  “Don’t get too carried away, Rat, until you see the gown I will give you,” she said with grim satisfaction. “I have a point to make as well. I apologize that I’ll be making it on your back, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, we all need to take advantage of our opportunities.”

  I stared at her, nonplussed. “You’re not going to give me a dress?” I asked.

  “Oh, you’ll have a dress,” Beatrice sighed. “You just won’t like it.”

  We assembled behind the Queen not a quarter hour later, and I had to admit . . . Beatrice was right.

  I was now clad in a charcoal-colored monstrosity of a gown with large slashed sleeves, a choke-hold of a ruff, a harshly pointed V-bottomed bodice that would have been tight on a sickly girl of ten, and skirts heavy enough to fatigue an ox. I think it was embroidered with lead. Just putting it on had required both of our greatest efforts, and all thoughts of secret orders and new missions had been crushed under its sheer weight.

  “Who bought you this gown?” I’d gasped, once it was finally on my body.

  “An aunt on my father’s side,” she’d said with disgust. “I got the distinct impression she did not care for me very much.”

  “Or wanted you dead before you were twenty.”

  “I never planned to wear it, because it is—as you see—horrendous,” Beatrice had continued. “But to show the dress in public is to honor her, even if I’m not the one in it. And this keeps me from ever having to don the thing myself.”

  I’d sighed, refusing to respond, so I could focus on breathing. In truth, I didn’t care so much, except for the discomfort of the gown. If it served Beatrice’s purpose to see me in it, it was all the same to me. I rather thought she hoped I’d spill something horrible on myself.

  Now we marched in silence to take up our positions on either side of the Queen, as part of a long, overly stuffed line of attendants. Beatrice, in her dawn-pink gown of gossamer satin, looked like the beginning of a radiant spring morning. I looked like the end of a long, hard winter.

  But there was nothing for it. I straightened, raising my chin, and serenely considered the next supplicant for the Queen’s favor. I was in for a trying day.

  For the first hour, the petitioners were the villagers of Windsor. I watched them with a curious sense of detachment, which was only somewhat the result of my inability to breathe. These people were me—or who I had been, I thought, but my mind instantly rejected the idea. I would never have come to the Queen to resolve a dispute over grain or the local vicar. In the Golden Rose troupe, we had solved our problems ourselves, or had turned them over to Grandfather, and then to Troupe Master James after Grandfather had passed. It was all very civilized, and it had to be. We either worked together, or we starved.

  Once the villager disputes were settled, though, an entirely different sort of crowd came to the fore, and Beatrice stirred to life with curiosity on the other side of the Queen. The Queen herself, of course, remained languid, but it was for these nobles that we had been brought here, I knew immediately.

  She was approving the guest list for the masque. And giving us the opportunity to see the players before they were in costume.

  Giving me the opportunity, anyway. Why were Beatrice and Sophia here? Merely for show? Or did she have some fell purpose for their involvement as well?

  While I waited for the nobles to assemble, I turned to the assignment I knew would be most paramount in Cecil’s eyes for me to complete. The study of the Queen’s ladies of the bedchamber. This rotating favor was bestowed on the Queen’s closest intimates, all of them married ladies of the court. She had yet to choose any of the unmarried maids for the role, but it was rumored that that honor would be forthcoming. For now, however, there were six ladies, and I watched them under the guise of surveying the whole of the gallery. Two of them were so old as to be crones, their sharp features saved only by their bright eyes and laughing countenances. A third was equally old but looked like she hadn’t laughed since King Henry had died. Her gaze darted around the room, taking it all in.

  The remaining three women, including Lady Knollys, were not ancient, precisely, but they were not in the first blush of youth either, and one seemed slightly off in manner, as if she were somewhat slow. In addition, none of the women surrounding Elizabeth even approached true beauty. In their midst, Elizabeth shined like the sun. I watched the ladies interact with one another, picking out the alliances and rifts. These women had been with Elizabeth since she had become Queen. Who could be the traitor, if any of them?

  I glanced back at Beatrice, who still looked peeved by whatever Cecil had asked her to do. I suspected she was being fobbed off on one set of nobles or another. There was no one as brilliant as Beatrice for holding the attention of a courtier.

  The steward cleared his throat. The next stage of the assembly was to begin.

  The first group of nobles seemed almost shockingly out of place, puffed up with earnest enthusiasm. Reading the roll, the Steward of the Chamber announced that they hailed from the farthest reaches of the kingdom: Wales. The lake country bordering the Scottish lowlands. Dover. The Queen had brought them to Windsor to symbolize the joining together of her great country, and they looked completely bowled over at the prospect.

  Which was not to say that they were poverty stricken. If anything, as bolt after bolt of fine cloth was proffered and veritable chests of jewels were opened at the Queen’s feet, this felt more like an ancient tithing to an overlord than a civilized tribute to a very modern Queen. I tilted my head, considering. After long years of financing wars on the Continent, the Crown’s coffers were bare, so Elizabeth needed their coin and jewels. But how much would tithes like this cost Gloriana in the favors she would eventually grant in exchange? When would she choose to repay those debts . . . and ho
w?

  The next group—far smaller—contained nobles I had not seen since my time in the Queen’s primary residence at Whitehall. And once again, riches flowed. I watched the Queen’s cool survey of the piles at her feet. She seemed on the surface to not be impressed, but I could sense the calculations churning in her head.

  What was the Queen’s purpose here? Was she seeking anything more than funding for her broken-down army and falling-down castles? Even her maids and ladies-in-waiting were dressed up to levels far beyond our typical state. Was it all a grand deception?

  The doors opened again, and the Queen’s own court processed in. I opened my eyes wide, grateful again for this rarified position to see them walk, talk, and interact together when all I was supposed to be doing was, well, staring at them. It was an unparalleled opportunity to match names with faces, and faces with intentions both secret and plain. There was even the slender and aristocratic Lord Cavanaugh, who despite Beatrice’s belief that he cared naught for her, eyed her with an intensity that made her stand up straighter and even preen. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. Love made simpletons of even the most sophisticated of women, I decided.

  Then another English courtier walked in, and the entire hall held its breath.

  Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse, carried himself with the same sort of easy charm as the Count de Martine. He was older than Rafe by several years, and he was married, but I’d not seen the man’s wife when she’d visited in the spring. It was said Amy Robsart was quite pretty, but truly, how could one compete with the Queen of England?

  In any case, Amy was not here now, a reality made painfully clear by Robert Dudley’s bold eye contact with the Queen as soon as he walked into the room. The fact that she stared back was worrisome, too. I’d heard of this man, but hadn’t had the occasion to see him in my work as yet. Now all of the court, from page to prince, watched them, and I began to worry my fingers at the edges of my sleeves. This was a man to give Cecil nightmares, if ever there was one. This was a man to fear.

  No, no, no, I thought, earnestly wishing Robert Dudley gone.

  Instead, however, he bowed to the Queen like a perfect gentleman, then backed away with a flourish. He eyed her with a burning gaze, but his manner was no less fervent than those of the families who had come begging for her charity. The energy that leaped between them was undeniable, and yet eminently deniable.

  Perhaps I was overreacting? I stole a look at Sophia, who was placidly watching the byplay as if it were not fraught with anticipation and danger. Her features were serene, her gaze almost blank. She looked perfectly normal. Then again, she’d been sewing when she’d had her vision of “Golden Splendor” in the schoolroom. Who knew when her next vision would strike?

  Arrested by the possibility, I found myself surreptitiously glancing at Sophia as if she were a statue fixed in place there in the Presence Chamber, taking in every detail of her expression as she pursed her lips together in concentration. I noted her wide, watchful eyes, almost purple in their intensity, and the delicate color of her cheeks, blushed as pink as Beatrice’s dress. I watched her so closely, I could practically count her breaths.

  Which is why I noticed when Sophia jerked her head around, hard, and focused all her attention on whoever had just walked into the room.

  Forcing myself to act naturally, I let my gaze drift back along the gallery of yawning nobles, until it reached the guards flanking the entryway. The guards were looking less bored. Foreigners must have just entered, I decided. Sophia was focused on foreigners. Unable to wait any longer, I triumphantly cut my gaze to the small group of men bowing before the Queen.

  The Spaniards!

  Wait . . . the Spaniards?

  Why would the Spaniards cause Sophia to be distressed? They’d been here for months. And if anything, her training would have demanded that she remain calm and unruffled in their presence, since they were the ones we suspected of giving illicit letters to Lady Amelia.

  I barely kept from frowning, but it made no sense. Count de Feria, Rafe, and a half dozen of the slender Spanish nobles were there, putting on their grand show. None more so than Ortiz, whose laughing splendor was sending half the ladies into a swoon. The Queen beside me watched them with approval, for once not even bothering to scowl at de Feria. With the delegation now stood the rotund, smiling Alvarez de Quadra, bishop of Aquila, Spain’s newest ambassador and the grim de Feria’s replacement. I slanted another look at Sophia. Still rigid. Was de Quadra the cause? It was rumored that King Philip had sent the bishop to replace de Feria as ambassador, given the Queen’s obvious disdain for the hapless courtier and de Feria’s own desire to collect his heavily pregnant wife and depart for the Continent before she had the baby. I knew very little about de Quadra, other than that he was, if anything, even more ardent in his religion than the Queen was in opposing it. But he didn’t seem a bad sort. The Queen, of course, would have no use for him, since he was a man of God—and a Catholic God at that. But she might tolerate him better than she had de Feria, so that was a boon.

  I was watching the tableau the Spaniards made, bowing to the Queen, when I felt a hot gaze upon me. I shifted my attention to the right, and met Rafe’s stare. We had not spoken since parting ways the night before, but my cheeks burned with that memory. And speaking of . . . where was the bulky Spanish guard whom Rafe had struck in the chapel? Was that who had captured Sophia’s attention so completely? I scanned the small knot of men, but they were all slender and somewhat effete. No one looked like Turnip Nose. De Quadra was stocky, but not the slightest bit hard, and I’d already heard him speak. It was in soft, measured tones, not the guttural anger of the man I’d overheard in the chapel.

  There was another shift, and a new nobleman stepped forward.

  And then I understood.

  I looked back at Sophia and sighed. She still hadn’t moved. I was fairly certain she had stopped breathing.

  “Lord Theoditus Brighton, Earl of Dawbury,” the steward announced in sepulchral tones. Lord Brighton walked forward with the slightest limp. He paused in front of the Queen and executed a reserved and measured bow, the move so full of dignity and respect that it seemed almost, well—out of place in the hall, with its collection of fawning noblemen and poseurs.

  “Your Grace, it is as ever a wondrous boon to be able to look upon your fair countenance, covered in the raiment of the sun. You are the Gloriana of England, and we bring you all the gifts of our devotion.”

  The words were deep and mildly accented. I looked at Lord Brighton more curiously. He was from Wales, wasn’t he? But his accent seemed . . . different, somehow.

  With a wave of his hand, Brighton signaled a footman. The young man came up smartly, bearing a silver and black chest, and knelt before the Queen. She leaned forward. Sophia leaned forward. I still studied Brighton.

  He had the dark look of an aging gypsy, yet his clothing was richly embroidered with silver, his trunk hose perfectly slashed with alternating stripes of silver and deep onyx. He was slender, and his hair was shot with grey. There were lines at the corners of his eyes. He was old.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to quite place him in Grandfather’s sphere. This was not a grandfather, but a man still in his prime.

  The box had been opened, and a magnificent necklace presented to the Queen, of onyx and hematite and pearls. “To protect you,” Brighton said. The Queen beamed. She loved getting gifts, particularly from men, though I couldn’t see how a chunk of twisted metal and stones was going to help her achieve new heights of security. Still, she nodded to Brighton, and sat back in her throne, well-pleased.

  Brighton, for his part, straightened. Then he looked at Sophia, pure gentleness in his eyes, and I felt more than heard the girl’s raspy intake of breath.

  Irritation coursed through me. That wasn’t the look of a threatening man; it was the look of a caring protector. But the man’s very presence turned Sophia into a quivering mute. What was going on?

  I risked another glanc
e at Sophia. The intensity in her expression was gone. There was fear only, and her body had, in fact, begun to tremble.

  The Queen made her pronouncement of thanks for Lord Brighton’s gift of generosity, and he bowed again, backing away.

  As soon as Lord Brighton returned to his station at the side of the door, the steward announced the next delegations. First came the courtiers of the Flemish court, then the vividly dressed delegates from Morocco. Beatrice outdid herself, making eyes at men of wildly different nationalities and styles, somehow managing to flirt with all of them just within the boundaries of each country’s traditions of how women should behave. It was nothing short of masterful. There was some time for the whole of the Italian delegation to process through, including a gaggle of priests sent by the pope. I worried my fingers once more against my sleeve at their arrival. There were plenty of Catholic sympathizers still in the court, and having a faction of priests to help fuel their fire could not be safe.

  Then the simpering fools from France took their position, and the Queen’s demeanor grew frosty. She accepted their bows with cool repugnance, and I knew hatred stirred within her. She had been but a new Queen when the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis with France had been signed, and in gaining the peace she’d needed so desperately, she had lost Calais, England’s only foothold on the Continent. She would never forgive them for that, just as she never would forgive Philip for marrying the child Elisabeth de Valois. I’d been shocked at Sophia’s betrothal, but Elisabeth was only fourteen—three full years my junior. I could not even imagine how unsettling that would be.

  Then came the Scots.

  I stood up a little straighter when they entered the room, descending on the court with the air of brigands and thieves, despite their fancy clothes. Even though they marched along quite silently, they seemed a rabble. They were less refined than the other nobles, the material of their clothes thicker and more roughly sewn, although it was clear that they had dressed in their best for an audience with the Queen. The Queen had no interest in the Scots, I knew, other than the fact that she would use anything in her power against the French. And many of the Scots were at war with the French to boot, so they would be here seeking money, not giving it. Still, there was something so . . . authentic about this lot. They were proud that they were not as polished as the rest of the crowd, rough and tumble men with the kind of easygoing grins I hadn’t seen since I’d parted ways with the Golden Rose. I rather liked the Scots, I decided.