A snarl from Moon Face ripped through the room, and I turned to see Rafe’s attacker barrel forward with his sword held low and tight, preparing for a killing blow. Rafe whirled at the last minute, flipping around in a graceful arc, then plunged his short blade high into the man’s left shoulder, angling down.
The man convulsed, then fell silent, slumping to the ground.
The sound of pounding feet rang through the castle, barely reaching our ears but coming fast. The guards!
“What did you do? Why did you kill him?” I nearly shrieked at him. “He could have explained what was happening—”
“He was a fool. He knew nothing!” Rafe shouted back, but his eyes were wild. What had he heard? Why did I not know more Spanish!
“You must go!” I said urgently. “They will never believe you are innocent in this, and I will not see you hang.”
Rafe shook his head. “I cannot leave you here.”
“Do you not understand? If you are found here hale and hearty with your own countryman dead and possibly an Englishwoman as well, you will be hung outside the Curfew Tower until you are nothing but skin and bones! It will not matter what is right, or true, or fair. Only that the death of an Englishwoman is avenged. And if we are both held accountable for Lady Amelia’s death, no one will be left to save the other.”
Rafe stared at me, then shook his head like an angry bear. “I cannot—”
A cry went up from the door of Saint George’s Hall. They were so close! “You must!” I hissed.
Rafe set his jaw, the look in his eyes like ice. “Then, look sharp. It’s time for you to play your part.” He tossed his knife to me, and I caught it from long practice, stumbling forward as I strove to balance the bloody blade. As the guards pounded closer to the doorway to the chapel, Rafe yanked up a heavy canvas carpet from the floor, and disappeared beneath it. I stared, fully shocked.
He was going to hide under a rug? This was his grand escape plan? Was he mad!?
I lurched forward, aghast that he would try to hide under something so paltry, his name a cry upon my lips. No!
Then the heavy mat settled down on the floor . . . flat.
Flat!
I barely heard the telltale click as Rafe moved the floor panel back into place. Another accursed pathway—and this one through the floor!—that Rafe knew about and I did not! Was there no end to the damn things that the Spaniard knew?
“What, ho!” roared the guardsmen behind me, holding torches high.
I turned, holding the brutal dagger down and away. At my feet lay two dead—or nearly dead—conspirators, enemies of England.
Blinking into the torchlight, I was somehow not even surprised that it was none other than Cecil and Walsingham who rushed into the small chapel next, their mouths dropping in unison as they saw me standing there, a cruel knife in my hand.
I did the only thing I could think of, given the circumstances.
I curtsied.
Five hours later I was so exhausted, I could barely stay upright, but I was still in the midst of yet another round of interrogation. I’d recounted my false tale so many times, I was beginning to believe it myself, but when I launched into it this time, Cecil finally raised his hand.
His expression had ceased being one of patient support. Now he was angry.
He stood and went to the door. Opening it wide, he allowed the two guards to enter the chamber, their bulk and armor dwarfing him.
“Take Miss Fellowes to the dungeon—to the water cells,” Cecil said. To me he said, “I will come to you before the water rises.” He shrugged. “Or after, if you prefer.”
“The dungeon?” I protested. My words were flat and dull. Before the water rises? my mind responded in return. “But why? I’m telling you the truth.”
Vaguely I remembered the dank smell of the corridors Jane and I had explored, and the far-off rush of water. But I couldn’t remember where those corridors were, precisely.
And I couldn’t imagine why I would be taken there.
Cecil’s tired words interrupted my thoughts. “What is truth and what people would believe are two separate things, Miss Fellowes. We need someone to blame for Lady Amelia’s attack, and you were there. The Spaniard may have attacked you both in the height of your innocent exploration of the chapel . . . or he may have not. You may have wrested free his knife as he was attacking Amelia and killed him in a blind panic, as you so prettily convinced the guards . . . or you may have not. There are other possibilities. You are not so well known here that anyone would question your stumbling upon Lady Amelia and her paramour in a romantic tangle, and being overcome with jealousy. And the Spaniard died without telling his tale.”
I blinked at him. “But I was not—”
Cecil cut me off. “Are you ready to tell me what truly transpired last night with the Queen?”
And this, really, was the rub of it. Cecil didn’t care about another dead Spaniard—or even about Lady Amelia. He cared about the Queen. He suspected that I knew something.
And of course, he was right.
“I’ve told you everything,” I lied, my words a bare, resigned mumble, the Queen’s quiet sigh of stolen happiness in my ears. Before the water rises?
“Then you can rest easy with your conscience, even as the water surrounds you.” Cecil nodded to the guards. “Remember, I could keep you down there for months, if it so pleases me,” he said, almost as an aside. “I do hope you don’t catch a chill.”
He turned to go, and then we were both surprised as Beatrice trooped into the room. She eyed me with frigid hauteur.
“I thought I would find you here,” she said coldly. “Sir William, the Queen has summoned all the maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting to her chamber, now that she has returned from the hunt and learned of the incident with Lady Amelia. Of course, as usual, Meg was not among our number. I’ve come to collect her.”
I stared at Beatrice in a daze, and she continued to sneer at me, but there was something . . . off about her manner. I’d been around her long enough to know her varying levels of sneering. This was . . . not quite right. She seemed almost desperate.
Cecil regarded Beatrice with level eyes. “I will bring Miss Fellowes when we have completed our questioning of her, if she is able to be presented. She is at risk.”
“At risk?” Beatrice’s tone was derisive. “At risk for what?” Beatrice asked. “Making even more of a fool of herself after last night?”
She sniffed at me, and if she noted my state of dishevelment, she gave no indication. “At least she’s wearing proper clothing again.”
“Miss Knowles, you may leave,” Cecil said stonily. “Miss Fellowes will be returned to you when she is safely out of harm’s way. You will be fully briefed at that time.”
“More dramatics!” Beatrice pouted. “How you put up with her, Sir William, I swear I will never understand.” She scowled at me. “And you sending Jane off on a wild goose chase, when you were the one who should have been seeking out Lady Amelia. It was no wonder she got turned around and lost.”
My eyes went wide. Jane had gotten lost in the castle’s secret corridors? Was that why she had not come back with Lady Amelia? But there was no kindness in Beatrice’s eyes. If she was sharing a confidence with me, she was not giving anything away. Either way, I owed her one last favor for all of my lies. I lifted my hand to my waistband and palmed the treasure I’d kept hidden there.
“Oh, Beatrice!” I exclaimed, my voice nearly breaking on a sob. I rushed forward then and embraced her, sliding my hands along her opulently puffed sleeves even as she stiffened.
“Find Rafe,” I hissed. “Ask him to explain.”
Beatrice pulled away from me just as quickly, her lip curling in disdain. I had no idea if she’d heard me or not.
“You disgust me,” she said, her voice cracking. Then she was gone.
And in her deeply slashed sleeves, she now carried Rafe’s jade stone ring. I prayed she’d find it and understand. Rafe had gotten the rin
g from his mother—who’d doubtlessly gotten it from someone in Beatrice’s family. It was too similar to the other pieces in her collection. Though I’d taken so much from Beatrice, I’d managed to steal back something for her too.
After that, things happened quickly. Too quickly. The guards blindfolded me, then led me down twisting passageways into the dungeon. They needn’t have bothered with the blindfold. I was so disoriented from all of the lies I’d had to spin to cover the truth of Lady Amelia’s death, if death it was, that I would not have been able to mark my passage either way. But they did not take the blindfold off until they had marched me into a cell that was more a pit than a room.
This carved-out well was about six foot square, with a single chair in the center. The walls on all sides were about fifteen feet up, and a guardsman lowered me down, letting me drop the last few feet. I could hear the water surging around the room, and the stones of the cell were already slick with drippings from unseen fissures. I remembered Jane and me exploring the dungeon corridors, the water we had sensed, and my mind shifted back to the events of this impossible night.
Had Jane truly gotten lost? Or had she abandoned me?
The guards left without a word.
I surveyed the small cell with growing trepidation. It was not simply a hole in the ground. The cell had a narrow lip of stone around its edge, enough for two men to stand at their ease. I assumed that was for people to come stand to watch me drown.
The thought was not a cheering one.
A quick scan of the cell walls yielded no hope. They were slick and without purchase. If the water rushed in quickly, I could potentially ride the surge to the edge, but I suspected that it would trickle in, not pour. Still, if I could float . . . or perhaps stand on the back of the chair when the water got high enough, leaping up to catch the lip of the stone ledge, hauling myself to safety . . . Perhaps that could be done?
As it turned out, I had plenty of time to test my theories.
None of them worked.
I was just a bit too short. Just a bit too weak.
Just a bit too.
Cecil did not return until the water had climbed around my knees for the third time, and my body was now racked with shivers. The design of this cell was ingenious, I’d decided at length. The cell filled until approximately the seven-foot mark, when the water abruptly found four drain holes. When those began to allow water to pour out of the chamber as quickly as it had filled, some mechanism behind the wall churned, and drains in the floor opened as well, emptying the cell completely in a matter of minutes. It was a marvel—and curiously terrifying, as each time I found myself forced to stand on the chair in mounting desperation or—once—to tread water because the chair turned over, until I finally heard the water pouring out of the high holes. If any of those holes were stopped up . . .
I could not quell the hysteria that rose on my breath as the door opened; my head careened around. I did not know whether to beg for my life or beg forgiveness, but Cecil asked only one question.
“What transpired with the Queen last night, Miss Fellowes?”
The words died upon my lips.
“Do not make me do this, Miss Fellowes,” Cecil said. “You are not supposed to think. Simply to act upon command.”
I said nothing to that, either. There was nothing, really, to say.
The Queen had saved me once. Now I could save her.
Sometime later Cecil left again, when the water was now up to my chest. It was cold, cloying, but I could see the sluice in the rock, and knew in some dark corner of my mind that it would get no worse than this; the water could not rise beyond this mark—just enough to terrify me but not enough to kill me on its own. It can get no worse, I told myself. It will get no worse.
How many times Cecil came and went, I could not say. I turned every time he opened the door; not even my pride could forestall that reaction. But every time he asked, I denied knowing anything about the Queen.
In my mind, I saw only her soft, stolen smile. In my ears, I heard only her sighs. In my heart, I felt only the ache of her secrets. She will never marry, Sophia had said. Never.
Then the doorway opened again, but it wasn’t Cecil who walked into my cell. It was Walsingham.
A heavy blanket fell to the cell floor. I stared at it as if it might attack me, but it did not move.
“Enjoying your stay, Miss Fellowes?” Walsingham called down cheerfully.
I stood in the corner of the cavern, my gaze constantly raking the floor. No more water, please . . . no more water. That was all I could think about, all that I feared. I didn’t bother to respond to the Queen’s spymaster, and was only slightly surprised when he dropped lightly down beside me, dark and resplendent even as I shrank away. He pursued me into the corner, picking up the blanket and putting it around my shoulders.
“Meg, make no mistake. I have no doubt in my mind that you know more than you are willing to say,” Walsingham said. “You are nothing to us, naught but a tool that has been incorrectly forged, as evidenced by your failure to complete your mission to report on the Queen’s whereabouts, actions, and company. But we cannot allow your insubordination. You must know that.” His tone grew stern. “Lady Amelia has died, Miss Fellowes. We would avenge her, and yet you waste our time here.”
“She’s . . . dead?” That did penetrate my fog. Somehow, Amelia’s survival had made my pain worth it. Almost. Somehow, I thought that by her living, by my having reached her in time, everything would work out in the end.
But now she was dead.
And Walsingham was still talking.
“I’m afraid we must make an example of you, Miss Fellowes. That’s what we are doing here, as much as anything else. If you fail to complete your assignment, there must be repercussions. And they will only get worse.”
I looked at him, unable to stop shaking, but my mind was not comprehending his words. “What more can you do to me?”
He laughed.
He actually laughed, and I thought I would never hear a more terrible sound.
Of course, once more I was wrong. Walsingham’s next words were even worse.
“Why, I could blind you, Miss Fellowes. I think that would do nicely, for starters.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Walsingham was more than happy to fill in the empty space.
“It is accomplished with a hot poker,” he said, as if he were describing how to bake bread. “Placed against each eye, quite firmly, as you may imagine. Not a pleasant operation, but it is quick. And highly effective, I can assure you.”
“You would—burn me?” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Burn . . . my eyes?”
“Not just burn you, Miss Fellowes. Blind you. If you insist on betraying the Crown, then of course we would be forced to take action. You cannot act a role of any consequence if you cannot see. You cannot steal if you cannot see. You are no value to us if you are a traitor, and we must make sure you are no value to anyone else, either.” His smile was almost kind as he looked down at me. My focus narrowed to a pinpoint on his eyes, but I couldn’t block out his words, no matter how much I tried. “If you cannot spy for England, you cannot spy at all. Surely you understand that, don’t you?”
“But I would never betray you—never.” I must have said the words, though I couldn’t feel my mouth.
In response, Walsingham leaned over and brushed my hair back from my eyes, tucking the lank strands behind my ear. He’d never touched me in such a way, almost fatherly but not . . . More like I was his property. I stood as still as a rabbit crouching beneath the hands of its killer. Walsingham clucked, turning my head this way, then that, a butcher inspecting his prime cut of meat.
“Don’t cry, Miss Fellowes,” he said, his words cracking off my nerves like a flint strike. Was I crying? “There are many roles in England, even for a blind woman. And you could even serve as a memorizer for your precious acting troupe.” And here he spoke in a sneer. “Your ears will still be working. Assuming we don’
t take those as well. The Queen will I’m sure settle a fair stipend on you, for your troubles and your pain. Though she will not keep you here, of course,” he continued, clucking his tongue. He reached out toward me again, and this time I did flinch. He was speaking of eventualities, as if nothing would come between him and his plan, as if he relished its execution. “She could not stand to have someone as maimed as you will be in her castle, where she might see you.”
I could not say anything. My heart had stopped beating entirely as the full weight of Walsingham’s vision crashed over me. I could not move.
“Guard!” Walsingham yelled suddenly, and the sound was like a striking whip. I stepped back as a ladder was angled down for him, and I was dumbfounded at the ease with which he could leave this place. His last words were whispered, and I’m sure the guards could not hear them.
But I could. For now, anyway.
“Think about it, Miss Fellowes,” he said. “Your life is in my hands alone.”
Then he was gone.
I must have slept at some point.
I awoke with a start, clutching the coarse woolen blanket around me, consciousness slewing over me like a sickness. I sat up, but all was silent around me, and I sucked in a noisy breath—noisy. I was making a sound, wasn’t I? Or was I simply remembering the sound that should go along with breathing? Could I still hear? Could I still see?
Who am I, truly?
Images swam in and out of my memory, of Cecil and Walsingham, questioning, questioning. Of water rushing around my ankles, then around my legs. Of the sound of laughter, and the hiss of a branding iron. They’d brought that, this last time, in a brazier of hot coals, so ready for its task that the rod was fiery hot all the way down to the—
I felt myself tipping forward. The room went black.
The next time I awoke, I was huddled into a corner, but more coherent. The water had not come in yet again; the blanket that had been dropped over me was still dry. The water seemed to flow in at regular intervals, every six hours, perhaps? I would have to pay closer attention to the bells.
Maid of Secrets Page 27
