To the bells.
I had not heard the bells in some time, I thought.
I tried to speak but couldn’t. The hissing noise of my own breath was not proof enough that my tongue was still in my head. I sniffed, tentatively, and could not smell char upon me, nor the singe of burned flesh. Queasily, I lifted my hand up to my head—
Just as laughter floated down from above.
I jerked my hands down to clutch the blanket around me, and stepped quickly back from the wall, squinting upward into the darkness. That was not Walsingham’s laugh, nor Cecil’s. I shoved down my near hysteria at being able to hear at all.
“Who goes there?” I demanded, but my words came out as a death rattle, causing more laughter to rain down upon me.
“Oh, how the bold have fallen,” came the voice, thick and mocking, but distorted to a harsh whisper. “Not quite so carefree as when I saw you last, I think.”
I could not see anything but drew the blanket closer around me, as if the intruder could somehow see me. Where were the guards? Were the Queen’s dungeons so riddled with secret entrances that anyone could wander through their corridors?
“Who are you?” I called out with greater effort, and this time the sound carried. My voice sounded as raw and broken as I felt, and I winced. What would my speech sound like, were I to lose my hearing? Would it gradually give way to awful, guttural noises, for lack of anything to compare it to? My stomach pitched dangerously at the thought, and my knees threatened to buckle. Keep awake, keep aware, I implored myself. The Queen saved you once.
“They say you know something of the Queen,” the stranger said, and my focus was drawn back sharply upward. I said nothing for a moment, and he sighed with theatrical remorse. “I can get you out of here, you stupid girl. Don’t make me think I’ve wasted my time. Your information could save not only your life, but the lives of your sop-headed friends. Or do you want them to die alongside you? Has there not been enough death in this castle?”
“No!” I said, struggling to clear my muzzy head. Was I talking to Amelia’s murderer? And Marie Claire’s, too? “Please, please. Was not Lady Amelia enough? You cannot kill again!”
“Lady Amelia?” The man seemed to move closer to me. “Lady Amelia isn’t dead, more is the pity.” He said the words with anger, and I blinked up. Not dead?
“But . . . ,” I managed, trying to make sense of it all. They’d told me she was dead!
The man laughed, a cold and bitter sound. “Never fear, she will be soon enough. They say her throat is quite crushed, that she sleeps without waking. It will not take much to finish that task.” He paused, and I sensed he was looking down at me, though I’d returned my gaze to the floor. “But if you help me, perhaps I will spare her life.”
“How?” I croaked, before remembering his words of the Queen. I shook my head furiously. “I don’t know anything about the Queen!”
“Then I am destined to be disappointed.” Even though he tried to disguise it with his whispering, his voice wasn’t cultured, exactly, but it was aristocratic. Foreign, I thought. A Spaniard? And there was something else about him I could not quite place. I heard the soft scrape of stone, and realized he was standing up. He was leaving.
Don’t leave me! I almost cried out, and it was everything I could do not to scream the words. I licked my cracked lips, striving for coherence. “What is it that you want?” I asked, glancing up. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to keep him here, talking to me. “I truly don’t know what you’re seeking—you must believe me.”
I knew better than to ever trust this man, even if he should offer to free me. He could be a spy sent by Walsingham, or worse—a true traitor to the Crown. But his laughter unnerved me, chilling me more than even the sound of water rushing through the walls.
The water.
Suddenly my mind was as loose and wandering as a child’s, and I found it chasing thoughts that had naught to do with my safety or the words of my dark companion. What fiend had joined the cisterns of Windsor Castle to the River Thames, capturing and releasing water at such intervals as to drive its prisoners mad? Or was there some other fell waterway that wound its course beneath the castle—and if so, where did it lead?
The man above me sighed lustily, drawing my attention back to him with a jarring snap. There was a flare in the darkness, and he lit a small torch. The light made me wince away as it sent him into eerie shadows. Still, my training finally surfaced and I began to study the man more closely. He was tall, slender, hunching over just slightly as he watched me. “So this is how it will be,” he said, with the same sort of whimsical good humor that had characterized Walsingham’s words. Had the spymaster sent this creature to plague me? “It’s all so much a waste. ’Tis foolish enough to put yourself in harm’s way—but to endanger innocent lives is shameful. I know you know something, you stupid girl. As much as it pains me, you are the only source that I have.” He tsked. “And so another young maid will die—such tragedy is befalling your young Queen in the very first flower of her reign.”
“Another maid.” The chill I felt had nothing to do with my damp clothing. This was Marie’s killer. Finally I fixed on him. “What do you mean?”
“My needs are simple.” He pointed a long gloved hand at me, the gauntlet sticking out of his cape. Something about the way he was pointing bothered me. Something . . . strange. I could not fix upon it. “Tell me everything you know about your Queen—why you’ve been placed in this abysmal hole by your own countrymen—and no one else will die. Keep silent, and another maid will meet her end.” He paused, and then he jabbed is finger again, as if poking me to response. “Do you understand?” he demanded.
“I—I must think on it!” I blurted. Anything to keep him from going. Anything to give me time.
“Whatever they’ve told you, they won’t set you free. They’ll kill you themselves before too much longer, or just leave you down there in that pit.” He turned away as he spoke, and my stomach churned. What would be worse, blinding or death? They couldn’t forget me forever down here—could they? They would have to decide what to do with me eventually.
Wouldn’t they?
“Don’t kill anyone else,” I said miserably, and the man turned back. The flare of his cloak disturbed the air, sending down a faint warm scent that seemed almost familiar—like something I remembered as a child, so long ago I could not place it. But my mind was caught too quickly on the man’s next words.
“I think I shall, my dear. You kept Lady Amelia from dying, and now someone must. I think the dark and silent one, who moves through the castle like a wraith. She’ll do nicely.”
The dark and silent one? Jane?
“You can’t!” I blurted. “I will tell you—tell you everything—but you cannot kill again!” Even as I said the words, I knew they were insane. But he could not kill Jane.
Laughter again. He was enjoying this. “I shall have no need to kill again if you tell me everything. Why would I?”
“But how can I know you will keep your word?”
That stopped him, and something in my voice must have convinced him I was ready to break. I sensed him crouching toward me, studying me, and his breath came more quickly, excitement lacing it. “A name is all I want, a beginning place. A name linked to whatever it is they want you to share about your precious Queen. With that name, I will not only lift you out of this pit but I will leave off your maids as well. I will keep my word. I swear unto God. Remember that, Meg, when they put you to the question. What are they swearing upon? Naught but lies.”
Far above us, another world away, the bells of the castle pealed. The man above me cursed in Spanish before leaning over the pit.
“I must away, but I will return here, or find you wherever they stick you. As many friends as you have in the castle, trust me; I have more. And when I do find you, you must be ready to speak, and to speak well. Or the blood of a young woman will be on your head.”
And he was gone, the door shutting harshly
behind him. A burst of rage and hysteria billowed up within me at the sound of that slamming door. I was forever being left behind in this pit! First by Walsingham, then by the mute servants who threw down skins of wine and day-old bread and cheese. I’d trapped five sacks now beneath my chair, so they would not float and possibly clog the sluice holes. Had I been here five days? Or were they not feeding me every day?
I awoke again, hours later. Or four rotations of water later, anyway. Three? Four. I thought. After the second flooding, I’d even begun to wonder if I’d seen the Spaniard at all. Memories of his presence in the darkness had begun to blend with a strange, spicy scent, and I no longer knew what was real and what was fully imagined.
More water came. I felt I was outside my body, watching me. I looked . . . old, I decided. No longer the girl for whom freedom was another few months of pickpocketing away. But the girl for whom freedom was forever lost.
Who am I, truly?
Nothing and no one.
The water receded. Again and again. I began to think of slipping beneath it.
My first conscious thought as I awoke was Voices, and relief overcame me, the nightmares of my eyes being burned out dimming as I crashed toward consciousness. I still had my eyes! I still had my ears! They had not taken them from me yet. I was still untouched.
Bright light cascaded down, and I cried out, rasping at the pain. It was like I’d just been thrust into the sun. For a moment I thought I might be dead.
“Miss Fellowes, step back!” came the order, and I knew with a start I wasn’t dead. Cecil would not be dead as well, I reasoned in my failing mind. Or if he was, he certainly wouldn’t be joining me in heaven.
The man leaned forward over the pit, and the torch he carried obscured his face with a bright, impossibly harsh light, but I knew it was Cecil from just the impressions of his movement. Maybe I was becoming a better spy after all. “Attend, Miss Fellowes, and climb the ladder with haste,” he ordered, as if he’d awakened me from my own bed. “You will come with us to the Queen.” His voice was resolute, but even if I was disposed to argue, his next words cut me off short. “You have been summoned for a royal audience.”
I stumbled up the ladder, and was briefed in transit. Once Cecil had told the Queen that I had fallen seriously ill, she had never questioned my disappearance and now only wanted to see me briefly, in her royal presence. For what reason, he did not know. But, he assured me, I would soon be returning to my cell.
They rather had to hold me up after that, I’m afraid to say.
“And Lady Amelia?” I managed when we were on our way again.
“She is not dead. Yet,” Cecil replied frostily. “Your young count and the ambassadors have been closeted away in that regard, scrambling to explain her attack, and two dead Spanish guards besides.” I frowned, taking that in. Moon Face and Turnip Nose were dead, but the danger still remained. “And my fellow maids?” I gasped. “Are they—are they all well?”
“Your fellow maids can be credited for this little charade,” Cecil snapped, disgusted. “They have not ceased in their petitioning that you be brought before the Crown, pestering us at every chance, and daring to present their case to the Queen. They were only just short of joining you in the dungeon, so loud and long were their protestations.”
I stared at him, a tiny spark of hope alighting again in my heart. “They . . . asked after me?”
“They demanded you, Miss Fellowes,” Cecil said bitterly. “They will be dealt with accordingly.”
Then just as it had when I’d been stuck into the dungeon, everything happened too fast. Bandaged, bundled, bustled, and still reeling, I found myself a bare half hour later standing in front of the Queen in a clean gown and dry shift, my legs warm for the first time in what seemed like years. The Queen was dressed in full regalia, her black velvet gown beaded with pearls, and her glorious red hair flowing freely beneath her crown of rubies and gold. Walsingham was already there, looking like he’d just eaten nettles.
Cecil had made my position clear. I was on borrowed time. He and Walsingham had produced me only after the Queen had assured them I could return to my seclusion once she had seen me. The thought of returning back down into that hole was more than I could think about.
So I didn’t think about it.
“Miss Fellowes, thank you for joining us,” Walsingham said from beside the Queen. On the other side of her, my four fellow maids stood and stared at me. I struggled not to cry. “We are grateful that your illness has lightened sufficiently for this brief visit.”
He smiled earnestly at me, as if he hadn’t threatened to destroy my life in six different ways over the past—how long? I didn’t even know how many days I had been in that hole.
I curtsied briefly to him on shaking legs, then turned to the Queen with another curtsy, this one full and deep. “I am honored to be requested into your presence,” I said to her, “and gladdened beyond all measure to see you.”
Something in my voice must have given more away than I’d intended, for as I straightened, the Queen regarded me curiously. She watched me with her steady jade eyes, and my first and most powerful thought was: She knows.
“You are quite recovered, Meg?” she asked carefully, and I could only nod. She knew.
Knew that I had seen her, that night in her bedchamber. Knew that I knew her secrets. Knew that I had been punished for keeping my silence. Knew that I had protected her.
“I have never felt stronger, Your Grace,” I said. I was not going back down into that hole. They’d have to kill me cleanly this time.
She nodded in return. “Walsingham tells me you have been confined to seclusion since Lady Amelia’s . . . injury.” Her eyes were watchful, questioning. The eyes of a monarch who’d dared risk her very kingdom for the pursuit of love. Had that been only a few days ago? It seemed like a lifetime. “Is that true?”
“No one could speak more clearly to my whereabouts of the past few days than Sir Francis, Your Grace,” I said, my words unintentionally sharp. I felt Cecil’s slightest movement behind me, the faintest warning breath. “But I am quite recovered. You can be assured of that.”
“Good,” she said, sitting back. “I am well glad to hear it. And to celebrate your recovery, I am pleased to share with you that the court will be graced with a very special production this evening. It will be just the thing to restore your spirits.” Now she beamed at me, and I blinked at her in surprise. I noted Walsingham’s and Cecil’s stares upon her. This was a surprise to them as well.
“Your Grace?” I managed.
She smiled regally. “The pall that lingers over us with Lady Amelia’s injury, even in the wake of the successful masque, is too dour to be endured. I have already granted some joy to the court, and now we shall have more, with the pleasure of your friends among the Golden Rose acting troupe.”
My what? It was all I could do not to gape. The other maids just stood there, grinning at me. Even Jane, whose eyes were sharp and clear, and whose gaze was fixed upon me like she thought I would break at any moment, smiled.
The Queen was obviously waiting for me to say something, and I jumped into the breach. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear it,” I said, my mind scrambling for purchase. The Golden Rose acting troupe—here in Windsor? For a command performance? “The Golden Rose are renowned throughout all of England. You will not be disappointed.”
“I am sure you are correct.” The Queen sat back with satisfaction. “You will watch them as well,” she decreed, “from a position of honor by my side.”
No! My thoughts flew to Jane and the shadowy Spaniard. I had to proceed as if Jane—as if all of them—were still at risk. “Your Grace is far too kind. But I could not allow myself to rest in your company, when I should be serving you completely.”
All eyes in the small room turned to me. The Queen’s in sudden, curious expectation; Cecil’s and Walsingham’s in patent suspicion; and those of my fellow Maids of Honor in stunned surprise.
“Wha
t are you talking about, Meg?” the Queen asked.
“While I was . . . confined for my protection, I had the occasion to learn of a plot against the Crown—foiled once in the affair of Lady Amelia, but not yet put to rest.”
The silence in the room was rich and filled with possibility, and I took the tiniest moment to revel in it. Cecil and Walsingham had no idea what I was talking about, and the thought gave me far more pleasure than anything should have.
Perhaps I could excel at this game of spying after all. But only if I could stay ahead of my enemies. All of them.
“What are you talking about?” Walsingham finally demanded. His skin had gone faintly red around the edges of his mouth and eyes, as if his incredible fortitude was the only thing keeping a rush of anger from suffusing his face. It was quite . . . wonderful, actually, and I favored him with a gentle smile, which seemed to render him even more apoplectic. “I say, explain yourself,” he blustered.
“Sir Francis.” The Queen waved an airy hand, but her tone was more amused than disapproving. “We can but let Meg speak. You and Cecil have not brought a name to me for consideration, and Lady Amelia cannot name her attacker or her fellow conspirators in her current state. We have handpicked this maid for exactly this purpose, have we not? Perhaps we can be enlightened.” She flicked her gaze to me, imperious and expectant. I don’t know what you are doing, her green eyes seemed to say. But I know what you have already done.
I straightened. “I was visited in my . . . confinement,” I said, not able to resist the hesitation before the word, “by a man dressed all in black, whose voice and manner were completely muffled, both by his heavy clothing and, I confess, by my— How did you refer to it, Sir Francis?” I glanced to him but raised a hand at the same time. “Ah, yes, my delicate condition. However, I was not so ill as to not understand his purpose. My night visitor believed—quite wrongly, I should say—that I had gathered intelligence on you, Your Grace.”
“On me!” The Queen’s eyes flashed, and I held my chin high. This was the ultimate gamble, and if Jane’s life had not hung in the balance, I’m not sure I would have tried it. But Lady Amelia’s injury had not been enough, and the next step for the Spaniard could be only death. It had to stop—and it could not stop if I was kept under lock and chain in a prison of Walsingham’s and Cecil’s devising. I needed freedom to move—to think—and to act.
Maid of Secrets Page 28
