I opened my mouth, apologies bubbling up, but they did not come out. Somehow, even in the depths of my disgrace, I knew that words would not save me. I wrenched myself out of Cecil’s and Walsingham’s arms, stumbling forward.
I had seen others curry the favor of the Queen. I had seen her nobles ply her with gifts, the poor and meek kneel in front of her, wailing about their miserable plights. I’d seen the bold and audacious pledge to her the power of their horsemen and people. The rich offer her their coffers of gold. The churchmen promise her a very place in the heavens.
I had none of these to give to her.
And so I, who had nothing to recommend myself but my pride and my freedom, gave up everything I stood for, everything I was . . . and completely debased myself to my Queen.
Without uttering one word of excuses, reasons, apologies, or pleas for my safety, for another chance, for clemency, I sank to the ground at the Queen’s feet, my arms outstretched above my head, my face buried in the rushes that lined her Privy Chamber floor, tasting dirt, and bile, and the tears I had not realized I was shedding.
I was undone.
There was complete silence in the room.
And still it continued.
And continued yet further.
When finally it broke, it was neither the Queen, nor Cecil, nor Walsingham who did the honors.
A footman rushed into the room, then knelt beside me, facing the Queen. If he thought anything of a woman dressed like a man lying in prostrate silence before his Queen, he didn’t pause to comment on it.
“Your Grace!” he blurted, and she must have given him leave to speak, because he rushed on. “The Lady Amelia has returned to the masque, alone, Your Majesty. She appears unharmed and in good spirits.”
“Thank you,” the Queen said, and the man scrambled back, fleeing the room. I could only guess who he thought I was.
It no longer mattered, of course. Nothing mattered.
For myself, I lay completely still. Lady Amelia was safe, there had been no disturbance, but it was through no grace of my own actions.
The Queen seemed to stare at me from a great height, and I felt the cold chill of her gaze on my back. “You are indeed fortunate, Meg, that Lady Amelia is unharmed. And that you chose well in how you would account for your failings. But you receive only this one chance. Fail me again, and there will be no clemency.”
She paused again, and I felt myself sink even deeper into the rush-lined floor, a worthless heap at her feet.
“But I am not without mercy for those who serve me well. Now that Beatrice has become indisposed, and until Mathilde recovers, you will attend me in my bedchamber. I will expect you within the hour.”
She swept toward me, and I felt the pressure of her royal slipper upon my right hand. She stepped on me, not grinding her foot heavily, not intending to break the fine bones of my hand, but pushing my fingers deeply into the piled rushes, emphasizing the difference in our stations.
She was my Queen.
And I was hers to walk on.
She left without a word. One of the men left with her—but only one.
For another five minutes I lay there, as limp as a doll, wondering what would happen next. While I did, the most curious mix of emotions washed through me.
There was the aftermath of horror of what I’d just done—failing the Queen. There was also the misery of what I’d just been subjected to—shame, embarrassment, punishment. Though in truth I’d gotten off lightly. The Queen did not parcel out her punishments without careful thought. She’d chosen her actions deliberately, directing the scene with all the skill of a troupe master. And there was also my sick curiosity, left in the wake of her decision to assign me to her bedchamber—an assignment to replace one spy with another . . . but a spy with everything to lose. Was the Queen truly showing clemency, or working a strategy all her own?
And why did she say Beatrice was indisposed? What had Cecil told her—and why? Those questions continued to twist and burn.
But that was not all that roiled through me.
There was also the utter sense of loss that at first I could not place. Then it came to me in a sickening slap.
I had lost my friends.
Beatrice had shunned me, realizing me for the lie and cheat that I was. Sophia could potentially have warned me to follow Lady Amelia, not Rafe, but I had not asked her to use her gift on my behalf. I’d pushed Anna away pridefully as well. And then Jane had abandoned me, getting distracted or deliberately allowing me to face the Queen’s wrath alone.
I felt . . . hollow. Like nothing I did would ever regain a trust so quickly lost.
“That, in the end . . . was well played.” The voice belonged to Cecil, but it sounded oddly gruff. “I think now would be a good time for you to give me your report on de Quadra and de Feria’s conversation, Miss Fellowes. You may stand.”
I scraped myself up from the floor, and turned to face him, resolutely lifting my chin for him to rebuke me anew. Instead he eyed me with a look on his face that I had never seen before, exactly.
I had seen disdain, anger, irritation, boredom, indignation, and even disappointment in Cecil’s gaze. I had seen calculation as well, and rest assured, that look was well in evidence. But I now saw something else, an expression that made me straighten, even as bits of straw tumbled from my hair and I fought against the urge to gag on the taste of salty tears and rock dust on my lips.
In the old goat’s eyes I saw . . . compassion. And that was worst of all.
Numb with confusion, shame, and a weariness so bone deep that I did not think I would ever overcome it, I curtsied to Cecil, then stood straight. Without saying another word, he nodded at me to proceed.
I told him everything that I remembered from the conversation with de Feria, de Quadra, and the tall Spaniard. Even though it was all in Spanish, I realized with surprise that I was beginning to piece together a few of the words on my own. Anna’s Spanish lessons, though infrequent, were finally paying off, and it was all too late.
I paused, and Cecil eyed me. “A guard went missing from the delegation a few days past. We sent Jane Morgan to find him, and she did—dead on the banks of the Thames. Did de Feria or de Quadra speak of that?”
I didn’t have to feign my shock. “Dead?” I asked, thinking again of the words I’d overheard on the terrace steps. Was this the Spaniard who’d given Rafe the letter in the chapel, Turnip Nose? Jane had not shared this mission with me. Had I seen Rafe kill a man?
“I do not know, Sir William,” I continued, shaking my head. “I do not understand all the Spanish that I hear, as you know. Not very well.”
He nodded, remembering. “Proceed.”
When I had completed my report on de Feria, I didn’t pause for approval. I was somewhat beyond that, particularly now. I went on to describe all of the secondary conversations I’d overheard at the masque, detailing the castle’s current round of petty jealousies and slighted hearts, scheming grandmothers and willful youths, and an endless round of intimacies, at once shocking and commonplace.
As I told my tale, I recognized the symmetry in everything Cecil had asked me to overhear. There was a string connecting them all—they were all of a piece of court life, a patchwork of English nobility. Except the de Feria conversation, of course. He ruined the whole cloth.
Throughout, Cecil said nothing. When at last I’d finished and folded my hands over my loose, rough trousers, he tilted his head and eyed me intently. “Is there anything you’re not telling me, Miss Fellowes? Any part of the report you chose not to include?”
I fought against the blush that wanted to climb up my cheeks. God’s hounds. I had included nothing of the Count de Martine. Rafe had not spoken to de Feria, but Cecil knew I’d followed the young courtier, and I was no slouch at the job. Surely Cecil also knew that I had tracked him down. He was the one who’d first given me the assignment to spy on Rafe and de Feria, after all. He would not be surprised that I’d continued to do so.
�
�Do you want conversations that are not pertinent to court business, Sir William?” I asked hesitantly. The only way out of this was through.
He raised his brows. “All of what you heard tonight is court business, Miss Fellowes.”
I gave a wry grimace, artful in my disdain. “Not all of it. I also endeavored to hear the Count de Martine in his conversations with de Feria. Unfortunately, the two of them never met up. Rafe did, however, speak to a number of women as I tracked him through the castle, flirting outrageously throughout, I should say. I can recount his exact words if you would like. They tended to repeat in cycles.”
“Cycles?”
“He would meet a lady and they would kiss. Then, heads together, they’d say—”
Cecil lifted a hasty hand, his lip curling in distaste. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Fellowes. Thank you.”
He paused, and I waited, happy to be still. I knew that my testimony alone would not be enough to damn de Feria; Cecil would need to catch him out in an actual attack against the Queen. But his mind was clearly working, and he seemed perversely pleased.
The threat against the Crown was nothing compared to the fact that Cecil had been proven correct—the Crown was indeed at risk, and Cecil was pursuing that risk down to its heart.
He nodded then. “We will need to search out de Feria’s confidant. Where did you overhear them?”
“The North Terrace, near Winchester Tower.”
“Good.” He eyed me stonily. “The ladies of the bedchamber have begun to prepare for the Queen’s rest. You will report there within the hour, once you have changed clothing. Her attending ladies will advise you on your duties.”
I sighed, miserable. “Why did she say Beatrice was indisposed? Why did she dismiss her?” There was no way that I could imagine even looking at the Queen, let alone speaking to her.
Cecil’s words were clipped. “She did not dismiss her; I told her Beatrice had fallen ill. I know the Queen well. She punishes and then rewards. You were well set for punishment. It took only a few words to clear the path for your reward. A reward which meets our needs.”
“What?” I whispered, aghast. “You lied to her about Beatrice . . . just to make it seem that it was her idea that I be installed in Beatrice’s place?” I couldn’t believe it. I was offended on the Queen’s behalf, despite her disdain for me. “And then you lied to Beatrice?”
“How little you still know of the court. The Queen would never have chosen you first over Beatrice, Miss Fellowes. Beatrice had to be positioned first, and then removed.” Cecil glared at me. “As it is, I expect you will be only granted one night in Her Majesty’s company. Your assignment stands, however, as we discussed.”
I blinked at him. “Surely you cannot think the Queen would see anyone tonight. Not after . . . all of this.”
Cecil sighed heavily, and the first trace of humanity I’d seen in some time slipped over his face. “I truly hope not,” he said. “For the sake of England and her Queen, I truly hope not.”
Beyond us at the masque, a roaring cheer went up, announcing the Queen’s departure for the night.
“God save the Queen,” I murmured.
Cecil nodded grimly. “Or we will.”
Even if I hadn’t already memorized this area of the castle, I knew I’d reached the Queen’s rooms when I heard the lively sounds of her ladies preparing her evening respite, their laughter and chatter loud and gay. They made no effort to hide their talk, and I slipped into the chamber, past the guards.
I looked around quickly. The Queen had not yet entered. I’d made it in time.
“You’re Margaret Fellowes?” The voice was cold, and instantly steeled me. I made a hasty curtsy to Lady Knollys as she continued. “I see no reason for all of these changes. We can manage well enough without Mathilde for a few nights.”
“Verily true,” I said earnestly. “I believe I am here to see to your comfort as much as the Queen’s, Lady Knollys. You do so much to ease her, I only wish to give aid where I may.”
That seemed to mollify them, and even the woman who seemed slightly slow nodded gravely, her big saucer-round eyes sad but resigned. “Mathilde will be feeling herself soon,” she promised, giving me a little wave.
I busied myself with hanging up the Queen’s clothing, keeping well away from the others. “Did you see the Count of Raybury,” a lady asked to the room in general a few moments later. I felt my shoulders unknot. They were continuing their conversation. “He looked as if he’d split his doublet wide open, yet he never stopped eating, not the whole night!”
“He’ll eat Her Grace out of house and home if she does not dispatch him quickly.”
“At least he was willing to dance! Lord Sutherland sat like a stump beside his wife and eyed the whole of the revel as if it were a funeral dirge. And she was fairly up on her toes with excitement, begging to join the dance. I sent Lord Magwell over—”
“You didn’t!”
“I did. And she almost fell over herself in her eagerness to be away from Sutherland’s scowl.”
“Hello, Your Grace!”
“Good evening, Your Majesty!”
As I watched at the back of the group, the Queen swept into the room, her color high, her manner almost girlish. None of her fury from earlier this evening remained. She pronounced that she was exhausted, though her eyes were bright and eager, and her ladies clucked and cooed over her like she was on the verge of collapse. I ducked and looked away. I set myself to putting out a few of the sconce lights and banking the fire, as Cecil had directed me to do.
“Meg Fellowes!” The Queen’s command rolled through the chamber, and I turned quickly, curtsying low. The Queen did not approach me, but peered at me across the room from her seat at her dressing table, her other ladies gathered close. “Get up, get up,” she ordered, and I rose again, not at all needing to affect a look of wan dismay. “You are fit to serve me?” she demanded.
“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, and the words hung between us in heavy awareness, as thick as morning fog. “I live only to serve you.”
She blinked at me, clearly surprised by my fervor, but in that moment I wanted only to believe the best of my Queen, that she had done this all to lift me up, after casting me down so low. I wanted to protect her from the trap that Cecil had set for her—even though I myself was that trap.
“Good,” she said gravely, nodding. “It is well that you are here.” And with that she turned away. A moment later, still shocked by the compliment, I turned away as well, my hands shaking slightly as I continued to trim down wicks.
And so it went. As we prepared the Queen for bed, the words of the ladies of the bedchamber tumbled over one another like water over rocks, the women secure that their gossip would go no farther than the privacy of their inner sanctum. I listened to them with half an ear, until an unexpected comment nearly shook me out of my role.
“The young de Martine had a finely turned leg, Your Grace, and he could not stop staring at you. ’Twas almost indecent!”
I barely kept from flinching and bent myself more earnestly to my task of preparing our sleeping mats for bed. I’d been watching Rafe for at least part of the night, and while he’d been as attentive as any other courtier to the Queen, he hadn’t been what I’d call indecent. But the ladies were continuing.
“I overheard him talking to de Feria about you, clearly smitten. The Spanish ambassador looked like he’d eaten lye, to hear your praises sung so charmingly. Had he not been forced into marriage so quickly, ’tis no doubt that he’d also be pressing his own suit for you, Your Grace.”
What were these women talking about? De Feria would sooner spit on the Queen’s slipper than kiss it—surely she knew that? But her answering laughter was light and unconcerned.
“Think you so?” The Queen laughed in return. “That would be a treat.”
Oh, yes, they all concurred, and I was aghast at their flattering lies. There would be no way of telling truth from twaddle with these women. I dearly hoped t
he Queen did not rely on their accounts.
And in that moment I felt her staring at me, so I ducked again and turned away, this time busying myself at the fire. Did no one tell her the truth even in her own bedchamber? Could she trust no one at all?
I had no sense of time passing, bustling about as we were. The Queen’s laughter flowed easily, and she seemed young and free and curiously excited, particularly as she donned a shimmering white gown, apparently something new. The ladies all exclaimed over her beauty, but my heart plummeted when I saw the gown in all its glory.
Why was she dressing up to go to bed?
They brushed the Queen’s long hair and powdered her skin, detailing its perfection all the while, and the result at length was a monarch worthy of retiring, her bright new bedding gown setting off her porcelain complexion and reflecting brilliantly against her lush red hair.
I felt dread surge anew. Again, what woman dressed so carefully for bed, when she had to rise early the next morning for a royal hunt?
A chambermaid knocked, and the Queen whirled, bidding her to enter. The young girl crossed the threshold with a tray of seven goblets and a carafe of wine. One of the goblets, the largest, had already been filled.
“But come! We must toast another successful masque,” the Queen said gaily, and the women clapped their hands in conspiratorial laughter. I suddenly felt like I was surrounded by children. Was all of this forced jollity an act? Or were they really this . . . carefree?
The servant departed, and we assembled around the drinks table, with me still hanging toward the back of our small retinue. The Queen did the pouring, despite our protestations. Then she lifted her own goblet.
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