Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  Death.

  Rafe returned after all of the men had gone. Had he realized that the players had changed midscene? “What did they say before I came upon you?” he asked.

  I scowled. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because we can help each other,” he said, and tilted his head. “I will answer your questions and tell you what I know. But I am missing a critical piece to this puzzle, and I suspect it’s held within the words of the men whose conversation I missed.”

  I stared at him skeptically, but I should have known he’d have another card to play. “And perhaps more important, neither de Feria nor de Quadra believes you maids are anything more than inquisitive girls with a penchant for finding yourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. You would not want them to think otherwise.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “De Feria killed the maid Marie.”

  “Not him, directly,” Rafe said, but he did not deny the accusation further. “De Feria’s goals have been only to create a distraction—not a death.”

  I thought back to the mutilated face of Marie Claire. “I’m not sure I would agree with you.”

  He looked at me steadily. “You will share information with me, or I will go to de Feria and the new ambassador besides. This is not your battle to fight.”

  I let that one pass. “And what will I get besides your silence?”

  He grinned, sensing he was wearing me down. “Why, Meg, you will get me. At your service, whene’er I am able.”

  “Small lot of good that will be. When this comes out, you will need to leave England as hastily as they do.”

  His grin only deepened. “Miss me already?”

  I rolled my eyes, and he tapped my chin. “I will be an ally, Meg. And allies are hard to come by these days. I give you my word that I will do all I can to protect you, you and your small clan of spies. I will tell you what I learn, and find out whatever you wish.”

  “Then, what is de Feria’s plan?” I asked baldly.

  He nodded his understanding. He would have to give first, if he wished to receive. “Even more than de Feria is a man of Spain, he is a man of God, and the pope,” he said. “He is helping to set up a network of Catholic supporters, supporters to whom he can convey the special blessing of the pope.”

  “The letters you carried when you first arrived,” I said. “Those were from the pope?”

  Rafe hesitated. “After a fashion, yes, but written as if from dear friends. The pope is no friend of your Queen.”

  “And what did these letters promise?” I asked, thinking about the letters to Lady Amelia’s family. All of those letters had contained suggestions on how to disrupt the Queen’s court. Did Rafe’s packet of letters include similar requests? “Do you know what the pope is asking of his followers in the letters you just delivered?”

  “To know that, sweet Meg, I would have had to read one myself, which in this case would not only have been a violation of my orders but an offense against God. How base do you think I am?”

  “Base enough.”

  He sighed. “You wound me. But if I had seen one of these letters, it might have said in coded terms that the recipients should be ready for a signal. I believe a Scottish thistle might have served as a choice for that code. Then and only then were those loyal to the pope supposed to carry out a simple task—nothing too dangerous. For now these requests are but to make small disturbances . . . but one day, perhaps, not so small.”

  “A death is not small. The burning of Protestant vestments was not small either.”

  A shadow passed over Rafe’s face. “As I said, those were disturbances de Feria neither planned nor approved. I believe him, and I’m not the only one.”

  “And why are you telling me this?” I asked, suspicion blooming at his easy truths. But then I recalled Anna’s words—that two of the letters had been written by a different hand. Had those letters contained the harsher requests?

  His eyes betrayed nothing. “Spain does not endorse the murder of innocent girls, Meg, no matter what you think. And my orders come from Spain first, the pope second.”

  I pondered that for a moment, but another of Rafe’s words caught my attention. “A thistle,” I murmured, thinking of Anna and her ciphers. “But that means that—”

  “That the trail of letters extends to Scotland, I should think, yes. Your neighbors to the north are more Catholic than England ever was.”

  I took in a deep breath, considering this. “So the Catholic plot exists.” I thought again of Lady Knollys. Why would she be involved in any plot against the Queen—even a benign one?

  “It exists, and will only grow stronger.” Rafe huffed out an impatient breath. “Time is growing short, Meg. What did you overhear?”

  I told him, reciting the complete conversation in Spanish. I didn’t tell him that, after the men had seemed to depart initially, another man had arrived. I just continued the conversation as if it was all part of the same play and omitted the mention of death.

  “You must translate for me what they said,” I said when I finished. “What they were arguing about. I’ll just get it from Anna later, if you do not.”

  He nodded, paraphrasing the conversation in rapid words. The three men had disagreed violently about a plan already set in motion. One of them—de Quadra, he suspected—advocating continuity; and another man who he believed was de Feria was just anxious to be done with it all.

  “Do you think their plan would include murder?”

  Rafe just shook his head. “No. A death would be too risky. De Feria understands that. Even de Quadra understands that.” He frowned at me. “Why do you ask?”

  I changed the subject hurriedly. “And the Spaniard I saw you speaking to in Saint George’s Hall? What was his crime?”

  Rafe shrugged. “He’d grown too careless.”

  “He had one of the letters.” I slanted him a glance. “He was the one who’d been acting without orders? Who’d burned the vestments?” Who’d killed Marie?

  Rafe’s response was a snort of derision. “I suspect he couldn’t drink a mug of ale without being told.” He glanced at me, deliberately changing the subject. “How long have you had this skill of memorization, Meg? Another in your long list of talents, I see.”

  I hesitated, but in truth, I didn’t so much mind the subject being changed. Within these walls my life was spent learning others’ tales. It wasn’t often that I got to share my own history. “I have had it all my life,” I said simply. “Though it has been known by others only since I was three.”

  “So young,” Rafe sighed. He settled against the wall, and despite the danger all around us, I thrilled to take this moment with him, talking in the darkness. “And how was this skill first discovered?”

  I surprised myself again by wanting to answer. “I had wandered away from my grandfather’s cottage to find him, far down in the peat. When I came upon him, he was singing a song that made no sense to me at all, but had a magical rhythm to it that I could not help but remember. He was surprised and a little frightened to see me—I’d no idea how far I’d wandered. Later that evening I sang his song back to him, and the reaction was swift and loud. Outrage among the women, ribald laughter among the men. Apparently my grandfather’s song was not for a child’s ears.”

  “And did he know right away the import of your gift?”

  I nodded. “The next morning, as solemn and loving as always, he sat me down and explained to me that this was a skill that I’d best not share with anyone else but him.”

  “He was wise to do so.” Rafe raised a hand to his face, and a ring on his finger caught my eye again.

  “That’s . . . jade.”

  He pulled it away, looked at it, and smiled. “It is at that.”

  I’d seen it before, of course, that exact setting. A jade stone caught up in a net of gold threads, offset by winking sapphires. It was an exact match for Beatrice’s prized jewels. My throat suddenly went dry. “Where did you come by it?”

  “A family ba
uble.” He shrugged. “My mother brought it back with her from her stay in England. She would never show it to my father; only gave it to me when I was leaving to make my own fortune, in fact. I rather fancied it had been given to her by a man who favored her here at court, when she was but a maid herself.”

  I’d turned to him and was staring now. “You are flaunting an heirloom of your mother’s—that she got in the English Court? Are you mad?”

  He grinned. “It seemed to be the place to bring it out. My mother was ever so oblique about her time here, and I thought it might be interesting.”

  “But what if someone recognizes it? What if it was not your mother’s to give?”

  “Then they can steal it back. That would be a great game, would it not?”

  “You don’t seem distressed by the possibility.”

  He smiled thinly. “I rather suspect it will find its way back to me. In all the time that I’ve carried it, it always has. I’ve been tempted to throw it into the ocean, just to see if it will swim.”

  “It’s not something that you want?”

  He regarded it solemnly. “It’s pretty enough. But it’s a question without answers, and I won’t find those answers by keeping it in my pocket. And, too, my mother has never done anything in her life without specific purpose. I cannot help but think her generous gift came with a history I can only guess at.” He looked at me. “There are many lies already in this castle. What’s one more?” He slipped it off his finger and held it up to me. “Would you like to see it more closely?”

  I hesitated, then took the unusual ring into my hands. The jade stone setting was exactly like Beatrice’s family treasures. I’d been right. “I’d planned on stealing this, you know.”

  “I know,” Rafe said simply. “I thought I’d spare you the effort.” He curved his hand over mine, imprisoning the bauble within my grasp. “Keep it close.”

  I walked back to the masque so distracted, my head churning with everything I had learned, that I was amazed that I arrived before dawn. Certainly quite some time had passed since I’d left the festival’s raucous revelry, but it seemed as lively as ever from the sounds that boomed forth from the great hall. Rafe’s ring was heavy in my hand, and I held it tightly, like a talisman. Why had he given it to me? Had it been only to cause trouble? And what would Beatrice say when I showed it to her?

  I’d just rounded the last corner before the grand Presence Chamber, when I encountered Beatrice. Before I could even speak, she shoved me back into an alcove.

  “You!” she hissed, her face white with fury. “You are dressed like an imbecile. Where is my gown?”

  “Jane and I switched clothing!” I retorted, instantly defensive. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “You lied to me!”

  Oh, no. My breath turned to ashes in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Cecil said my services are no longer needed as a lady of the bedchamber—that the Queen was displeased with me. And this never should have happened! He said you were the one intended to go to her bedchamber and listen to those insufferable biddies yap about the day’s events, not me. He’d intended me to be the one following Rafe—not you. And you lied to me to get me to do it, telling me that the Queen had favored me when she’d done no such thing. And now through no fault of my own, the Queen is angry with me and has dismissed me from the chambers. If it ever gets out, my reputation will be destroyed, and it is all your fault!”

  “I didn’t! It isn’t!” I protested, unable to keep the desperation from my voice. “Beatrice, it is true it was not the Queen’s intention for you to be elevated to lady of the bedchamber this soon, but I have no interest in the role—it is not for me!”

  “Enough with your lies!” she spit back. “I trusted you, and you turned on me like the rat that you are, greedy to get whatever spoils you could. Cecil told me what you did to try to scheme your way into Rafe’s affections. You disgust me!”

  “That’s not true!” Even as I said the words, Beatrice snapped up her hand, cutting off my words.

  “Tell it to the Queen,” she said haughtily. “She knows how to deal with sluts like you.”

  “But I didn’t—” And she was gone.

  I could barely totter out of the alcove, a boat shattered on the rocks by a violent storm. What had Cecil told Beatrice—and why?

  And what did he mean that Beatrice’s services would no longer be necessary?

  Cecil and Walsingham turned at the doorway to the Great Hall as I approached, and they spotted me. Their faces were dark.

  “What?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “Where have you been?” Cecil demanded. “The Queen has summoned you for a private discussion.”

  “I—I was . . . ,” I scrambled, trying to catch up. “She what? But why?”

  Cecil took me by one arm, and Walsingham by the other. “It appears, Miss Fellowes, you will have the opportunity to explain yourself to her,” Walsingham said.

  We entered the half-lit Privy Chamber, and the Queen whirled around to face us, her eyes as flat as an asp’s as she surveyed my manly costume. “Where were you off to this night, Miss Fellowes? And why weren’t you reporting on the events that befell Lady Amelia, as I expressly asked of you?”

  I blinked, stunned.

  “Lady Amelia?” I offered lamely. I would have curtsied, but Cecil and Walsingham were still pinning me in place. Suddenly, I remembered: Jane was supposed to have found Lady Amelia and brought her to safety. “Say she’s not hurt!” I blurted, the words more a statement than a question.

  “And why would she be hurt? What do you know about her situation?” The Queen fairly bit off the last words, and I felt the blood draining from my face.

  “I don’t know anything.” Where was Jane? She was supposed to have ensured that Lady Amelia had not come to harm. She was supposed to have reported to Cecil, no matter what she’d found.

  Why had Jane not made good on her promise?

  Had Jane been harmed? I rejected that notion immediately. Of all of us, Jane would not allow a Spaniard or any other man to get close enough to harm her. Or if she did, the ensuing row would have caused such a “disruption” that all thoughts of Lady Amelia’s disappearance would have disappeared under a wave of blood and fury.

  So then, what? Had Jane simply gotten distracted, not realizing that by her absence, she would be leaving me to swing in the wind?

  Or was it worse than that?

  I remembered Jane’s willingness to change our clothes, leaving me in these ridiculous breeches and hose. I remembered her quick push to get me out of the Presence Chamber. Had she done that on purpose? To ruin me? Could that even be possible?

  I felt my world closing in.

  “Your Grace, this is my fault,” I said, my voice lifeless. “I was supposed to take care that no disruptions befell the court. I—” I swallowed. “I knew that Lady Amelia left the hall.”

  “Of course you did,” the Queen snapped. Her voice was pure ice. “Do you think I sent Anna to you for my health? You were supposed to follow Lady Amelia and bring her back to the masque. What part of that instruction failed to penetrate your feeble mind?”

  This was getting worse and worse. My next words were so quiet that I felt Cecil shaking me. “Speak up,” he growled.

  “Two Spaniards left the Presence Chamber, Your Grace,” I said. “The Spaniard with Lady Amelia, and Rafe de Martine. I chose to follow Rafe. Anna had no way of knowing that I would do such a thing.”

  “I would well think she wouldn’t,” the Queen sneered. “Disobeying a direct order from her Queen would never occur to a maid of quality like Anna Burgher.”

  Shame flared through me. She was right. Of course she was right. In my excitement to find the killer, I’d chosen the larger prey. But not the right prey.

  And even that wasn’t entirely true. I’d chosen to run off after the Count de Martine, a young, handsome courtier who could possibly have nothing at all to do with the plot against the Queen.


  Walsingham was speaking, and Cecil shook me again. Hard.

  “What?” I managed.

  “I said, why are you dressed in men’s clothes? Where did you find such a costume?”

  “I bribed a servant to give them to me,” I lied. I did not—could not—implicate Jane. I had already caused too much damage here this night. “I thought the Count de Martine—or whomever he was speaking with—might notice me, were I dressed as a maid.”

  “And what did you find?” Walsingham asked. My head felt muddy, but I still was able to lie. Some skills, it seemed, never failed me.

  “I never did speak to the count but I stumbled across de Quadra and de Feria speaking.” I brightened, snatching at the thread of hope. “I could tell you what they said?”

  “This is not the point!” the Queen fairly screamed, and I whipped my gaze back to her face, my heart seizing up. Never had I seen her this angry. Certainly never at me. “You were given a direct order from me to ensure that Lady Amelia safely returned to the Presence Chamber with her skirts and her skin intact! You failed in that charge and instead took it upon yourself to run about the castle after a Spaniard—and do not think I don’t understand the reasoning behind that little move.”

  She scowled at me from her dais, a goddess of wrath in her royal finery. Her gown this night was of gloriously embroidered heavy white silk, with a tight-fitting long pointed bodice circled with a jeweled girdle. Her skirts flashed like fire, embroidered with rubies, and opened in the front to reveal a cloth-of-gold lining beneath. Her ruff and wristlets were of finest linen, and her girdle and summer crown proclaimed her as the mighty sovereign she would ever be.

  She was nothing short of magnificent.

  And before her, I was awash in disgrace.

  “You have proven yourself untrustworthy and false, the smallest, meanest creature in my kingdom, that you would fail me in such a way.” The Queen’s voice had grown quieter and, if anything, far more terrible. I felt myself at the edge of a very dark pit. “And to think, I defended you. Told Cecil you would be worth the months and months of training it has taken for you to even act like a woman of worth, to act like you have a shred of nobility about your person. And for what? You shame yourself, but it is clear that such disappointment would not trouble anyone so useless as you. But you shame England. And you shame me.”